Bleeding in Black and White

by Colin Cotterill

  In spite of the frustrations of mobility and communication, Bodge’s life took a turn for the better. He’d relieved the Evangelical Mission of half his allowance and proceeded to spend it. He bought himself some decent clothes, left the silent-man hotel and checked into the Majestic on Rue Catinat. As his purpose in Saigon was to have people know he was there, he decided nothing was to be gained by slumming. He’d been cured of his fondness for roadside cafés and had taken to eating three quality meals a day in the hotel’s first class restaurant. There were armed guards all over, protecting the idle rich from flying ordnance and blinkering them from the ever-approaching war.

  Afternoons, Bodge would work on his Vietnamese and do whatever exercises didn’t trouble his head. The only books on sale in town were in French so he ventured off into whole different waters to those at his desk in New York. He developed a fondness (if not a complete understanding) for Camus and was reminded that outside government reports and tape transcripts, the French language could be a beautiful thing.

  In the evenings he’d join the expatriates at the hotel bar. There were any number of reasons why booze could have turned into a problem for him so he was never seen there with anything stronger than orangeade. That suited his missionary image as well. It was only his good nature that breached the “teetotal yank missionary” prejudice. The bar was a popular watering hole for journalists who’d been bomb-threatened out of their favourite haunts. Bodge learned a lot there that he’d never have picked up from the official French news service. It was there he’d first heard rumors of slave labor on the plantations, unreported French losses in unheard-of battles, and far-fetched accounts of the sluttish wife of the French Administrator in his own Ban Methuot.

  It was there too that he met Raphael, the pilot of the Royal airplane. Raphael had no time for the lecherous journalists and the obnoxious profiteers that loitered in the bar. When he stayed at the Majestic, he spent his evenings reading at a small table in the corner of the restaurant where he had his own keep-bottle of cognac. Raphael, Bodge learned, had a Montagnard wife and had built a home for his new family at Dalat. Whenever the Emperor was at his Dalat palace, Raphael spent glorious uninterrupted days with a family he apparently loved very much. But in Saigon and Hanoi and Hue, he sat moping in hotel restaurants.

  Even though Bodge had heard all the stories of this grumpy ex-French Airforce Commodore, he went to great lengths to introduce himself one evening. In fact he had two high cards in his hand. Firstly, the sixty-year-old Parisian was a devout Christian who believed in the ethic of missionary work. Secondly, Bodge showed a marked interest in the plight of the Montagnard at the hands of the French colonists. The correspondents were surprised to see how the pilot had taken to Bodge. They chatted together in French there at the corner table like old comrades. They saw Bodge as some social messiah who could calm even the most savage of beasts.

  But Bodge had deeper motives for this humanitarian effort. He knew he’d eventually be able to work the conversation around to a matter of extreme importance. He was sure they’d soon be gossiping about the royal entourage, and, ultimately, of Von Hong. In fact, it happened in only their second meeting. Raphael and Bodge were eating together. The conversation had found its way to Ban Methuot.

  “But you know Grand E, Raphael’s nickname for the Emperor, has a hunting lodge not far from Ban Methuot?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s at a place called Lac.”

  “I believe the Mission has a place up there too.”

  “I thought your house was in Ban Methuot.”

  Bodge laughed. “Ban Methuot is the base of the mission. From what I’ve learned, the three bedroom villa on the lake is for roughing it during the weekend. It’s a hardship post. I’ve been learning a lot about the Mission’s holdings around the country.”

  “Well then, you and Grand E are probably neighbors. I hear there isn’t a lot of real estate up there. I’m sure you’ll meet him. He’s there as we speak. Been there a couple of months already. He’s mad on hunting. They’re gouging a private hunting track for him all the way to Dalat. Exclusive for royal use.”

  “He’s up there by himself?”

  “He has one of his mistresses with him. Sorry. I mean his concubine. It’s the French who have mistresses because we can’t get away with inviting them to move in with the wife. This consort is all legal and above board. And I can understand why he’s not in a hurry to come down from the lake.”

  “Why?”

