The Shadow of Arms

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  Pham Quyen was also familiar with more concrete and dispassionate expressions of the same sentiments. A certain advisor to the US president once put it plainly: “Plans for foreign aid are drawn up to dispense a variety of loans and grants: some donations are to provide recognition to foreign leaders, some are plans hastily hatched to counter and hinder Soviet aid, and others are to fund ventures to enhance the power of ruling governments.”

  While Butler was delivering his speech, Major Pham Quyen filtered the appropriate Vietnamese words out from the English streaming through his head, and in the process he could hear the distinct echo of other voices murmuring:

  “Foreign aid from the United States is categorized according to the following goals and consequences: to implement America’s military and political policies in the international arena; to uphold an open-door trade policy, in other words, to obtain free access to natural resources and trading markets, and to furnish investment opportunities for American companies; to support those American companies in search of trade and investment options to obtain immediate economic returns; to ensure that economic development of underdeveloped countries is firmly grounded in capitalistic processes; to make the recipient countries gradually more dependent on the United States and other capitalist markets; and to allow the debts incurred through extension of long-term loans to forge permanently binding chains of trade between the recipient countries and the capitalist markets of the core creditor nations.”

  Presently the speech by the governor, General Liam, began. Major Pham Quyen had written it himself. There was not a single mention in the speech of the administrative measures that would have to be introduced in dealings between the villagers and the provincial government. It was better to avoid any detailed discussion of financial support for the farmers, the new facilities to be constructed, the amount of cement to be supplied, and especially of the rice rations or money wages to be paid before the harvest. Not a word was said about the resettlement allowances, the land allotments, or the promised grants of pigs, cattle, and fertilizer. The speech consisted mainly of high-flown talk about the notion of peace, and a call for the villagers to exhibit diligence and a cooperative attitude. As General Liam concluded the speech, Major Pham Quyen cued the villagers to clap and there was a big round of applause.

  To the sound of the brass band, the general, the American AID representative, the mayor of Hoi An, and the division commander all marched over to the ceremonial ribbon hanging at the gate on the main street of the hamlet. The ribbon was made of white nylon fabric. Some young girls brought out a shiny new pair of scissors on a cloth-covered tray and held it out to the four dignitaries. Cameras flashed as the ribbon was cut.

  With General Liam and Butler side-by-side and a long line of people in tow, the group marched along past the new houses. Pham Quyen and the lieutenant in charge of security walked directly behind General Liam. The general halted in front of a house located in the center of the hamlet, opened the door and looked inside. As in a traditional Vietnamese residence, the structure was built as a single room, just four walls and a ceiling. Partitions made of bamboo and reeds were placed along the walls of the wide hall, and the area in the center was used for eating and drinking tea. Given the layout of the house, a young couple had to get a strong and sturdy bed so that the creaking sound of their lovemaking would not disturb the others in the family. The interior of this house had a concrete floor, but the walls were whitewashed and partitions were set up. There was a back door and, beside it, a kitchen.

  “Wonderful,” said General Liam.

  Mr. Butler looked into a partitioned space that seemed to be a bedroom. There was no door, but a curtain or bamboo screen would probably be hung at the entrance. Mr. Butler looked back at Major Pham Quyen.

  “When the next generation is born in this room, Vietnam will be sure to regain eternal peace.”

  Pham Quyen quickly responded with a smile.

  “Of course, sir. They’ll be phoenix babies, so to speak.”

  “What is that?”

  With a look of curiosity, Mr. Butler pointed to a hole that had been dug out in the middle of the yard.

  “Ah, I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.”

  Pham Quyen turned around to ask one of the entourage from the provincial administration, a civilian, who hurried over to question the villagers. He then rushed back to Pham Quyen in a fluster.

  “It wasn’t in the plans, sir. They say it’s a bomb shelter.”

  “Who dug it?”

  “Well, looks like each resident already fixed up his house somewhat. There’s even one with a Buddhist altar already installed.”

  “Who gave them permission to make changes even before moving in?”

  Pham Quyen said no more and turned back to Mr. Butler who was waiting for an answer with a curious look on his face.

  “I understand it’s a start on a pigpen they plan to construct after they receive their allotment of cement.”

  “Oh, that’s a very good idea. There’ll be plenty of breeding pigs and sheep brought in from abroad.”

  As Pham Quyen turned away from Butler, his expression went vacant again. The parade passed the community laundry, equipped with tubs and faucets and underneath a huge water tank. Then they arrived in front of the public toilet, located in a concrete block building painted white. There were no flush toilets, but the cesspool had been dug deep enough that the excrement could accumulate several months before they would have to scoop it out with buckets. There were separate entrances for men and women with “Knock” written on the plywood doors. The ceramic toilets were a sparkling white against the cement floors.

  Pham Quyen knew that the villagers would never use these facilities. They would want to grow small vegetable gardens behind their houses. Anybody who had a spade would go out back, dig a shallow hole, and deposit their waste in the earth. It was like repaying the earth for giving them food to eat. They would carefully refill the hole and stamp it down with their bare feet. The earth would become rich and when the monsoons came, everything would grow abundantly in the fertilized soil. If something was out of place in this phoenix hamlet, it was this bright white public toilet building standing at its center.

