A Dangerous Friend

by Ward Just

  He did not mention this vision to Rostok, fearing that it was out of date. Rostok believed that if Syd used his wits, became friendly with the Xuan Loc Armands, perhaps did them an unbidden favor, they would be eager to share their insights and information, perhaps introduce him to other French expatriates living between the lines, trying to make ends meet. These French would be mindful naturally that the Americans controlled the South Vietnamese. The Americans would have to be taken into account, lest the Americans become thoughtless.

  Sydney was dismayed that the discussion had turned into an argument and wondered now how he could make amends.

  Monsieur muttered something to Missy in French.

  He said to Sydney, More wine?

  It's very good, Sydney said. It's excellent.

  It's ordinary wine, Monsieur said.

  A breeze had come up and the night was no longer so still, dry leaves clattering now in the trees. The temperature had fallen. The snow-furred summits of the mountains at the head of the valley glittered in the yellow moonlight. One of the peaks looked like a miniature Mont Blanc. Sydney felt the old man's eyes on him, an ominous measurement. He looked into the darkness and tried again.

  Perhaps you're right about the situation in Vietnam, he said. I've yet to see anything firsthand. I've never been in-country. It would be logical, though, that each nation's experience there would be unique, owing to the circumstances of the arrival and the nature of the occupation. Sydney waited while Missy translated, staring all the time at the thumb-sized peak that changed color while he looked at it. He said, It's obvious that we'll profit from the French experience, unhappy as that experience turned out to be. All of us are interested in any information. Insights. Into the lessons learned by the French in Vietnam during the many years of struggle. I do know we're in it for keeps, win, lose, or draw.

  It won't be a draw, Monsieur said.

  No, certainly not. And it'll take time, we know that.

  D'accord, Monsieur said.

  They're resilient people, determined and resourceful. We don't know much about them, actually. Sydney smiled wanly and shrugged; so much to learn, so little time. Briefers in Washington had told him they knew nothing of the personalities on the other side. Except for Ho and Giap they were faceless bureaucrats and guerrilla commanders in the field. Many had been trained by the Russians at their secret base in the Ukraine. The briefer described the base in meticulous detail, the course of study, the weapons, and the commander and his deputy, apparatchiks from Kiev; when you had so little information of immediate value, you dispensed what you had, so the briefer went on and on about the installation near Kharkov; and there were Cuban observers as well.

  Unsettling, Sydney said, knowing so little of a man's past, his family circumstances, where he went to school, his quirks and prejudices. In the real war, Allied intelligence knew everything there was to know about the Wehrmacht, from Jodl, Canaris, and Rommel down to regimental commanders, which ones were Nazis and which weren't. There were British officers who had gone to school with some of them, for Christ's sake. And we didn't even know for sure where Ho was born. For the longest time we thought he had been a chef at the Paris Ritz when actually it was the Carlton in London.

  We're fighting ghosts, Sydney said with a little strangled laugh.

  They're difficult to know, that's true.

  They're excellent fighters, Sydney said.

  Yes, Monsieur said. The Communists are.

  In the last analysis, it's their war.

  It certainly is, Monsieur said.

  President Johnson made a speech about it the other day.

  Monsieur Armand looked at him suspiciously and took a mouthful of wine. A speech to the Vietnamese?

  No, no, Sydney said. The American Legion.

  Missy translated, taking her time, and when she was finished the Frenchman was smiling broadly.

  They're finally beginning to focus in Washington, Sydney said.

  Monsieur nodded. Is it really two billion dollars?

  That's this year, Sydney said. More next. And the year after, more still. We're going to spend this war to death, deep-sea ports for ships and airfields for the biggest jets. And add to that the bridges and roads and so forth, and technical assistance for the government ministries so that taxes can be collected and budgets balanced, little Vietnam will be the most modern country in Asia. It'll have the infrastructure, you see. It'll go from the Middle Ages to the twentieth century in five years. It'll look like California. There'll be an economic boom, even agriculture, the rubber plantations, for example. It's a small country after all, think of two billions this year and more next and the year after. When Monsieur smiled, Sydney wagged his finger and said, Oh yes, the rising tide raises all the boats.

