The Headmaster's Wager

by Vincent Lam

  Mak donned a smile. “Headmaster, Mr. Peters has come up with an idea. I might have mentioned it to you. It would be easier for him to hire staff if he knew that all graduates of a certain school had consistently good English abilities. I wondered if your school might be able to help?” Mak ignored Jacqueline, as if she were invisible to him.

  “We need a lot of translators in our new spheres of activity. I’m going be involved more on the ploughs, less on the swords,” said Peters. “Health, education, community-building, only a little intelligence and military liaison. There’ll be half a million Americans in this tiny country by the end of the year—most of them armed—but I think it may be the unarmed ones who bring the little man on board. Good translation is at the heart of every partnership.”

  Percival nodded. “We can supply excellent English-speakers. It would be our way of assisting our American allies.” He raised his lime water to Peters, who clinked his glass in response.

  “Headmaster, I have to ask you, what do you think of this war?”

  Percival had met enough Americans to know that Peters was not trying to be rude. That’s just how they were. He sipped his water, turned to the guest, and considered his English words carefully. What was the most intelligent way to claim indifference? He said, “This war is difficult for me to understand. People have varying opinions, which themselves are clouded by numerous biases. Recently the war has been so … confusing, and so quickly changing, that I have not been able to follow it very well.” He sat back, hoped that his response had been intelligible, and empty.

  “And what do you think about us Americans being involved? Some say that we interfere with Vietnamese politics. What is your opinion?”

  Mak cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  “Well, I look at it perhaps with the same eyes that you do. In that …” he struggled for what to say next, “I am an outsider to this place. For me, politics here have been confusing ever since … in fact, ever since Le Loi achieved independence from us Chinese five hundred years ago.” That should be sufficiently distant.

  “That’s right, you Chinese had your time occupying this country.” Peters grinned and sat back a little. “As the French did? I assume you are part French, mademoiselle …”

  “Jacqueline,” she managed to say.

  “The most beautiful women in the country are half-French, don’t you think?” he asked Percival. Then to Jacqueline, “Does it seem to you we have occupied the country, we Americans?”

  Why was the American pressing so hard for their opinions? wondered Percival. He felt as if he were at a gaming table, except that he did not know what was the winning hand. Jacqueline couldn’t manage a reply. Percival said, “It is for you Americans to decide whether your presence is an occupation—but this does not change what I teach.”

  Peters laughed. “You should be a diplomat, Headmaster. Did you know that Roosevelt offered Chiang Kai-shek control of Indochina at the end of the Second World War? He didn’t want the French to get it back. Didn’t think it was good for the region and didn’t think they deserved it after bending over for the Japs. Thought the Chinese should manage the situation.”

  Percival knew that Chiang had refused Roosevelt’s offer. The Annamese, Chiang explained to the American president, would never accept Chinese control, for they resented outsiders.

  It must be a compliment, if Peters called him a diplomat, since Peters’ bosses were diplomats. Equally, Percival realized, that might make it an insult. The winning hand, Percival intuited, was to allow the American to feel that he knew more. This should be coupled with impartiality. He said, “Is that so? Fascinating. Mr. Peters, you are interested in history.”

  “Smart guy, Chiang, to stay out of it. Of course, history twists in every direction, doesn’t it? I met a guy in D.C. who used to advise Ho Chi Minh, Uncle Ho was our friend for awhile. Our Office of Strategic Services once backed him. Yeah, incredible, the guys who became the CIA.”

  Percival had read some of Ho Chi Minh’s early speeches, written by his American advisors, and modelled on the Declaration of Independence. He said, “Well, there is your expression, history twisting: Half of the officers in the South Vietnamese Army were once Viet Minh, yes?” Percival heard Mak take a deep breath. He wondered whether the American understood that this also could equally be a compliment or a criticism. In any case, complete naivety did not suit Percival.

  “Some say so,” agreed Peters, narrowing his eyes. “They speak good French, too, embarrasses me when I try.”

