The Committed

by Viet Thanh Nguyen

  Civet coffee? the lawyer said, reading the package.

  My aunt, who had been using the coffee sparingly for “special occasions,” said, It’s made for someone like you.

  The handsome and humorless lawyer wrinkled her nose, and a picture, unbidden, lit the heretofore darkened cinema of my mind, featuring my aunt and the lawyer, intertwined on her brass bed. We sat in the armchairs flanking the sofa where my aunt sat, and, over coffee and pastries, we discussed the last movies that they had seen, the possibilities of communist renewal, and the Soviet struggles in Afghanistan. These two women clearly were in love with each other, or at least deeply infatuated. On the one hand, I was delighted that BFD and the Maoist PhD had not measured up to the handsome and humorless lawyer. On the other hand, they were men, I was a man, and if no place existed for men in this strange new love, then what place was there for me? But it would not do to bring that up. Instead, I mentioned Hedd.

  “Penetrating analysis by a seminal author,” my aunt said, quoting from the back cover. Oh my. Seminal!

  When the lawyer laughed, I wondered what was so funny. My aunt must have glimpsed my expression, because she added, I would be more impressed if an author was described as “vaginal.” How often has an author—almost always a man—described himself as giving birth to his book? If that’s the case, “vaginal” is much more appropriate, no?

  Wouldn’t that rule out all the authors who don’t—uh—you know, have vaginas?

  But you don’t have any problem with ruling out all the authors who don’t produce semen, the lawyer said, with just a hint of courtroom menace.

  I always thought “seminal” was just, you know, metaphorical. Or is that—I don’t know—a simile? A seminal simile?

  It’s always nice when a figure of speech works in your favor, isn’t it? my aunt asked.

  Hot with embarrassment at all this “seminal” and “vaginal” conversation, I changed the subject. What do you think of this quote? I turned to the last page and read them the crucial line: “While life is valuable to the Oriental, life is invaluable to the Westerner.”

  My aunt groaned and the lawyer snorted. What’s the American expression? the lawyer said. Oh, yes. He’s a shithead.

  We all laughed, me most of all, relieved that this was a joke that I could get. That was the judgment I was looking for! Except she was judging my words. I had meant those words ironically, but if a shithead quoted me, what did that make me?

  All these men making proclamations about the world, said the lawyer. As if the only politics that matters has to do with states and armies and wars. Without even looking at his bibliography, I can guarantee you that he only cites men. Perhaps with one exception. Hannah Arendt.

  I looked at the bibliography and, indeed, Arendt was there, for On Revolution. But a quick study of the rest of the entries did not show any other women’s names. So whom should he be citing? I asked. I did not mean it as a challenge, but my aunt took it as such.

  First, you exclude women from politics and governments and universities, and then you ask where are all the women, and which women should we be citing?

  Well, I—

  Frenchwomen couldn’t even vote until 1945! After I was born. We’ve barely emerged from the Dark Ages! You men are absurd. You read Marx and Césaire and Fanon and talk endlessly about capitalism and colonialism and racism, but who was the last woman you read? When was the last time the word “sexism” or “patriarchy” or “phallus” ever came out of your mouth? Oh, why do I bother to even ask? It’s not as if your confession is l’écriture féminine, is it? My God, Hélène Cixous would tear you apart. She stood up and went to a bookshelf, and I kept my mouth shut, which allowed me not to have to admit to having never heard of l’écriture féminine or Hélène Cixous. My aunt returned with a book and said, You at least have read Simone de Beauvoir, correct?

  Of course! I lied, feigning indignance and quoting the only words I had heard attributed to Beauvoir: “Woman is made, not born!”

  “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman,” my aunt said coldly. At least you came close. Now you should graduate to Julia Kristeva. That way you can say you’ve read two French feminists.

  I looked at the book she thrust into my hand, Pouvoirs de l’horreur: Essai sur l’abjection. I opened it and scanned the table of contents:

  Approaching Abjection

  Something to Be Scared Of

  From Filth to Defilement

  Semiotics of Biblical Abomination

  Suffering and Horror

  Those Females Who Can Wreck the Infinite

  In the Beginning and without End . . .

