by Adib Khan
‘It is possible for a couple to live in a partly built house,’ Martin said one day when he sensed her irritability. Silently Nora continued to coat the lamb cutlets with flour seasoned with salt and pepper, beaten egg and breadcrumbs.
‘Without a couple of walls, some missing doors and windows, one can live with more freedom,’ he continued lamely, discouraged by her lack of response.
‘What are you afraid of, Martin?’ she asked. Her tone softened. ‘Perhaps I know the answer to that. Are you scared that I might be fickle? Can’t you even pretend that you are capable of loving? Do you fear that it might make you vulnerable? Is it too dangerously romantic?’
It was his turn to retreat into silence. Nora had an uncanny ability to make him question his decisions. She had led him towards forbidden territory. He was afraid. But he would not perpetrate any deception between them. He lacked the will and the imagination to change and adapt to her needs. And now he also resented her ability to probe his shortcomings with such accuracy. He shifted uncomfortably on the chair.
After he had come home from Vietnam, Martin had never once told Moira that he loved her. There was no strength of feeling left inside him. Only a hollowness that echoed his shame of the war. And Moira had not seemed to mind the changes in him. They married dutifully because it was proper to formalise a relationship they had developed before he went to Vietnam. But was he incapable of loving?
What could Nora know about the way he cared about his son? As for loving a woman—how could he say with any certainty, given his condition? He did feel intensely for Nora, and the loss would be hurtful if she left him, but not for an instant did he doubt his ability to survive and eventually restore the routine of a solitary life.
Nora maintained her composure and finished preparing the meal. They ate quietly, and tentatively began to plan a weekend at Lorne. Martin knew a builder who owned a beach house that could be rented cheaply at that time of year.
Nora enjoyed the seaside in the winter months. The emptiness of the beach was almost sacred to her and seemed to have a calming influence. In inclement weather she could walk on the shore for hours.
By the time the meal was finished, they had agreed to leave for Lorne the following Friday.
‘Will you stay the night?’ Martin asked, immediately regretting his impulsiveness. Although it was not unusual for Nora to stay overnight, this was the first time he had asked her so directly.
‘Yes,’ she nodded, concealing her surprise. ‘I’ll put up with the winter’s wind that will blow in through a partly built house.’
Later, the trundle bed was rolled out into the lounge room. As always, he offered to sleep on it. And, as always, she refused.
Martin felt an odd sensuality floating over them as they made the bed.
‘We are a strange couple,’ he murmured.
Nora smoothed the bed sheet and spoke gently to him. ‘We don’t know what obstacles others may face. You know, Martin, sometimes I think that a lasting relationship is…ah, one in which both people have learned to hide the cracks. Without accusation or blame.’
The sheet he’d creased stretched flat under her hand, and the spell lifted.
IT WAS NEARING dawn the next day when Martin realised that he was upright in bed, sweating profusely. Nora was sitting next to him, her left arm around his shoulders. With her other hand she held a wet towel to his forehead. He trembled, hating himself for this uncontrollable demonstration of fear. Although the images of agonised faces and burning landscapes had disappeared, it was as though bits of the nightmare still stuck to him like viscous filth.
He tried to speak, explain, apologise. But with calm authority Nora placed a hand on his mouth. She comforted and instructed him, as if she wasn’t startled by his behaviour. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered repeatedly. That was what Moira had said too.
Nora stroked his back and rubbed his face with the towel. ‘It’s okay. The past comes back to claim us all.’
‘What did I say?’ He finally managed to speak.
She held him tighter.
That was the first time they simply lay in bed together, like awkward teenagers but without the anxiety of pleasures ahead. And Nora was still alert when Martin began to snore.
WHEN HE AWAKENED, Nora had just gone. Martin felt the warmth on her side of the bed. A single strand of hair curled across the whiteness of her pillowcase. He moved across to her side.
He would call her. He would ask her to move in with him.
‘I do care for you, Nora,’ he whispered to the ceiling, ‘incomplete as I am.’
