The old man shook his head sadly from side to side, as if the incident had happened only yesterday. ‘I knew something like this would happen to him. Something violent and unpredictable. He was so wild and yet so wide-eyed. So trusting in his own odd little way.’
Professor Muir took several pages from the folder, including photographs of the remains and his own detailed drawings of the key areas that had provided him evidence. He scanned them as he spoke. ‘Doctor, we strongly suspect that the remains we recovered were those of Mathew Larkin, but obviously we need to clarify that. From my examination I can confirm that this was a man in his early twenties, about five foot nine inches tall, with brown hair.’ He looked over at the doctor, looking for any refutation and finding none. ‘We don’t have much to go on other than that. I did find evidence of repeated trauma to the joint area of his right shoulder – right here – and also several areas in the neck and upper vertebrae that indicate an unusual amount of trauma in that skeletal region for a man so young. Look at this area here.’
Muir handed the pages to Doctor Hasler. The old man stared at them for several minutes before handing them back, as if he was looking for secret answers of his own.
‘It’s Mathew.’ The old man’s face was filled with grief and yet seemed softened by the knowledge of discovery. ‘Of course it is. I can’t tell you how many times I set the boy’s shoulder. And the teeth. Odd, but I remember his fillings. Very good teeth. And the neck trauma. Yes. He was a fighter, you know. Inside and outside the ring. An absolute terror.’ Hasler smiled softly now, remembering. ‘I loved to watch him fight. He never knew that.’
‘So you feel positive about this identification?’
‘I have no doubt.’
‘You can write a letter of certification for us?’
‘Of course.’ Hasler’s mind seemed to wander. ‘He didn’t have to go to Viet Nam,’ said the old man, glancing for a moment at the wall that contained his own war mementos. ‘The Australian Army had pulled out of there by the time he finished school, you know. But he had that passion in him. He had a reach that was too great for this little town in this desolate region. I was very proud, watching him take up photography the way he did. He was quite a talented young man. There wasn’t much else he could have done around here, particularly in his circumstances. The camera was his way out. Once he realised he could turn it into a ticket to Sydney, it was all over. And from Sydney it was on to Viet Nam. The boy was quite talented.’
Hasler rose from the couch with effort and made his way to a well-polished mahogany bureau. Opening a drawer, he took out a thick folder and brought it back to the table. His hands trembling, he worked carefully to place a dozen eight-by-ten photos on the table. There in black and white were a series of action shots that Mathew Larkin had captured during his time in Viet Nam, street scenes and battlefield moments that were so vivid they made Condley himself shudder with memories.
‘He was good,’ said Condley quietly.
‘No, he was brilliant,’ said the old man. ‘If he had survived he could have been world-famous. I’m sure that’s why he took that unfortunate, secret assignment. To get something no one else had ever captured on film. To become famous. To push the limits and prevail. It’s a shame, I tell you. A sad, abominable shame.’
The old man looked up from the pictures, an odd pain in his weathered, ancient face, and nodded to Condley. ‘You’re in charge. Are you going to send us his remains for a proper burial?’
‘We don’t know quite what to do about that,’ answered Condley. ‘We’ll be in touch with your government, I suppose. We were just told by Doctor McHenry that all his family members are dead.’
‘Then I will tell you the truth,’ said Doctor Hasler. He took a deep breath, looking at the photographs on his table and shaking his head with a primal and eternal sorrow. ‘I am the young lad’s father. And it would mean more to me than you will ever know if you would arrange to send him home. Can you please, please do that?’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sai Gon
As the meter taxi neared the center of the city, Condley saw a succession of familiar red banners strung above the streets, dozens of them, going on for block after block, with yellow letters proclaiming the anniversary of some obscure event in the history of the revolution that few remembered other than the government officials who had ordered the painting and the hanging of the signs. Billboards had been erected along favorite street corners, showing shadowed images of Ho Chi Minh and other communist heroes, splattered with hammers and sickles and red stars, all blending in the figure of a fighting soldier with a fist high in the air, the signs announcing in bold letters filled with exclamation points that nothing was more beautiful or more precious than the nation’s independence and freedom.