  Powers of Horror

  Trust me, my aunt said. It’s perfect for you.

  CHAPTER 14

  Later that evening, after the lawyer and my aunt had gone off to a dinner where they would continue talking to each other in my absence—did two women talking to each other without a man present actually make any sound?—BFD came to pick me up in his convertible. We greeted each other warily, and then the car took off at reckless speed. Maybe BFD always drove very fast, or maybe he did not want to be alone with me for long, or maybe he could not wait to get to Heaven. Or perhaps all of the above.

  Steering with his left hand, he used his right to manipulate the stick shift, pop a cigarette into his mouth, and ignite it with the car’s lighter. He had the movie star look I aspired to, the director in his case being Fellini, given his paisley ascot and Italian convertible, whose roof could not, unfortunately, be retracted in the middle of a chilly January. His pseudo-stardom almost offset the fact that anybody who wore an ascot deserved beheading, though that was just a personal opinion, albeit a very strong one. I was not short of opinions, and neither was BFD.

  To avoid talking, we both smoked incessantly and listened to a greatest hits tape of Johnny Hallyday, the sonic equivalent of Ricard Pastis, a taste the rest of the world could not acquire. We exchanged a few banalities, with the only matter of substance coming up when BFD said, casually, that he had not seen my aunt for a while. I suppose she must have found another man to keep her busy? he asked. Besides our dear friend, of course. He meant the Maoist PhD.

  There’s no other man in her life, I said. I did not mention the lawyer. Speaking of her and her astonishing feats seemed like a betrayal of the mystery that had happened behind that closed door, a secret to which I had no right, except in my imagination, which even the lawyer might agree was not responsible for its actions.

  Maybe she needs a rest, BFD said as he turned onto the street that led to Heaven. Women are sensitive creatures.

  I imagine you’ve known a lot of women, I said, flicking away my cigarette butt.

  He parked the convertible with a satisfied smile. Haven’t you?

  Yes, I thought. Literally countless women, for I had long ago lost track. But I did not say this out loud. For once—for the first time—I was ashamed that I had known so many women, and the approval of BFD was not something that I craved. Indeed, his approval would mean that I would be like him—and I wasn’t. Was I?

  I’m Catholic, I said, opening my door, as if being Catholic explained everything, which it usually did.

  BFD’s smile veered from satisfaction to mild contempt. He was indifferent to religion, as were many of the French, which was one reason I found them charming. The delights and difficulties of women aren’t for everybody, he said, following me to Heaven’s entrance. They’re a challenge, for those of us who like such things.

  I suppressed the urge to punch him in the throat, which, both Claude and Bon had taught me, was the quickest way to take down a man, who would reflexively think that protecting his manhood would be a higher priority. Instead I smiled and rang the doorbell, hard, and then a second time, pretending I was pushing his eyeball into its socket. The housekeeper ushered us in after I gave the password—I’d like to go to Heaven—which is
what Jesus Christ must have whimpered as he faded on the cross. Nothing had changed since I left, Heaven being eternal, the housekeeper still ingratiating, the television still tuned to an intellectual talk show, the eschatological muscle still seated in his armchair with a thin volume on his lap. The only difference was that he did not have just one Band-Aid on his left cheek but another one on his right temple.