  All that money, Monsieur said.

  And know-how, Sydney said.

  Of course, Monsieur said. I'd forgotten about the know-how.

  It's the most important thing, Sydney said. And then he thought to add, So that Citroens can ride on Indochinese rubber once more.

  Citroens, Monsieur said.

  And Renaults, too, Sydney said.

  And the troops—

  At least three divisions by the end of this year, that's confidential. Our people think three will be sufficient.

  Monsieur rolled his eyes and chuckled.

  Then we'll send more, Sydney said blandly.

  To table! Madame Armand called from the doorway.

  They ate in the kitchen at a round wooden table with a bowl of flowers in the center. The table, each place with its cluster of glasses and flatware and red napkins, looked almost as appetizing as the food, a steaming stew served from a heavy tureen. Madame Armand urged Sydney to taste the water, the purest in all Europe; the source was only a few miles up the valley. Missy and the Armands were talking family business, something to do with the eldest daughter, who had a serious beau. Sydney ate and listened, looking up now and then to inspect the kitchen and its old-fashioned equipment. The hearth looked a hundred years old and the firearm hanging above it about the same. Pots in a dozen shapes and sizes hung from the whitewashed walls.

  On the wall next to the cupboard were photographs of the colonial Armands, Hubert in Abidjan and Claude in Xuan Loc; the picture of Felix in Bangui was last in line and obscured by shadows. Hubert and his wife and children were photographed on the beach, a sloop bobbing at anchor behind them. The sloop was framed in such a way as to suggest it was theirs. The French tricolor fluttered above the transom. Hubert was recognizably Monsieur Armand's brother, a muscular, thick-waisted brute with a mat of coal-black hair on his chest and a serpent tattoo on his forearm. His wife was short and stocky and the children were stocky, too. All five were deeply tanned, and all five wore dinky bikinis and white rubber swimming caps on their heads. They were squinting in the glare, their expressions sullen, impatient in the African heat. All in all, Sydney thought, a family to avoid.

  Claude and his wife were photographed on the long verandah of their bungalow in Xuan Loc. The time appeared to be late afternoon, for the rubber trees behind them cast weak shadows. Vietnamese workers could be seen here and there in the distance tending to the trees, aligned in rows. They carried long machetes around their narrow waists. These Armands were seated comfortably on a rattan sofa, a coffee table in front of them; they would not have been out of place in Darien. Claude's hair was red and curly and cropped close. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. He was slender and appeared very fit, looking into the camera's lens with a relaxed half-smile, not giving much away, a smile that suggested private amusement, some worldly absurdity in the day's affairs. His left hand was raised tentatively, as if he were trying to summon a lost memory. Sydney thought he was about forty, old enough anyway to have elusive memories. His wife looked at him with the most open affection—perhaps at that moment he had murmured a droll endearment as he sought the thing that was out of reach and the photographer said, Hold it there, perfect. In his white ducks and short-sleeved shirt, Claude
might have returned from the golf course minutes before. His wife was as slender as he was but not as guarded, obviously aware of the camera but indifferent to it; she was the sort of woman who took a good photograph. She was fine-boned with almond-shaped eyes and a provocative lift to her chin. Her skirt was bunched up around her knees. No doubt she was waiting for a breeze in the thick stillness of the late aftfernoon. The couple—they were indisputably together—appeared entirely natural and at ease waiting for the photographer to make the picture. A glass pitcher of iced tea, a package of Gauloises, and a brass lighter indicated end-of-the-day domesticity. Books were stacked on the coffee table along with editions of Paris-Match, Le Nouvel Observateur, and Life. Sydney wondered when the photograph was taken. Nothing in it identified the year; even the magazine covers were generic: Princess Grace, a burning building, LBJ. Behind the sofa was a Matisse poster, long-stemmed red and yellow wildflowers adumbrated by the picture frame.

  Claude and his wife, Madame Armand said.

  They're very attractive people, Sydney said.

  He's a devil, Madame said, laughing. He can be naughty. Dede keeps him in line, though.

  I imagine she does, Sydney said.

  Everyone likes Dede, Madame said.

