by Ward Just
Pretty place they have, isn't it? The door wasn't locked so our people had a look around, sat on the verandah for a while hoping they'd return. Then they decided things were too quiet for their liking and left. On the way out one of the choppers took a hit, small arms. So they circled back and hosed things down but didn't see anyone. They said it was real Indian country. They wondered how those Frenchies survived, year to year.
They went in with helicopters?
Of course. How else?
Did they take a brass band, too?
Rostok smiled. He said, Our people were impressed, seeing how the Armands lived. None of the modern conveniences, like a TV or a dishwasher, but it looked to them like a nice life, a big house with plenty of servants, a fine green lawn, everything so quiet you could hear the clocks tick. You have to wonder what it is that drives people to a colonial life unless it's an attraction to solitude along with the servants. That, and feeling superior to the natives.
Sydney listened to Rostok's version of la vie coloniale, remembering the downpour on the iron roof, so deafening he thought it was an artillery barrage. And it seemed to him that in a certain sense the Armands were prisoners, unable to move freely, caught between the skirmish lines of foreigners, and this in a country once ruled by Frenchmen, and loved by them. Not loved in return, however. Despised, though despised a little less now that the Americans were here. He thought that on balance messenger was the greater crime. The messenger was the croupier who sent the ball spinning.
He said, How much did you tell them about Pablo?
Not the whole story, Syd. Pablo wanted his name kept out, and I kept it out except to say that he'd been helpful. Everyone knows Pab has special contacts in the community. God knows Smalley was in no condition to confirm or deny anything so I had it pretty much my own way. You had a nice mention in dispatches, too. I kept it vague and loose and the reporters are still trying to figure things out. Security's been pretty good, all things considered. Saigon leaks like an infant. Thing is, no one has any interest in telling the whole story. What a circus!
So you took the credit, Sydney said.
Someone had to. Smalley couldn't very well have walked out of Song Nu by himself, could he? It was a subtle operation, thanks to Pablo. And the credit wasn't for me, it was for Llewellyn Group. And it's ancient history now. No one gives a damn because of the changing nature of the effort. Rostok gestured grandly at the vessel in front of them.
The whiskey had been offloaded and now they were starting on file cabinets, one cabinet after another, sturdy gunmetal gray, all with combination locks. Some had two drawers, others three or four drawers. They were heavy enough so that each file cabinet required two stevedores to manhandle it down the gangway. Once they were on the quay the ground crew moved them into the same warehouse where the whiskey was. They kept spilling from the hold like fruit from a horn of plenty. Sydney counted two dozen file cabinets and then gave up, thinking instead about the paper that would go into them, the copies and the originals. Two dozen file cabinets would not hold five minutes' work from the various American commands.
We need those, Ros said. Thank God for the combination locks.
The military will have priority, Sydney said.
Maybe not, Rostok said. Maybe not this time. Maybe this time Llewellyn Group's on those invoices. I wouldn't be surprised. This isn't public yet, Syd, so keep it under your arm, but we're getting an additional ten men and. He paused there, evidently uncertain whether to finish the sentence. Then he looked sideways at Sydney and continued, I've been invited to attend mission council meeting on Fridays. Deputy ambassador heads it up, as you know. That's where the thinking gets done. It's where the effort comes together, and as of next week I've a place at the table. My name will be on the cables along with all of theirs. So, Syd, Llewellyn Group's in the first foursome.
Congratulations, Ros.
These meetings. They're principals only.
You've been waiting a long time.
Even Boyd Llewellyn sent me a telegram, en clair so that everyone could read it, even the secretaries. Boyd and I are getting along much better now. I may have misjudged him. Fact is, he can squeeze money from a stone.
So you're staying on, Sydney said.
I owe them one more year. One more year, then I'm gone.
Where, Ros?
Maybe the private sector, because we'll be doing business here for—well, years and years. Maybe an ambassadorship. You burn out, you know. You're the man who's seen too much, knows too much. So you need a period of decompression. Maybe I'll write a book describing how we did it.
Sydney looked at him. Did what?
Survived, Syd. Survived those early days of confusion and uncertainty, when we didn't know where we were going or how we would get there. We didn't know where "there" was. We didn't know what we wanted really, so we went in one toe at a time thinking the Vietnamese could do it themselves, with our support and know-how. It was an illusion. We live by illusions. Anyone who knew anything knew we'd have to come in full fig. We'd have to take over. We'd run the war and run their economy and stabilize the government and secure the countryside. We knew we could do it, we didn't have the will to do it then. But we have the will now. Those early days, we're lucky we weren't thrown out like the French were. Simple fact, we came in with too little. Not making that mistake again, he concluded, gesturing again at the freighter at quayside.