  “Ah. She’s perfection. She’s the type only money and power can get for a man. Naturally, he’s besotted by her. I can’t say I blame him.”

  “And…” Bodge tried to maintain an air of indifference. “…is she besotted with him?”

  “Hmm. She isn’t likely to come to me in the cockpit and say, ‘Raphael, the Grand E is a shit.’ But I believe in my heart that she despises him.”

  “When are you next planning to go to Ban Methuot?”

  “I have to wait, as always, for word from the Grand E. But I know they have to return for the ceremony next month.”

  “The consort too?”

  Raphael smiled. “See? I knew I’d get you worked up with my talk of the beautiful concubine. Don’t forget you have a wife waiting for you in Ban Methuot.”

  Bodge, appropriately, blushed. “Of course, I didn’t mean…”

  “Don’t worry, Reverend. I’m only joking with you. I don’t think Grand E would leave the second consort alone in the jungle. But he’s just as crazy about his guns as he is about her. I’m sure he’ll be back up there as soon as he can get away. You’ll have to meet him.”

  “And her,” Bodge thought. He saw her picture-slide on the wall in the safe house. He imagined her in color. He wondered whether the lake at Lac was too cold for her to go on midnight swims.

  “And I tell you what,” Raphael continued. “If you can get that head fixed up in a hurry, I might even take you up with me. If they don’t give me some Royal hanger-on, I usually do one trip by myself. If we aren’t shot down by some hotshot with a rifle, you’ll enjoy the flight.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  31.

  It was midnight in Petit’s little house and he had drunk himself into a trance in front of the silently turning long-playing record. The knock on the front door surprised him. Few people bothered to knock. The Administrator’s wife had found a new paramour so he had few late night visitors these days. He staggered a little on his way to the door and leaned on the wall to open it.

  The woman stood there in a long dark rain poncho even though there hadn’t been any rain for months. She wore a conical hat and it wasn’t until she looked up into his face that he recognized her.

  “Y-your royal highness. I…”

  Von Hong hurried past him into the house and motioned for him to shut the door.

  “Monsieur Petit, I have to trust you to tell nobody of this visit. I have to be back at the lake before the Emperor wakes up. This was my last chance to see you.”

  32.

  Still there was no news from Ban Methuot, and no sign of Palmer. The suspense was gnawing at Bodge so he decided on a brief visit to the highlands before the monsoons kicked in. He’d use his head damage as an excuse to come back to Saigon, then hurry back to the States. Any obligation he may have felt to the agency had long since evaporated. They’d treated him shoddily and he no longer felt he owed them his time to spy on French soldiers in a country most Americans couldn’t identify on a map. It seemed vaguely ridiculous. No, his effort now would be spent on clearing his name and erasing it from whatever hit list it was on. Stephanie was the only person who could explain things. Raphael had heard from the Grand E and he was to collect the royal entourage from Ban Methuot in two days. Bodge could go with him. In spite of all the intrigue in his life, there was nothing Bodge could do to persuade his thoughts away from the second consort. In two days, just briefly, they’d be on the same patch of earth. He might even see her. They might me
et, talk, shake hands?

  Here was Bodge, early thirties, living his belated high school crush. He was nothing special, he knew that. He’d be just like one of the faceless fans that hung around the houses of Grace Kelly and Rita Hayworth, hoping for a glimpse. If she bothered to recall him at all, she’d recall a large clumsy white man with a head bandage. She wouldn’t even be able to answer questions about the shape of his ears or the cut of his smile. But Mlle. Nguyen Von Hong was stuck to his heart like an annoying growth. In many ways, he hoped she’d be a disappointment in real life.

  Ban Methuot

  There was no airport. The landing strip was for military transports and royalty only. All civilians and supplies had to be carried by road in the long caravans that didn’t always arrive in one piece. The Royal B24 Liberator Transport churned through the dust and stopped six meters from the end of the strip. Raphael performed a neat pirouette and parked the clumsy craft beside the only structure there. It was the type of wooden lean-to folks back home would use to store hay.

