by Vincent Lam
One day, after hanging up with Mak, Percival said to Jacqueline, who was engrossed in that day’s Saigon Post, “Once I have resolved this problem … if it is possible, I will obtain four exit visas.”
Jacqueline nodded without a word, and continued reading.
When he went out for an afternoon at the racetrack, Percival saw that the road from Tan Son Nhut was still thick with American military vehicles, though there were more staff cars and Jeeps than troop buses. Percival was much relieved that although American boots had been removed from the mud and the jungles, many officers remained in the air-conditioned offices of Saigon. His business must continue. How much money would he need to bring Dai Jai out from China? When a new semester came, he spent several days counting the carefully stacked piastres in the school safe. There were nearly sixteen million, a fortune. It would be enough.
By the end of 1973, Percival could not bear to return to Chen Hap Sing at all. Dai Jai’s letters had stopped, which terrified Percival. He dreaded walking past Dai Jai’s room or going to the balcony and seeing the dry fish tanks. Every month or two, Cecilia called from Hong Kong. As Mak had predicted, she could not find a snakehead whose contacts extended into the Chinese political re-education camps. She continued to try desperately, but the family gwan hai she had counted on had faded along with their shipping business.
She would mock Percival for relying on Mak. He would ask sarcastically about her connections. She would ask Percival if he knew at all what Mak was really up to. Percival would say that he didn’t care, for Mak always helped them. Where, by the way, were her American friends these days? he would ask. The conversation would go on like this until one of them hung up. Percival tried to ignore the news, but in the end turned on the radio, drawn despite himself to the world’s events, hoping they would give him some clue about Dai Jai.
Late one morning, when Laing Jai was at school and Jacqueline had gone by herself to the Cercle, the phone rang. Mak said, “Percival? Can you come with me to a meeting today?”
“Of course.”
“Right away, right now.”
“Is it what I am hoping for? ”
The phone line was silent for a moment. Then, “Hou jeung, you said that you would pay any price to get your son back?”
“Anything.”
“Then come to the school. Bring the letter.”
On the way to Cholon, Percival nearly collided with an ox cart in his rush. Mak was waiting outside the school. Percival jumped out of the car and ran to his friend, leaving the car door open. “You can get Dai Jai?”
“It can be done. It was very tricky to arrange. It will cost you.”
Percival clapped Mak on the shoulders. “Thank you, brother. I knew I could count on you.”
“I’ll drive,” Mak said. “I know the way.”
“Of course.” The teacher got behind the wheel of the Mercedes and Percival took the passenger seat. He saw that Mak had a bulging leather document case with him. It must be full of bribe money. Mak put the car in gear and guided it slowly down the street.
“Are we meeting someone in Saigon? ”
“No. We must leave the city.”
As they drove past St. Francis Xavier, Percival saw a small group of monks begging on the pink stone steps. He did not see the one-eyed monk amongst them.
“Who have you found to help Dai Jai?”
“Friends. Old friends. I warn you, this will not be an easy meeting, hou jeung.”
“As long as these friends bring Dai Jai home safely.” The hollow clang of the monks’ iron bowls lingered like a scent as the car drove past.
“Do you remember when I first came to Cholon?”
“During the Japanese occupation,” said Percival. “I had only arrived recently, myself.”
“You remember the family of chicken hatchers—the two girls?” Mak did not take his eyes from the road. Strange, Mak rarely spoke of the past.
“How could I forget?” said Percival, and shivered at the memory.
“When I asked you for rice husks and ran up to your balcony, you didn’t know what I was doing, did you?” Mak’s hands gripped the wheel, the skin on the knuckles blanched.
“No.”
“It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?”
“The cavalry officer deserved to die,” said Percival. “It was just.”
“But until it was done, I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t risk you stopping me.” As traffic slowed, Mak’s eyes darted to Percival. “Certain things, once set in motion, must run their course. As I’m sure you know, I have always left some of my activities unspoken.”