The horn of plenty was momentarily empty and the stevedores were taking a break. They were lounging, smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. Now and then one of them would disappear into the warehouse and remain for a few minutes, then reappear. When someone on board yelled a command they all rose and sauntered back up the gangway to see what else was in the inventory. Their nonchalance reminded Sydney of the cabin boys and stewards aboard the yachts on Long Island Sound, the crew immaculate in white, balancing trays of drinks or pulling on a jib sheet, never using more energy than was necessary. A fine way to spend the summer his father had warned, so long as you don't get used to it. He realized he was homesick for the crisp New England air, and the empty beaches when the children had gone back to school.
What happens to you now, Syd?
I'll try teaching for a while. Vietnam doesn't prepare you for much, does it?
Teaching? Rostok laughed. I'd never figure you for a teacher. You're a doer. And you're wrong about the preparation. You have some practical experience, some knowledge of the way the world works. That's what the classroom needs more of, someone who's worked close to the fire. Has watched things burn. What university will it be?
Prep school, he said. Some boys' school not too far from New York City. That's where my daughter is.
Teaching adolescent boys? What a pain in the ass. The social sciences, I suppose. That's what you started out as, a social scientist, and I'd guess our environment here has only added to your knowledge. Everyone needs some on-the-job training, practical facts added to the usual bogus theories.
Sydney looked at him, wondering whether to spoil his picture and tell him he intended to teach English. He had decided that he had nothing to bring to the social sciences, and the social sciences had nothing to bring to him. If he was to explain the way the world worked, he would have to journey to the offside made-up discredited world of novelists and poets. That would not save him any more than social science, civics, or love. But he thought it would make a harmless beginning. He smiled at Rostok and said, I'll be teaching English, Ros. No on-the-job training for that.
Tell you what, Rostok said, clapping his hands. Sydney thought that if he were more full of himself he'd explode. I have a fine edition of the works of Joseph Conrad. You can have it. It's in our apartment in Washington. I'll tell the tenants. You go in and take the set. I envy you, making the acquaintance of Almayer, Nelson (or Nielson), Captain Whalley, and Jim. Thing about Conrad is, he's an inspiration for an adolescent boy. Conrad understands the need for self-reliance and clear vision, knowing what you want and doing wh
atever's necessary to achieve it. Conrad has no patience with illusions. Conrad sees the storm gathering and he meets it head-on and God help anyone who gets in his way. He steers his vessel into the eye of the typhoon, knowing that God rewards the brave; and if God is absent, it's up to the man to defeat the sea. There's something of the manifest destiny in Joseph Conrad, don't you think? And he's relevant in these times because he hated the Russians. Dostoyevsky once insulted Conrad's favorite uncle. Indicated contempt for all Poles and Conrad never forgave nor forgot. So everything's personal, you see. And it's important to have confidence.
Sydney looked hard at him. Speechless was not the word.
He is our greatest novelist. Why, he's greater even than Greene!
Promise me something, Ros.
Rostok looked at him suspiciously.
You'll stay away from the Armands. You won't contact them. You won't threaten them. You won't ask them for favors. You'll pretend they don't exist.
That's a tough assignment, Syd. You see, they're in. They've anted up, they're part of the game whether they want to be or not. It's the sort of hand, you have to play it out. You can't leave the table whenever you want to. So if we need some help, we're going to talk to them. We have no choice, given the stakes. They're part of things, same's you or me or Pablo. It's all the same loyalty, Syd.
They did us a favor. Smalley's alive because of them.
Why—that's the reason they're in! You can't avoid the war. It's all around us. It's the oxygen we all breathe, even the Armands. You can't resign from it any more than you can resign from a typhoon. Even you. When you go back to the world you'll still be in the war. It's nature's way, and we've given our word. Yet. In the specific manner we're going forward now into our tunnel, the Armands are small potatoes. Probably we won't have the time for them, Syd. And I'm guessing they'll be content to seek a protected anchorage as the barometer falls and the wind rises. They'll need us more than we need them. And I can tell you this, cross my heart. If they need us, we'll be there.
Rostok smiled and Sydney smiled back. Sydney was still bushwhacking through the thicket of card games, typhoons, anchorages, and Joseph Conrad's Russophobia. He was certain that the Armands would continue to feint and evade, for the rest of their lives if need be. Rostok did not know that they had left Plantation Louvet and were staying with friends at a cottage at Vung Tao. They did not believe they were safe in their own house. There were so many rumors they could not sort them out, but the most persistent had them as informers whose collaboration with the Americans had resulted in the destruction of Song Nu. And they knew there was truth to the accusation. So they had driven to Vung Tao on back roads and would remain a month or more, until the atmosphere improved. But they knew also that Vietnamese had long memories and their situation could never be as it had been.
