Doublespeak--A Novel

by Alisa Smith

At the far wall on a small stage, there was a singer at the piano, wearing a tight black dress, cut low, and belting out jazz tunes. She wasn’t that talented, but the men kept their eyes glued to her. I guessed she was popular for visual reasons. Then my attention was arrested by the only two men in the room who were not looking at the singer.

  “Oh Jesus,” I whispered, unable to stop the words. Byron gripped my hand and then quickly let it go.

  The man I recognized was Bill, as he stared right at me. My breath caught in my throat. Bill, darkly handsome, looking just as I remembered him from our happiest days, dressed up to go out on the town. Not haggard and ruined like he was in jail. It was as though time had gone backwards. I was too far away to read the expression in his eyes, but they emanated intensity. He had that power, to take up more space than anyone else.

  I took a step forward and he smiled.

  Smiled! I was outraged. Did he think this would be easy? I wanted to scream at him: “You let me think you were dead all this time. Jesus Christ, three years!” And all the harm he did me before his so-called death. I felt my fists clenching. I weaved around the tables, closing in on him with Byron trailing after me.

  Sitting beside Bill was a man so gaunt he looked lost in his rumpled clothes. I suddenly realized it was Link Hughes. His eyes were vacant, staring at nothing. He had horrible patchy scars on his arms, and one small round dint on each cheek, like dimples, but he had never had dimples. I realized from the spherical shape they must have come from a bullet shot through his face. Oh, Link.

  Why did I have to report him to Miss Maggie? I had not foreseen his exile to the doomed Burma campaign when I wrote about his meeting with the Spanish Consul, but that was because I was not capable of thinking of other people. I believed I was, now, but it only made me sadder because the past could not be changed. All I could do was ask for Link’s forgiveness, but I could not expect to receive it. The only thing I could hope to regain from this was self-respect. I supposed that was no small thing.

  I didn’t know how I was going to get through this. I’d never been so close to unravelling. And there was Bill beside him, smiling like a Cheshire cat. He was in the centre of things, as always. He had spoiled my reunion with Link. I could not say what I needed to say to him—I didn’t want anyone else to hear what I was apologizing for. What a goddamn mess.

  I took a deep breath and sat down.

  “Didn’t I say I never wanted to see him?” I asked. I looked only at Byron. I would not look at Bill. I would not.

  “That’s no way to treat a man who came back from the dead to see you,” Bill said, in his jovial manner that I remembered so well. Joy flared for a moment, the old desire fulfilled: that Bill would come back to me, cured. And here he was. He looked too hearty, too present, to be using drugs. He was wearing a linen suit, crisp in contrast to Link’s old clothes. Then my cynicism crept in—Bill had planned every detail, no doubt. He would revel in the contrast.

  “Me and Link have a lot in common,” he said. “You should be happy how it all worked out. I can help him.”

  I’d waited years for an apology, and apparently I would never get one. He had not changed, but I was thrown by his offer. Why would he help Link? I reminded myself that he always had some plan, drugs or no drugs, and he always put himself first. He was using Link to get to me, or perhaps Link had some other value to him. Cautiously I studied Link’s blank face, the angular cheekbones and the chin, the shape the same as I remembered, but stripped bare, like a couch waiting to be reupholstered, just the structure underneath left. His mouth hung a little slack, his lips not the full, soft lips I once kissed.

  I could deal with Bill later. Link was the one I had come to see. I touched his arm gently. “Do you know me?”

  He did not look at me, and I might as well have touched a block of wood. He did not pay any attention to his arm and I withdrew my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it. You have every right to hate me.” My words just tumbled out in a heap, like garbage. He did not react at all.

  “His mind’s scattered,” Bill said. I felt gratitude, and squelched it. That was just the sort of opening Bill would look for.

  Link did not react to this observation. He sat impassively, not even smoking the cigarette smoldering in an ashtray beside his hand. Bill, meanwhile, was almost merry, ordering drinks, holding up four fingers to the waiter. He was the only one in a social mood. Byron looked uncomfortable, Link was drifting in the stratosphere, and I just wanted to get out of the bar. Nothing important that I had to say could be said in public.

