by Vincent Lam
Percival wished that she could be at his side, but it was not possible under the circumstances. The banquet was to be a celebration of Mak’s achievements at the school, for Percival still hoped to win the warmth of Mak’s friendship back. Percival had decided to say nothing to his friend about this special honour until the night itself. He had hired Sheng Hing, the most expensive chef in Cholon, and told him to make the best of everything, ignoring cost. He had bought Mak a gold Rolex, to present to him at the meal.
If only Dai Jai could be there. He recalled a previous Tet. Two years ago, Dai Jai had helped him arrange a simple meal of a broth fondue and rice wine for the school staff. The whole meal had cost less than one of the courses he had ordered for this year’s feast, but he felt wistful for it. The Ministry of Education had not yet issued its memorandum concerning Vietnamese language instruction, and Dai Jai had not yet made his foolish gesture at the Teochow school. One year ago, Dai Jai had just been rescued and Percival barely noticed Tet. In the letter just arrived, Dai Jai had said nothing about the New Year, only rambled that his district cadres were rooting out the landlords and other class enemies who had oppressed the people for generations. Despite the tone of his letters, Percival hoped that Dai Jai was preparing a celebration with his classmates.
“I’m sorry you will be alone,” said Percival. “We’ll have a Tet dinner together.” He put his hands on Jacqueline’s belly. He felt a movement as subtle as a shift in the light. Then a sudden urgent kick, followed by the entire belly convulsing as the child squirmed within.
“He is clever and quick, our little monkey,” said Jacqueline.
“Are you so sure it’s a boy?”
“I hope so. It’s very hard to be a woman.”
On Tet morning, Percival returned to Cholon. He had Han Bai drive him to the Teochow temple. Great pyramids of pomelos and tangerines lined the tables along with baskets of holiday sweets. The carved murals were freshly painted. Before them, people kowtowed, prayed, and burned joss sticks. Percival presented fifty thousand piastres to the donations secretary, who kowtowed and called a boy to paint an extra-large red banner to announce this generous gift. The names of the donors fluttered on the walls.
Percival always consulted Mr. Tai, the fortune teller at the Teochow temple, on the first day of the New Year. When Percival first arrived in Indochina, many people were still in this habit, and he would wait a long time to see Mr. Tai for just a few moments. Now, he did not need to wait, for few people kept up this tradition. In the difficult early years, Percival had paid close attention to each word Mr. Tai uttered. In recent years, he found that he attended more out of routine, and yet he would not wish to risk the displeasure of the ancestors’ spirits by skipping the visit or the special New Year’s donation to the temple. Had he actually followed Mr. Tai’s advice over the past year? Visiting Mr. Tai was the one Tet habit he had kept last year. He realized that he could not remember what had been recommended to him, but now he found that he entered the soothsayer’s chamber attentively, perhaps even with anxiety.
“Chen Pie Sou,” said Mr. Tai, “do you have any debts or obligations?” It was best to resolve loans and problems before Tet, but if they could not be discharged, the fortune teller would give advice about them.
He said to Mr. Tai triumphantly, “I have no debts. In fact, this year I have paid off the biggest debts I have ever faced.”
“Good, good, the ancestors’ spirits are on your side, then. You should have no worries.”
“But I am worried about my son, Dai Jai, whom I sent to China.”
Mr. Tai sighed and shook his head sympathetically. “Many who have sent their children home have the same worry, these days. As long as I can remember, and I am an old man, China has been in upheaval. And yet it is China. It is your son’s home, and it is where he should be.” He took the box with the ivory fortune-telling sticks, shut the lid and began to rattle it. The old man handed it to Percival. Percival shook the box and thought hard of the future as the ivory clicked and chattered within the wood container. He imagined Dai Jai eating dumplings and bean cakes. When the end of a stick protruded from the hole in the lid, Percival drew it out and gave it to Mr. Tai. After two more had emerged, Mr. Tai laid them out in front of him and considered their carved symbols. He rolled them slightly in his hands. “The sticks indicate that just as those of us Chinese far away have questions, Dai Jai’s feelings are not unique to him in China.”
