The Ronin winked at me and said, Might as well be my nickname, I hear that so often. Come here, my Laotian love, it’s been a long time.
They proceeded to give a long demonstration of French-kissing, which involved a lot of tongue, which made me wonder if the French themselves called it French-kissing. Done at last, the Ronin winked at me and showed how Vietnamese he was by beckoning to me the Vietnamese way, hand flat, palm downward. He had remarkably small hands, like those of a young boy’s. Come on, he said.
What?
He snapped his fingers and pointed at his gold watch. I don’t have much time. We can talk business while I take care of business. I’ve got appointments.
You want me to—
Sit there and watch. Unless you want to get in on it, too.
I glanced at the eschatological muscle, who shrugged as if he understood the gist of our conversation, even in Vietnamese. He had seen everything, and yet had seen nothing, during his time in Heaven. The Ronin’s invitation, or demand, was nothing new. Since everyone else, including the Ronin’s favored Crème Brûlée, was treating the matter with a Gallic shrug, I shrugged, too, and followed them through the curtain of beads to Crème Brûlée’s room upstairs. Throwing herself on her bed, Crème Brûlée said, Sorry, Ronin, but he is extra. Even if he can’t do it.
Can’t do it? said the Ronin, astonished, assuming automatically and correctly what the unspeakable “it” was.
It’s a war wound, I cried, collapsing into a chair. A war wound!
My outburst and subsequent tears startled Crème Brûlée, who froze in her come-hither position on the bed, but the Ronin did not seem disturbed.
There, there, he said, patting my shoulder, which was a bit awkward for me, since he had unbuckled his gold-buckled belt and his naked manhood was dangling uncomfortably close to my face. Now, now, this kind of war wound has happened to a few fellows I know, none of them is any less of a man for it. You have to be a man to get this kind of war wound, after all. It can’t happen to a woman, right? Now just sit back and enjoy the show. It’ll take your mind off—off—well, you know.
With that, he turned his attention back to Crème Brûlée. I sat on the armchair in the corner and longed for some whiskey in which to dissolve my discomfort and humiliation. I neither enjoyed being looked at while being intimate with a woman nor enjoyed looking at others, even if they were as good-looking a pair as Crème Brûlée and the Ronin. I settled for smoking cigarettes, which at least allowed me to do something with my hands. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, glanced at the ceiling and the floor and the prints of Degas and Van Gogh on the wall, cupped my chin on my hand, rested my hand on the armchair, coughed discreetly, and tried not to see the face of the communist agent. Meanwhile the Ronin talked constantly while he worked his way through half the Kama Sutra in a display of truly astonishing endurance, all while providing a running commentary for me, as if I were watching a particularly competitive tennis match at Roland-Garros. In between descriptions of the strokes, the Ronin explained his interest in meeting me, of which I provide an edited version here, minus the repetitive moans, groans, and obscene accounts of his carnal exercises:
The Boss and I go way back, to the fifties in Saigon, when men were men and women were women and fucking was fucking, not like today with these so-called feminists. Now Madame Nhu, the Dragon Lady, she was a real feminist. She looked great in an ao dai and could shoot a gun, too. How many of these so-called feminists can do that? Gun battles in the streets, car bombs, grenades thrown in your courtyard—that’s the stuff that makes you feel alive. Kings used to get killed in battle; that doesn’t happen very much anymore, but it sure did in Saigon. Look at our president Ngo Dinh Diem—bang, dead, right there with Madame Nhu’s husband in the back of an American armored personnel carrier. I heard the assassin castrated the poor son of a bitch and ate a piece of his liver. Real gangster stuff, and Diem did not like us gangsters, even if he was nasty to the commies. Yeah, I’m a gangster and proud of it. Why should it be a shame to be a gangster? That’s one reason I like the Boss. He’s not ashamed. I knew that when we were youngsters. Me, I was born in the Mekong Delta, where I met him. Don’t you think that makes me Vietnamese? My father was a plantation overseer. He had to cut deals with the river pirates to keep the business going smoothly, not to mention the governor and the general and the French bureaucrats and all the Vietnamese ones who replaced them. Corruption is a way of life. Corruption is the salt on our meat. Just don’t oversalt. The fact of the matter is that everybody’s corrupt everywhere. Everybody does