The terrain was lush and beautiful in a primitive yet threatening way. Virtually impassable without a machete, Bently mused. And the opposite of any norm. Traveling down from a plain into mountains. Incredible. But everything about Laos was different; the people were as variegated as the terrain was chaotic. No one even knew where the term “Laos” came from, he recalled. Local legend held that it evolved from “Lwa” or “La-Wa,” the name of the tribes who supposedly held the land prior to the fourteenth century when Thai warlords staged a series of successful invasions. But there was another legend also, one that claimed the entire Lao people came out of two large gourds, or lawus. He thought of Touby seated behind him now in the car, and of the way he had waddled slightly when he walked, the way most fat men did. They would have to be damned sizable gourds if his ancestors were anything like him, he told himself.
The road, twisting and turning, continued to drop to the mountaintop. Geographically, Laos had five distinct types of regions, he recalled. The rice-growing lowlands through which all rivers flowed, the Mekong; the two plateaus, the Plain of Jars here, and in the south the Bolovens Plateau; the massive Annam Cordillera mountain range to the east, its continuous line of eight-thousand-foot peaks separating Laos from Viet Nam for over five hundred miles, yet passable only at three points in the south; and finally, the wavelike ridges in the far north, which seemed to flow down from China’s Yunnan Province. Bently shook his head. And each of its five tribal groups had chosen a different terrain in which to live. Virtually one atop the other. You could literally travel upward through tiers of different peoples. The Lao majority in the lowlands, then up to the next belt in elevation to the villages of the Kha Mou, which then gave way to the White or Black Tais. And higher still, the Lolo Kha Kho, until finally, at the mountaintops, the settlements of the Meo, perched precariously on the edges of cliffs and limestone walls. The place where the poppies grow, Bently reminded himself. Along with just enough corn to sustain the inhabitants.
When the car rumbled and creaked into Lat Houang a few minutes later, Bently found the village identical to others he had read about. It was little more than a shantytown of hootches, gathered together on a sheer cliff that looked dizzyingly down into the steaming forest below. Touby’s hootch, larger and covered with a layer of plaster, sat nearest the edge.
Inside, the hootch was primitive but comfortable; scattered about the center of the lone room were heavy pillows serving as chairs. There was a low table, laden with delicacies, each succeeding one spicier than the last, clearly reminiscent of the tribe’s former life in Yunnan and Szechwan. Bently quickly gave up on the food and gulped tea to ease the burning in his mouth. Settling back, he studied the photographs that covered all four walls. Touby with generals. Touby with diplomats. Touby seated at a long table, as the only Meo on the Opium Purchasing Board. And, of course, Touby’s high school diploma. Sartene had been right, the man was egomaniacal. And soon he would carry the rank of colonel in the colonial army. He’ll piss in his pants, Bently thought, again marveling at the insight of the older Sartene.
They chatted socially for the first half hour, Jean following the oriental custom of never rudely rushing straight into business matters. The conversation covered Jean’s family, Touby’s and Bently’s bachelorhood, policies of the French government in Vientiane, and the subtle but gradually deepening American involvement in the region.
“The communists are much worse than the Japanese,” Touby intoned. “The Japanese at least were foreign slavemasters. The Pathet Lao would enslave their own people. We are grateful to have strong nations here to help us drive them out.”
A slight smile flickered across Jean’s face as he picked up the cue for business to begin. “That’s why we are here,” he said, waiting, as his father often did, to let the effect of his words sink in. He took the lapel of his uniform between his thumb and index finger and pulled at it. “This uniform is only for show, only for the benefit of your followers and, more especially, for the followers of Lo Faydang.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “But it’s a uniform I wear today with the approval of the French government. And to prove that I’ve brought you a commission in the colonial army. The rank of colonel, which you will wear if our meetings are successful.” He smiled, watching Touby’s eyes dilate with pleasure, followed by a quick bow of his head.
The donkey and the carrot, Bently thought. The kid’s not bad. He doubted that the old man could have done better, and he made a mental note to tell him how well Jean had handled himself. At least to this point.
“I’m part of a Corsican business group headed by my father, of whom you may have heard,” Jean went on. “We have been approached by the French”—he nodded toward Bently—”and the Americans, to try to resolve this communist threat to opium production.”
“Yes, yes,” Touby said, nodding his head rapidly.
Jean raised his hand, reminding Bently again of Buonaparte. “We all know the communists want to use your people’s opium crop to finance their interests. But their interests aren’t our interests,” he added, raising his voice for the first time as he made a circular gesture with his hand to include the three of them. “So the solution is simple. We must drive the communists out and guarantee that opium only goes to those who support our interests.” Again the circular gesture of the hand.
“That is not easy,” Touby said. “The mountains and the forest offer many hiding places.”
Jean smiled, genuinely this time, Bently thought.
“You’ve heard of Prince Phetsarath’s decision to suddenly leave his ancestral home?” Jean asked.
Touby nodded, his eyes questioning the information.
“The same men who arrived here with me today were the men who sent the prince running like a dog.”
