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American Romantic

Page 10

by Ward Just


  I am unarmed, he said, his voice a kind of frog’s croak. He heard a door open and close and then a hand was at his elbow. The driver was a full head shorter than he was, wearing the blue trousers and homespun shirt of a workingman. He said something unintelligible. His eyes were wide with—not fright, perhaps confusion. He looked Harry up and down, offering his hand, guiding him in the direction of the truck, a strange contraption, more caravan than truck. Harry wondered if he was dreaming once again. The parrot had been a kind of dream; he thought at first it was a hallucination; the butterfly, too. Now he was looking at an ancient Datsun pickup. In the rear where the truck’s bed should have been was a windowless wooden cabin entered by a door displaying a brightly colored drawing of a dragon, a blue and red dragon with slit eyes and a coiled tail, a raptor’s curved talons. The driver tapped on the door and opened it. He said something in a warm voice, most polite. Harry placed his hand on the driver’s shoulder, steadying himself, and climbed inside. The interior was sparsely furnished, lit by candles. A Chinese was seated on a miniature throne. A boy stood beside him. The throne was crafted from ebony and gleamed in the candlelight. The Chinese—elderly, clean-shaven, hands invisible in the sleeves of his ceremonial robe—nodded warmly in an apparently sincere gesture of welcome. Harry responded with a Merci beaucoup but the Chinese did not respond. There were many Chinese in the country, mostly merchants and bankers, along with other, less savory entrepreneurs trafficking in opium, gambling, girls. Desultory efforts by the Americans to involve them in the struggle with the revolution were unsuccessful. The Chinese played little part in the war; business and banking and opium and girls would continue no matter who won. Harry could not imagine where this Chinese had come from, with his grandfatherly appearance and air of civility and hospitality, sitting regally on his tiny throne. Now he indicated a pallet of plump cushions beside the door, inviting Harry to sit. Harry smiled and moved his hands in thanks. It was only then that he noticed the pungent incense in the air and his own foul odor. He felt a tug, the engine coughed, and the truck began to move.

  The Chinese said something Harry did not understand. Then he repeated the word.

  Harry said, Yes, American.

  The Chinese did not respond to that, but if he was alarmed he gave no sign. Then he said something to the boy, who reached behind him and offered Harry a flask of water. He drank all of it in greedy drafts and thanked the boy. The water was deliciously cool. A single draft of water had never meant so much, and then he asked for another.

  The Chinese again indicated the cushions beside the door and Harry sat, easing himself onto the fat cushions, making a pillow of the smallest. Every joint ached and he bled from a dozen cuts on his arms and legs. He was sick with fatigue and felt nausea coming on. He wondered what the Chinese made of him, or if he made anything, an American blundering out of the swamp in the darkness announcing that he was not armed—not the normal thing in that part of the world. The language barrier was complete, with the additional barriers of nationality and age. Neither man would ever know anything of the other, except for appearances. The Chinese was surely a mandarin venerable of some kind, a merchant or banker or trader of exotic materials. He had beautiful manners. They might as well have been ghosts, each to the other, except that the Chinese had saved Harry’s life.

  The boy refilled the flask from a jug and handed it to Harry, who drank half. The boy was wide-eyed and careful not to approach too closely. No good could come of familiarity with a stranger. The Chinese said something more to the boy, who dipped a cloth into the jug and handed it, dripping, to Harry. He slowly washed his hands and face and when he was finished sat dumbly while the Chinese stared into the middle distance, expressionless. The boy curled up and went to sleep at the old man’s feet. Rain continued to fall in a steady tattoo against the roof. The truck moved cautiously, no more than ten or fifteen miles an hour, pausing often to slide in and out of ruts, the engine laboring. Harry thought the heading was north but it was impossible for him to know for sure. He was beyond caring. The swamp was forever behind him. The slow-motion roll of the truck made him drowsy and he lay back against the cushions and despite his best efforts fell asleep, the sort of heavy dreamless sleep that, when he awoke hours later, seemed itself a dream, something not real, a dream of no-dream. It took him a moment to reconcile where he was and who he was and how he had got there, wherever he was, with the Chinese and the boy. He shuddered, remembering his passage across the log bridge, the vine snake, the spider in its web.