Percival stared at the old man. What sort of useless comment was that? His own annoyance made him see how desperate he was for prediction and advice regarding Dai Jai. So, he had donated fifty thousand piastres, only to be told the obvious. Percival said, “Thank you, Mr. Tai, kung hay fat choy.” Good fortune in the New Year. He remained silent, aware that the ancestors would be aghast at any frustration directed at the fortune teller. He could not risk their displeasure. He put his hands together and kowtowed to the old man.
Percival returned to Chen Hap Sing late in the afternoon. The large kitchen was crowded with both Sheng Hing’s staff and Chen Hap Sing’s cooks, all washing, chopping, and preparing for the evening meal. Under the direction of Sheng Hing’s maître d’hotel, the servers were decorating one of the larger classrooms, transforming it into a banquet room.
As Percival discussed final details of the banquet with the chef, Han Bai came and found Percival. “Headmaster, Mak asked me to pass you a message. He will not be able to attend the banquet.”
“What? Where is he?”
“I don’t know where he was heading, but he seemed to be in a rush, Headmaster, and he sends regrets.”
The square was raucous with firecrackers and excited celebrations. Percival made his way through the crowd and walked to Mak’s apartment a few blocks away. He knocked on the door, and there was no answer. He called out, thinking that Mak might be inside avoiding him. Still no reply. He banged the door with his fists. Was it possible, this insult? Was Mak trying to show the depth of his displeasure, having somehow learned that the banquet was meant to be in his honour?
He called into the door, “Mak, don’t be so proud! Just once, I couldn’t take your advice. I’ll make it up to you. Tell me how.” She was no longer a student. It must have to do with Jacqueline’s mother.
A neighbour yelled, “Be quiet! People live here,” and then appeared on the landing.
“Oh, it is you, hou jeung,” she said, red-faced when she saw Percival. “Sorry for yelling. Happy New Year.”
“Have you seen Mak?”
“I don’t think he’s been home today. Over the past few weeks he has been in and out at all hours, with many visitors coming and going. I thought you were one of his strange guests making a commotion.”
Percival returned to the school and told Han Bai to go looking for Mak.
“But where should I look?”
“I don’t know, but Mak must be at the banquet tonight.”
Soon after, the guests began to arrive. Neither Han Bai nor Mak had yet returned. The room was crowded with the school’s teachers, important parents, and Percival’s gambling friends. Cecilia, who always attended such events, showed off the naval officer whom she had brought with her. At the sight of the captain’s uniform, one of Percival’s best teachers, an awkward young American who claimed he had been discharged, but whom Percival suspected was a deserter, slipped out and did not reappear. Percival seated Peters next to himself at a place of honour and saw that the American noticed one of the waitresses, an outgoing métisse girl.
The first course was squabs stuffed with cave swallows’ nests. Glasses of champagne were raised with loud proclamations congratulating Percival on all he had done to make the school a success, and lengthy rambling about the privilege of working at the best English school in Vietnam. With the doubling of tuition, Percival had recently increased their salaries twenty-five percent. In response to teacher’s toasts, Percival praised the quality of their English instruction. There was no sign of Mak or Han Bai.
Nex
t came scallops in a cognac reduction, alongside braised and truffled lobsters. Another round of toasts began, with the teachers praising Peters and the headmaster on their fine example of cooperation between yellow and white in the service of freedom and democracy. “Hear hear!” yelled Cecilia’s naval officer. New bottles of champagne were popped, poured, and drained. Police Chief Mei gorged himself, as usual. By the time they were finished the dainty courses of shark’s fin soup and braised goose, almost everyone at the gathering was slurring their words.
There would be another six dishes to follow, plus rice and noodles, enough time for Han Bai to find Mak before the last course. Percival had the Rolex in a gift box under a napkin before him. The servers brought giant abalones with fragrant mushrooms and freshly picked jasmine flowers. The household staff and the teachers began to shower each other in accolades, glasses hoisted unsteadily, clinked, refilled. The popping of champagne corks mingled with the explosion of fireworks outside in the square.