  I can see that, Sydney said. When was the picture taken?

  Only last year, Madame said. And then, as if to explain the timing, she added, Dede is an American.

  Sydney said in surprise, She is?

  Oh yes, Madame said. She worked for your embassy. Claude met her on the tennis court at the Cercle Sportif. It was a thunderclap for them both. Dede—and here Madame began to laugh loudly—is from Chicago!

  Rat-a-tat-tat, Monsieur said, moving his hands as if he were firing a machine gun.

  And she is just pregnant, Madame said. Pregnant only three months. We had a long letter from them last week, they're so thrilled. Five years they've been married.

  And now they have decisions to make, Sydney said.

  Decisions? Madame said. What decisions?

  Why, where to go now. I mean, where to live. Vietnam's no place for a French family, and it'll only get worse.

  They will stay, Madame said. Why wouldn't they? They have everything they need. They love their house, it's very spacious, and Dede has furnished it nicely in the French manner. She has her birds and a beautiful garden. In that wretched climate, everything grows. Claude manages the plantation well. He enjoys it, even though things aren't as they were. Claude went out there for Michelin when he was young, barely twenty. My husband did not approve. Claude was the baby of the family and headstrong; and Felix and Hubert were already gone. My husband thought everything was finished in Indochina. But Claude did not listen. He went away and did very well for himself and soon met Dede. She worked for the cultural section of your embassy but gave it up when she married Claude and went to live in Xuan Loc. They've been happy on the plantation and even now Claude tells us not to believe everything we read in the newspapers. The reality is always very different, isn't it? Of course there's uncertainty, the American bombs and the general insecurity of the countryside. It's no longer safe to drive after dark and the bombing seems to have gotten worse but nobody bothers them in Xuan Loc. Why would they?

  The bombing could be stopped, Sydney said.

  Madame was silent a moment. It could?

  Sydney felt the wine rush to his head, and now he smiled warmly. If they're American bombs, it can. I can stop it.

  Missy and Monsieur Armand were listening hard while they ate, Missy now and then contributing a phrase in English when Madame lost her way. Now they were silent while they considered what Sydney had said. Monsieur poured the last of the wine from the pitcher and refilled it from the cask on the sideboard. Sydney said nothing further and looked again at the photograph on the wall, allowing the silence to gather. It was no doubt true that they led a pleasant life on the plantation with their servants, birds, and garden, and untrustworthy newspapers for consolation. Claude Armand did not look headstrong, though; not that casual photographs ever disclosed much. Sydney knew now that he was not forty years old but younger. He was one of those men who looked forty whatever his age.

  Madame glanced at her husband, then cleared her throat. She said, Are you married, Sydney?

  I was, Sydney said. We're separated now. She'll be filing for divorce ... And then he paused, wondering if Karla would go through with it. Perhaps not, and then when this was over—

  And do you have children?

  My daughter lives with her mother in New York.

  A daughter, Madame Armand said. What a pity.

  No, she's a wonderful child, Sydney said. She's doing fine. He was mildly offended at the intrusion.

  I mean the divorce, Madame said pleasantly. It's so hard for the children. In France it's very difficult to secure a divorce. The state discourages it. And the church. It's better to stay together and make do the best you can. There are always alternative arrangements. Naturally each situation makes its own demands, that's well known. And now you've left them both to serve your government in Vietnam. No doubt it's for the best. Still, young children—

  She's fine, Sydney said shortly.

  That's what worries me, she said. A child in such a milieu.

  Sydney nodded. He could not imagine raising a child in the middle of a war.

  I thought you said you weren't military, Monsieur Armand threw in.

  I'm not, Sydney said.

  Yet you can stop the bombs.

  Sydney said, The civilian representative has authority in his own sector. That's the way it's set up. Not in all circumstances at all times, but in some circumstances at specific times. Each situation is judged on its merits. Its contribution to the overall effort. As I said, I'll look into it when I get there. And I'll do what I can. Naturally Claude would like to—get on with his business without interference. If he intends to continue, as you say he does, with his wife and child. And perhaps there are ways he can help us out. It's a common effort after all. We're on the same side. And no one wants the Communists in charge. How many Vietnamese does he employ?