  I was so angry at Bill. He had used Link as bait to get me here, when Link deserved to be left in peace. He must have shell shock from what he’d been through.

  Seeing Link again, I had to ask myself honestly what there was to our relationship. The grounds were flimsy. I had obsessed over him for a few months from afar, since he had a wife. We had danced, once. We had kissed, once, by the creek on Craigflower Road. At the time these things had loomed large, I admit. I was so surprised when he pulled me close, to lead me in the true Argentinean tango. He whispered that we should move together like lovers and I melted. Maybe that moment had been real for him, too. I’d never know.

  It was easy enough to be attracted to someone. Trust is something else again, and I made the mistake of giving it to him. The time I thought we were closest—a team—was when he was actually betraying me. I had shared with him a coded message I discovered on a banded pigeon. He encouraged me to keep it from the others and decrypt it myself. He told me I deserved the credit, and that’s what I wanted to believe. What he actually did was take advantage of my pride to keep secret what he knew: it really was from the Japanese. He lied to me, saying it was a meaningless message between fishermen in the local militias. Then he destroyed it. So Miss Maggie hadn’t been wrong about him, not in broad strokes. He was the spy she was looking for. But it did not matter to me anymore what kind of a spy Link had been or why. He was not evil, I knew that much. He did not deserve three years of slavery under the Japanese, which Miss Maggie consigned him to when she sent him to Burma. Or does he only blame me? I wondered.

  The four of us were silent until the waiter returned. “Seagram’s, sir,” he said, setting our drinks on coasters with a muffled thunk. Bill had always liked Canadian liquor during Prohibition—the American stuff had been brain-burning moonshine. Seagram’s had been my favourite too, and for a moment I wondered if Bill remembered. But I doubted that factored into anything. Bill only ever thought of himself.

  “I was telling Link this is a good place for us to meet—once,” Bill said. “It’s busy and loud enough that no one can hear your business. It’s like Switzerland, this place. Neutral territory. The devil could drink with you and no one would raise an eyebrow. Santé.” He raised his glass. I couldn’t help but think Bill was that devil, and maybe that was his intention. Byron clinked his glass half-heartedly, while I kept mine on the table. Link didn’t seem to know he had a drink at all. Bill drained his whisky and grinned at each of us in turn. He was the only one enjoying himself at this table, that was for sure. I wished he’d shut up, but at the same time I was glued to his every word. He was leading me somewhere—I’d just have to wait and find out how I fit into his plans. That’s all this was. He didn’t really care for me still. I was just useful to him. If I waited and found out how, maybe I could thwart him.

  “But we should never come here together again,” Bill continued. “Link, it was a little rash of you to choose this place, though I admit it is the nicest bar in town. But we have been marked. Only you know who might have cause to mark you, like I know who marks me. That fellow Warner at the bar, for instance. He might buy my gems or my opium. Which is legal here.” Bill glanced at me, as though he wished me to register that last point. Well, he wasn’t about to win some Boy Scout prize. Drugs were drugs, and some underworld business had to come into it somewhere. He was still a crook. I refused to meet his eyes, and stared stubbornly into my tumbler of whisky.
Perhaps I would have one sip.

  This man Warner’s back was turned, so I could only see he had broad shoulders and wavy blond hair. After a moment he talked to the man beside him, and I had the chance to study his profile. Warner was handsome with refined features. He was about Bill’s age, I thought, though they couldn’t be more opposite. Bill was dark and rugged. While you would not immediately call Bill handsome, he had a presence that drew your attention until he was somehow the most attractive man in the room. Back in the day, of course. I had to admit Bill looked better than I could have imagined, and not much older than when we first met, before the drugs had ravaged his mind and reflected that fact on his face. Now his cheeks were tan from time out of doors, in apparently healthy pursuits. It seemed very wrong that he would sell drugs to other people after what they’d done to him. I supposed I should not be surprised at any contradiction in him. He was constructed from opposing forces, always at war.

