BLOOD BROTHER #1 (Man, a.k.a. the commissar, a.k.a. the faceless man)
BLOOD BROTHER #2 (you, a.k.a. the captain, a.k.a. Vo Danh)
BLOOD BROTHER #3 (Bon, who has no other name)
What happy days, these! Your theatrical debut in a piece of performance theater, where all the restaurant’s a stage. Everything is improvisational, everything is unpredictable, except the most predictable thing of all, the end that must be achieved, the mask that must be taken off, the gun that must be fired. But before this white comedy can proceed to its last act, we have
THE PENULTIMATE
(that means next-to-last)
ACT
The door opens with a crash. Enter SMELLY and ANGRY, cleavers in hand.
SMELLY What the fuck’s going on?
ANGRY You fuckers have been acting weird.
SMELLY (points to the faceless man) Who the fuck is this?
BLOOD BROTHER #2 That is a great philosophical question.
SMELLY Shut the fuck up, you crazy bastard.
ANGRY Where’s the Boss? Where’s Le Cao Boi? Why is the restaurant closed?
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Why are you here? You’re supposed to be at the theater.
SMELLY You don’t get to ask questions. You didn’t even pull duty at the orgy.
ANGRY You think you’re too good for that? Fuck you.
SMELLY So who the fuck is this? And why’s he wearing that mask?
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Take off your mask.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Gladly, brother. I have been waiting a long time to take this off.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 I’m not your brother.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 removes his mask.
SMELLY Ugh. I mean—Jesus, come on, that—
ANGRY What the fuck happened to your face?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 (chuckles) You should have seen it before the surgeries.
SMELLY You need new surgeons.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 I’ve already had a half dozen operations. But when you start with nothing, when your entire face has been burned off by napalm, rebuilding it takes a while. God made this world in seven days, but even the most talented, highly trained, highly paid human beings require quite a bit more time to create something so simple as a face. I’m only halfway there.
ANGRY Answer the goddamn question: Who the fuck are you?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 That is a great philosophical question. You must remember that the birth of a being that must proceed from nothingness, absolute beginning, is an event historically absurd.
SMELLY WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 You don’t recognize me?
ANGRY Why would we recognize you?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 I was asking Bon. But you should recognize me, too.
SMELLY We don’t even know you, you weird fuck.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Have you looked in the mirror recently?
ANGRY Fuck you—
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Really looked?
SMELLY I don’t even give a fuck anymore if you answer the question.
ANGRY Wait until the Boss gets a look at you.
SMELLY Where’s the Boss, you crazy bastard?
BLOOD BROTHER #3 shoots SMELLY in the side of the head.
ANGRY What the—
BLOOD BROTHER #3 shoots ANGRY between the eyes.
BLOOD BROTHER #2 Holy shit!
SMELLY and ANGRY are supine on the floor.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 They weren’t the best people.
SMELLY and ANGRY appear to be dead.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
SMELLY and ANGRY are definitely dead.
BLOOD BROTHER #2 Why . . .
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Why? Those crazy fucks would cut you up while you were still alive and laugh while they did it. It was either kill them now or kill them later, and if it was later, it would be a lot messier.
SMELLY and ANGRY are still dead.
BLOOD BROTHER #2 No one gives a shit.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Probably true. Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to call the police?
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Walls are thick. Shutters are closed. Only two shots. I’ll take my chances.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 You’re as focused as ever.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Ever? What do you know about ever?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Oh, Bon. Do you still not recognize me?
BLOOD BROTHER #3 You’re the commissar.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 I’m more than the commissar. And less.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 I don’t care. You’re here to die and I’m here to kill you.
BLOOD BROTHER #2 Everything happens for a reason.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Jesus, can you shut up? Where’s your gun?
BLOOD BROTHER #2 I don’t give a fuck.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Well, I do, you poor bastard. You may not want to kill this son of a bitch, although I don’t know why, given what he did to you, but I am going to kill him and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Bon.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 You’re not getting out of this.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 I don’t want to get out of this. All I ask is that you recognize me first. Don’t you understand? I wanted you to find me. Why do you think I came to Paris? The Soviets have excellent plastic surgeons, too.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 I’m not surprised.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 I visited Moscow. Do you know Lenin’s corpse is on exhibit? Amazing how the taxidermists preserved him. Kind of like plastic surgery. And these experts came and did the same to Ho Chi Minh. He looks like he’s sleeping. The people travel from far and wide to see him in his mausoleum. Ho Chi Minh’s corpse is now the most beautiful work of art in our country.
Something is leaking from SMELLY and ANGRY.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 What do you mean, you wanted us to find you?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 I knew our brother here would not return to the United States, having killed a man there and having helped you kill another. France was the next likely place. There are many of us here. And, of course, France is the land of his father. Where else would he go? And if he went here, where else but Paris? Then it was simply a matter of making my presence known. A man with a mask instead of a face can hardly walk around without getting noticed.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 But why find us?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 We have unfinished business. It’s just not the business you think.
