“So, why are you here?” he asked, which surprised me considering he’d invited me.
“Because you need me?” I said.
He’d lost some weight and some hair since last we’d met. Jungle life took its toll on all of us one way or another. I’d long since forgotten the joy of hearing a solid stool thundering down to earth at our outdoor latrine.
“You are quite correct,” said Civilai. “There was sympathy within my group when I told them of my findings. But when I asked for a team of commandos to accompany me here, they pointed out quite rightly that they were more likely to throw themselves under a tank than to accede to my request.”
“Given the title of our assignment,” I said, “you don’t see it as a little ironic that two Lao would take it upon themselves to carry out a mission on behalf of the Vietnamese?”
“Let’s just say that if we’re successful—and I really hope we are—our little country will be owed a great debt of gratitude. One that I shall claim back over and over until the favor bucket is dry.”
“How dangerous do you consider this to be?”
“At the very least we could be tortured and shot.”
“In that case I doubt one jug of beer will be enough,” I said.
Half an hour later we walked, perhaps a little unsteadily, the four steamy blocks to the National Museum of Saigon. We stood admiring its grand pagoda-like façade. There was a thick layer of gravel on the driveway, and we each selected the best specimens and put them in our trouser pockets. We paid our piasters to the indifferent young guard at the desk and put our names in the visitor’s book. It hadn’t been signed for four days. Oddly, considering what we were about to do, we gave our actual names. Civilai took time to write a comment.
We looked at the little map on the central beam and made our way to the north gallery. The guard didn’t follow us, and there were no attendants in any of the rooms. So, there we stood in the middle of the Ly Dynasty: the golden age of Vietnamese art. Its ceramics were praised and sought after throughout the world and rightly so. The pots in front of us were elegantly slender with their emerald and light-green glazes and their distinct motifs. Every one of them was a work of art and literally priceless.
“They’re beautiful,” I said.
“Hard to believe they’re over nine hundred years old,” said Civilai.
“Hard indeed,” I agreed.
“I’m guessing that the big grey-green one up there on the shelf will be the loudest,” said Civilai.
“You think they’d mention volume in the tourist guide book.”
“Perhaps nobody’s ever tried to get a sound out of them before,” said Civilai.
“Then let us be the first,” I said.
I pulled a medium-sized hunk of gravel from my pocket, took aim and chucked it with all my might. Somehow, I managed to miss the largest pot, but I did smash its neighbor to smithereens.
“That’s the one I was aiming at,” I said.
“Liar,” said Civilai.
“Can you do any better?” I asked.
“I believe so.”
He walked forward, stepped over the red rope, grabbed two particularly elegant pieces of pottery and smashed them together like cymbals. The sound was far more pleasing.
“I didn’t know that was allowed,” I said, and I joined him on the illegal side of the rope. We did a good deal of smashing. I was just about to drop kick a potbellied antique when the gallery attendant arrived, still wiping baguette crumbs from his lips. He stood in the entry way, eyes huge, mouth agape. My kick took out a whole line of finely tapered pots, the shards of which landed at his feet.
“What are . . . what do you think . . . ?” said the attendant.
“Destroying priceless artifacts,” said Civilai, anticipating the question. He went to the wall and elbowed the glass on the fire alarm. The building rattled from the sound. But the curator and his secretary had already arrived in the gallery from the other direction. The curator staggered backward. The secretary, a plump young man in steamy glasses, screamed and ran back along the corridor, probably in search of a telephone to call the police. The guard arrived. Nobody dared approach us maniacs. I sat cross-legged on the ground, attempting to make a paper airplane from a quite lovely sixteenth-century watercolor, while Civilai attempted to lob his gravel into the last pot standing. We had destroyed no fewer than eighteen priceless artifacts.
It was clearly the first crime scene the new South Vietnamese police force had had to deal with. The officers who arrived had no idea what to do. Officially, the commissioner general was the go-to person for matters of national importance. But he was due to leave in three days, and all he dreamed of was a trouble-free period in which to pack, to drink his way through as much of the wine cellar as possible, and to disconnect tactfully from his mistress. All of his duties were handed over to the commander-in-chief, General Jacquot, who, in turn, passed these last-minute annoyances on to the prefect of the Saigon-Cholon region, Monsieur Blazer. He too had planned to escape peacefully yet there in his anteroom stood two anarchists who had dared to ruin his orderly exit by destroying national treasures.
Blazer was still the prefect, and he could have ordered us executed there and then. It would have been a profound statement to make before launching a career in domestic politics. Exactly the kind of gesture he needed. But he seemed confused by our nonchalance.
“What do you have to say for yourselves?” he asked.
“They destroyed millions of francs’ worth of antiques before our very eyes,” said Marchant, the curator. He’d followed the police van to the prefect’s house on his motor scooter. He was a sweaty, shifty-looking man with oily hair and an unimaginative body.
