The Headmaster's Wager

by Vincent Lam

  One of the teachers who had been assigned to work at the Revolutionary School snuck up to Percival and Laing Jai’s room one day, when the can bo had gone to Saigon. He did not knock, he simply opened the door and crept in. In the old days, this teacher had been jovial and amply fed. Now, he was nervous and thin.

  “Hou jeung,” he said. It was jarring for Percival to hear himself addressed that way. “I have come to ask you for help.” The teacher glanced uncomfortably at Laing Jai, who was reading a book in the corner. Laing Jai had read all the books several times, but turned to them again and again. It was known in whispers that Percival’s métis son lived in the house, and Percival was unsure whether the teacher was simply discomforted to actually see the boy or that something else bothered him.

  “He will not betray anything,” said Percival. “But he doesn’t speak Teochow, if you want to talk in our old language.”

  The teacher peered out of the door, and then closed it softly. In a near-whisper he said in Teochow, “They will send all of us Chinese away, bit by bit. They are just doing it gradually, so that we don’t resist. It is still possible to leave by boat. One must get to Vung Tau, or Nha Trang, on the coast. I’ve decided—I would rather risk the pirates and sharks than to wait in Cholon to be taken away. The going rate is twenty taels of gold.”

  Percival said, “I’ve heard there are communist soldiers who pose as snakeheads but will arrest you.”

  “One must find the right snakehead,” whispered the teacher. “There have been successful voyages. A student of mine escaped to Thailand and eventually made his way to Australia. I need your help, hou jeung.”

  “But how can I possibly help you?”

  “Lend me the gold.”

  “How can I lend you the gold?”

  “There is a benefit to you. Hear me out. If you lend me the gold, you will know if this snakehead can be trusted. I will take the risk of trying her. If I escape, then you can trust her and escape yourself. Then, I will pay you back double from wherever I end up.”

  “What makes you think I want to escape?” said Percival. He added in a loud voice in Vietnamese, “We treasure the liberated Vietnam, comrade.” He looked towards the door.

  “Hou jeung, I wasn’t sent by the can bo to trap you. But you must be thinking of escape, yes?” The teacher glanced at Laing Jai. “For a boy like him, to be here in Vietnam … there is nothing for him.” Laing Jai had become thin. Percival could see how his clothing hung off him. The cans of fish were long gone. Percival gave the boy more than half of their rice and cabbage, but they both were wasting away. “He cannot stay here like this—they hate the mixed children.”

  Percival knew the pain of this truth, but shrugged as if it did not concern him. “And if you don’t escape? What if you are betrayed and sent to the countryside?”

  “Then, I will not be able to honour my debt. But then, you will not have taken the risk of going with that snakehead. I will have paid you back with my life to spare yours and the boy’s.”

  “That is a fair bargain,” said Percival, rubbing his chin. “You should have been a trader, not a teacher, as you’ve offered me something from nothing.”

  “If I had been a trader, I would be dead already. If you help me, hou jeung, and I succeed in getting out, not only will I pay you back double, in dollars or gold, but I can help coordinate your escape from the outside.”

  “I don’t know,” mumbled Percival. “I have made too many mistakes. Laing Jai is everything to me. I won’t do anything that endangers him.”

  “Staying here endangers him.” Laing Jai was not reading but stared at the book to be polite in the company of adults. Percival was glad they were speaking in a language which Laing Jai did not understand.

  “Old friend, I would help you, but I don’t have any gold.”

  The teacher’s face fell. “But all those years, all that money …”

  “Is gone. Stacks of worthless piastres. The soldiers who live here have used them to start cooking fires.”

  “How can that be? The tuitions were so high. You didn’t put gold aside? Dollars? What about Mak? He was always looking ahead.”

  Even now, an old teacher thought that Mak would have made up for the headmaster’s shortcomings. “That’s the way it is, old friend. If I had the gold, I would lend it to you.”

  “Then I am sorry for bothering you,” said the teacher. “You won’t …” He suddenly looked very worried.