  Bill continued with his monologue. “So it helps for Warner to see me talk to you. If he thinks there’s other interested parties, that’ll make him more eager. He might think Link here is in the opium business—he has that look. While Lena has a regal bearing that suggests the gem trade. First lady gem dealer in the country, why not? She can do such things easily. And Warner will see that in her immediately. Warner is perceptive.”

  Was he proposing I should go into business with him? Oh, he was maddening. But I needed to keep calm and think about what he really meant by all this. He must be drawing my attention to Warner for a reason.

  Here I was, falling for Bill’s ploy and getting wrapped up in his world. He was deflecting me from doing what I came to do, which was reconcile with Link, or at least to tend to him. He clearly needed help. I would only speak to Link, not Bill.

  “Link, you don’t seem well yet. Why’d you leave the hospital?”

  If Bill was behind it, I wanted to know. Link pressed a finger to a small clear tube protruding from his throat that I had not noticed until he did so. I tried not to stare at it, but it was a horrible invasion of his person. It should not be there. “No choice,” he said, his voice raw. He had to plug the tube to speak, and the words cost him an effort. I wanted to cry.

  “Your neck. What happened?”

  “Japs got me.” He spoke slowly and had to pause often, wheezing between words. It sounded so painful. “But I killed some first. I was a patriot.”

  It was a statement meant for me, but we were in no position to speak frankly. I interpreted it as a message that he had not meant to betray his country. A weight came off my chest—it was as I thought. He’d been duped by the Spanish Consul. I knew he would never want to harm the Captain.

  “Is it permanent, the tube?” I asked hesitantly.

  He shook his head. “Take it out. Soon. They said.”

  “Can you go back there?”

  He shook his head, more violently this time, and had to take a moment to place his finger back on the tube. “Russians.”

  I had a thousand questions I wanted to ask. Had he actually spoken to a Soviet agent? What did they want with him? Had they learned he was branded a traitor to the West? How did they know about him in the first place?

  “Listen to this knucklehead,” Bill said. “Russians? He needs to rest.”

  Link really should not speak of such things. Could he be on morphine still from the hospital? My doubts about Link were creeping back in. After being tortured, he might be controllable by any side. I needed to question Link privately. If I could tell Miss Maggie what the Soviets were doing in Siam, it would be an important contribution in the new war.

  God, how could I think of my work right now? What about the debt I owed Link? Whatever he’d done, it was partly my fault he’d been sent behind the front lines. He’d been tortured. No one should have to endure that. I downed my drink.

  “Lena, you okay?” Byron asked.

  “My neck still aches, but I can’t complain when other people have injuries much worse than mine.” I couldn’t bring myself to say Link’s name aloud. “I’m fine. Really.” My neck actually was fine. I hadn’t felt it much today. I just needed an excuse for my agitation.

  My world was crumbling. I had held onto the idea of Link these three years: my obsession with him was tied to my guilt. But guilt and love do not co-exist well. Maybe one murdered the other. My guilt could not be stronger, short of him having died from his capture. But love? I realized I felt no passion when I looked at him now, and it wasn’t just because he had changed. In his gaunt face, I could still see the man he had been. But those eyes did not burn any more when they looked at me. Passion required that spark to survive. Three years ago, I would see him desiring me, and I would imagine our skin touching as he undressed me. The idea of him animated my days. But now, nothing. Passion was a fire, but fire ended as ash. Love was the thing left standing in the wreckage after the fire burned out. Like a safe to which only one person knows the combination.

  “This fellow needs a comfortable bed,” Bill said, “and I aim to provide it. He’ll stay at my palazzo.”

  Damn that man. The gears of his plan were turning, relentless. I did not want to be like Saint Catherine, lying pliant on the wheel. He knew I wouldn’t want to let Link out of my sight, now that I’d found him, and that least of all would I want him in the exclusive company of Bill. If he did not yet know them, Bill would pry out all the details of our relationship. Also, I did not want to see Link fall further under his influence. I turned to Byron.

  “Link would recover better under my care. Is there a spare room at my hotel?”