“Everyone has their private affairs,” said Percival.
“At various times, I thought to tell you more—but frankly, I worried about your drinking and carousing, whether secrets were safe with you. Then, over the years, it became both more complicated and more risky for me to be open. It was better to be discreet, for both of us. In any case, you understand a great deal without saying so. Don’t you?”
Percival looked at his friend. “You talk as if you are apologizing, but it’s not necessary. Of course you’ve been making your own gains through the school, as you should.”
“I have been, and it was better for us not to discuss it.”
“Old friend, I hope that the school has provided everything you wanted from it.”
“Then you know why the school is so important for me.”
“The contacts are profitable, aren’t they? You can sell pleasures to the Americans, help people obtain licences, get permits, or just sell your gwan hai. You have your money deposited overseas, I suppose? You are certainly discreet about it.” Percival laughed. “You are probably richer than I am, and everyone thinks you are just a humble teacher. However you’re doing it, I hope you’re milking the Americans for as much as you can. One day they’ll go and they’ll take their money with them. But you know that.”
“I thought you knew more.” Mak glanced questioningly at Percival. “Look, if we are to bring Dai Jai back, you will need to understand what I have kept from you.”
“What does this have to do with Dai Jai?”
“Sometimes, friend, the end justifies the means. Remember that.”
There was honking, a shout. The light had turned green. Mak turned his attention back to the road, and began to drive.
“You speak in riddles. Tell me the price, and I will pay.”
“You haven’t spoken to anyone in Saigon about Dai Jai’s last letter, have you?” Mak slowed to let a motor-cyclo dart in front of them.
Percival thought of Jacqueline, of the quiet comfort he felt that she had read the letter and shed tears for him, but that didn’t concern Mak. “No one knows,” he said.
“Then I’m sure this meeting will … achieve the desired result.” Mak drove with his eyes fixed ahead now, through Saigon, and then west past the airport. The two men did not speak. On the outskirts of the city, Mak turned off the main road and down a narrow lane into a scrapyard—a vast sprawl of Jeep carcasses, shards of broken aircraft, and gigantic mounds of spent artillery shell casings. He put the car in neutral, delicately engaged the parking brake, and looked around. The engine was still running.
It was a strange place to stop. There was no one else nearby. Mak took the small valise from the door pocket and fiddled with the zipper.
“It is the red packet? So, you have fixed a price.”
“I have. It is not a money price.” Mak reached into the valise and retrieved something. When Percival saw what it was, he wondered for an instant if this was another dream. Mak held the pistol awkwardly with two hands, one over the other, as if each ensured that the other would not waver, and pointed it at Percival. No, this was real.
“Old friend,” said Mak, “get into the trunk of the car.”
“Mak?”
“The trunk. Forgive me, hou jeung, but this is the only way. Now that we have arranged this meeting, I am under strict orders. If you do not cooperate, my commanding off
icer has told me to shoot you.”
“Your commanding officer? What are you … Mak, what are you talking about? Why should you shoot me?” Percival heard his own voice rise into a nervous laugh. He studied Mak as if he expected him to erupt into laughter at this strange joke as well.
Mak lowered his voice. “You’ve met my superior before, though you did not know it. Look, I told you this would cost you more than you imagined. Do you want to get Dai Jai back?”
“Yes.”
“Then we must go to a meeting. A special meeting. To discuss the situation. You must get in the trunk.”
Mak kept the gun on Percival. He took his right hand off, and the pistol began to shake. With his free hand, Mak turned off the engine, removed the car key, and slipped it into his pocket. He opened his door. He got out of the car and went around to the trunk. Percival heard him press the latch and the trunk sprang open with a creak. Then Mak came to the passenger door. He opened it swiftly, pointing the gun at Percival, waved it to urge him out. “I’m sorry, old friend.” Percival stepped out. He stood next to his Mercedes, dwarfed by twisted hunks of war waste. There was an acrid smell—of burning tires—somewhere in the heap. Percival walked to the open trunk as if someone else was moving his legs for him. He stared into it, an abyss. “I don’t understand … but if you are under orders … who?”