  The truck came abruptly to a halt and he heard conversation outside, inches from his head, an argument of some kind. The driver was arguing with someone and then Harry heard taps at the door. He looked with alarm at the Chinese, whose features were impassive. But then the Chinese shook his head and put a finger to his lips. The argument went on for some time, and eventually, with a sigh, the Chinese rose and stepped to the door and rapped sharply, twice, a signal of impatience. The argument, if that was what it was, ended and in a moment the truck’s engine came to life and they drove off. The Chinese returned to his throne and sat, his hands again concealed in the sleeves of his ceremonial robe. The boy continued to sleep. Outside, the rain ceased.

  Soon they were driving on pavement, at most twenty miles an hour. Now and then the driver honked and Harry imagined bicyclists making way. He could hear other cars, trucks, and motorbikes going in the opposite direction. He had no idea if the time was morning or evening or somewhere in between. He had no idea how much time had lapsed since he stumbled from the jungle swamp and saw headlights. When the truck stopped Harry heard voices all around them, shouting and some laughter. The voices were rough and he feared he had arrived at the base camp after all, delivered to the headquarters of the comrade captain. But that was unlikely. Impossible, really. Perverse. All but inconceivable.

  The Chinese muttered something.

  I beg your pardon? I don’t understand.

  The Chinese nodded.

  Harry shrugged and gave what he hoped was a smile.

  Bonne chance, the Chinese said pleasantly as the rear door opened, admitting a blade of sharp morning sunlight into the cabin. The driver stood at attention beside the door. Beyond him was a street filled with carts and automobiles, cyclos, people going about their everyday business, uniformed schoolgirls walking in single file. Dogs in the street, a portable kitchen selling soup, a sidewalk café awaiting the lunch trade. Harry hesitated before easing himself to the pavement. He felt lightheaded, so much noise and movement, frightening in its ordinariness. He was disoriented. Bare yellow sunlight hurt his eyes and dust rose in little clouds all around him. Across the street was a cream-colored villa with an American flag hanging limply from a second-floor window. This was USAID House, two guards dozing in wicker chairs at the entrance gate. They looked scarcely older than boys except for the carbines they carried. Harry looked back inside the truck. To the Chinese he made the Buddhist gesture, his hands together, bowing deeply.

  He said, I thank you.

  The Chinese spoke a few words of acknowledgment.

  I wish you good health. Bonne chance, Harry said.

  The Chinese nodded. He was impatient to go.

  And good fortune, Harry added. He realized he did not want to leave the protection of the Chinese, the safety of his cabin. It was a miracle they encountered one another; a few minutes either way and they would have passed in the night. Harry had found a safe harbor, a providential event, and he had never believed in providence. His days in the jungle were still more real than the turmoil of the street in front of his eyes. The jungle was a green wall of silence except for the rustle. He had adapted to it as prisoners were said to adapt to their captors. Starlight at night was a reminder of the past, and the brutal heat of the day promised a perilous future. The jungle, like the high seas, did not seem to be a place where people belonged. Human beings were outsiders. Youth was essential. Old men would never survive such surroundings. The heat was killing, then as now. This li
ttle town where boys carried carbines was even more perilous. The clamor of the street was painful to hear.

  The driver nudged Harry aside in order to shut and lock the door. And then he was gone and a moment later the Datsun pulled away and was lost in the midday traffic. Harry stood in the sunlight, already beginning to sweat. Traffic was forced to detour around him, people staring as if he were an apparition. Americans naturally carried authority, and Harry had no authority, with his stubbled face and wounded legs, his derelict’s clothing. His eyes were haunted. When he approached USAID House the guards leapt to their feet at once, carbines unslung. They told him to leave, and leave quickly. He was not wanted at USAID House, property of the American government. Probably he was drunk or befuddled by some hallucinogen, so popular among the American neocolonials. In that way they resembled the colonials of decades past. That was how they got on from day to day, hallucinogens and whiskey.