“The Mua?” Touby said, eyes wide again, but this time fearful.
Jean raised his hand again. “No longer think of them as Mua,” Jean said with a reassuring smile. “Think of them as the army of my father, of Buonaparte Sartene.” He waited, allowing the nervousness to remain in Touby’s eyes. “We have already sent a message to Faydang, suggesting that he follow his prince and never return.” Jean extended both hands, palms up, at his sides. “But the day after tomorrow, if we agree on matters here, we will attack his village and drive him away. Or kill him. I would be pleased if you join forces with us. It would be a great victory to have as your first act as a colonel in the colonial army.” He smiled again. “The French and the Americans appreciate victory even more than they appreciate education.”
Touby looked numb, slightly uncertain, and more than a little fearful. But he had been offered a potent carrot. “What would you want my humble clan to do?” he asked.
“Not much more than you have been doing. With a few minor changes,” Jean said. He waited, playing out the ensuing silence. “The opium crop, all of it, will come through my organization. The French are too busy now, their resources spread too widely fighting the communists, to control things properly. We will control them. The opium will go to the French through us to be used against the Pathet Lao. You will simply have to manage production. Increase production, as well. You will continue to collect the opium tax for the French, plus an additional tax for us. The tax is now three silver piasters a year per grower. We suggest you raise it to eight.”
“The people could never gather together eight piasters a year,” Touby said.
“We’re not greedy men. We don’t lack understanding,” Jean said. “They can pay the additional tax in opium. In increased production of opium. Otherwise it will have to come from the opium you regularly hold back from the French for yourself.” He let the words fall like a great tree, and an eerie silence followed the crash.
It’s the old rock and the hard place for you, Touby, Bently thought. Even juicy carrots cost. Sartene gets rid of your competition and you goose your people to higher production or lose some of that precious bankroll you’ve been squirreling away on the sly. And Sartene gets more than one an
d a half times the taxes the French government gets, plus all the opium he holds back.
“But one more thing,” Jean added, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward so his sheer bulk added to the threat. “Any smuggling, any transactions with anyone else, will be dealt with as an offense to us. You must warn your people of that. And then you can sit back and become a rich man.”
“I will have to persuade the other village headmen,” Touby said. “I am district leader, but …”
“If you can’t persuade them, you are of no use to us,” Jean said. “But we’re confident of your abilities. Otherwise we would have gone to some other leader, even to Faydang.”
It was rare to see an oriental blush with shame or embarrassment, but Touby did so now. The threat was so blatant that Bently wondered if Jean had overplayed his hand. The bull charging ahead.
“You must understand that I must show the village headmen the respect to speak to them. But this does not mean I will not insist that they follow my decision. If you will give me some time to think, I will give you that decision. Tonight, at dinner.”
Touby stood and smiled nervously. Bently momentarily wondered if he would leave and gather his men for an immediate attack. No. He had been too nervous about the Mua, and they were still outside, better armed than Touby’s men, and already instructed about the possibility of conflict. Most, he thought, hoped it would happen.
Touby bowed to Bently and Sartene. “It is just that this was most unexpected,” he said. “As an educated man, I must think it through. But only for a short time. During my absence young women of my village will bring you more food and will entertain you with music and their charming ways. Dismiss any who do not please you.”
He had smiled again before leaving. Just saving face, Bently decided. He has no choice and he knows it. If he’s smart. But he doesn’t want to jump at it, acknowledge that he’s being bullied into it, even if he is.
There were five young women, dressed in formal Meo clothing, obviously prepared to entertain Touby’s guests in advance. They were small and delicate, their long black gowns hiding all but the fact they were frail. The gowns had V necklines, but the white blouses worn beneath guarded their modesty. The necklines and cuffs of the long sleeves were trimmed in red, and each wore a wide gold sash around her waist, tied in the front, the ends hanging down to indicate her unmarried state.
Bently looked the women over, then glanced at Jean. “Something for the outer man, no doubt,” he said.
Jean looked at the women. “I wonder what we’d catch.” His brow furrowed.
“We mustn’t be rude,” Bently teased.
Jean shook his head as though he hadn’t heard, then looked back at Bently. “How do you think it went?” he asked.
“I think our friend Touby is about to become a colonel in the colonial army.”
During dinner Touby’s makeshift uniform did indeed have a new addition, and throughout the meal his hands repeatedly drifted to the patches that had been hastily pinned on, assuring himself they were still in place. The newly appointed colonel had agreed on all points, insisting only that the new taxes not be retroactive, thereby saving face and guaranteeing that his personal bankroll would not be affected.
Bently could see that Jean was delighted, even though he maintained his hardened exterior for Touby’s benefit. The earlier tightness reappeared only when the conversation turned to the attack on Faydang’s village. It was the final part of the mission his father had entrusted to him, and Bently knew he wanted to return home with a perfect score. During the trip up they had briefly discussed the raid on Prince Phetsarath’s home. It had been an unqualified success, although more brutal than Sartene had wanted. But he had accepted it as an inevitable part of fighting. “People fight and people die,” he had said. “I wish I could make it different. But I’m not God.” To Jean, Bently saw, it meant simply that Francesco had again pleased his father, and even though the raid benefited him as well, Francesco’s continued success clearly worried him.