“Hou jeung, old friend, soon it will all be clear,” Mak said. “I thought you knew more, that we both chose not to speak about it. That doesn’t really change anything today. You will be told everything you need to know. I’m sorry it had to be like this. Give me the letter.”
“No,” said Percival numbly.
“He wants to see it—my commander, who will help you.”
“I will keep this one true letter from my son.” He pressed his hands over his pocket.
Mak’s tone softened. “Alright. You hold Dai Jai’s letter, but you must give it to my superior when he asks for it.”
Percival steadied himself with his hands on the edge of the trunk, dizzy. When Mak was determined to do something, there was no dissuading him. If he did not do as Mak asked, would he push him in, or would he shoot him? Was it possible? Percival could not think of any course of action except to comply. He found himself climbing into the stale stench of oil and gasoline, lying on his side with his knees slightly bent. Here he was, somehow, in the trunk of his car.
Mak spoke with regret. “I’m sorry, hou jeung. Keep your arms over your head. In case the road is rough.” He closed the trunk delicately, then pushed on the lid to make sure it was latched. Percival heard Mak walk away. The trunk was instantly hot, midday heat intensified within the small metal compartment. The temperature increased with each breath that Percival took, and the air burned his nostrils. He felt the need to gulp air, even as it stifled him, and struggled both to breathe and to understand. He called out to Mak that it was too hot, that he would suffocate. He began to bang on the trunk. He yelled that they were old friends, brothers. There was no reply. Better to lie still, for moving made him even hotter.
Some long minutes passed. Percival heard footsteps approach. Then another voice. “The teacher is inside, Comrade Mak?”
“Yes, sir … I’ve done as you asked.”
There was a sharp rapping on the trunk. “Hou jeung, Chen Pie Sou, Percival Chen?”
“Who is it?” Percival asked.
“I’m asking the questions, not you!” came the mocking reply. “Why are you here?”
“To bring my son home from China.”
“But China is his home, isn’t it?” called the voice.
“I want to bring him back to Vietnam.”
“Who has sent you?” the voice barked.
“Mr. Mak.”
“Mr. Mak does what I tell him to. But who sent you to expose Mak?” Now Percival placed the voice, and with a feeling of sick dread realized it was Cho giving orders to Mak. Who was Cho? Percival had thought he was a South Vietnamese prison torturer.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Percival.
Footsteps went around to the driver’s side of the car.
“Get in, Comrade Mak,” ordered Cho.
“Yes, sir.”
There was a slight shift in the car as the seats were occupied and then the slam of doors. The engine started, the transmission was engaged, and there was a roar as the gas pedal was pressed. The clutch was let out and the car lurched ahead. Percival rolled over and his head struck metal. The car bounced and jolted, and the engine yelled full and loud. The brakes squealed, and he slammed into the back of the trunk. His ribs ached from the force of the blow. He heard the slow crunching of tires on stones as the car turned. Again, the car hurtled forward, over rough ground, throttle wide open, until the brakes shrieked and Percival was thrown once more. He remembered that Mak had recommended he keep his arms over his head.
Now Cho called out. “Is the driving acceptable, or do you need a new chauffeur? I mourned Han Bai’s death as you did, because he helped me to keep very close watch on you. Fortunately, Mak has kept you reasonably well-behaved. Until now.”
What was that supposed to mean, that Mak kept him well behaved? That Han Bai kept watch? “I am the school headmaster!” Percival yelled. Cho laughed in reply. The car accelerated once more, and Percival tried to brace himself, to hold on to something, but found nothing to grip. Had it been a facade? he was now forced to ask himself. Whatever side they were on, had Mak been in charge of the school—with Cho in charge of Mak? The car’s screeching halt threw him forward. His head struck the wheel well, a violent blow, and Percival felt the world fade into blackness, thinking gratefully that he had managed to keep the letter with him, a good luck charm.