  Harry took a step back, uncertain how to proceed. His vision was weak. When the guards began to shout, a middle-aged American appeared at the front door of the compound. He was brutish, heavy-bellied, swarthy, his eyes invisible behind thick-lensed sunglasses. He wore a sidearm. He stood, arms folded, his tight smile almost a snarl. The American came down the steps slowly, his irritation obvious now. He stood at the gate and said something Harry could not hear. The American moved his hands in a peremptory way. Then Harry was on the pavement, his feet suddenly turned to sand. A bicycle stopped inches from his head. A crowd began to gather, laughing and jostling one another. Harry looked at the white sky, remembering the last few feet of the long bridge when he thought he would surely sink into the swamp. He had no idea how he had survived it. Harry felt himself falling into a tangle of bicycle tires. His elbow hurt as he tried to rise, having no idea now where he was. He had been with a Chinese and now the Chinese was gone. Then the brutish American was bending over him, his face giving a look of pure amazement.

  My God, Sergeant Orono said. It’s you.

  Four

  HARRY was in a half-light of consciousness. His long sleep in the truck had not refreshed him. He felt as if he were drugged, in limbo, neither here nor there. The brutish American had taken charge, waving his pistol at the crowd that had gathered. His voice was loud, a threatening voice. This gave Harry no comfort. He had the idea he was now in a jungle of another kind, without protection. His head was on the pavement and he was looking at a bicycle tire and a sandaled foot and he wondered if the comrade captain had returned and he was somehow in the enemy’s base camp, more useless conversation ahead. His mission, whatever it was, had failed and he himself was breaking down, running on empty, blood on his hands.

  It took the director of USAID House an hour to find a local doctor. She did what she could, patching and stitching, but she had neither the skill nor the equipment to assess internal damage. Harry was unconscious and unresponsive. Meanwhile, Sergeant Orono made an urgent call to the embassy to let the ambassador know that Harry Sanders had turned up dazed and bleeding but more or less intact, very weak and not entirely lucid but not life-threatened either. That was the opinion of the local doctor. Harry himself was in no condition to offer explanations for his sudden appearance on the street in front of USAID House. What’s this all about anyway? Sergeant Orono asked the ambassador’s secretary. What’s he doing here and where has he been? But the ambassador’s secretary would not be drawn except to say that she would inform the ambassador at once. When she returned to the telephone she instructed Sergeant Orono to prepare Harry for the trip to the capital and to accompany him. A helicopter would be sent. He was to tell no one of this journey. He was not to mention Harry’s name. Was that clear? Yes, ma’am, the sergeant said, but he thought it all most peculiar and below the line. Something not quite straight about it and the secretary spoke to him as if he were the hired help. He was not the secretary’s property, he was the property of the U.S. Army. But Sergeant Orono was trained to follow orders, so he did as he was told, even if the order came from a civilian. He was fond of Harry Sanders. The young man had sand.

  When the helicopter arrived in the capital the ambassador himself was on the tarmac. An ambulance was idling nearby, two nurses and a doctor on hand. The ambassador shook Sergeant Orono’s hand and thanked him for his efforts. The military attaché was present also, standing a little apart from the others. The ambassador called him over to say he would write a report for the file, copy to the commander of U.S. forces; Sergeant Orono deserved a commendation. He said to the sergeant, Did Sanders say anything at all? No, the sergeant said, he was in pretty bad shape. The ambassador nodded and went away to supervise the offloading of Harry from the helicopter to the ambulance. In a few minutes they were all gone except for the military attaché, an aging lieutenant colonel who shook the sergeant’s hand and said, Well done. Was it true that Sanders had said nothing? Yes, the sergeant said, can you tell me what this is all about? The attaché did not reply but raised his eyebrows in a gesture that said, unmistakably, Civilian fuck-up. The attaché seemed almost pleased at the turn of events. He left in a staff car and Sergeant Orono climbed back into the helicopter for the return flight south.

