The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  They had arrived at their destination.

  When she first saw it, she thought it was a terribly built doghouse. It was about four feet high and five feet long. It was made of irregularly shaped bamboo poles lashed together, with narrow spaces between the poles. There was a tiny bamboo door not much wider than her shoulders. The boy with the submachine gun unhooked the door and pointed.

  “Go,” he said in English.

  Lieutenant Pavlik stood there staring at the cage.

  “House…you,” the boy said, and all three of them laughed together.

  With her hands still tied behind her, they shoved her down and forced her head through the door. She wormed her shoulders through the opening. She rolled on her side.

  “House…you,” the boy said again, and again they laughed.

  She wanted to lay down and cry. Or shout. Or something. But she turned and slid her body around and faced the door. She sat up stiffly against one of the walls. The poles on the bottom of the doghouse were rough, and splinters cut through her clothes and into her flesh.

  Patricia refused to show any pain. But she longed for the relatively spacious hut in Vang’s village. Her new home was not even long enough to lie down in. Or high enough to stand up in. Then she saw it behind her, two narrow banners at the end of the doghouse; words awkwardly penciled. She was surprised to see the English writing. She read the words on the top banner:

  The lower one read:

  The boy with the submachine gun reached in and poked her ribs with the barrel of the rifle until she turned and faced the banners. He motioned for her to sit cross-legged. He shouted when Patricia leaned against the side of the cage again. She was to sit in the middle facing the banners. Her hands were still tied.

  The two other cadre went away. The remaining one, the boy with the submachine gun, stooped at the door. She saw that he was no more than fourteen, but solemn-faced like a seasoned soldier. He stood up then and opened his pants. She scrambled away, thinking he was going to urinate on her. Instead the boy urinated alongside the doghouse. Then he secured the door with a rope and left.

  Patricia surveyed her new circumstances. The cage was open to the weather on four sides. On top, palm and fern leaves had been woven together and stacked for protection against the rain. A canopy of jungle trees shielded the cage from the sight of any aircraft. The rear of the cage butted into the dense jungle wall with no visibility farther than a few feet. She wondered if this was the only cage here.

  The clearing outside was maybe twenty yards square. Her doghouse seemed to be just off a path that continued from the clearing to the crest of a small hill. She could just make out the peak of a thatched hut on the other side of the hill. She guessed it was the outskirts of a village. Another village.

  Now it would be even more difficult to escape. Maybe impossible. She wondered if there were other Americans nearby. Maybe dozens of others out of sight, and the thought immediately buoyed her. Patricia was not alone. She refused to believe that she was. She listened for voices. She heard only the sandaled footsteps of someone approaching. The person stood behind her, by the tiny door.

  “Please you turn,” he said, speaking each word separately, distinctly, and with some difficulty.

  Lieutenant Pavlik was startled by the English words, but it was a relief to hear English, like rippling water. Her hands were still tied. She used her legs to pivot and face him through the bars, looking up. She was surprised by the man’s rounded eyes, his sharp nose, his wavy hair. He looked as much Caucasian as Asian. He must have French blood. The man’s left arm didn’t move correctly. Maybe something from the war. He was dressed like all the others: black pajamas. But his black pajamas were new and clean. He held Patricia’s dog tags.

  “You Pavlik, Patricia A. Serial number one one three eight seven four four one five. Lutheran. B-positive blood. It correct?”

  She said nothing.

  “It correct?” he demanded.

  After a moment she responded. “Yes.”

  “We waiting for you. For you arrival.” He smiled at his English.

  She stared up at him. He was taller than the other Vietnamese, maybe five-foot-ten. He had a receding chin and a perfectly clear olive complexion. A neatly trimmed mustache gave him a polished look that seemed completely out of place in the jungle.

  “I am you liberator,” he said with a smile. “You call me Ông giải phóng. That mean Mr. Liberator. Do you understand? I am Mr. Liberator. Ông giải phóng. I help you go free. Do you understand?”

  She continued to look up at him, aware of the advantage of his position, like a master looking down at its dog. She was frightened. But her mind was working well. He had said something about being free.

  The man crouched down on the side of the doghouse and put his face close to hers on the other side of the bars. “I am you liberator,” he told her again, calmly. “I am you giải phóng. Do you understand? Look at me!”

  She did. He nodded to her. “Do you understand?”

  After a moment she responded in a weak voice—“No.”

  “Say my name? Say it. In you language.”

  She stared. “Mr. Liberator.”

  “Yes, I am you liberator. Now you understand?”

  “No.”

  He moved his face closer. “You try escape again. It no use.” He smiled. “Now you here. I not kill you. I lenient. I very lenient. I good man. But people in village they very much want kill you. We hope you know that. They much enjoy to kill you because of what you do. Do you understand now?”

  “No,” she answered, defiantly.

  “You are criminal!” he screamed.

  That word—criminal—had a physical impact on her body. Her eyes shot toward his. She was suddenly nauseated. But her mind was clear.