When the champagne was done, the servers opened cognac. Peters proclaimed drunkenly, “Sun neen fai lok!” Happy New Year, and Percival grinned broadly, slapped him on the back, and looked around for Mak. The maître d’hotel ensured that the American’s snifter was never empty as Percival had asked. Noticing the direction of the young man’s gaze, the maître d’hotel waved the métisse waitress over to sit and chat. She did not protest as Peters pulled her onto his lap.
One of the locally hired junior teachers stood, tilted slightly to one side, then caught a chair in his hand and managed to remain upright. “I would like to say thank you to the American army,” he said in English. “You have come to do brave battle against small yellow people, and to make the English language a success. Therefore, you help us become rich! Thank you, America! ”
Percival winced, but the foreign teachers roared with laughter and Peters was preoccupied making use of his laborious Vietnamese with the waitress who giggled on his lap. She swatted his hand away from her thigh, but accepted the cognac glass that he pressed into her hand.
The same drunk teacher raised another toast, “To young love!” At first, Percival thought to wave him down, assuming he was toasting Peters. The American must not be humiliated, thought Percival, suddenly annoyed. Then he realized the teacher was toasting the hou jeung. “To the headmaster, whose heart and love is young!” The other teachers pulled the drunk one down into his seat, and yelled the standard toasts to the headmaster—great fortune, every success, gratitude for his leadership. Reflexively, Percival stood, raised his glass, spread out his best smile, and said, “Everyone, bottoms up!” Even if his relationship with Jacqueline had become known, he must ignore such an inappropriate toast. Thankfully Peters, toying with the wrist of the girl on his lap, had not taken notice.
Where was Mak? Percival poured cognac into his teacup, emptied it in a single swallow, and reached for the bottle again to douse his frustration. Had his old friend bowed out tonight to avoid Percival’s efforts to mend their friendship? The cognac bottle was empty, and Percival signalled for another. The alcohol hollowed him out, but offered no relief.
It was past midnight by the time they had eaten the giant chilled crabs, the raw fish salad, and the kuay teow terng soup of egg noodles containing eight meats and seafoods. The servers were bringing poached groupers each as long as a forearm, steaming in sauce, to each table when Sheng Hing came to the headmaster and said, “Hou jeung, fighting has broken out. I must send my staff home.”
“Come on, there’s no need for such stories. I’m sorry we’ve kept you so late. I know they want to go home to celebrate with their families. I’ll pay for the staff’s trouble, but let me save face and finish the banquet.”
“No, I’m sorry, hou jeung, there really is fighting. Listen to the noise.” The chef swam before Percival’s cognac eyes. Outside, there was a burst of explosions.
“Haven’t you ever heard firecrackers? You know I give a good tip,” said Percival. “Have you seen Mak?”
“Who?”
“My friend. The one who runs this school,” he said with the relief of truth-telling that came with drink. “This banquet is to honour him. It cannot end until we toast him.”
“I’m serious, no stories. There has been an attack by the Viet Cong.”
“Silly—there is a ceasefire. The Viet Cong are celebrating the New Year.”
“Yes, I heard about that on the radio. But they have violated the ceasefire, they have attacked.”
Percival focused on the noise from outside. It was remarkable, he thought, that a string of fireworks could sound so much like a machine gun.
Percival struggled to his feet, the effort reminding him of his inebriation. “The evening cannot end until I toast Mak.”
“Then toast him now, hou jeung. This night has become dangerous.”
“He is on his way. My driver has gone to fetch him. He will be here shortly.”
“Hou jeung, he will not come on a night like this.” There were several louder explosions outside. “Everyone should go home. Can’t you hear? ”
Percival laughed. “Can I hear those fireworks? Those big sounds must be the colourful ones.” He wavered, steadied himself on the table. He had drunk enough that he should plan before moving.
“No, hou jeung,” said the chef. There was a single, tremendous blast that shook the room, and the the room’s attention shifted, guests looking around, tense questions amidst the laughter. Some were too drunk to notice. The waitress slapped Peters, but playfully, as his hand slid between her knees.