Now he too had to prove himself in combat. Bently decided that even though he had the option to remain behind, an option his embassy wanted him to exercise, he would go with Jean, help him where he could, guide him as much as he would allow.
It was eleven o’clock and the house in Vientiane was dark and quiet. Sartene was upstairs, reading to Pierre, and Madeleine moved slowly along a shelf of books in the library, searching for one to take to her bed.
She had left the door to the library open and did not hear him enter. Francesco stood in the doorway behind her, watching her move along the far wall, intent on the titles of the books. She was dressed for bed, with a silk robe over her nightgown, which, though covering her fully, accentuated every line of her body. He fantasized about taking her now, forcibly if necessary, and his lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.
He wondered if she knew he was there, behind her, watching her. She seemed to be moving with an excess of sensuality, delicate and graceful, a way he was sure women moved only when men were watching them. The line of her body pressed against the silk, struggling to be free of it. It would tear so easily, leaving behind that delightful soft flesh he knew was there. She’d fuck with abandon, he thought. Her kind always did. He wondered if there was anything he could do to her, make her do to him, that would be humiliating, that would make her pull away in fear. It would be fun finding out. But not now. Not yet.
The books were grouped in sections according to the nationality of the author. She stopped before the Russians, reaching out and taking a leather-bound copy of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Her father-in-law had urged her to read Tolstoy, telling her how the man had devoted his entire life to the achievement of greatness, consciously writing books that would live long after he was dead, guaranteeing himself immortality. He seemed to admire the man’s thought, his plan for his life. Madeleine shook her head slightly, returning the book to its shelf. Farther down she withdrew a book by Chekhov. She remembered reading somewhere how Chekhov had said that every story should be locked away in a trunk for seven years, then taken out and read again, to see if it still had meaning. A sense of pleasure flickered through her eyes. She turned, stepping away from the bookcase, then stopped short, gasping and pulling the book to her breast.
“Oh. You frightened me, Francesco.”
“I’m sorry. That’s what I was trying not to do. I just stood here, because I was afraid if I spoke I would frighten you.”
He was smiling. A handsome, leering smile. There was something about him that was so strange, threatening really. She thought it came from his eyes. They seemed to signal death. “I was just getting a book,” she said, annoyed at her own nervousness.
“Can’t sleep?” He walked toward her, noticing that she took a slight step back, then he stopped at a bowl of jackfruit on a low table in front of the sofa. He reached down and took one of the yellow bulbs of pulp, raising it to his nose and smelling the sweet scent of pineapple and banana. He bit into it, then gestured toward the bowl. “Mit?” he asked, using the Lao term for the fruit.
She shook her head. “I’m not hungry, just tired.”
“But not sleepy.” He grinned at her. “Otherwise you wouldn’t need a book, would you?”
“A book always helps me sleep,” she said.
“You must read very bad writers.” He took another piece of fruit. “Or are you just lonely for your husband?”
“I’m always lonely for Jean when he’s away,” she said. She was getting ready to move past him, but he seemed to sense it and stepped to the side, blocking her way. You’re being silly, she told herself. You’re seeing threats where they don’t exist.
“I never like to sleep alone either,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders. “But what can a poor bachelor do?”
“Oh, Francesco,” she said, speaking to him as though he were a child. “Your reputation with the ladies of Vientiane doesn’t make you a candidate for sympathy.”
He laughed, but his eyes grew colder. “Y
ou shouldn’t listen to gossip,” he said.
“I never do.”
She started past him, but he reached out and took her arm, stopping her.
“What are you reading?” He had cocked his head sideways, appearing intent on the book in her hand.
He was still holding her, the grip loose, but keeping her close to him. She moved her arm free, without any abruptness, and stepped back, holding the book between them.
“Chekhov,” she said.
“Russian.” He scowled. “I knew Russians during the war and I never liked them. They were filthy bastards.” He placed the fingers of one hand against his lips. “Sorry,” he said. “I forget one shouldn’t talk that way in front of a lady.”
The way he said the word “lady” annoyed her. There was a mocking sound to it, but he continued talking before she could say anything.
“Jean should be back day after tomorrow. If all goes well.”
The final sentence seemed to imply something not said. She looked him straight in the eye. “Why shouldn’t all go well?”
He shrugged. “You can never tell with these crazy orientals,” he said.
She continued to stare at him. “Don’t you want it to go well, Francesco?”
He laughed again, but not with his eyes. “Of course I do, my sweet Madeleine.”
“I’m not your sweet Madeleine, Francesco. I’m not your sweet anything.”
The harshness in her voice made him smile, truly this time. “Of course you’re not. You’re Jean’s.”
“I’m my own. I choose to be Jean’s,” she said, her eyes angry now.
“You make it sound not very permanent,” he said.
“It’s very permanent, because I want it to be.”
Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly. He looked down at them, and she drew the book up, covering herself.
The Corsican Page 13