Dark stains from SMELLY and ANGRY are slowly spreading across the floor.
BLOOD BROTHER #2 Who the fuck do you think you are?
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Who are you talking to, you crazy bastard?
BLOOD BROTHER #2 Myself. But also to our brother here.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 He’s not our brother!
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Shall I tell him or shall you?
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Tell me what?
BLOOD BROTHER #2 I’m sorry, Bon. I’m so sorry. Really, very sorry.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Sorry about what?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 As am I.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Sorry about what?
BLOOD BROTHER #2 I believed I was doing the right thing.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 What are you trying to tell me?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Are you sure you don’t recognize me?
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Stop playing your mind games.
SMELLY and ANGRY stare blankly at the ceiling, contemplating the meaning of life, or death, or whatever this is.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Do you recognize this?
He holds up his left hand. A long red scar cuts across the palm.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 (hesitates) So what?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 It’s the same scar as on your hand.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 (to BLOOD BROTHER #2) Did you tell him about our oath?
BLOOD BROTHER #2 He already knew about the oath.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 How?
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Because I’m your brother, Bon. I’m Man.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 Anybody can cut themselves. You got the story about our oath from the crazy bastard here. He would have told you anything when you tortured him.
BLOOD BROTHER #2 I didn’t have to tell him. He knows, because he’s Man.
BLOOD BROTHER #3 What did he do to you? What did you say to him? Tell me the truth.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 Yes, tell him the truth.
BLOOD BROTHER #2 You go first.
BLOOD BROTHER #1 He won’t believe it from me. Maybe he will believe it from you.
Lights dim, except for spotlights on the three of you. SMELLY and ANGRY rise from the floor and recede into the shadows to join the chorus of your ghosts, who rub their hands and nudge one another in anticipation.
THE LAST ACT
Bon and Man stare at you, waiting for you to speak. You do not know what to say, you say, except that when people do not know what to say, they oftentimes do know what to say but just do not want to say it. The first thing you do, however, is remove Bon’s backup gun from behind your back and hand it to him. What are you giving me this for? he says, although he takes the gun, the first sign that he knows something is very wrong.
I want you to know I wouldn’t use it on you, you say. Or Man.
He’s not Man. Why do you—just stop it. He brainwashed you back in the camp, didn’t he?
This all started long before the camp, Bon. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. I don’t know where to begin. Except that you have to believe him. The faceless man is the commissar. And the commissar is our blood brother, Man. He didn’t die defending Saigon. He was hit by a napalm strike that burned his face off, but he survived.
Bon looks back and forth between the two of you. I don’t—I—
Just listen. Man and I—we’re—we are—we were—we have been—
What? Bon says, and for the first time the muzzle of his gun shifts from Man to you.
Communists. I was already a communist when I went to America to study, when I joined the Special Branch and worked for the General. But I am no longer a communist. Maybe Man still is one.
I don’t understand, Bon says, his muzzle moving back to Man.
You have to understand, Man says. We are your blood brothers.
No, you’re not, not if this is true—
And why wouldn’t it be true? Man says. We are the ones telling you.
You evil son of a bitch! Bon shouts. What did he do to you in that camp?
A great deal, you say. But we had already started long before. Even at the lycée, when we swore our oaths to each other. We were blood brothers, but we were already different. It wasn’t much later that Man began talking to me about the terrible things the French did to us—
I know the terrible things the French have done to us, Bon says.
But you believed that the Americans were there to rescue us. You were already ready to fight with them, against the communists. But Man told me the truth—the Americans weren’t there to help us. They were there to have us help them fight the communists, when the communists were actually trying to liberate us—
So he started brainwashing you even back then—
Not brainwashing—
So now you admit it, Man says. You recognize me after all, don’t you?
I don’t recognize a damn thing! Bon shouts. Even if you were—even if you might have been—you’re insane now. Maybe you always were, and I never saw it. Maybe your insanity rubbed off on this poor bastard, who really is a crazy bastard if he believed in your—
I’m not here to argue politics, Bon, you say. I’m just trying to—
You’re a fucking communist! And a liar!
Yes, all true—
You’re a fucking traitor!
That is not true. We’re no more traitors than you are a traitor. The communists call you a traitor, but you are a patriot. So are we. You did what you believed was right for the country, just as we did what we believed was right—
Then you’re idiots.
That may be true.
Oh my God, Bon says, and you realize he is crying. Oh my God.
Bon—
Is nothing sacred to you?
At first you think it is a rhetorical question, because the answer can only be that of course some things are sacred to you. Your beliefs. Your friendships. Your mother. Or, conversely, defiantly, the answer is that, no, nothing is sacred! Everything can be transgressed! And then there is the third answer, which you finally understood only when the Boss demanded something and you refused, and so . . .
Yes, you say. Nothing is sacred.