Independence and freedom. Doc lap va tu do. Ho Chi Minh’s rallying cry, pasted on billboards in the town that bore his name, most of whose citizens had wished with all their hearts to be liberated from him, not by him. Yes, thought Condley, millions had died with that slogan on their lips. And how painfully predictable that most of the progress gained since their victory had come from the efforts of those who learned to work around Uncle Ho’s system rather than through it. Yes, he thought, the people of Sai Gon were still stronger than the sloganeers.
No matter. Coming back to Sai Gon was always like coming home, and a part of him rejoiced as he watched the hazy, fecund center of District One unfold before him. The chaotic madness of the traffic, horns beeping and motorbikes whining. The old, mostly French landmarks, chapels and fountains and government buildings amid the ugly, reaching new construction, their peeling paint and mildewed corners marking the city’s and thus the nation’s historic journey. The street-side vendors with their postcard stands and cigarette boxes and little trays of food, sitting in lawn chairs behind their stalls as their children slept next to them on the sidewalks or played along the street. The odors, up from the street, in from the buildings, windblown from the river, all mixing together. The music, whining from the windows. The beggars and the hustlers, their eyes adrenalised, ever searching. The cyclo drivers, lazing in their cabs at every street corner; always waiting.
They reached the Rex Hotel, dropping off an exhausted Hanson Muir, who had decided to remain in Sai Gon while Condley went to Moscow, rather than returning to Hawaii. As the Rex’s bellboys unloaded Muir’s baggage, Condley waved to several familiar faces among the cyclo drivers in the park across the street, an unspoken signal to let Dzung know he had returned. The meter taxi then dropped him off at the Vien Dong Hotel, where he checked back into his room, collected and read his mail, then showered and put on a change of clothes.
Back outside a half hour later, he was surprised that Dzung was not waiting for him at his usual post under the shade tree just across the street from the hotel. He stood in front of the hotel for several minutes, chatting with the doorman, watching and waiting for Dzung. And then finally he began to walk toward the Rex.
He had walked less than a block when he saw Dzung pedaling toward him in the busy street, as always leaning gracefully side to side as he powered his cyclo in the midst of a stream of motorbikes and cars. Condley waved, catching Dzung’s eye, a small thrill filling his heart at the sight of his friend, just as it always did whenever he first returned to Sai Gon.
Dzung sat high in the seat and braked his cyclo, holding his right arm out and looking behind him to make sure he was not rear-ended by a careless Honda or a speeding taxi. Then he pulled onto the curb where Condley stood waiting for him. He managed a small smile, but Condley immediately saw the fresh lines that marred his friend’s face and the apprehension in his eyes.
‘I was looking for you!’ said Condley, climbing onto the seat of Dzung’s cyclo. ‘Dzung khoe khong?’ he asked as he always did, wanting to know if his friend was doing well.
‘Da, khong khoe, Cong Ly,’ said Dzung, losing his forced smile and looking far off into an unknown horizon. It was the first time Dzung had ever
said that he was not well. ‘My baby, he die already.’
‘I’m very sorry.’ Condley studied Dzung’s face for a moment, trying to read the depths of his sorrow. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Khong,’ said Dzung immediately, snapping his head as if the very question had the impact of a stun gun. ‘Thank you very much, Cong Ly, but it is all taken care of.’ He forced a smile back onto his face, pointing toward the road. ‘Where we go today, Cong Ly?’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Condley, still searching his friend’s face for clues. ‘Do you need money? Is your family all right?’
‘No problem, Cong Ly.’ Dzung fidgeted a bit, staring out at the road. ‘Everything copacetic,’ he said, using a slang phrase from their shared, long-ago war. ‘Only I am very sad. Buon qua.’ He worked up another smile. ‘So where we go?’
It was Sunday. The government offices were closed, but Condley had business to discuss. ‘We go to Colonel Pham’s house.’ He gave Dzung a quick look, remembering the resistance of a few weeks before when he had first made that decision, but saw no sign of it now.
‘Duoc,’ said Dzung simply, his face expressionless again. And in seconds they were in the midst of a heavy flow of traffic.