business behind the scenes. You have wives, but also you have lovelies like this lady here. You have clean deals and dirty deals. You need both. That’s how the world spins, gives us night and day. Here, people call corruption “connections.” I prefer the corruption in Indochina and Corsica, because at least it’s honest. Now I’m not in this because I’m Corsican, just like the Boss isn’t in this because he’s Chinese. We’re in this because we’re sincere. Gangsters are the most honest people in the world because we know how the world works. We’re honest about being dishonest, and we’re no more dishonest than a Swiss banker, which is, to be fair, pretty dishonest. The Nazis loved the Swiss so much they didn’t invade them, and if the Nazis love you, you must be a piece of shit, not that there weren’t some fine Nazis, like the ones I met in the Foreign Legion. Now you, so the Boss tells me, have found a nice little market among these intellectuals. We want you to grow that intellectual market. Then if all goes well, we can introduce some of these intellectuals to the angels of Heaven. Look at this little lady here. Laotian born and bred. God, I miss Laos! The most beautiful country in the world. The most spiritual people in the world, and they grew some damned good opium. To this day I cannot believe that the French lost Laos and all of Indochina. I am Corsican and French, but I am also Indochinese, or Vietnamese, whichever term you prefer. I never even set foot in France until I started coming here for business in the sixties. How do you think the Boss got established here so quickly? He was already investing through me. You got to diversify in a dangerous and unpredictable world, just in case your country goes nowhere one day. How I miss our old plantation! The tastiest bananas, the sweetest coconuts, the juiciest mangoes! We were happy, our workers were happy. Now what do they have? Communism. Their money is worthless. They don’t have enough rice. They ration. And it’s not even wartime! It’s worse than wartime. How my heart hurts when I think of my old nanny. Her letters are heartbreaking, my friend—heart—breaking—
Oh Jesus,
goddamn those
fucking commie
bastards fuck!
The Ronin climaxed the way a bad guy in a bad movie dies, grunting theatrically and with exaggerated jolts to his body, with Crème Brûlée suspiciously arriving at the same conclusion at exactly the same time. The Ronin, however, seemed completely satisfied as he sighed and flopped onto his back, while Crème Brûlée purred, Oh, that was wonder-r-r-ful. And when the Ronin grinned and said, Sure was, baby, I realized that even the smartest con man in the world would fall for the oldest trick in the world. Oh, lost illusions! Even the charm of consorting with concubines had vanished. Another misty dream of my youth, evaporated forever, replaced instead with the unappetizing vision of an invisible orgasm grabbing a male of my species and shaking him by the scruff of his neck. I was embarrassed by my own gender. Did I look and sound like this as well?
Not bad for fifty-two, eh? the Ronin said, eyes closed. We got a deal?
Fifty-two? What deal?
I’m fifty-two years old. A surprise, I know. I’m as well preserved as an Asian. And the deal is growing the market. Among the intellectuals! Followed by a personal introduction to Heaven.
What would God say? I thought I had spoken my question to myself, but it must have been out loud, because the Ronin replied, What would God say? He’d say, Why not?
That’s what I once thought, too, I said. But I h
ave had a great deal of time to think about what God would say and now I know what the real answer is.
Oh, yeah? The Ronin lit a cigarette. What is it?
Why the hell not?
You crazy bastard, the Ronin said, grinning. I like you.
CHAPTER 8
Why the hell not? Was that also the question you asked yourself, Bon, before you pulled the trigger in front of my face? Well, yes, then, why the hell not, that is my motto, especially when it comes to whiskey, or cognac, or vodka, or gin, or sake, or wine, or beer, but not when it comes to pastis, because that tastes like shit. There was a bottle of Ricard in Heaven, but during my last night there, after the Ronin’s departure, I wallowed in the more universal Johnnie Walker and fell asleep in a heart-shaped bed. Was my mother watching from above? Could she see my disgrace? Would she offer me her love and tenderness, her total understanding, her empathy that far surpassed sympathy? From the real Heaven, if it existed, gazing down on this earthly one, she would say, You are my son, and you are not half of anything, you are twice of everything! You will find a way to lift the curse that echoes in your ears—the words of the communist agent, defiant against the policemen about to rape her:
My surname is Viet, and my given name is Nam!