HOME AGAIN, MARTIN stops in front of the wrought-iron gate and sticks his hand in the letterbox. There is a bundle of mail held together by a rubber band. Bills, he guesses. Maybe a couple of cheques. He wants to buy Frank and Maria a present to celebrate their move to the country—but he has no idea what.
The thought of a gift reminds him of the Colt .45 that he has promised them. Frank is concerned about Maria and the isolation of the farmhouse. ‘She feels a little unsafe,’ he had explained to his father. ‘I hate gun clubs, but I’ve joined one just to learn how to use a firearm properly.’
The revolver is in good condition despite the fact that Martin has never fired it. Once in a while he takes it out of its wrapping, cleans and oils it before putting it back in the glove compartment of the ute. The Colt was a gift from an American soldier, Stan Guest. A GI, Stan was drunk and lost in an alley behind a Saigon bar when he accidentally staggered across Martin urinating on a garbage heap. The American had been robbed and beaten up by a bunch of local youths. Martin helped him to the military hospital and waited until Stan was released.
They had met the next day and exchanged home addresses. Then Stan presented Martin with the revolver and two boxes of cartridges. The gun had originally belonged to Stan’s grandfather and had never been fired. ‘It’s been like a good luck charm in the family,’ Stan explained. Within weeks Stan was ripped open by a land mine and died instantly.
Martin had figured that Stan was maybe young enough to be living with his parents. He took the chance and addressed a letter of condolence to Mr and Mrs Guest. He carefully mentioned the revolver and offered to return it to them. Stan’s father wrote back. His grieving was all there in the tone and content of the letter. But there was also a note of graciousness: he thanked Martin for his thoughtfulness in writing to them; the revolver was his to keep as a token of remembrance of their son.
Martin detects a movement on the concrete path leading up to the front door. He peers into the darkness.
The shadow takes a shape and finds a voice.
‘Hi, Martin.’
SEVEN
Droplets of rain cool the burning sensation in Martin’s face. Consciousness is a fusion of the past and present, he reflects. I cannot let go of what has been. He has an urge to crawl inside a bunker, curl up and sleep. There are times when he still waits for someone to tell him of a long period of hibernation. Of strange dreams and apparitions. Of a war that never really happened.
‘It’s been a long time.’
The darkness is merciful. ‘Who gave you my address?’ Martin demands. Then he recalls that Ken employs Brenda.
‘You don’t mind my coming here?’
‘I do,’ Martin says bluntly, walking to the front door.
‘Colin doesn’t look too well.’
‘You didn’t come here to talk about Colin.’ Martin removes his hand from his trouser pocket. Taking out the house key might give Ken the wrong impression.
‘You weren’t very friendly at the hospital today.’
‘We aren’t friends.’
The amiable mask is immediately discarded. Ken takes a step towards Martin. ‘One isolated incident! Isn’t that what it was? A few minutes of error one lousy afternoon decades ago when we stopped thinking. And you insist on holding it against me for the rest of our lives?’
‘A life is not just an incident. At least not to me.’
‘For Godsak
es, Martin, ordinary soldiers aren’t trained to think! We react! It was in the middle of a war. You get the entire parcel, old son. There’s no choice. The worms and the rats and the snakes all come tumbling out from inside. They are you.’ Ken peers into the dark for a response from Martin. ‘Okay, what happened that day in the village was wrong. I have regretted it. Who should I apologise to? A memory? A pile of ashes? You? God? Do you know the impact it had on the others?’
Martin stares at the silhouette of the tree on the opposite side of the road. What about the impact it had on me?