The mingling of the traffic and his own exertion seemed to calm Dzung. After a few blocks he tapped Condley on a shoulder, leaning forward just as he had done so many thousand times before. His voice was lighter now, almost teasing.
‘Colonel Pham. You love his daughter, Cong Ly?’
‘Chua,’ said Condley. ‘I don’t even know her very well.’
‘Good,’ said Dzung, suddenly becoming emphatic. ‘Cong Ly, you are my friend so I should tell you. I saw her only last night at the Rex. She was with another man. He took her to the roof for drinks. And then they went dancing. They seemed very close, like lovers.’
‘Da, biet roi. Nguoi Phap,’ said Condley flatly, as if stating an historical fact. That Frenchman again.
‘So you know!’ answered Dzung, the sweat now soaking his T-shirt as he pedaled. ‘He is very rich. He had a limo driver.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Condley. ‘A very rich man. He sells perfume.’
‘Nuoc hoa?’ asked Dzung, incredulous at the thought. ‘Those little bottles? They can make you rich?’
‘It’s very expensive just to smell nice. Women become addicted. Don’t ask me why. One little bottle of French perfume can cost more than a hundred bottles of beer.’
Dzung nodded judiciously. ‘So, Cong Ly, you should sell some perfume. Or maybe find another woman to love.’
‘Don’t worry!’ laughed Condley. ‘She is very beautiful, but this is not a problem for me. He has the money, so he has the burden of making her happy. When she gets bored with him, maybe she can make me happy.’
‘Maybe she no good, Cong Ly.’
‘No, she is good, Dzung. She plays the hand God dealt her.’
‘Playing with her hands? I don’t understand.’
‘Dao Phot,’ said Condley. Karma. ‘After all the bad times, wouldn’t you like to have nice things?’
Dzung sat high in his seat for a moment, looking all around him in the traffic to see if someone might overhear him. He tried to swallow the words back down, but he could not control them anymore. Then he leaned forward again, his face near Condley’s ear. ‘I would like to be free,’ he finally said, almost whispering.
His simple words went through Condley like a lance, for he had spoken the unspeakable word, penetrated the airy, accepting facade of his culture, asked for the impossible. Condley sat quietly in the cyclo’s chair as they turned from Hai Ba Trung onto the dense traffic of Dien Bien Phu Street, not knowing how to respond to such directness. ‘I’m trying to help you have a better life,’ he finally managed to say. ‘I’m buying that car, Dzung. When your license is approved you’ll have a real job. We’ll make good money. Partners.’
Dzung’s face tightened with its own burden, the dread that had not left him since his first day at the shooting range with Manh. His eyes became intense, staring at the back of Condley’s head and imagining what it would look like if a bullet broke it apart. Was that what Manh wanted him to do? And despite his promise, could he really do it? He had things to say, but he could not bring himself to mouth the words. If he began he would be unable to stop, and if he said too much it would be all over. At least with his silence he still had options. Finally he compromised, muttering an avoidance. ‘Viet Nam no good for you, Cong Ly. No good. Maybe you should leave.’
‘Thuong Viet Nam,’ said Condley with a quiet passion, staring out at the broiling, chaotic streets. I love Viet Nam. ‘Thuong Viet Nam nhieu qua.’ I love Viet Nam too much.
‘No, Cong Ly. Too much trouble here. Just leave.’
‘I have work to do, Dzung. You know that.’
‘You do that work for a very long time. Maybe you go home, let somebody else do it now.’
‘Home?’ Condley chuckled, looking around him. ‘Maybe the Vien Dong is my home.’
‘No, Cong Ly. I am sorry to say this, but you are not Vietnamese. Viet Nam will never be your home.’
Condley gave him a strange glance now. ‘You’re always asking me to stay.’
They had left Dien Bien Phu and were maneuvering slowly through broken streets and dead-end corridors, heading for Colonel Pham’s villa. Dzung removed his baseball cap and pushed his face into one shoulder and then the other, wiping sweat as he pedaled. He knew he had already said too much, and he did not want these thoughts on Condley’s mind as he met with the colonel. For if the colonel heard any part of them, who knew how they might be later communicated to Manh?