  Having run out of words, Percival settled on a tight-lipped smile. The difficulty with this game, if that’s what it was, was that not only did Percival not know the winning hand, but the American would decide whether he held it. Finally, he broke the silence by saying, “I don’t pay much attention to Vietnamese history. What I do hear is like hearing some other family’s troubles. After all, I am Chinese. It is not my country, nor my war.”

  Mak interrupted with forced enthusiasm, clapped Percival on the back. “Our English teaching is the best in South Vietnam, Mr. Peters, and Headmaster Percival Chen ensures that all graduates are excellent conversationalists. There is no politics in our curriculum. No history, either.”

  “I see. Yes, of course. You are Chinese. That is ideal, to observe this mess from the outside. I would like to come to Chinatown one day, to visit your school.” Peters looked into his glass and said, “Tell me something else. Do people in Cholon think that the bombing of North Vietnam will draw the Chinese into this war?”

  This time, Percival’s smile was wide, for the correct answer was obvious. “I’m too preoccupied running my school to consider such things. In any case, wouldn’t China be foolish to fight with America, the world’s greatest power?”

  Peters laughed. “I suppose that’s who we are, isn’t it?” He turned his eyes to Jacqueline. She looked into her lap. Why did he think she would improve the mood, Percival berated himself.

  “What prompted you to start an English school, Headmaster Chen?” asked Peters.

  Now, Percival paused for a moment. Should he say that he had been at a loss after the rice trade was forbidden to the Chinese? Should he say that it was Mak’s idea, that to attract students they could print advertisements saying that Headmaster Chen was a graduate of a British school? Almost true, a few semesters shy of it. Should he say something grand, perhaps? That it was because the Chinese believed that the highest calling was to teach and to learn?

  Percival said, “To make money.”

  Peters gave a broad and relaxed smile. “It’s so refreshing to meet someone in Saigon who cares about sensible things. We’ll get along fine. Making money is the American way.” He signalled to the waiter, who came over. He said to his companions, “Have a beer?” and before they had answered told the waiter, “Bon bia hoi.”

  When the chilled beer came, the men clinked glasses, and Peters took a long swallow. He turned to Percival and said, “We’ve got the Cong beat in the shooting war. When I was looking at this place through a rifle, orders were to frag them first and sort them out later. We blasted the villages, the countryside, made life a living hell. Problem is, all those peasants we’re trying to keep free from communism … more and more want to slit our throats. I get that. The rice farmer doesn’t care that I’m defending his freedom by burning down his hut. You have kids, Percival?”

  “A son.”

  “And you want the best for your son? You want an education for him, right? A future? What is he doing?”

  Mak interjected, “He has finished at the headmaster’s excellent school and is studying abroad.”

  “Right, smart move,” said Peters. “The American dream. An education, a profitable business, the free world. That’s what we’re trying to bring to this country! I’m going to speak frankly. Up until now, this war has been one great big frigging miscommunication of the American spirit. We try to show a village democracy, they betray us to the Cong. Platoon leader stabbed in his cot. We send a good-hearted sold
ier out to a firebase, he loses his mind after a month, frags a bunch of kids playing soccer yelling they’re gooks. Goes home to momma in a straitjacket. Terrible press, again and again. Makes me sick. So, I got a chance to come back without a gun. Farm assistance, village schools, rural clinics, a little military liaison. Not too much, they promised me. My job is to win the hearts and minds of those people out there who this damned war hasn’t yet killed. All this bullshit about destroying villages to save them … look where that’s got us.” Peters was nearly done his beer.

  “Very wise,” said Percival. He nodded seriously. “And honourable.” He articulated each syllable of the last word.

  Peters enjoyed the last swallow of his beer. “I love the place, you can probably tell.”

  “A true friend of our people,” said Mak, gesturing to Peters as though he were an auction item.