  There was nobody there to meet them — a marked absence of security. It seemed to Bodge that everything hung on French faith that the Viet Minh wouldn’t ever be acquiring aircraft from the Chinese.

  “No Grand E,” Bodge said stretching his legs on the runway.

  “Oh, they come whenever they feel like it,” said Raphael. He’d taken a long-handled mop from the shed and was cleaning the dust from the fuselage. “I might end up stuck here a day or two while they decide what to wear for the journey. That’s happened before.”

  Bodge’s heart lost some buoyancy at that news. “How far is the town?”

  “About four miles. But don’t you go expecting New York, my friend. It’s more like Dodge City.”

  “It’s still a long way to walk.”

  “Don’t worry. Whenever they hear the plane, they volunteer someone to come out to meet us. They don’t know whether I have any royal personages on board. The etiquette is quite well mapped out. I’d probably lose my head if the Grand E found me taking on passengers without his permission. So, let’s get your stuff off and into the shed just in case. If the royal jeeps arrive first we can bullshit that you came out from Ban Methuot to meet the Emperor.”

  In fact, the first vehicle to arrive was a most unlikely white Citroen. Bodge was sure its manufacturers had never once imagined a day when it would be forging along tropical jungle tracks. Inspector of schools, Petit parked in the shade of the lean-to and walked over to the two men with a tired smile.

  “Good afternoon, M. Blanc.” Bodge noticed the young man was extremely respectful to the old pilot and was doubtless intimidated by him. Raphael shook the offered hand briefly and nodded. “The Administrator has a meeting. There was no-one else at the office so I came. I take it there were no (he glanced at Bodge and smiled) royal passengers on board today.”

  “No. But the Empress asked me if I’d give the Reverend Rogers here a ride.”

  Petit reached out his hand to Bodge and the two men greeted each other with respectful enthusiasm. Bodge had to act like a friend-to-all evangelist and Petit was apparently hungry for company. “Oh, good. Then you must be the husband of our new missionary.” Bodge felt like the First Lady. It was odd to be referred to in such a way but he put it down to a quirk of the man’s English. “You speak some French?”

  “Ha. He could embarrass deLattre himself,” Raphael laughed.

  “I know a little,” Bodge said modestly.

  “Excellent. Excellent. I am Jacques Petit, Director of Schools for this region. We all met your wife. She’s made quite an impression already.”

  “A good one I hope.”

  Petit chose not to respond to the comment. “I believe you’ll find her out at your lake villa as we speak. She spends a lot of time out there.”

  Bodge looked over the young man’s shoulder to see a cloud of dust out on the hill road. Two jeeps were competing to find the most inappropriate gear for the decline. Petit and Raphael followed his gaze.

  “Aha,” said the pilot. “Looks like Grand E is in a hurry to get to the city.”

  Conversation on the air strip ceased as the men watched the cars wind their ways down to the plateau. The front jeep had been bizarrely modified so that the rear seats were perched on a high step. The couple on it sat tall and stiff beneath a canopy like Rajahs on an elephant. The man held a heavy hunting rifle and looked all the time toward the foliage of the jungle. Beside him sat a woman whose head was mummified in gauze. Bodge assumed this was to keep the dust out of her throat and eyes. He recognized the Emperor. The wrapped woman had to be Hong.

  His breathing became shallow and he squeezed his fingers into fists. The couple wore Western clothes; he a white linen jacket and open neck shirt with a cravat, she a pink floral frock. Long opera gloves shielded her arms from the sun. As the jeeps neared the strip, the watchers stepped back so as not to be showered in dust. The wobble in Bodge’s legs threatened to collapse him. As soon as the driver had killed the engine and almost pulled the handbrake from its moorings, he jumped out to help the Emperor from his podium.

  Bodge could see nothing but the woman. She remained on her seat and slowly began to unwrap the gauze. It was excruciating. It reminded him of the way his mother always told him not to tear the Christmas paper when he opened his presents. First one layer, with the outline of her nose and cheek bones. Then a second turn with the shadows of her eyes, the dull red of her lips. And, all at once the cloth came away and Bodge experienced his café bomb in reverse. He was sucked towards her beauty as if it were a vacuum. She shook her hair loose, wiped her sweat with a fine silk scarf, and blew her nose loudly.