  “Betray you to the can bo? Of course not. But tell me, who is this snakehead?”

  The teacher hesitated, “Mrs. Ling.”

  “The matchmaker?”

  “Some say she is the best smuggler, but that she plays all sides. She provides girls to the highest communist officials in Saigon.”

  “She is well connected.”

  “It may make her an especially good snakehead.”

  “Or she betrays her passengers. But it’s probably better business to get them out.” Percival smiled despite his worries. “Ah, it is always possible to do business, sang yee, isn’t it? Do you have her address? She is an old friend.”

  The teacher gave Percival an address in Saigon. “Really, you swear to me, you don’t have any gold? Mak didn’t put some aside? It’s hard to believe, hou jeung.” Mak had been so careful in every respect but this one. But of course, Mak could not have imagined a need to put aside gold, Percival realized, for he had believed that the Northern victory would bring a new and golden Vietnam.

  “I have nothing. I’m sorry.”

  “Then I had better go before someone sees me here,” he said.

  That afternoon, Percival told Laing Jai that he would be out for a few hours, and began the long walk to Saigon. Mrs. Ling had always been a straightforward business person, Percival told himself. Naturally, she had found ways to make money after the change of power. He went slowly. His leg still pained him if he rushed. The streets and squares were naked and scorching, for the trees had all been cut down for fuel soon after liberation. He had not been to Saigon since then, when he collected Laing Jai at the zoo. What if the teacher had told him something untrue, whether by design or by accident? He needed to be careful. There was no one to look after Laing Jai if Percival was sent to the countryside. Snakeheads were sometimes arrested, though many re-appeared after an arrest. They shed gold to escape in the way some real snakes shed tails. It was said that the political cadres realized it was more profitable to let them go and grow new tails.

  By the time he reached Mrs. Ling’s house, the light of afternoon was softening. The house stood on a quiet, well-proportioned cul-de-sac off Rue Pasteur. Except for the flags of the Provisional Revolutionary Government that had been tacked up over every door, the lane appeared much as it might have during the time of the French; porches obscured by climbing plants, the copper door knockers gone green. Percival lingered outside the address he had been given. The house was overgrown with honeysuckle. Part of the handsome verandah had been occupied by a wire pen within which chickens squawked and pecked. He began to doubt the risk he was taking. Many good houses had been taken over by officers and officials from the North. Could the teacher have been sent by the can bo, to see if Percival had gold hidden away? He looked up and down the street and saw that all the houses had their drapes drawn, even if the shutters were open to allow air. He wasn’t sure if this should make him more comfortable or worried to be standing here.

  There were cooking sounds from inside the house—the hiss of a gas stove, the clank of a utensil. There was the pop and the scent of fritters in oil, there were voices of women. Percival listened carefully for one particular voice. He heard laughing, teasing, splashing water. He stood there for a while, then thought he heard the voice that he was looking for. He waited a bit longer, and then was almost certain he heard Mrs. Ling scold a girl for making a mess of the kitchen. So now she was keeping girls here. She had previously kept them in apartments and hotels. The liberation had changed her way of doing business.

  He came
close, and the chickens made a racket. When he knocked, there was some hushed talk, some giggling over whose turn it was. The door opened, and there was a middle-aged woman in a plain brown pantsuit. She was well groomed, wore precisely applied lipstick, and her hair was cut short in a severe communist fashion. Her eyes darted around before she settled them on Percival.

  “You are still making introductions, Mrs. Ling?” said Percival.

  “Capitalists, communists, men are all endowed with the same organs.”

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “I didn’t recognize you at first—you have become so skinny. Come in.”

  Percival entered the front room and accepted Mrs. Ling’s invitation to sit. She went into the kitchen and then brought him a cup of good oolong tea. It had been so long since he had drunk a sharp, fragrant tea. His stomach grumbled loudly at its taste, and at the scent of frying dough.