  Jacqueline didn’t even sip the beer in front of her, both hands clenched tightly around the glass. Peters explained that he had been seconded to USAID, which was expanding its programs in the central highlands as well as the Mekong delta. They were opening new offices and would need translators both in Saigon and the field stations. Partnerships in South Vietnam would deprive the Viet Cong of their village support. The American explained, “We need as many good English-speakers as you can graduate. The salaries will be good, and we can swing draft exemptions for the boys we hire. Mak suggested that. But they have to be good. No bullshit English translators who say, ‘Hello, how are you, give money.’ There’s too many of those around. Your graduates have a good reputation. They’ll need to live up to it.”

  Mak nodded. Percival smiled genuinely, and wondered if he should increase the tuition by fifty percent at first or just double it immediately. They ordered lunch and a bottle of Chablis. The clouds pressed down, darker and fast moving. Mak seemed relieved to see that Percival and Peters had begun to speak easily, laughing at each other’s jokes. Jacqueline barely touched her food and remained silent. Perhaps her presence was not such a big deal, thought Percival, topping up the wine glasses. As they finished eating, Mak said cautiously, “Then, when shall we certify the Percival Chen English Academy?”

  “I’ll visit your school, sit in on some classes, talk to some kids. If it looks good, we’ll make it happen. I’ll set that up with your secretary?” Peters eyed Jacqueline.

  “Actually,” said Percival, sitting up straight in his chair, “Jacqueline is more of a personal assistant.” She looked beautiful, uncomfortable with the attention, as he had first seen her at the Sun Wah Hotel.

  “Right, sure,” said the American. He sat back and winked at Percival. He patted Mak on the shoulder. “Not to worry, Mr. Mak. Doesn’t bother me. Every man of substance seems to have an ‘assistant’ in this place.”

  As they came to the end of the meal, thunder cracked above them. The afternoon rains descended like water bursting from a dike, and waiters scrambled around with umbrellas. Percival and his party left the drinks where they were and hurried to the clubhouse, soaked through by the time they reached the awning. After wiping the rain from his face, Percival saw Jacqueline fleeing across the lobby of the clubhouse. Peters’ eyes followed her.

  “She has a number of errands to run for me,” said Percival weakly.

  “Then, we are agreed?” said Mak to Peters. “We will move forward.”

  “I’m feeling very good about this,” said the American. “I will visit this week.”

  “Anytime,” said Percival.

  They shook hands with Peters and watched him go. When he had departed, Mak turned to Percival. “Have you gone crazy?”

  Percival whispered to Mak, “Gung hai se yew lai see.” He must need a red envelope?

  “In fact, it might put him off, if you don’t manage to do it with your behaviour,” said Mak stiffly in Cantonese.

  “I swear, I didn’t know she was a student.”

  “Isn’t that the one rule you keep to? You can screw any girl from here to the demilitarized zone, but not your students! If we get this certification, you can pay the rest of your debt by the end of next semester.”

  “Yes, I hope so.”

  “Then why did you bring your student, our student, to this meeting?”

  Percival stared into the rain. He felt his embarrassment rise.

  Mak went on. “If you parade her around and he sees her in the school, he will conclude that we are just like all the other schools where a diploma can be bought, or paid for in bed.”

  “Mr. Peters must not see the girl.” Percival nodded.

  “Say goodbye to her. You need this certification.”

  “Yes, it is very important to the school, yes, for my debt and the progress of the school. You certainly must take a lai see, Mak, for all you have done.”

  “I don’t need a red packet. We need this certification. End it with this girl. Have I ever given you bad advice?”

  “No, old friend, you haven’t. I’m going to go and find Han Bai. You will need a ride back to Cholon.” He escaped Mak and headed towards the kitchen, where the members’ drivers waited. He found the driver and told him to go and take Teacher Mak wherever he wanted. Percival had planned to go out the side door, but Mak had trailed him to the kitchen entrance, so the headmaster was unable to slip his teacher and friend. Han Bai brought the Peugeot around, and the two men each climbed in one side.

  CHAPTER 13

  THUNDER SWELLED, AND RAIN POUNDED THE roof of the car. The traffic was slow, and the car stopped often. The wipers flashed back and forth, and still the rain blurred everything so that they saw only coloured shapes through the front window. Mak began to drum two fingers in a staccato, but said nothing.