“I rather thought I was addressing these two villains,” said Blazer.
“But I . . .” Marchant began.
“Your negligence at letting this happen I can deal with later,” said the prefect. “Right now, I’m interested to hear the motivation behind this hooliganism.”
He walked up close to us and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he considered himself to be a threatening force. He came near enough for me to smell the wine on his breath, and I’m sure he could smell the beer on mine. He was tall and wide at the shoulders like a coffin standing on end. It was midday but he was in a dressing gown with a cravat. On his feet were the most outlandish carpet slippers. Were this a movie, the costumes department would have been chastised for its unlikely choices. It was hard for us to keep straight faces at such a sight.
“Do either of you speak French?” he asked, slowly.
“I did pick up a little at the Sorbonne,” said Civilai.
“Are you mocking me, Monsieur?” he asked.
Civilai went on to list the years of his studies, the distinctions, and finally, the honors degree in Law. I had no doubt he was more qualified than the balding fellow standing in front of us. He turned his gaze to me.
“And you?” he said.
“Siri Paiboun,” I said. “Merely a surgeon with a degree in medicine from Ancienne.”
“I can check all this,” he said. But we doubted he’d wait for the boat to come back with the answer to his inquiries.
“They should be executed immediately,” said the curator, who appeared to be in an advanced state of agitation. Blazer ignored him.
“If you are truly academics,” he said, “the act that you perpetrated today is even more inexcusable. You should be ashamed.”
“And yet we aren’t,” I said.
“Then are you both mad?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” said Civilai. “I would have to say we are mad in many ways. Only madmen would enter enemy territory and advertise their presence here in such an outlandish way. But we stand here before you with spines unbent and sanity unquestioned.”
The weight of it all seemed too much for the prefect, and he s
ank into an overstuffed velvet armchair. All the rest of us, including half a dozen police, two French military types, three men in ties and a token woman, were left standing.
“Then I shall give you three minutes to explain yourselves before these gentlemen take you into the yard and shoot you,” said the prefect. “I can think of no good reason for what you did at the museum.”
“There is none,” said the curator.
“Siri?” said Civilai, very generously considering this was his project.
“Very well,” I said. “It’s all very simple really. If we asked for an appointment to see the prefect on the week he was about to leave the country, the appointments secretary would have laughed at us. So, we had to find some subterfuge that would guarantee us instant access.”
“What?” said Blazer. “You destroyed a museum exhibition in order to get an audience with me? That is indeed insanity.”
“I don’t know,” said Civilai. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“If I were armed I would shoot them both here and now,” said the curator.
“Blood is a terrible stain to get out of a carpet,” said Civilai.
“See?” said the curator. “They’re making fun of you, Sir.”
“In fact, we’re only ridiculing you, Monsieur le Conservateur,” I said. “We have the utmost respect for the prefect.”
“Monsieur Blazer, surely you can’t—” the curator began.
“Monsieur, could you stop talking?” said the prefect. “You’re making my headache worse. All I need to know is what our maniacs here considered so important to say that they would cause mindless vandalism in order to say it.”
“Perhaps we could sit with you over a glass?” said Civilai.
“Don’t push your luck,” said Blazer.
“After we’ve told you our story, you’ll wish you’d made us comfortable,” I said.
“Perhaps a spot of lunch,” said Civilai.
The prefect laughed. “Of all the audacity,” he said. “You’ll stand, you’ll remain in irons, and you’ll have less than a minute to come up with a story.”
“A firing squad is all they deserve,” said the curator.
The prefect called to the sergeant at arms. “Escort Monsieur Marchant out of the room, Sergeant.”
Two guards approached the sweaty man.
“In fact, it might be circumspect for the curator to stay,” I said.
“Is this some sort of ruse?” said Blazer. “Is this the commander-in-chief playing a practical joke on me? A jolly deception as a farewell souvenir of Indochina?”
“I hear the commander-in-chief has no sense of humor,” said Civilai.
“That’s true,” said the prefect. “Well then, for heaven’s sake tell me what it is you have to say. Be brief. My lunch is waiting for me.”
“Then, simply, the method we used to attract your attention and the reason for wanting to do so, are one and the same,” I said.
“I don’t understand,” said Blazer.
“On the black market in Europe, the Ly Dynasty ceramic and watercolor collection would be worth well over a hundred million francs to a collector,” I said.
I reached under my shirt and every gun in the room was raised in my direction. I put up my hands.
“With your permission, Sir,” I said.
The prefect nodded and I reached beneath my belt and pulled out a shard of pottery that had not been discovered when we were frisked.
“This,” I said, “is a memento from our rampage this morning. The Ly collection is nine-hundred-and-sixty years old. This shard is two months old. From a distance, the pottery looks exactly the same. You only really notice the difference when you handle it.”
“As we did,” said Civilai.
“Nonsense,” said the curator.