***
So we'll do what we can and hope it's enough, Dede Armand had said when Sydney showed up unannounced the day before, to offer what explanations he could and tell them he was going home and would be happy to carry whatever messages they had to their families in France and America.
Tell them we are all right, she said.
Will you ask my mother to send me some underwear?
Claude wants English crackers and a wheel of brie.
As for the situation, Dede went on, at some point we'll have to explain. Maybe they'll believe us, most likely they won't. She stood in the front doorway and did not invite him in. He could see three pieces of luggage in the hall, and beyond the luggage Claude Armand on the verandah talking to his foreman.
She looked at Sydney and said, Why did you do it?
Rostok did it, Sydney said. Rostok gave you away. Pablo and I wanted to get Smalley out, and forget how it was done or who did it. But Rostok—finds things out. That's what he does for a living, and he's good at it.
Always Rostok, she said.
And we were careless, Sydney said. We could have gone ahead without his knowledge, simply done it on our own accord. Sydney paused then, wondering why they had not acted alone, according to their own good instincts, and knew at once that he and Pablo did not have what Rostok had in abundance, confidence, a sense of infallibility. They did not trust their own judgment, and at the same time they did not rely on Rostok, either. They relied on the institution, the government itself, the United States. Sydney said, I believed I had to involve him.
And that was a mistake, wasn't it?
A big mistake, Dede.
You're a dangerous friend, Sydney. You come from a dangerous country. It's not good for us, you know. They won't rest. The Americans will come to call—in fact they already have. They searched the house. Rifled the drawers, looked at the photographs on the wall, helped themselves to beer. And one of them stole my Buddhas, all five. My bronze Buddhas that I've had for years and depended on and now they're in some soldier's pack, war souvenirs.
At least they did not disturb the graves of my children, she said.
I'm sorry, Dede. Sorry for—all of it.
This is the life you've made for us, Sydney. And they'll come again, when they think there's something valuable we can tell them. Next month, or two months from now, we'll have a visit from VC. They'll have questions, too, and they'll assume we know some of the answers; and we will. What do you suggest we do then, Sydney? They'll demand a larger cut of our payroll and there'll be other sorts of dues to pay. And we'll give them what they ask because what else can we do? We refuse to leave our home. No one can make us, not you certainly. Not VC if we can help it. I refuse to wander this earth like a lost soul or a displaced person.
Raised voices inside caused Sydney to raise his eyes. Claude was arguing with his foreman. He shook his head once, and again, but without conviction. The foreman took a step forward and snarled something, his finger tapping Claude Armand's chest, emphasizing each word. Then they separated and stood glaring at each other. The air was charged and Sydney believed something violent was at hand. When Claude nodded at last, the foreman dipped his head in mockery, and the Frenchman began again to explain, his voice softer now.
Goodbye, Sydney, Dede said, and closed the door.
For a long time Sydney sat in his car looking at the house nestled so close to the earth, its stucco chipped, its foundation in need of repair. The curtains were drawn. As architecture, it had no distinguishing features beyond an undefinable colonial ambiance. Foreigners lived there. It disclosed something of its past but nothing of its future. It was not an obvious place for anyone to cling to, and to love beyond life itself. Forbidden its solace, Dede saw herself adrift on the surface of the earth, a soul lost. Surely that would not happen. She would not permit it. Dede and her husband would find a means of survival. They were practical people. They were resourceful. If you wanted a thing that badly, then fortune was on your side, however unsettled the future. Sydney saw a curtain move, and close again. Who knew the shape of things to come? They were still alive after all, and Dede was with her children.
The ship stirred. Rostok and Sydney stood shoulder to shoulder watching the horn of plenty gush forth once more. They were offloading America, the arsenal of democracy, its knowledge and its wealth, its optimism and industrial might. Typewriters, blackboards, two cases of thesauruses and three of dictionaries, cartons of envelopes and notepads, pencils, paper clips, gum erasers and ballpoint pens, account ledgers, file folders, coffee mugs, paperweights and insect repellent and scissors and picture frames and desk lamps. Television sets were followed by transistor radios, then telephones, movie projectors, intercom systems, lecterns with microphones attached, and case after case of plastic rulers. An American stood to one side with a checklist on a clipboard.
Sydney and Rostok stood quietly for some time watching the offloading, and then Sydney noticed the prayer flag hanging from one of the aft portholes, no doubt an ancestor being remembered. The flag hung limply in the damp breeze, and then a gust came up and rocked it, the cloth rising and falling, rippling in the current. He imagined the p
rayers released, flying to whoever might need them, words of faith and consolation winging west to Laos and Burma, to Assam and Pakistan, farther west to Persia and the Anatolian plateau, gathering speed across the Aegean to the Po valley and on to dry Iberia, still strong and confident as they swarmed across the Atlantic to the New World.