‘Chris, Graham and Ross?’ There is an urgency in Ken’s voice. ‘I tried to trace them about ten years after we came back. Ross had disappeared. He was living with his brother, Paul, who said that he left the house one day without a word or a note. Just like that! The police never found him. Paul thought he might have gone back to Vietnam. For what, Paul couldn’t say. And Graham? He became an alcoholic and lived in the bush. I went to see him once. He spent his days at the pub in the nearest town. He had become intensely religious. Very weird. Rambled on about the war between Christ and the Devil. He kept flipping a coin to decide whose side our platoon was on. Didn’t bat an eyelid when I walked into the pub. “Call, Ken!” he greeted me. And before I could say anything he’d tossed the coin high in the air. “You lost, Ken Davis! We all did!” He doubled over with laughter, got up and brushed past me onto the street. A few weeks later he drove his car into a tree. Died instantly.’ Ken scrapes the toe of his shoe on the pathway. ‘Yeah…Then Chris. He went north. I traced him in Queensland. He was living in a shack by the sea. Filthy place! You wouldn’t have recognised him. Long dirty hair. Matted beard. He spent his time staring at the waves. I stayed one night and slept on the beach. Towards dawn I was woken by a crackling noise. There was Chris, with his back towards me, lighting fires with bits of bark and twigs. “The last rites,” he kept repeating when I asked him what he was up to. “Must do the right thing and cremate the dead. Otherwise they won’t sleep properly. And neither will we.” He must have lit at least ten fires. He didn’t even look at me when I left. Haven’t heard from or seen him since. That was nearly twenty years ago. We were all affected by what happened.’
Martin doesn’t detect regret in Ken Davis, only aggression, self-justification. Force. ‘Why did you come to see me?’
‘You…’ Ken shuffles even closer. He is a big man who can intimidate with his physicality. ‘You haven’t told anyone, I hope. Seeing me today isn’t going to make you do anything foolish, is it?’
‘I haven’t said anything. But not because there is an obligation to protect you. My silence is just so’s I don’t expose myself as a coward.’ Martin fumbles for his keys.
‘I’ve had to rebuild everything!’ A menacing tone creeps into Ken Davis’s voice. ‘I’d hate to think that anyone might spoil that for me.’
‘Where’s the proof? It would be my word against yours. You’re not likely to own up. Besides, who the hell would care after all these years?’ Martin asks bitterly. ‘It was a loser’s war. Best forgotten. What’s one life among millions? An Asian kid.’
‘Yeah, right. So I’ll square with you. I’m thinking of going into state politics.’ Ken tries to gauge Martin’s reaction. ‘I’ve got the dark suit and the polished shoes. I’ve done the right things—community service, charity work, fund-raising for Vietnam veterans, the committee for the Australian-Vietnam Association. So, unless there’s a scandal…What the hell’s so funny? What?’
‘So it’s atonement time? For a purpose, of course! Did you also play Santa to Vietnamese children last Christmas?’
‘I’ve moved on,’ Ken says stonily. ‘Made a break with the army days. Haven’t you found anything better to do with your life?’
‘I would like you to leave.’
‘You wouldn’t be foolish enough to stir up the past just because you insist on carrying it with you…? Look, if there is anything I can do to help you—’
‘Now, please!’
‘Find yourself a life, Martin. Don’t be such a loser. We already lost hugely once. Isn’t that enough?’
Ken limps to the gate and then turns. ‘Just remember what I said about not being foolish. I won’t say I’ll see you later. And I won’t either, unless…’
The gate squeaks open. Martin waits until the footsteps cannot be heard before opening the front door.
THE CORRIDOR IS dark and sterile. It’s like walking into a morgue. He sits in the kitchen without bothering to switch on the lights. He is shaken.
It has never occurred to him that even after three decades he might be a source of concern to others for something he had witnessed and never revealed. He had been passive then, and ever since. Martin had always excused himself on grounds of loyalty to his mates, the soldiers from his own regiment. But self-preservation had been his dominant motive. Had he spoken up then and there, he would have almost certainly been branded a traitor in the inner sanctum of the troops and treated as though guilty of a heinous act of betrayal. There would have been ostracism, snide remarks, pilferage of his personal belongings, threats, slogans smeared on his pillow and bedsheet, even an accident in the jungle.
