CHAPTER 33
The grille between them—he realizes that he had not tried to touch it...not poke his hand through to the other side where his dad was. Is. Just that there was the light, again, now “observing” it as he recalls the meeting: bright light, a soft, cloth, like terry cloth—the grille was the only substantive thing there—but he had no doubts that it had been—is real.
Believe in yourself. Believe “in”—or believe that there is something in...someone? Now that he reflects upon the phrase, he is a bit frazzled.
Frank opens the door. He still doesn’t know where he is but “What the hell!” opens the door and steps out. Must be Vietnam—as if checking a map to discover the obvious. It’s a cloudless, sun snappy day. Bird song. Bicycles. Men and women, kids with conical hats. Things he’s seen on the “Evening News” with Walter Cronkite. “Ole Lying Walty”—the Establishment’s Grande Illusionist...but he doesn’t want to think about this, just matching image to recalled image. He walks across a manicured and terraced land—stands Tall and American and White: is the Enemy…waits: bicycle bells ring-a-ding, sandals slap heels, children squeal, shy looks and a breaking wave of bows: bows
“What am I believing?”
From that moment on—as if he had stood high above them, looking out and down from a platform, one which each and every one who passed by saw him, there...naked, totally exposed: his skin and thoughts and feelings all exposed: skeletal… from that moment on his knowing about his own beliefs was one-half step ahead of his consciousness—it was as if he was being led, not by another, but by a force, a presence, a power within him.
Father’s father’s fathers….
There were three women and one boy. They came and went as if actors finding their marks and appearing-disappearing on cue. A Grandmother who brought him his clothes: European cut, businessman, with a subdued elegance. A younger one—daughter?—who made his food. Simple combinations of Asian cuisine, touched with a French flair. She gave him American proportions—all he did was smile at her and she smiled back. Another yet younger—the daughter’s daughter?—drew his bath, washed his personals, tidied up his room, and—after dinner each night—massaged his feet. He accepted her into his life as if she had always been there. Frank rests and moves about as if he has been living this way for—centuries—no other word fit.
The son...chattering in Vietnamese constantly; an energy ball, probably ten. Frank understood more of what he meant by how his body spoke than he did the tongue, though he, curiously, seemed to grasp whatever it was the boy was saying. The boy brought him the morning paper, the evening paper, his “mail”—consisting of Western journals...and Frank’s pipe: from the first night, he smoked his pipe: a strong aromatic mix in a fine meerschaum calabash.
At no time did it ever cross Frank’s mind to ask them their names nor to give them any. All was spoken without speech.
One hour before each evening’s outing, the boy would come, point to the clock in Frank’s study...and Frank would begin his preparations.
Fashionable Parties. The “invisible” Western embassies: a Consul General, here, a Delegate General, there—respecting the twisted loyalties of war...“mobius” was the image in Frank’s mind—how “what is, is not” and all that stuff...even the soft moccasin Canadians: members of the International Control Commission—they were all there: the West in the East, still.
Military events. High Society, Upper Crust soirees. It was a calendar for a “season” which was—so it appeared to him—his by right.
When it was necessary Frank spoke French. Enough Vietnamese not to be insulting to his new peers. Always ready to discourse in English...but there were no discourses, no speeches, no exposes of his thoughts or feelings or beliefs. He just was there.
During his second week, again back dallying with the Canadians, et al., at a Grand Ball, cocktails, chit and chat… Her: undoubtedly, without question, absolutely certain, pure and simple—Her, coming towards him, and it is at this moment...a Moment of Moments...it is that he, for the first time ever, hears himself listening to himself:
I believe that I am one of you.
I believe that we are family.
I believe that I am revealing the truth.
I believe that we all yearn for this truth.
I believe that we all can be Restored to Perfection.
“Ming-lao Yang”—after which she says, in perfect French, then English: “Call me Rose.”
They came into each other’s presence like the sun at morning’s rise entering the realm of the shade.
They “fit” as if a cosmic hand was pressing them into a preset mold.
They mingled like water through the air—each being the earth, each being a spontaneous combustion upon eye sight...from across the room, at inches within a bow, far-sighted with a glance.
Whispered: “Ming-lao Yang is Ho’s favorite mistress.”
As he woke next morning, he knew that he had to prepare for her. She would be here by noon.
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