  Even in this rather incongruous context, BFD gave off an air of casual brilliance and cosmopolitanism, with his pink trousers, white shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, lime-green sweater draped over his shoulders with its arms loosely tied over his chest, monogrammed handkerchief, gold Rolex, slightly worn espadrilles, and sockless white ankles. In this waiting room of average men, he was matched in his meticulous grooming only by the gentleman standing up as we came in. He bore the distinctive markings of one of France’s threatened minorities: a capitalist, a kind of creature rarely seen in such splendor in the rougher neighborhoods of Paris in which I passed my time. This specimen flaunted the plumage of a tailored plaid suit, a tasteful tie in a fat Windsor knot, gleaming cuff links, polished wingtips, and a copy of Le Figaro, with the biggest bulge in his sleek profile not in the front of his pants but the back, where a thick wallet shielded his ass from being kicked. Only his heels showed signs of wear, having been used to grind down the hopes and dreams of the working class. While the American capitalist with his generously cut suit and expansive belly enjoyed gorging on the blood of the people, the slim and aristocratic French capitalist represented capitalism’s charming and elegant side. On the one hand, the ugly American, who did not care what he ate so long as he ate too much of it, especially gigantic slabs of still-bleeding red meat. On the other hand, the chic Frenchman, who preferred the refined cruelty of foie gras.

  Now having run out of hands, one must then look down at one’s feet to see the Chinese and Vietnamese varieties of capitalism, represented by the two-for-one Boss, who merged both as an ethnic Chinese from Vietnam. In contrast to American cowboy capitalism and French cosmopolitan capitalism, the Boss practiced gangster capitalism. Some see the gangster version as capitalism’s lawless degeneration, except that gangsterism was actually capitalism’s disavowed dog-eat-dog origin. Such an interesting English expression, the “dog-eat-dog world,” since dogs don’t really eat dogs (dogs do eat shit, but that’s another story).

  Darling! cried Crème Brûlée, the woman for whom our poor endangered capitalist had stood. She had emerged through a curtain of beads from a hallway, wearing her miniskirted kimono. Her gaze was fixed on the endangered capitalist, who had tossed his newspaper aside the way he probably tossed aside human lives. If she was beautiful and youthful, and he was plain and aged, that was what money and whiteness, multiplied together, could buy. My dear! she cooed. Did you miss little Crème Brûlée?

  Like you wouldn’t believe, he said. You’re stunning, as always.

  I hope you didn’t wait long.

  Not long at all, except that your bodyguard insists on watching this awful show.

  The eschatological muscle shrugged. If you listened, maybe you’d learn.

  Don’t mind him, Crème Brûlée purred. He’s bored and he wants everyone bored.

  She smiled and extended her arm. Her luminescent bare skin hypnotized the endangered capitalist, who walked to her slowly with his hand extended, one finger displaying the most meaningless symbol in the world, a wedding ring. She backed through the beaded curtains, drawing him in, and even as I gestured to BFD to take the endangered capitalist’s seat, the expressionist mistress emerged through the beads, smiling with such canned sincerity that I knew her smile was not for me.

  My dear sir! She seized BFD’s hand with her own. We’ve been expecting you!

  My dear lady, he replied, giving a courtly bow. I am delighted to be here!

  And with that, the expressionist mistress quickly ushered him through the curtain, fawning over him with sweet words that she had never used with me. She was escorting BFD toward the VIP lounge, for there was always a VIP lounge for people like BFD, which meant that the endangered capitalist was a lower-level capitalist if he had not been so privileged. Left in the waiting room with a few other non-VIP asses and the eschatological muscle, I asked him if he had hurt his head. In response, he raised Voltaire’s Candide from his lap to cover his mouth and whispered, My head is fine.

  Then why another Band-Aid? I asked, mystified. And the one on your cheek, too?

  My cheek and my head may be fine, but the rest of me isn’t.

  What’s wrong with you?

  Exactly the question I want people to think when they see these Band-Aids. And everybody sees these Band-Aids.

  It’s a little noticeable, I said.

  Band-Aids are meant to be invisible. But not on me.

  The beads rustled again and parted to reveal Madeleine. She saw me and her professional smile remained affixed to her face, as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s. She nodded to me but sashayed to one of the asses on the sofa, an unshaven fellow dressed in a tracksuit, as if going to a sporting event. As she led the lucky ass past me, toward the promising hallway hidden by the beads, I knew what I must do.

  Can I see Madeleine? I asked the eschatological muscle.

  He shrugged. Anyone can see Madeleine.