  “That why they want kill you,” he continued. “The villagers.” He smiled at her, but it was a version of a smile, his lips twitching upward.

  He stood and raised a hand. “But no!” he said, as if having rehearsed it. “We not let them kill you. We teach you. I am you teacher and liberator. I am you freedom. Ông giải phóng. Mr. Liberator. Together we show villagers that here is one American worth to live.”

  He moved to the front of the doghouse and crouched again as he opened the door and took out a small pocketknife. He reached in behind her and cut the cords around her hands. As her hands were released, her shoulders fell forward. Her whole body ached. She rubbed her wrists. She scratched at the scabs that covered her shoulders, then at her scalp.

  He reached into a bag he had brought. He extracted a single page of handwritten sentences. He handed the page to her. “You read this. You memorize. It our lenient policy. After you memorize, we start.”

  “Start what?”

  He seemed surprised. “You education.” He pointed to the page. “You memorize. Now!”

  He turned and marched away.

  Lieutenant Patricia Pavlik stared after the man. Ông giải phóng. Mr. Liberator. Then she looked down at the page, holding it close to her face. The words were handwritten. The writing seemed blurred. Her head pounded as she worked to focus her eyes, blinking until she could make out the tall letters at the top of the page.

  Her hands were trembling. She worked to steady them.

  It felt good to read English. Familiar. The paper, too, felt familiar in her hands.

  She knew it was a clever mixture of promises and threats, all part of her new “education.” The key points were saved for last.

  Later, the man returned. He had a stick under his arm now, like a British officer. His other arm still hung limp at his side. He saw that the “Lenient Policy” lay on the floor of the doghouse.

  “What my name?” he asked.

  She was silent.

  He poked her through the bars with the stick. “Say! In you language! What my name?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “Mr. Liberator,” she said softly.

  He pointed to the page. “You have memorize?”

 
; “No.”

  “When you speak, you address me as Ông giải phóng! Or, Mr. Liberator. I you liberator. I help. Get you freedom. You understand?”

  She picked up the page and thrust it toward him.

  “You refuse?” he demanded.

  “I already know the lenient policy of the Viet Cong.”

  “Do not call us Viet Cong! We not that! We the National Liberation Front.”

  “You kick me, you punch me. You starve me. Is that your lenient policy?”

  He was surprised by her boldness. He shook his head. “The Front not do those things,” he said. “You safe. With me. With you liberator.”

  “Then give me food.”

  “We not here to make you comfortable. We teach you.” He paused for effect. “And if you die, we here bury you.”

  Patricia stared into his eyes. “Why would I die from your lenient treatment?”

  He laughed. “You alive. That leniency. You refuse to memorize?” He pointed to the page again.

  “I have rights. The Geneva Convention.”

  The man smiled cruelly. He stooped to her eye level and motioned to the jungle around them. “You see Geneva?” He looked around theatrically as if trying to find it. “You see Alps?”

  “Fuck you.”

  He laughed as he stood up again. “I not strike you, see? I you friend. I you liberator. I help you. But if you say that again, I beat.”

  “Is that your lenient policy?”

  He did not answer but paced in front of the doghouse. “You capitalist,” he said. “You taught that way. It not your fault. We want you know truth.”

  “I’m not a capitalist,” she said, her mouth tight with anger. “I am an officer. In the United States Army. Before that I was a student.”

  He leaned down again. “Listen! A worker he build car. For many year he build car. Many car. Many, many car. Then he need car. But the factory owner not give him car. Why? Why?”

  She processed his words.

  “You must answer!” he screamed. “Answer me! Why?”

  “Because they already paid him for his labor.”

  “No! The factory owners they keep money. He cannot buy car. That is what it like in United States.” He leaned even closer. “And you return to United States, but only if you make progress. We release you to you government. But first you must be able tell truth about capitalism and truth about communism.” He smiled. “We not force,” he said, now in a different tone, almost sympathetic. “We teach you. We want you understand.”

  She smiled. “Are the guards here to teach me?”

  “They here for your protection.”

  “Against what?”

  “The villagers. They want kill you.”

  “And the bars,” she gripped them and shook the cage. “Are the bars to keep villagers from attacking me?”

  He leaned closer again and whispered in her face, “Of course.” He smiled. “But our leniency not last forever. The National Liberation Front will deal with anyone who opposes it. We give just punishment.”

  She pulled back the baggy pajama sleeve. Held up her bare arm. “Is starvation your just punishment?”

  “It is for good. If you repent, you have more. You go then, go free. Go home.”

  Home. The word stunned her. She was suddenly bleary-eyed, overwhelmed by the word.

  “But you are criminal!” he exclaimed again and began pacing in front of her, not looking at her but in the air, taking pride in his English and speaking as if there were a hundred students here and not just one. “We ask you to consider you crimes. We lenient. We generous. You alive. We not be generous forever.”

  “I have committed no crimes.”

  “You bomb our cities. Our towns. You use chemicals. You stop our elections—”

  “I’ve done none of those things!”

  “You are American!” he shouted.