  The line of people came to the children’s playground next. The local VIPs and the entourage from the provincial government were busily herding the children into the playground. Seesaws and swings, slides and monkey bars had been erected in the yard. Looking uncertain, the children reluctantly approached the play apparatus. The bigger children tried the swings, and one by one the other children started getting on the seesaws and the slides.

  “The children from now on will begin to learn the value of peace in this hamlet of An Diem.”

  Butler grinned widely as he spoke to General Liam, who responded in a single sentence.

  “There’s no other playground like this one, not even in Saigon.”

  Pham Quyen, however, did not fail to notice that the children romping on the monkey bars were pretending to shoot at one another, pretending their fingers were pistols. In loud voices they mimicked gunshots and one of them fell to the ground, pretending to be shot and dying. The adults lingered before the playground for quite a while, proud of the feat they had accomplished. Someone found a one-legged child wearing a prosthesis imported from Hong Kong. The reporters clamored about as they put the handicapped child on a swing and pulled it way back before releasing it. The cameramen were squatting, wriggling, and changing positions to try and make the most of this touching moment. It would make a very fitting picture, especially for those Americans who fell head over heels for war orphans, children in hospitals, children asleep on the back of refugees, children in unfortunate circumstances of any kind.

  The procession moved on past the two-room schoolhouse and then filed past the village assembly hall, then returned to the ceremonial platform in the middle of the hamlet. Then they got into their cars and
departed, leaving behind the music from the brass band, the squeals from the schoolgirls, and the applause from the villagers. The governor would never be setting foot in this place again. This time Major Pham Quyen planned to accompany the general back to Da Nang. Tonight the governor was giving a dinner party at his official residence. As he walked toward the helicopter, one of the entourage called out to him from behind, “Major, we have someone who’d like to have a word with you.”

  When Pham Quyen looked back, he saw an old man who had been sitting on the platform amidst the village notables.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, sir, I . . . we haven’t received even half of our wages yet.”

  It had been arranged for the villagers, while building the An Diem hamlet, to receive one-third of their wages in American surplus wheat and the rest in rice or cash. Pham Quyen scowled at the old man.

  “Didn’t you get the flour? The cost of milling wasn’t deducted. The rest will be included in the resettlement funds.”

  Having so spoken, Pham Quyen took out his notebook from the pocket of his uniform jacket. He pressed down firmly with the ballpoint pen, pretending to write, and asked the old man, “What is your name and your house number?”

  The old man hesitated.

  “Sir . . . well, I . . . I only . . . I only . . . the villagers.”

  The member of the entourage hurriedly intervened.

  “Sir, he is one of the village representatives. I have all the necessary information, sir.”

  Pham Quyen saw the propeller of the helicopter begin to rotate and he quickly put away his notebook.

  “All right. Submit a written request directly to the authorities.”

  He boarded the helicopter. As they took off, An Diem looked like a border of pebbles on the edge of a flower garden.

  The general glanced over at the major and said, “So there’ll be ten more villages like that?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. This one was a model. If the plans are successfully implemented, we have an agreement with AID to set up phoenix hamlets at three hundred sites.”

  The general nodded, then gave a subtle warning. “Show continued attention to the An Diem village, but no need to hurry things.”

  “Yes, sir. It is the model, I understand.”

  A continuous sound of gunfire came from somewhere. It seemed the guard patrol had discovered enemy troops down the bank of the Thu Bon. The gunships were cruising at a low altitude and looking down upon the jungle. Pham Quyen’s mind was busy at work. Until the other phoenix hamlets were fully settled, they’d have to post to An Diem a defense contingent at least the size of a battalion.

  12

  The light flickered. A moth, having wandered in unawares, kept batting against the covered light fixture in the milky white bathroom, its wings shuddering. Hae Jong was in the bathtub, her legs crossed and propped up straight along the tiled wall. Steam was wafting out through the open window. The mosquito net was torn; the moth must have come in through the hole. The huge shadow of the moth moved across the wall then stopped, looking like the root of a giant tree. The water was lukewarm.

  Hae Jong looked down disinterestedly at her legs and pubis. Her breasts rose and fell slowly with the rhythm of her breathing, breaking the calm surface of the water. The sound of music on the radio came in through the cracked door to the next room. A swaying, soulful Supremes song gave way to the music of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Hae Jong understood their loneliness.

  How to imagine the American Dream without suffering its melancholy? They sing of a corner booth in an all-night bar, headlights whizzing over the horizon, a cattle car of a freight train rolling endlessly over red dirt, the drunkard in a back alley at dawn, old folks sitting on a park bench in a small town, a young boy lounging in front of a juke box, a city park enveloped in smog, a rainy November highway, all this in their song of loneliness. The Americans are still kids. Kids who belong in Sunday school. There they learn of the whites, of power, of rules and responsibilities.

  Lennon sings: “All the lonely people, where do they all come from?”

  McCartney sings: “All the lonely people, where do they all come from?”