  “Most likely,” Byron said, looking every which way except at Bill.

  “That’s not so comfortable,” Bill said. “Lena, you can stay at my place also. It’s big enough that even I get lost in it, so you don’t got to worry about bumping into me.”

  “Byron, please take me back to my hotel.”

  “I have to agree with Bill on this one,” Byron said, swallowing hard. “There’s good security at his place. After those pirates, I worry about you.”

  “Pirates are only at sea, Byron. We’re on land.” I glanced at Bill. “Though I admit there are bandits there as well.”

  Bill just smiled. “I got nothing to do with banditry now. Don’t you see I’ve changed?” I did not answer, and he frowned into the silence. “What the hell are you talking about, pirates?”

  “You—” I took a deep breath, and turned to speak to Byron as I had resolved. “I think he knows what I’m talking about. Since he’s apparently spying on me all the time.”

  Byron opened his mouth, but Bill cut him off. “I heard her, damn it, she’s right here beside me. Acting like a child, I must say. Anyhoo, I been keeping an eye on her, and helped her. She should be grateful.”

  “I wouldn’t have needed help if it wasn’t for you.”

  Unperturbed, Bill waved his hand for the waiter to bring him another whisky.

  I stood up, straightening my dress and grabbing my purse from the back of the chair. The strap snagged on the teak fretwork. Frustrated, I yanked it upward to free it. “I’m disappointed in you, Byron. Helping this maniac with his little games.”

  “Don’t go, Lena.”

  He started to stand up, the chair legs shrieking across the tile floor, but I gestured him to be still. He sat down again quickly as a dog admonished.

  Bill waited calmly as the waiter took away his empty drink and put down another, the outside of the glass already slick with moisture from the heat in the air. “I’ll send my associate Smile to watch over you,” Bill said. “He can let me know when you’re ready to speak to me. You’ll have to, if you want to talk to him.” He hooked a thumb at Link, who was absently stirring the ice in his untouched whisky.

  “Link?” I said weakly, but he did not look up. Any chance for me to make amends seemed further away than ever. Feeling defeated and more alone than ever in my life, I threaded slowly through the crowds to the gaping door, hoping Link would call me back, but he n
ever did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  JANUARY 16, 1946—EVENING

  AS THE LONGTAIL boat cut through the Chao Phraya, I stared glumly into the dark water, and the moon reflected like a thousand shards in the wake. I stood alone in the stern. Lena was mad at me, and maybe she’d never forgive me. I was too tightly bound to Bill. That was what I had run from those years ago in Washington, when I knew the cops had him and it was my chance to be free. And here I was, like a chump, his sidekick again of my own free will. Or was it? Shively would have allowed no refusal.

  The shadowy form of a temple pierced the moonlit sky as we motored against the current, while wind rustled the palm trees and shook the banyans. No, I had to admit I wanted to come here. To Siam for adventure—me, who had never left Washington until I met Bill. I’d been an accountant and then a barkeep. That had been the extent of my exploits on my own. I sighed, but it was like the sound never existed, drowned as it was in the murmur of wind, river, and boat.

  Bill and Link sat together in the front of the longtail in silence. It was no great joy that Link was staying with us. I was baffled and angered by this new alliance. If I had to give up Lena for Bill’s friendship, at least he could show appreciation for my loyalty. And on Bill’s end, he could be making a terrible mistake. I didn’t know how he could stand to be in such close quarters with his rival for Lena’s affection, although looking at Link, I had to agree with Bill’s assessment that he was a shattered wreck. It was hard to imagine what Lena had seen in him, and harder to imagine her seeing it still. But shades of horror and sadness had passed through her eyes when she looked at him, especially when she first noticed the tube in his neck, and her hangdog ways signified guilt. Guilt was like a glue between people. I knew that.

  The palazzo grounds were silent but for a no-hope bird sighing in its sleep in the trees. I passed through the front doors where two servants stood sentry in the place where Dass usually had his post, and walked past the library. A hand shot out and grabbed my lapels. It was Bill, and he pulled me inside.