  She closed her eyes. She remembered Vang, and the words he had made her repeat. Whatever they meant. A proverb, maybe. An insult, maybe. Perhaps both. She recited them now.

  “Một cây đứng cao cho đến khi nó chết.”

  He was stunned. Then furious. “Who say that to you!”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Who say to you!”

  “No one.”

  “Nothing! It mean nothing!” He straightened. “When you ready to repent of you escape you call for me. You will stay here for the cows. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “The cows. For when they come back. That is how long you stay.” He turned and walked away.

  Lieutenant Pavlik understood now that her escape had been an insult to the Liberation Front. And she understood this man, her giải phóng, her liberator. His stupid pride. His perverted dedication. Could he really believe what he says? Are others watching him too, judging him? Maybe he is in danger also. That idea seemed suddenly ridiculous, but she was happy for the amusement, any amusement. She could not suffer forever. Until the cows come home. She laughed out loud, almost cackling at his words, the cows coming home. She forced herself to stop laughing, afraid that her mind was becoming dazed. Then she allowed herself to laugh again, her body aching as it shook. But she felt good.

  Lieutenant Pavlik sat alone for hours. No one came to give her food or water. She touched her stomach. Then her breasts. She remembered that man, the one who smelled of pork and fish and urine. The man who made loud kissing noises in her ear. And then something else was rising inside her, a fury. At men. At all men.

  But who was she now? Who? Hardly a soldier. Hardly a patriot or even an American. Hardly even a woman. Was she nothing now. A near-naked being. An empty human with nothing to reach for, no patriotism to uphold, no womanhood to defend.

  Words came from somewhere inside her. “The Lord is my shepherd.” She heard them and smiled. They were comforting. “Lo, I am with you always.” In all ways, she thought. But where is He now? She remembered the pastor from when she was a child, telling them to seek God in the little things, even the smallest of things; in the coolest breeze, he had said; the bumblebee, he had said; in the shy smile. God, he had said, is in the faintest flickering of our hopes.

  Maybe God is here too. But maybe this place is too far away for Him. Yes, it is too far away. Or she is too small. In a whisper, she asked God to reveal something, anything. To let her know. She waited, only half hoping, because she knew there would be no answer. It was too much. How could there be some eternal being that knows even when the sparrow falls from the sky?

  She laughed.

  God does not care about pain. The meek will not inherit the earth. There is no afterlife. It is all a lie. It was always a lie. There is no great wisdom. No engulfing love. There is only here. She looked around. Here. Her new order. A world filled with pain. And stench. For without washing, the smell of life is as putrid as the smell of death.

  She winced as she accepted it now. She is the tiniest thing. A speck. God does not fix every little thing. His back is turned. She is here. She is alone. It is only her now. And the thing inside her. She has nothing else at all. Except suffering. And if there is only suffering, then it is better to not live.

  But for now it was enough for Patricia to just close her eyes. Maybe that was all it took to push everything away. To just close her eyes. Yes, that’s all it would take.

  Lieutenant Patricia Pavlik curled into a ball and immediately drifted into a dark and heavy sleep.

  29

  JANUARY 17, 2006

  F STREET N.W.,

  1:05 A.M.

  HOW DID WE GET in the ditch? Does it matter? Yes. So you try to see it as it actually was, separate out the emotion and the sounds. You screen out the chaos, blot out the shouts, the smells. Try to start fresh. What happened? What really happened?

  You begin by sequencing the events. Who really went first? Start there. You’re sifting for facts. Geltz or Colome? Greene or Williams? Who really went first? And then in fast motion you skip ahead to Geltz silent on the ground an
d Colome still breathing with almost no head, and Wilcox saying he’s had enough of this shit, standing up and smiling, giving the peace sign, and it’s over for him too.

  But that’s still not the first part of it. That’s not how it started. Not really. If you close your eyes you remember. If you close your eyes it’s always clearer.

  It’s the craziest thing, really, right out of the blue. It isn’t even my idea. Julia and I are still heading back from Ma’s house, and she points down Twenty-third and says, “Let’s go.” No explanation, no discussion, not another word.

  But I understand what she means.

  I turn right. We are silent all the way. The snow has picked up and is blowing hard against the windshield; the streetlights seem to guide us along. Julia doesn’t know that Eddie is here with us, somewhere. I can feel him. He’s as silent as we are.

  I park on Virginia Avenue. We get out. Julia has a heavy coat and a white scarf around her, but still she shivers as she tucks her chin in the scarf. We continue on foot, braving the snow. The temperature has dropped and the wind is in our faces. As we walk, I pull up Julia’s collar, then mine. I put my arm around her and pull her close.

  “Thank you,” I say. “For coming.”

  “You’re very welcome, Quincy.”

  “Quintyn.”

  We arrive. Julia lets me step forward.

  • EDWARD O. COBB •

  I’ve visited him here before, dozens of times. And the others too, of course. Always alone. And always like this, at night. It seems more appropriate, at night, and sometimes I can even see that bright star like it was back then in the ditch, hanging above us in the sky.