  Hae Jong scooped up some water and poured it over her breasts. She leaned her head back into the tub, dipping her wet hair into the water. Jerry, Thomas, and James . . . she visualized each of their faces. Jerry was a professional soldier, sweet, short and stout with a very red face. Thomas was tall, with a long chin, dark hair and a dark beard, a real joker.

  Then, there was James . . . Hae Jong remembered their child. They were separated right after the adoption agency placed it with foster parents, so by now it must be growing up as the youngest of some family somewhere in America. James, first lieutenant in the US Army, high school history teacher, Anglo-Saxon, typically middle class, yellow roses on green lawns, low fences painted in bright colors, little brothers in checked shirts, girlfriend named Eileen, tears running through hairy fingers, Uijeongbu, the same US officer’s trench coat she had seen in Waterloo Bridge, the cheap rented house near the base, the harsh cold drafts of February slithering in through the cracks in the window frame . . .

  Hae Jong scooped up some more water and ran her fingers over her face. The light was still flickering. The white paint on the plywood ceiling was peeling off around the edges. A lizard the size of a man’s palm was crawling across it upside down. It stuck tenaciously to the ceiling, gripping with its skinny toes. A long forked tongue flicked in and out from time to time, unwinding to nearly half the length of its body. It stopped for a moment, then scurried toward the light fixture and froze once more.

  The telephone was ringing, but Hae Jong did not even lift her head from the rim of the tub. The lizard crouched, then suddenly extended its neck and its long tongue shot out to whip around the moth. The insect fluttered futilely to try to escape, but was pulled back to the lizard’s mouth where the jaws locked down on its thorax. The telephone kept on ringing, but Hae Jong did not remove her eyes from the lizard. Its throat was distended as if swollen, and in a moment the moth’s wings disappeared into its mouth. The white eyelids of the lizard opened and closed like a chicken’s.

  The telephone stopped ringing. Only then did Hae Jong look over into the other room. On the radio an announcer was crisply enunciating the results of a northern assault. Hae Jong slid her way up out of the tub. Though it was out of her reach, the movement sent the lizard scrambling across the ceiling and after some quick darting leaps it vanished into a crack in the plywood. How well do cold-blooded reptiles adapt to the dark? It would sleep in there a long time, digesting the moth.

  Hae Jong stood before the mirror. A few curly hairs lay in the sink. Her body was firm, still free of any excess fat. The nipples were somewhat dark but upright, and her belly was smooth and flat. As fat Jerry had once said, her skin was “a lighter shade of ivory than a white woman’s.” That high nose and those large, deep-set eyes, for which her Korean classmates in high school had teased her as mixed-blood, were peering back at her from the looking glass. Standing out prominently was the mole she had come to despise. It was a dark blue color. She did not like those eyes, either. Shadows had settled in around them and they had lost the brightness they once had. Of all her features those eyes were what revealed the passage of time. Was it James and the baby that had taken away the gleam in her eyes? Or could it have been the long stretches of sleeping since coming to this place?

  After towel-drying her wet hair, Hae Jong went into the other room. Noticing that the band of sunrays no longer shone in between the shutters, she told herself the sun must have gone down. The bed was still unmade, with the sheets half pulled off and a pillow dangling from the headboard ledge. A radio sitting on the same ledge was now belting out American country songs.

  The apartment was divided into two parts. One was the bedroom with attached bath and the other was the outer space used for a livi
ng room and a kitchen, though the latter was no more than a small sink basin and a kerosene stove. Against the wall was an old couch and there was also a mahogany table with four rickety wicker chairs. An old Westinghouse fan hung from the ceiling. Out through the front door was a broad terrace. A platanus tree had grown right up next to the window, dropping leaves over the curb into Doc Lap Boulevard.

  In the old days Hotel Thanh Thanh had been a luxurious residence for French colonial officials, but these days it was owned by a Chinese and had been turned into a high-class hotel and apartment building. On occasion a foreign prostitute would move in, paying rent in advance for a few months, make money, and then leave. Sometimes employees of Philco or Vinelli roomed there in groups of twos or threes. Half of the place lived up to the name of “hotel” and received visiting guests. Vietnamese hookers were also allowed in if accompanied by a registered guest, most of whom were American officers on business from Saigon, or Vietnamese government officials. The monthly rent was thirty thousand piasters.

  Hae Jong finished drying herself and put on a pair of silk pants, the kind Vietnamese women liked; they were smooth to the touch and did not cling. Then she put on a cotton T-shirt. If she had been planning to go out, she would have selected an outfit from the closet, but the telephone call meant that he would be coming. She splashed some perfume behind her ears and on her neck, then applied a little make-up, some light foundation and lipstick. She made up the bed and switched on the lamp.

  Coming out into the living room, she went over to the stove and put a frying pan on the burner. From the refrigerator she removed an egg and a piece of ham, and cooked them in the pan. With her plate of food and a glass of instant iced tea, she sat down in one of the wicker chairs and had just begun to eat when the telephone rang again. The ring was so loud and startling that her heart fell, and she frowned slightly as she picked up the receiver.