  “With all the departures you arranged before liberation, you are still here?” said Percival.

  “I was too greedy,” she sighed. “I was making a fortune, and I didn’t think it would end so fast. I had a ticket to Paris, booked for June. By the end of April, it was all over.” Mrs. Ling looked healthy and vigorous. She ate well, despite everything. “Bad timing. I thought the Southerners would fight harder.”

  “Well, at least you are earning a living.”

  “The girls are still having breakfast, so you will have to wait a little. What do you have to pay with? Gold? Silver? I don’t take paper, you know.”

  “I’m not here for a girl.”

  “Then why have you come to see me?” she said warily.

  “I need your help.”

  “Ah, you want to borrow money.” A teasing look crept over Mrs. Ling’s face. “Haven’t you heard that gambling is one of the Great Evils in the new society, hou jeung? Comrade, I should say.”

  “It’s not that. I have heard that you are still in the departure business, and that you are good at it.”

  Mrs. Ling studied Percival. “You are bold to ask me like this, openly, here in my house. Turning in snakeheads is also good business,” she said.

  “Mrs. Ling, if you are a snakehead, I will pay any price.”

  “These people from the North, they love confessions and betrayals.” Her smile disappeared. “I’m not even sure what you are talking about.”

  “I’m not a Northern informer,” said Percival. “I’ve said enough that you could turn me in, too. All I care about is Laing Jai.”

  Mrs. Ling tapped the arm of her chair. Percival noticed that she no longer wore nail polish as she once had, but her nails were still long, carefully rounded and groomed.

  “The boy is still here? Why didn’t he leave with Jacqueline and Mr. Peters?”

  “She is gone,” he said. Percival noticed that Mrs. Ling did not refer to Laing Jai as his son. “She left Laing Jai with me.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Then I see. You have a serious problem. The new government is unkind to the mixed children.”

  “An understatement. What will it cost to leave?” said Percival. “Do you have a way to arrange a boat escape?”

  “I’m not saying that I do, but it is dangerous, old friend, even with the best snakehead. There are pirates, storms, boats are lost. Many who leave never arrive.”

  “But some boats must be safer than others, right? I will pay any price. The boy means everything to me, I can’t fail him.”

  “What will you pay?”

  “You can have Chen Hap Sing.”

  Mrs. Ling stared for a moment, unable to speak as if from disbelief.

  Percival persisted, “It is the house that my father built. It is strong, and spacious. You could use it for your business, for … anything.”

  Then Mrs. Ling began to laugh out loud, then doubled over, her hands on her legs. Finally, she sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes, waved at Percival to stop. “You don’t have Chen Hap Sing to give me. Your house is now a political school. Are you still oblivious to everything that happens around you, just like in the old days? And why would I want it? If I had a big house like that, I would be the next person sent into the jungle.”

  Of course, Percival had known all this. He felt embarrassed for having offered her Chen Hap Sing, an absurd suggestion. At least she took it as naivety rather than a trick. He said, “Is there a way to escape? I have nothing, but I’ll owe it to you.”

  Mrs. Ling pressed her lips together and looked down at her nails. In the kitchen, her girls were laughing and teasing one another. Finally, Mrs. Ling said without looking up, “I do have an idea. In one week, bring Laing Jai to see me. We’ll see if my idea can work.”

  “Why should I bring Laing Jai?”

  “We are done talking for today. Say nothing to anyone about this. Instead, win my trust.” She stood, and tilted her head towards the door. Percival finished his tea in a gulp, ashamed at his greed for a good cup of tea, and got up. He was about to leave, but he stopped for a moment and said, “Do you remember when you introduced me to Jacqueline?”

  “She is a beautiful girl.”

  “She was.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  Percival said, “Laing Jai was a month early.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Ling. “Did you know?”

  “Hou jeung,” said Mrs. Ling, in the frank way that one old friend could speak to another when there was no business to conduct, “there are only a few reasons why a beautiful girl who is attending a good school comes to me and suddenly wishes to be introduced to a man, saying that she is not picky, she must meet someone as quickly as possible.”