WHEN PERCIVAL WOKE, HE WAS WET, and his body ached. He stank of sweat, oil, filth. He felt water thrown into his face, and sputtered. How long had it been, how far had they driven? He was hungry. Hours, then? He was seated in a chair. Water dripped from his ears, his chin, and the tip of his nose. It was dark. His head pounded, and there was a foul smell—of something rotting, of bodily waste. Another jarring splash of water. He cried out, and heard a satisfied grunt in reply.
“Hello!” called Cho. “Are you awake, Headmaster?”
Percival tried to raise his hands to wipe the water from his eyes. His arms did not move. Ropes secured his wrists. His fingers were numb from the bonds. He tried to move his legs. They were also tied in place. A little light—the spitting yellow glow of a gas lantern that hissed on the table. Percival’s vision was blurred by the water in his eyes, and the light shifted as Cho stood in front of it. Then there was a movement in the gloom as Cho turned and swung a bucket, smashed it into the side of Percival’s head. The hollow tin sound rang out and amplified his pain. “There,” said Cho. “I have woken him up, Comrade Mak. Perform your duty.” The bucket dropped with a clang. Cho turned to the table. Percival saw him pick up chopsticks and prod at something. He saw the blue flicker of a flame. He heard a sizzle, and now could make out a little gas hot plate and a pan—the scent of fried dumplings and a vinegar sauce.
“Sir, here is the letter,” Mak said. “You wished to see it, didn’t you?” Mak spread Dai Jai’s letter open on the table in the lamp’s dim circle of light and waved his boss over to see it. “It is genuine. You can tell.” Percival struggled against the ropes again, and realized that only now was he angry at Mak—for this, for taking Dai Jai’s letter from him.
Cho read Dai Jai’s account out loud in a high falsetto, through the food he was eating. Then he said, “What would the little brat expect?” Percival tried to blink the wetness out of his eyes, tears now flowed along with water. Cho continued, “Still, it could be a fake, a trick by some clever American agent who suspects the school.” He turned around holding a small bowl heaped with food and shovelled it up to his mouth. “Go ahead now, Mak. I wouldn’t want to think you were delaying your duties.”
“Yes, sir.” With that, Mak picked up something from the table, a pair of gloves. H
e pulled them on, spread and flexed his fingers into the tight-fitting brown leather, and drew back a fist. For the second time that day, Percival thought that this could not be real, that he must be suffering within a nightmare which stubbornly refused to end. He thought this only for a moment, an instant of confused detachment, until Mak punched Percival deep in the pit of his stomach. Percival heard himself groan, head forward, tears flowing. It was no dream.
Cho came close to Percival. “Crying already. Weaker than I thought.”
Percival struggled to speak through his pain and nausea. “I remember you, Cho. The last time I saw you, you wore a green eyeshade. You looked like an idiot, and played like one. Such bad luck, too. I notice you’ve cut your fingernail.”
“Ha! That’s it, show some spirit! How is your luck today? It’s Mr. Cho, to you. What are you waiting for, Comrade Mak?”
Cho used the word comrade; he was afraid of being tricked by the Americans. So, he was not a simple prison torturer at the National Police Headquarters. Again, Percival saw Mak raise his fist, and then it came—another punch deep in the gut. Though the violence was administered as if it were rote, the force was real. Cho gestured for Mak to continue, and he did. As the beating went on, Percival could not keep himself from allowing a sob. He could have taken the blows quietly, but the tears came from it being Mak’s fists. The ropes kept Percival from doubling over, but he hung his head down. Snakes coiled up within him, the sick feeling of betrayal. The force of these fists was consistent, hard, just as breathtaking each time. Percival thought of Mak’s hands, always perfectly groomed. The gloves were well worn, as snug as a second skin. Once again, Mak struck his friend, and Percival wondered if he saw sadness on Mak’s face.