“Fakes are heavier than the originals, they’re fired higher, and they have a sort of soapy feel to them. Antique ceramics are made of clay, and clay always has some impurities, often iron, but the collection in the gallery this morning had no rust spots at all. The exhibits on display at the museum comprised very clever fakes.”
“Now I’ve heard everything,” said the curator. “You think I wouldn’t know the difference between genuine and fake earthenware?”
“You certainly would,” said Civilai. “There’s no doubt you knew that the ceramics in the museum . . .”
The curator walked swiftly toward the door. “I won’t stay here to be insulted,” he said.
“Stop him,” said Blazer.
Two of the guards took Marchant by the arms and marched him back into the center of the room.
“How dare you treat me like this,” he said. “I have some very influential friends in parliament, I’ll have you know. You will certainly regret this.”
“I’ve found from experience,” said the prefect, “that people who actually have influential friends have no need to remind anyone of the fact. Go ahead, Doctor.”
“You should find the originals in warehouse eleven at the airport,” I said. “The crates are marked ‘repatriation32b.’ According to the bill of lading the trunks contain household goods belonging to some of your senior people. You’ll be looking specifically for crates eighteen, nineteen and twenty on the manifest.”
“Have your people open them carefully,” said Civilai. “We don’t want any accidents. The names of the three army officers who colluded with the curator here and the names and addresses of the potters and painters recruited into the scheme are in a large envelope tucked into the back of the visitor’s book at the museum. I was afraid it might have been confiscated and lost during my arrest.”
“Or ripped apart in a hail of bullets,” I added for effect.
The curator said nothing.
“How could you know all this?” asked Blazer.
“The Vietnamese who work under the curator and at the airport are no fools,” said Civilai, “although their superiors treated them as such. The Vietnamese staff discovered the plot to replace the collection with fakes, but, given the influence of those involved, they didn’t know who to tell. That’s why they contacted us.”
“And who are you exactly?” asked the prefect.
“A group of patriots who merely wish to protect Vietnamese culture,” I said. “When all this colonial malarkey is out of the way, this will be a single nation again with a common history. It’s probably best if you don’t know any more than that.”
We’d decided nothing would be gained by telling him we were Lao Communists.
“Naturally we’ll have to verify these claims,” said the prefect. “And while we are doing so, I shall keep you all here under guard. These are serious accusations and I cannot proceed without recommendations from my superiors. I shall return when we know more. In the meantime—I don’t know—make yourselves comfortable.”
There followed a peculiar hour during which Civilai and I sat on a divan and Marchant took the velvet chair. Each of us had an armed guard at our back. We had a front-row view of the curator passing through various shades of anger and into the vivid hues of fear. We had not been banned from speaking, so Civilai and I caught up on the films we’d seen on our respective 8mm show nights and the duties of our wives. We weren’t careful about what we said. It was rare for foreign experts to come to the colonies and bother to study our languages. We were all supposed to speak French, so it didn’t occur to us that the curator might be a linguist.
Much later, we went back over our conversation from that hour and began to question how much information we’d given away—if we’d mentioned places or names or whether we’d said anything in our own language that could have led to us being traced. Because, just before Blazer returned, we witnessed the look of Satan in the eyes of the curator. He leaned forward, and in fluent Lao, he said:
“Monsieur Civilai, Dr. Siri, you may be feeling smug abou
t this victory. But it is only temporary. What you did today promises to ruin me financially and professionally. The prefect will not find the local artisans on your list because obviously I could not allow them to live given what they knew. I found I am something of an architect when it comes to murder. There will be nothing to tie me to the deaths of a few old potters. I will not be executed—our government cannot afford such a scandal—but when I return to France, my life will not be worth living. The only thing that will keep me sane from now on is the thought of finding you both and your charming wives and your children and doing to you all what you did to the pots. I shall crush you and destroy you, and I shall enjoy every second of your pain. It will be the fulfillment of my life’s ambition to see you suffer.”
We ate a late lunch at the prefect’s table as we celebrated the rescue of Vietnamese national treasures. We drank probably the most expensive wine I’d ever tasted, toasted again and again by a late visitor, General Jacquot. It was true he did not have a sense of humor, but he had a remarkable capacity for wine. With such a victory under their belts thanks to us, the future of both men in national politics was assured. Whenever we met after that we drank to our success, but I never did forget the threat or the cold look of hatred on the face of the man who made it:
“I shall crush you and destroy you, and I shall enjoy every second of your pain. It will be the fulfillment of my life’s ambition to see you suffer.”
Chapter Eight
The Succubus Conductor
“So, if I’m reading this addendum to the screenplay right,” said Bruce, “at a crucial moment in the battle, you and Civilai rip . . .”
“The two characters who may or may not be me and Civilai,” said Siri.
“Right, anyway, these two characters rip off their shirts, grab the nearest machetes and charge down into the valley to confront the French forces at Dien Bien Phu.”
The Second Biggest Nothing Page 9