Oh, Mama . . . if only I believed in me as much as you do. I look at me all the time, and because I do not like what I see, I must turn to whiskey, which is so much better at improving one’s eyesight than any pair of glasses. To drink whiskey, in sufficient quantities, regardless of sufficient quality, is to polish the fuzzy mirror of one’s self and to adjust, in the manner of an optometrist, the focus of one’s lenses. But unfortunately, whiskey wears off, the hangover simply an adjustment to the reality of being oneself and another, where one is constantly looking at the other. This was my state of being when Bon phoned me the next morning.
So you had a good time? Bon said.
A pretty good time, I lied.
Great. Just wanted to let you know: Sleepy is dead.
For a man telling me about the violent demise of one of the Seven Dwarfs, Bon sounded rather cheerful. That was him. While he loved whiskey, too, what truly brought him into focus was love for his family and hatred of his enemies. All the enormous emotional force in the love that he could no longer give to his wife and child had been converted, in the strange dynamo of his soul, into potential violence he could direct at his enemies. Now he had an excuse: Sleepy was dead and his younger brother, Shorty (who was considered short even by other short people), was barely alive. The brothers had been assaulted near Tang Frères as they made their rounds collecting monthly membership dues for the Secret Society, as the Boss romantically called his insurance company. The dues were insurance against—who else?—the Boss himself. That could not be said out loud, of course. It was a great racket to be both the source of fear and the protection against that fear, not that the Boss was an original in this regard. Organized religion was the first and greatest protection racket, an economy of perpetual profit built on voluntary fear and coerced guilt. Donating money to churches, temples, mosques, synagogues, cults, et cetera, to help ensure a spot for one’s soul in the express elevator to that penthouse in the sky known as the afterlife was marketing genius! Had Sleepy paid his spiritual insurance? If so, had it done him any good?
According to Shorty, whose memory had been beaten into the consistency of oatmeal by a length of pipe, or so said Bon, a quartet of Arab youth had set on them. The ambush had occurred in a grimy residential passage, the youths punching, kicking, and stabbing Sleepy and Shorty with fists, feet, and knives before introducing some pipes and chains for variety. Afterward, they relieved Sleepy and Shorty of several thousand francs and a few promissory notes. A brave witness screaming from a window above them saved Shorty. The assailants had run off laughing, leaving Shorty to drag himself to the next stop on the collection tour a street away, where he demanded that the owner hide him in his storeroom and call Le Cao Boi. Shorty was hiding as much from the police as from the thieves, who were undoubtedly sending a signal. The moral of the story, Bon concluded, was not that there had been too much killing. Rather, there hadn’t been enough (though Sleepy might disagree).
I told you those kids weren’t dead, Bon said. When he said that I should have killed them when I had the chance, Sonny and the crapulent major snorted in my ears. Even if they didn’t do this, Bon went on, they told their friends and their bosses, and this is what happens. When you stick a knife in somebody, you have to finish him off. Whoever did that to Shorty and didn’t kill him will regret it.
Jesus Christ, I said sadly. It’s war.
Oh, yes, he confirmed happily. It’s war!
As with any war, the origins could be disputed. Was it their fault, whoever they were, because they had killed Sleepy? Was it my fault because I had nearly killed Beatles and Rolling Stones, who presumably belonged to the same gang as Sleepy’s killers? Was it their fault because they had attempted to rob me? Was it my fault because I had strayed out of my assigned place among the invisible Indochinese who never needed a visit from the Repressive State Apparatus, since we had learned to repress ourselves? Was it their fault because they had not sought an alliance or even just a chat with their colonized comrades? Who were they, anyway, the people with whom we were now at war?