  Over the next hour, as I wondered whether Madeleine or BFD would emerge from behind the curtains first, I spoke with the eschatological muscle about Césaire, Fanon, and my fear that in this tempest of a world, I was what Césaire considered Ariel. Was my reluctance to continue subscribing to Césaire and Fanon’s vision of violence as being inevitable in the struggle against colonization a sign of theoretical revision on my part, based on my revolutionary experience? Or was it simply an excuse to justify my reluctance to commit in the way they saw commitment, as a demand for violent uprising?

  Well, you’re not black, you’re not African, you are no longer colonized, and you’re an intellectual, the eschatological muscle said. Does that answer your question?

  Thanks, I muttered. And you? You choose to sit here and guard a brothel?

  If revolutionaries can educate themselves in prisons, why not brothels? Can’t prostitutes be as radical as prisoners?

  So you are waiting for the right moment—

  To come out of my hole? Yes. Or put it another way. You lived through what Gramsci called a war of maneuver. Violence, revolution, or at least confrontations in the streets. Me, I am in what Gramsci called a war of position. The war for ideas, for alliances, coalitions, new movements; the struggle for a new vision—

  The beaded curtain parted and spared me from saying I had never heard of Gramsci. Madeleine stepped through, froze me with her professional smile, and said—as she did to all the asses—Are you ready for a taste of Heaven? A few moments later my ass was back in her bedroom, the theater of so many humiliations, where I had unmanned myself with my self-sabotage. When Madeleine stepped forward and let the half-kimono fall, I raised my hand and said, Wait.

  Wait? she said, as if she had never heard the word before from a man. But was I a man? Or just an ass with two cheeks, like all the others who demanded twenty or thirty minutes of her body? Two cheeks to match my two minds.

  Sit, I said. Please.

  In the litany of strange requests and demands she must have gotten during her career, this was innocuous. Madeleine kept smiling, shrugged, and sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs. What can I do for you? she asked.

  Nothing. I want to do something for you.

  I got on my knees before her.

  Wait, she said, but I did not. I had knelt quite often in the reeducation camp. I had knelt all the time in church. But I had rarely knelt otherwise, unless one counts kneeling figuratively before that holiest of holies, secular French culture. Here I knelt voluntarily. This was not my normal behavior, but why the hell not? Why the hell could I not see what was there all along,
until the handsome and humorless lawyer showed me, so to speak, from behind the closed door. I had hardly ever indulged in this behavior, it not being to my taste and not expected of me, given the generous women to whom I was attracted, who I now understood always gave me more than I gave them. But once I set myself a task I was nothing if not diligent, and I proceeded to please Madeleine as best as I could, lured on by her surprised murmurs and moans, learning as I went, split between focusing on the admittedly repetitive task at hand and being beaten back in time by the saltwater tide of my thoughts, over the dark fields of this republic and the dark oceans separating it from home, to another occasion when I had knelt, my First Communion. The momentousness of this ritual at age seven matched in some way what I felt kneeling before Madeleine. First Communion initiated us into the community of willful believers who flanked our super-cute procession as we slowly marched toward the priest. The holy man was no less than my father, although I did not know it at the time. Behold the body of Christ, he said, holding before each of us a white moon the size of a coin. Then he placed it on our outstretched tongues. I quivered at the thought of Father’s fingers touching my tongue, but I felt only the flat, dry wafer, and I wondered what part of Christ I had in my mouth—a slice of the intestine? a cross-section of an eyeball? a disk of bone? No time to ponder further, for the pious, holier-than-thou choirboy waited for me with the blood of Christ in a chalice. Even though I had seen the choirboy wipe the lip of the cup with a white cloth, I still trembled at the thought of all the mouths that had touched that cup. Then I applied my chapped lips to the edge of the cup and chased down my morsel of the body of Christ with a sip of His blood, making me both cannibal and vampire. This blood of Christ was a sweet syrup on a poor tongue unused to sweets, and it would lead me not toward greater devotion to God but rather, eventually, toward debauchery. If I love liquor too much, I blame God, or at least his minions. Sacramental wine was the first remedy this seven-year-old bastard enjoyed.