  Already, when they had met as young men, Mak had this way of holding himself in. In 1942, while Percival was struggling to wean Chen Kai off opium, the Japanese declared that all rice could only be bought and sold through Imperial rice procurement agents. They offered Chen Hap Sing such an agency, but Percival refused, apologizing that he must care for his sick father. Ba Hai ranted at his stupidity. The merchants who collaborated soon became rich in both piastres and Japanese yen, and their households were well fed. Despite their new unemployment, all the Chinese workers of Chen Hap Sing and some of the Vietnamese cheered Percival’s discreet manoeuvre. Other Vietnamese warehouse men said amongst themselves that the Japanese might not be so bad, if they would one day get rid of the French for good. At least they had yellow skin. They said this in their own language, not realizing that Percival was beginning to understand a little of it.

  Without a business to run, Percival often sat on the balcony when Chen Kai napped, observing the square in front of Chen Hap Sing. The Japanese had made it into a stable, paddock, and camp for the cavalry, with the post office as their Cholon headquarters. The doors of St. Francis Xavier were barred, and the priests had been arrested on unspecified charges. The flame trees were carefully pruned by some of the Japanese soldiers who took an interest in such things, so that in their season of blooms in 1943, they were more spectacular than usual. The square was otherwise listless. A few vendors with shoddy goods dickered with customers who were slow to part with money. The hot portion of the day lasted forever. One such afternoon, Percival looked out the window and caught a glimpse of a neighbour on the balcony of the next building, who seemed to be watching the Japanese soldiers and their horses very intently. It was a young man, roughly Percival’s age. He was writing notes on a piece of paper.

  Percival went out to his balcony. “Wai,” he offered in friendly greeting. “I am Chen Pie Sou. What are you doing out at this time of day?”

  The stranger palmed the stub of pencil and the paper and looked around. “My name is Mak.”

  “You like the horses?” asked Percival.

  “They are handsome.”

  “Are you an artist? You are drawing them? ”

  “I am from out of town,” said Mak, as if a different question had been asked. “What do you do?”

  “Our family was
in the rice business,” said Percival. “Now, I sit here.”

  “Oh, then I’ve heard of you. You rejected an offer to become a procurement agent,” said Mak, relaxing visibly. He explained that he was renting a room in the house next door, with a group of Chinese who had fled to Cholon from the countryside. “We Chinese must stick together, right?”

  “How could I collaborate with these devils?” Percival gestured out at the square. “Did you know that in Nanjing, two Japanese officers had a competition. It was like a sports event, to see who could be the first to behead a hundred Chinese prisoners.”

  “You must have a shortwave, if you know that,” said Mak warily.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t ever admit to it.” Mak looked from side to side and lowered his voice. “I’m glad to be amongst patriots, friend, but in these times it may be worth keeping your opinions quiet. If I am asked, of course, I haven’t heard your thoughts on the Japanese.” Later that afternoon, Percival hid the radio in a giant wedding cabinet—his new acquaintance had a point.

  After that first encounter, Percival saw Mak from time to time, and they chatted from one balcony to another. They were both Teochow, though Mak was born in Indochina and spoke Annamese as well as he spoke Teochow, Cantonese, and French. He sidestepped the usual polite questions about his family and education. Between Chen Hap Sing and the building where Mak rented a room, there was a Cantonese refugee family living in a shack in the alleyway. The couple had two daughters—girls with deep, beautiful eyes. The alley did not lead anywhere, a natural advantage for the family, since it could use the walls of the three adjacent buildings. They had added a supporting frame of bamboo, a thatched roof of straw in the village style, and a stack of wooden crates for the front wall. This gave them a home that was better than those of most other refugees, and more comfortable than the Japanese soldiers’ tents in the square. The family started an egg hatchery in the crates in front of the shack. All day, the mother and daughters checked the wooden boxes and turned the eggs over in their straw beds. The father fetched eggs and delivered chicks in pole baskets throughout Cholon.