I would have time to answer these questions now that my heavenly sabbatical was over. My face was somewhat healed, if still puffy and sensitive, and the pain in my head and hand had subsided to a persistent, uncomfortable itch. Even if I had wanted to stay further and prolong my humiliation, my wallet was spent. I went up to the waiting room and found that the eschatological muscle, knowing it to be my last day, had prepared a loan for me: his densely underlined copies of Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks and The Wretched of the Earth, as well as Césaire’s A Tempest.
How should I return them to you? I said.
You’ll be back, he said. Everyone comes back to Heaven.
I went to the kitchen to say goodbye and found the expressionist mistress, Crème Brûlée, and Madeleine in their nightgowns, consuming their breakfast of cigarettes and coffee. When I saw Madeleine wiping tears from her eyes, my first thought was that a client had hurt her in some way. A manly surge of outrage rippled through my breast, but when I asked her what was wrong, she did not name a man. Instead she pointed at the newspaper on the table. The headline said MASS GRAVES IN CAMBODIA.
My family, she said. Most of them are still there.
The picture beneath the headline showed stacks of grimy bones and heaps of accusatory skulls, freshly excavated and laid out on tarps. Seeing these haunting remnants reminded me that I was poorly equipped to deal with death, pain, sorrow, or depression, whether experienced by others or myself. Witnessing the suffering of others left me in a panic, unsure of what gesture to make or what words to offer. It was all I could do just to put my hand on her shoulder, tentatively, and say, I’m sorry.
You Vietnamese. She closed her eyes, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. You invaded Cambodia.
The expressionist mistress looked at me and shrugged, as if to say she, like the Boss, was ethnic Chinese from Cholon, and therefore not responsible. Crème Brûlée glared at me as if to say she was Laotian, and also therefore not responsible for being Vietnamese. I wanted to say, I’m only half Vietnamese. And we are all Indochinese, aren’t we? Courtesy of our Franco-Frankenstein, who killed us, cut us up, and stitched us together, christening us with this bastard name that we now all shared, “Indochina.” Furthermore, I wished Madeleine knew that it was the communists who invaded Cambodia. I was in a reeducation camp when it happened, and I was not even a communist anymore.
But none of that mattered. If we believed in collective guilt for the French, the Americans, the Japanese, and the Chinese, who had all in one way or another flagellated our country—if we believed so fervently that you committed violence on us—then we had to believe in our own coll
ective guilt as well. Guilt, indeed, was a bitch.
Well, goodbye, I said awkwardly. The mistress and Crème Brûlée bid me goodbye just as half-heartedly, reminding me that one should never leave a place like Heaven in the morning, only under the cover of night. Madeleine said nothing, lighting a hashish cigarette and keeping her eyes closed, behind which she was undoubtedly watching a movie only she could see, the rickety reel of memories in which everyone she knew was still alive.
I read the newspaper on the RER back to Paris, with Sonny and the crapulent major reading over my shoulders. The article confirmed the news I had already heard in the refugee camp on Pulau Galang, relayed by the aid workers and my language teacher. He was an earnest, sweaty young man from Bordeaux who had come to the camp to help us refugees who were destined for our homeland, France. We learned about what the Khmer Rouge had done from one of his dictation lessons, which I attended out of boredom.
Repeat after me, he had said. Khmer Rouge.
Khmer Rouge, we said.
Year Zero, he said.
Year Zero, we said.
Pol Pot is evil, he said.
Pol Pot is evil, we said.
Very slowly, in basic French, he explained how the Khmer Rouge and their leader, Pol Pot, wanted to take Cambodia back to Year Zero, to cleanse their country of all foreign contamination, to start all over again from nothing. Nothing, we repeated, and the song that our French teacher had played for us before came back to me: Non, je ne regrette rien. Édith Piaf’s voice was echoing in my mind when he gave us his final dictation for the day: The Khmer Rouge are communists. Once more we repeated his words, but after that I raised my hand and said, The Khmer Rouge leaders studied in Paris as students.
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