Percival said, “Sheng Hing, master chef, you are so serious. You need a drink.” He poured another glass, put his arm over the chef’s shoulders and sighed. “You know this country. Blood falls in predictable torrents like the monsoon rains. Again and again it drowns everything, and then is swallowed by the earth. You are a chef. Tell me, the food that is grown here is so tasty—do you think it is the blood that makes the earth so full of flavour?” But before Sheng Hing could answer, a rocket-propelled grenade whined somewhere nearby, followed by the crack of the explosion. Close, that one. A waitress screamed. Cecilia stood, regally, and pulled her scarf around herself in leisurely preparation to go. She seemed to have forgotten her naval officer, who sat ashen, gripping the table. Still, many guests continued to laugh and drink.
Percival slowly, deliberately, hoisted his glass and proclaimed a toast. “To Mr. Peters and to Mr. Mak, who will be arriving soon,” he exclaimed.
The room shouted in answer to his toast. He gestured to the waiters, who rushed to splash cognac into snifters, and called out, “Bottoms up!”
Sheng Hing stood behind Percival, whispering that his staff were panicking and wanted to leave. Still to come were the fried rice and braised noodles, Percival pointed out to the chef. Didn’t he want to be paid in full? As Percival moved through his slow, simple, alcoholic thoughts, one word after another placed itself before him. “Well. You must feed the guests. Do you think I can send people out hungry? If they are to be killed? What kind of host would have guests die with empty stomachs?”
At a flustered word from Sheng Hing, the servers scurried around with bowls and serving dishes. Cecilia sat down. She would not be less brave than a bunch of waiters. Even drunk, Percival knew her.
For the last courses, which were usually very plain, Percival had arranged that they be made more special with the addition of fresh, sweet prawns, which were brought live and wriggling in bowls to be cooked at the side of the table. They had just been scooped from the water. Dai Jai’s fish tanks had served as the temporary holding tanks that afternoon.
Now the servers wheeled in the carts, upon which perched bowls of the quivering translucent creatures and burners with their pots of oil and broth. As each guest preferred, the shrimp were either deep-fried or dunked into boiling water. The hissing and popping of the dying shrimp competed with the sound of gunfire from outside. Glasses clinked, and again Percival called out a toast, another bottoms-up. He was feeling good, now
that he had finally passed through the dark place of drink and reached the warm, floating place. Words and sounds drifted selectively, he ignored the fearful voices, pulled up the silk sheet of laughter.
But it was during this last course that one of the houseboys rushed over to Percival, saying, “Hou jeung, your friend is here, at the kitchen entrance.”
“Send him in!” Percival turned to Peters. “Mr. Peters,” he said, “our good friend Mak is here.”
“No, it is not Teacher Mak. It is a student,” said the houseboy.
“Not now,” said Percival, irritated that it was not Mak. What student would have the gall to interrupt the teachers’ banquet? He delicately manipulated a shrimp, turned it with chopsticks to peel the creature with his teeth, then spat the empty shell onto the tablecloth.
“But hou jeung, she is going to have a baby.”
Percival stood up too quickly, wavered at the side of the table. The birth shouldn’t be for another month. Why was Jacqueline here?
“She asked me to fetch you,” said the boy. “She says that she is going to push out the baby tonight.”
“What do you know?” Percival began to weave his way across the room, concentrated on putting one foot before the other. He was both worried for Jacqueline and afraid she would make an appearance at his banquet. He had to steady himself against the wall, moving slowly. “Take her up to Dai Jai’s room. Tell her I will come soon.”
“Also, hou jeung,” said the boy, “the war has arrived. It is outside in the square.”
The boy dashed away.
There was the forlorn cry of a soldier in agony, and then an ear-splitting explosion. The voice was silenced. Peters caught up with Percival halfway across the room, and said, his words slurred, “Do you Chinese have fireworks that sound like artillery? Sounds like a barrage out there. Can we get a look at what’s happening outside?”
“Let’s go see,” said Percival as if it was the first mention that had been made of the fighting. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and made his way to the staircase.