‘You are my good friend. I only want you to be happy, Cong Ly. And sometimes I think Viet Nam is not a happy place.’
They had reached Colonel Pham’s villa. Condley stepped down from the cyclo and stood for a moment, looking deeply into Dzung’s face. Tragedy rested on it, as visible as the sweat that now poured down its hollows, gathering in Dzung’s already soaked T-shirt.
‘Please tell your wife I am very sorry about your baby.’
‘Cam on, Cong Ly,’ said Dzung. And at that instant he knew he was safe, for Condley in his unending empathy had taken his words as nothing more than simple grief. ‘I wait here?’
Condley looked over the villa wall toward the house. Mrs. Pham was waving to him from her doorway. ‘Come back in an hour,’ he said to Dzung. ‘If I’m not outside the gate waiting for you, just keep going.’
She met him near the gate. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a bun and she wore no make-up. She was in her house clothes: flowing black silk slacks and a black, collarless tunic. But despite her casual dress she was openly delighted to see him. She smiled warmly through her blackened teeth, taking his right hand in both of hers and pulling him gently toward the house.
‘Chao Ong, Cong Ly,’ she said, speaking only Vietnamese. ‘You haven’t visited us for so long! Where have you been?’
‘Chao Ba Tho,’ he answered, following her into the house and shifting completely to Vietnamese as well. ‘I’m very sorry, but I have been constantly on the road. First, in Quang Nam with your husband. Then Hawaii. And after that, Australia. I returned only this morning.’
‘Too busy!’ They had entered the house and reached the dim-lit sitting room. She offered him a chair at their greeting table, pulling it out for him. ‘All for business?’
‘Yes,’ he said, taking the seat and suddenly sensing that Van had something to do with her question. ‘Only for business.’
‘You work too hard, Cong Ly. You must find some time for relaxation now that you are back.’ She left it at that, but her face held a knowing look. ‘May I get you some tea?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Van is upstairs,’ she said as she walked out of the room. ‘I will get her for you.’
Her announcement jolted him, a sudden reminder that he had two differing relationships inside their home, each of which might threaten the other if handled p
oorly. It was urgent that he meet with Colonel Pham and that he keep the older man’s confidence. And yet Mrs. Pham was right to think that his unannounced arrival at their home on a Sunday would have been motivated more by her daughter’s beauty than the need to talk business with her husband.
Within seconds he heard shuffling feet and a quick, whispering exchange in the hallway, just around the corner where the family altar stood. He turned toward the noise and saw Colonel Pham walking into the greeting room. Condley stood to greet him, but the colonel motioned him back into his seat with both hands.
‘No! No, sit, Cong Ly. You are my guest.’
The hard little man slapped him on one shoulder, a delighted smile on his face, and took a seat on the other side of the table. ‘Van is getting dressed,’ he said, as if excusing his own presence. ‘But I have a little bit of news. Do you have time for a short discussion before she comes?’
‘Of course,’ said Condley, relieved to be taking the colonel’s cue. ‘In fact, I have some news for you as well.’
‘Good.’
The colonel leaned over the table and took Condley’s hand for a moment in both of his, a gesture of affection. Mrs. Pham appeared briefly, leaving a small tray on the table with a pot of tea and two ceramic cups. Colonel Pham began pouring the tea. ‘I do not like Monsieur Petain very much,’ he said with an openly worried nod, switching to heavily slurred English for the first time since Condley had met him. And then he switched back to Vietnamese. ‘I believe he is using my daughter.’
The colonel’s directness made Condley uneasy, as if he himself were being asked to find a solution. ‘I don’t know anything about that, Colonel.’
‘She is spoiled, yes, but she is a good girl. Very emotional. She leads with her heart and not her head. She is too young to be living in his world. Not in years, but in experience. She is very naive, Cong Ly. It is all too sudden a change, from the simplicities of the revolution to his nightclubs and designer clothes and limousines. She wants nice things. She sees them on the television and in the magazines that come from France and America. Petain tantalises her with these things. But she does not understand the price she might have to pay to get them.’
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