You’re such a bastard, Bon says, and he is not only crying, he is sobbing, which you have not seen him do since his wife and child died. A real bastard. You know that? Not because your mother was Vietnamese and your father was French. You’ve used that as a crutch your whole life. No. You’re a bastard because you’re a traitor.
I don’t accept that, Bon. You did what you thought was right—
I’m not talking about politics, you stupid bastard! I’m talking about how you and he—Man—if he’s still Man—how you betrayed me. And not only betrayed me. You betrayed us. Everything we stood for—our friendship—our loyalty—our oath—
I kept my oath, Bon! I went with you to Thailand and Laos. I went with you to the reeducation camp. I did my best to keep you alive. I was willing to die for you and I’m still willing to die for you. I’m your blood brother.
No! Bon shouts. Neither of you are my brothers!
He holds up his left hand, the scar a livid red line dividing the palm. An adolescent oath you all swore. A teenage commitment to a life of loyalty and friendship. Idealism branded into the skin. A bond that would never, you said, be broken.
If I could, Bon says, I’d cut my hand off.
No need, Bon, Man says. The solution is so much simpler.
Solution?
Why do you hesitate, Bon? Why not do what you have always done?
What have I always done?
Kill communists.
The muzzle of Bon’s gun drifts between the two of you. His breathing is ragged, his expression confused. He is slowly coming face-to-face with both the truth as well as the only solution to the plot devised by the two of you, which you began laying out so many years ago in your secret cell at the lycée, in those days when revolution was romantic, death was unreal, and contradiction was only the gap between the departing train of liberty, equality, and fraternity and the platform of the colony on which you stood, stranded. But age always reveals one’s own contradictions, as Bon has pointed out. Your contradiction is that you are a bastard because of how people perceive your face, but you are also a bastard because of what you have done. That is deep, so deep you cannot see the bottom, and now it is time to face that void.
Do it, Bon, you say.
Do it? Bon says, his voice strangled.
It’s time to do what has to be done.
The three of you are teenagers again, blood slick on your palms, palms stinging from the cut of the blade. An orchestra of cicadas drones in the grove, and the moon is a yellow crescent, or, as you once called it as a child, a banana. All for one and one for all! Until death do us part! Then, vows finished, you each shake hands with the others, mingling your blood. The sharp pain in your hand is a sign that you are alive, and loved, and that you love these two boys, who will be your lifelong friends and blood brothers, the family you choose. You know that Bon remembers that moment as well, as does Man, the three of you at last reunited and triangulated as Bon aims at Man, then at you, back and forth, his eyes wide, face and knuckles blanched. The compass of his barrel finally settles on you, aiming squarely between your eyes. Your ghost chorus is
so excited it sings in anticipation, a doo-wop band crooning, Do it.
Don’t feel bad, Bon, you say. Do it. It has to be done. Do it.
And when Bon pulls the trigger, you can’t quite believe he actually did it, the flash of lightning that blinds you being the crack in the door as Heaven opens and closes for a split second, the bullet piercing your brain before the bang reaches your ears, and somehow you can hear the voice of God one more time, breaking His silence to say, There’s nothing to be afraid of.
CHAPTER 21
You are glad that you have Le Cao Boi’s authentic aviator sunglasses, because the whiteness is blinding. Heaven’s all white, and in all of its whiteness, Heaven, or the afterlife, or eternity, or purgatory, or limbo, or the bardo, or wherever the hell it is you find yourself, now that you are as dead as the French empire, looks strangely like Paradise. Everyone’s dressed in white, except for the Maoist psychoanalyst, who wears brown tweed and green corduroy. It was actually not the voice of God you heard, just the baritone of the Maoist PhD, who has laid down this last sheet you have written and said:
Now, perhaps, we are ready to begin?
Begin? Begin? How about we stop? The problem with having holes in your head is that everything leaks out! The very chic, very tanned doctor can fix a great many things, but he cannot find the right plugs for these leaks. That is the job of the Maoist psychoanalyst, with his PhD, which is the required expertise, or so your aunt says, and you agree, since your problem, in the end, is not medical, physical, or even metaphysical, but philosophical. Here the Maoist PhD is an expert, quoting, for example, Sartre, who said that “the hole is the symbol of a mode of being . . . a nothingness . . . the empty image of myself. I have only to crawl into it in order to make myself exist.” And that is what you have done, crawling into yourself as you have written this confession, aided by the Maoist PhD, who visits every two weeks to talk to you and review what you have written over these many days, or weeks, or months, or years, or decades, or centuries, in Paradise. You meet in your room, which you share with a kind old gentleman, his hair white from his head to his genitalia. One evening you peeked up his nostrils while he slept and the cotton ball tufts inside were white as well. After a career in the colonies, he is of moderate wealth, like you, and of surprising abilities, also like you. Not long after he moved in, as the very chic, very tanned doctor gave him a checkup, the kind old gentleman started speaking to him in a foreign language, and the doctor responded in kind.
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