  Harry woke up the next afternoon, still dazed. A tube led from his right arm to a bottle hanging from an aluminum stand. He grunted something and a nurse was at his side, asking how he was feeling. She gave him a cup of water and told him not to gulp it. He asked where he was and she said the name of the hospital. Harry recognized it, a private hospital near the port. He said, Is the German hospital ship gone? She said, My goodness yes, left two weeks ago at least. Harry went back to sleep, and when he woke two hours later the ambassador was in the room, sitting quietly in the chair next to the bed, reading a file. When he looked up and saw that Harry’s eyes were open, he smiled warmly and patted him on the shoulder. Can you talk? Harry nodded weakly and reached for the water cup and drank some. The ambassador produced a Chesterfield, lit it, and held it to Harry’s mouth. Harry nodded gratefully and took a long drag and coughed roughly once, and again. The ambassador snuffed the cigarette and waited until the coughing stopped.

  He said, Thank God you’re back. We’ve been terribly worried.

  Harry mustered a smile and said, Me too.

  Things went badly, the ambassador said, half question, half statement.

  Harry nodded.

  Did they mistreat you?

  He did not reply right away. He said finally, Not really.

  Any progress?

  No progress.

  You learned nothing from them?

  Nothing, he said.

  Nothing to report?

  Nothing of value.

  The ambassador sat thoughtfully a moment, making a note on the file. He said, Go back to sleep. When you’re fit we can talk at length. I want to know the full story. You should be up and about in a week or so. They think you have a parasite. Not a serious parasite, they assure me. I decided not to inform your kin and now there’s no reason to, at least not right away. We can discuss that later. The hospital staff has been told to admit no visitors. But I’ll be by from time to time to see how you’re getting on. Your feet are a mess. Did they tell you that?

  No one had to tell me, Harry said. They both looked at his feet, swathed in bandages so that they looked twice their normal size. The ambassador said, You did a fine job. I’m proud of you. We all are.

  Harry grimaced and turned his face. He said to the wall, Did it leak?

  We contained the leak. The leak wasn’t your fault. Get well. We’ll talk when you get well.

  Harry sat up suddenly and groaned. It’s gone, sir.

  Gone? What’s gone?

  Your compass. I’m sorry. I left it behind in my rucksack. It’s in that damned hut. And the thousand U.S. That’s gone too. How can I explain that to the auditors?

  The ambassador laughed. Forget it. There’s so much American money floating around this embassy that it might as well be a bank. The thousand U.S. is a drop in the bucket. Less than a drop.<
br />
  My carelessness, Harry said.

  Don’t worry about it. After a pause, he said, What else?

  I killed a man, Harry said.

  Ambassador Earle did not reply, waiting for an explanation. When none came, he said mildly, How did that happen?

  A boy came up behind me on the trail. He was militia. He had a carbine. I knocked him down, took the carbine, and shot him in the heart. He died at once.

  Harry, the ambassador began.

  He was only a kid.

  In uniform?

  Not a uniform that you or I would recognize. Khaki tunic, khaki trousers, no badge of rank. The carbine was probably one of ours, stolen.

  Tell me all of it, the ambassador said.

  Harry was sick of it, sick of the details and sick of the outcome, sick of thinking about him, his look of—he supposed the word was awe. He stared at the ceiling for long minutes, hoping the ambassador would give it up and wait for another day. But Basso Earle was a patient man, known for his endurance. Endurance became him. Harry stared at the ceiling and recited, in a thick voice, the facts of the matter, the long trek and pausing on the trail, the snapped twig that sounded like a pistol shot, turning to find the boy with the sullen face. Harry described the pain in his feet, rushing the boy and knocking him down, picking up the carbine and firing. His voice broke once but he gathered himself and continued. The carbine in the jungle, the boy dragged off the trail. Later he pushed a heavy vine to find not a vine but a snake coiling in the air, the snake’s mouth wide open, its snow-white fangs—

  Yes, I see, the ambassador said.

  Harry was silent once again.

  You killed him in self-defense.

  Yes, Harry said.

  Well, there’s no doubt of that.

  Do you want it in my report?

  Ambassador Earle thought for a moment, the focus of his eyes somewhere in the middle distance. Yes, he said finally. Bare bones. Don’t call him a boy. You don’t know his age. Asians, it’s difficult to know for certain.

 

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