  “A short list of reasons.”

  “Perhaps only one. It may have been some strange fate at work.” Mrs. Ling looked at the door. “I didn’t put it all together, at first, even though she told me that you reminded her of the boy she had lost. One day, I saw Laing Jai at the Cercle Sportif, the image of you. Then I understood what had happened. But all of you were happy, and Dai Jai was in China. It would have been cruel to tell you.”

  Percival nodded, and went out. The light was fading fast. He hurried back to Cholon, struggled with his leg to get back before the curfew. A week later, Percival and Laing Jai slipped out of the house early in the morning and took a long and circuitous route to make sure that they were not followed. When they got to Mrs. Ling’s house, she offered excellent teet goon yum tea for Percival and a cold Fanta with a straw for Laing Jai. His eyes lit up as he took the precious treat in both hands.

  Mrs. Ling regarded Laing Jai. She said, “Do you remember me?”

  “No,” said Laing Jai. Percival cringed. Laing Jai had met Mrs. Ling at the Cercle Sportif, of course, but that was a world away. The boy took a tiny sip of his soda, determined to make it last.

  “Good,” said Mrs. Ling. “It’s better that you don’t remember me from before. I was a friend of your mother’s.”

  “I miss her so much,” said Laing Jai, his face now lit up. “If you are her friend, have you heard from her? Tell her I love her, and I wish she would write from America.”

  “Gwai jai,” said Mrs. Ling, and then pursed her lips. She donned a syrupy smile. “Your English is good, for such a young boy.”

  Laing Jai waited for her to say something more, and when she did not, he looked down. Percival thought Laing Jai might begin to cry, but instead he contained the emotion he was feeling and sipped his Fanta. He gave his attention to the drink, held it with two hands.

  “Do you want cookies?” Mrs. Ling asked. Laing Jai nodded, and Mrs. Ling brought coconut biscuits from the kitchen—a luxury Percival had not even seen in the market since liberation, never mind being able to offer them to Laing Jai.

  Mrs. Ling produced a thick envelope. She shook the contents out on the table. There was a set of American dog tags, photographs, and letters with American stamps.

  “These are some mementoes of Lieutenant Michaels, U.S. Marines helicopter pilot. He had a lover, Pham, and they had a son, Truong. Lieutena
nt Michaels served from ’67 to ’69—two tours, highly decorated. Then he was back and forth between America and Saigon, working for an American bank. Soon after the Paris Peace Accord, he was killed in a car crash in Michigan. So sad, to be killed at home after so many dangerous missions in the jungle. It is doubly sad, for he had planned to bring Pham and Truong to America. He promised to do so, in the letters.”

  She handed a photo to Percival. “This was taken a couple of years ago. This boy certainly could have grown to look like yours.”

  “Yes,” said Percival, as he examined the image. Truong and Laing Jai both showed their foreign blood. Both had slightly wavy chestnut hair and soft, rounded eyes. He leafed through the stack of letters, little bundles of photos, documents in official envelopes. “What is all this for?”

  “I even have love letters that Lieutenant Michaels wrote—very sweet and touching. I bought this, at a high price,” said Mrs. Ling, “from Pham’s parents. She and Truong were killed in the last days of the liberation. These documents will not help them. You see, there are some Americans who do care about their bastard children. They have learned how bad things are for their soldiers’ offspring, how the North Vietnamese beat them to death. So they help their métis, whom they call Amerasians. To make themselves feel better. Children fathered by Americans can leave on airplanes, and so can their mothers.”

  Mrs. Ling pointed out a photo, this with Truong in the arms of a burly American, Pham tiny beside him. “She is pretty, isn’t she? She and I look alike, don’t we?” The girl was younger than Mrs. Ling, but the bones of their faces had a strong resemblance. Mrs. Ling looked younger than she really was, and the war would have aged Pham. It could be pulled off.