  Nobody had come to help. She gave the impression she needed nobody’s assistance. She leapt down from her perch like a gymnast and Bodge could see her dirty white pumps and her fine ankles. Now he cursed his luck that he wasn’t standing between her and the plane. He could hardly put himself in a more noticeable spot without looking ridiculous. She walked directly to the portable steps that led up to the hatchway. Her movement was elegant but youthful. Her back was straight as a bamboo and her breasts stood proudly high on her chest. She didn’t just ignore Bodge. She ignored everybody. She seemed to be on the boil. Something had riled her. But Bodge was encouraged by her fury. It could only have been directed at the Emperor.

  Although it hadn’t been much of a chance it was soon gone. She was out of sight on the plane and he came around from his trance. His attention was drawn to Raphael who was standing behind the Emperor pointing at Bodge. The Emperor rudely crooked his finger and wiggled it for Bodge to come to him. He felt some empathy for the concubine as he walked over.

  “Sir?” Bodge’s bow was just a nod that somehow involved his shoulders. He knew immediately it was neither deep nor respectful enough.

  “Blanc tells me you’re the new missionary out here.” The Emperor’s French was fast and colloquial as if he were trying to catch the American out.

  Bodge’s reply was just as fluent. “Robert Rogers, Your Royal Highness. At your service. I hope we’ll be able to do some good while we’re here.”

  “Well, at least you can speak. That’s more than your predecessors could manage.”

  Although he hadn’t yet learned the appropriate language to use with royalty, Bodge attempted to show off his Vietnamese. “What good is living in a foreign country if you can’t speak to anyone?”

  In spite of himself, the Emperor smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that might have been Vietnamese.”

  “I’ll do some work on the pronunciation, Your Highness.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “I believe my wife is in the villa at Lac Lake. I’d like to see her.”

  “Right. Take my jeep. It’s going that way. Sit in the front with the driver.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “What was your name, again?”

  “Robert Rogers.”

  “I hope you aren’t just talk, Reverend Ro
gers.” He shook Bodge’s big hand and walked to the plane. Raphael smiled, slapped Bodge on the back, and followed. Bodge felt a pang of guilt. He was all talk.

  All this, Hong watched from the window. She saw the big man retrieve his bags from the lean to and walk to the jeep. The driver and the teacher loaded the bags for him. Already he’d charmed the French and the Emperor. He would do. He would do nicely.

  Lac Lake

  The scene in the living room of the lake villa was reminiscent of one from an Inspector Poirot novel. The missionary’s wife sat with her arm around a lightly sobbing Montagnard servant girl. Opposite was Captain Henry: the Inspector of Police. Then there was Administrator Dupré and his interpreter, the regional Vietnamese Montagnard coordinator called Duc from the Montagnard Liaison Center, and Captain Faboir from the French Military.

  Dupré looked at the American woman with distaste — another foreigner who hadn’t bothered to learn French. And a troublemaker to boot. In a little over a month she’d managed to create more havoc than her predecessor had achieved in two years. Neither he nor Faboir wished to be there, but they really had no choice. She’d filled in all the correct forms with her complaint and gone through all the correct channels. It was their legal obligation to attend. And all for what? A couple of Moi girls ran off. Another has a bit of a fling with a soldier and squeals to the concubine. It was all a terrible nuisance.

  All the accusations and debated points, English, French, Vietnamese and M’nong, had passed through interpreter Tran. They heard the girl’s account of what had happened and the Vietnamese coordinator’s report of the death and of how the other servant had vanished completely. Captain Faboir complained that there was no call for him to be there as the Western foreigners, if they existed at all, could have been from anywhere. General LePenn had briefed him thoroughly before leaving for France. It soon became apparent to Stephanie that she didn’t have many allies in that room. Mlle. Hong had anticipated as much. But this show was necessary to push the complaint within the responsibility of the French Administration, and to show whoever was responsible they wouldn’t have an easy ride.