  Monsieur hesitated, apparently making an effort to recollect. This was unsuccessful, for he shook his head at last and said, I have no idea.

  A dozen? Two dozen? One hundred? It's a large plantation and would require many workers. A serious payroll.

  I have no idea, Monsieur repeated.

  But you were there, Sydney said softly.

  For two weeks only, Monsieur said. We went to the beach at Cap St. Jacques. Dede took us into Saigon for lunch and sightseeing. We bought souvenirs. We went to the zoo. We didn't talk business.

  Rostok had warned him that the interview would be difficult. They're not like us, Ros had said. They're not straightforward. They're not aboveboard. They're not interested in product, they're interested in logic. And when an idea visits them, it never leaves. When they have a grievance they'd rather nurse the grievance than settle it. With the French, everything was personal.

  So there are all these factors, Sydney said. He took another swallow of wine.

  In what way would Claude help you out? Monsieur said slowly, an edge to his voice. How would Claude fit into your war from his plantation? What do you expect Claude to do for you? He watched his wife rise and begin to collect the dishes, Missy moving to help her. But Monsieur put his thick hand on her forearm, indicating that she should remain to help with the translating.

  I have not thought about that precisely, Sydney said. But it's not only our war, it's your war, too.

  We are finished with it, the old man said.

  But it's back, Sydney insisted. It's at Claude's doorstep whether he wants it to be there or not. And we're in it together.

  Monsieur Armand hesitated, and then he said, You would expect him to collaborate, then? As a friend and ally.

  Be helpful, yes.

  Claude and the other plantation managers?

  If they wished, yes.

  And in return you'd stop
bombing his rubber trees.

  We're getting ahead of ourselves here, Sydney said.

  Monsieur Armand allowed himself a wintry smile. You wouldn't stop bombing his rubber trees?

  I would speak to the military command after I had the facts. And after Claude and I had a talk.

  About how he might be helpful to you, Monsieur said.

  Yes, Sydney said, thinking that he had gone further than he intended. His plan was to take things step by step but the old man across the table was intent on forcing the issue. So he decided to bring the conversation into more neutral territory, no more talk of collaboration. He thanked Madame Armand for the meal, superb in every way, surely superior to anything he would find in Vietnam—

  Thank you very much, she said, but Vietnamese cuisine is excellent, especially the fish.

  You seem to have given quite a lot of thought to my brother, Monsieur said abruptly.

  Missy has always spoken warmly of your family, Sydney said.

  I mean lately.

  It would be a pleasure to meet Claude, Sydney said.

  No doubt, Monsieur said.

  Perhaps he wouldn't want to, Sydney said thoughtfully. I suppose I can understand that. It could be awkward for him. Perhaps risky, depending on the circumstances. He has a wife. And soon he will be a father. He would not want to expose himself more than necessary. The Communists were ruthless and adhered to the old rule, My enemy's friend is my enemy. Sydney took a swallow of wine and observed that it would take courage to meet openly with Americans, the occupying power; and the moment he said the words he knew he had blundered, the phrase all wrong. Monsieur Armand grew red in the face and bellowed a furious burst of French, and then he threw down his napkin and left the table. When Sydney asked Missy what he had said, she blushed and shook her head. But she was smiling.

  Tell me, Sydney said.

  Papa said Claude has balls to his knees, Missy said.

  ***

  Monsieur Armand did not reappear; and shortly Madame followed him to bed. Missy and Sydney did the dishes, not talking much. They both knew he had made a careless error. He had committed a simple mistake of language, wanting to move back from the precipice only to discover that he had been walking a high wire, the old Frenchman willing him to fall. Certainly this would not have happened if there had been a common language along with ordinary common courtesy. And Missy had been no help at all, her loyalties lay with the Armand family. But he had a better idea now of just how suspicious the French were, and how determined to preserve their—he supposed the word was neutrality. He wondered if Dede had the same instinct. Dede from rat-a-tat-tat Chicago, wife of devilish, naughty, balls-to-his-knees Claude. In a rational world Dede would be eager to confide in a compatriot, but Sydney knew now that the world was not rational.