Once he was back home, what niggled him was the thought that he might have intervened had the village victim been white and Australian. He had never considered himself a racist, even when the ethnic population of Australia began to diversify and grow rapidly. But indifference was not synonymous with tolerance. He realised that there was no specific thought pattern, overbearing attitude or demonstrative action that determined racial bias. It was the unwillingness to make an effort to help someone ostensibly different in a moment of crisis that often revealed entrenched prejudices.
Such thoughts had festered inside Martin since his Vietnam days. They created ripples of uncertainty about his moral framework. Should he at least have made a gesture, even acted more decisively, given that in those crucial moments he was the only soldier not otherwise preoccupied and with a gun in his hands? The others had abandoned all restraints. They had indulged in primeval behaviour, a brutal ritual of supremacy and revenge. It was a vindictive attempt to overcome the helplessness of being trapped in someone else’s war.
So did his silence stem from the selfish desire not to entangle himself in a court-martial, or was it a genuine lapse of moral judgement under strenuous circumstances? Could he attribute his inaction to a paralysis of will induced by the dangerous situation they found themselves in? That humid afternoon clung to his memory in every detail. The passing years had merely served to sharpen the focus of his despair.
Over time Martin had assessed himself more harshly, progressively dropping the excuses for his apathy. Gradually he admitted to an intrinsic darkness within himself. He had evaded the kind of responsibility that defined the essence of humanity. Although he found much truth in Kierkegaard’s assertion that life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards, there was little consolation to be had from the knowledge. Understanding had deepened his despair and made him even more uncertain of his worthiness as a human being.
IT MUST BE TIME to eat. Martin scrounges around in the cupboards and fridge. The best he can do is canned sardines and smoked cheese on toast. There are messages on the answering machine. A woman would like to have the taps in her kitchen and bathroom fixed. The installation of a clothesline. Someone urgently requires broken tiles to be replaced on the roof of her unit. A painting job and the replacement of two fly-wire screen doors. Martin scribbles down the phone numbers.
He flicks through the mail, setting aside a large brown envelope. He opens the other letters. One of the universities has sent him information on Comparative Religion. He is disappointed that there is no reading list. There are brochures from a telephone company. That must be Frank’s effort. They have argued about the convenience of owning a mobile phone.
‘It’ll be good for your work,’ Frank insisted.
‘More expense,’ Martin grumbled. ‘Besides, I
like to know there are times when I’m not available to anyone.’
‘It can always be switched off,’ Frank said.
Silent resistance was the most effective antidote whenever Frank sounded Martin out about any kind of change to his lifestyle.
Gas and electricity bills. Nothing from the bank. They have been decent enough not to send him another letter. He sits down at the kitchen table with the unopened A4 envelope.
Not long before, Martin had located several experts still researching the effects of the Vietnam war on Australian troops. He had toiled for several days to write a carefully worded letter to Dr Arthur Blanc hard, requesting specific and up-to-date information on the research that the academic had undertaken for fifteen years.
Now he balances the envelope on the palm of his hand. It’s bulky. There’s an insignia on the top corner. He is impressed—this is a prompt reply.
Inside there is photocopied material—a haphazard compilation of various reports which do not follow any sequential order. Martin sits, quietly sorting and reading. Once again he sees how in the years between 1963 and 1969, more than 100,000 tons of chemicals 2, 4, 5-T and 2, 4-D as well as dioxin were sprayed over most of the provinces of South Vietnam. Martin knows this. Six million acres of forestation were devastated. Dioxin, in particular, was deadly to human populations, even when it was used in the smallest of quantities. During most of the 1960s, nearly 130 kilograms of that chemical had been dropped over the country.
Statistical facts: numbers and percentages. Dr Blanchard has been thorough. Unpronounceable names of chemicals. Non-committal observations. There is a detailed discussion about the possible effects of Agents Blue and White, malathron and dieldren. Even in the photocopy Martin can tell there has been an obvious cut-and-paste effort in the account of the spraying in the Phuoc Tuy province, which had been under the operational control of the Australian Task Force. Several pages summarising the findings of the Royal Commission are attached.
