by Ward Just
Waiters in white shirts and dark trousers moved here and there with trays of lemonade and beer. Watching a waiter approach four teenagers at poolside, offering his tray, bending slightly at the waist with one hand behind his back, Sydney was reminded of afternoons at Abenaki. The boys took their drinks without looking up or pausing in their conversations, and the waiter strolled off to the tinkle of ice cubes and laughter—and it was then that Sydney noticed his frayed shirt and worn shoes, and the soldier leaning against the palm tree, smoking a cigarette and looking at the girls, his rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder, barrel down.
Security, Claude explained.
God, it's nice at the Cercle Sportif, Sydney replied.
And just then a girl in a coal-black bathing suit rose, yawning like a cat, stretching, her arms and heels rising as if she were reaching for a gymnast's high bar. She was lithe and beautifully built and when she stepped to the edge of the pool and dove, she entered the water like a knife, leaving no splash or wake. She swam the length of the pool underwater, undulating like a seal, and rose at the other end with feline languor; mission accomplished.
Yes, it is, Claude said.
Inside the cavernous clubhouse, they were ushered to wicker chairs by a barman who greeted Claude with a surprised smile and a little ironic bow. Apparently they had not seen each other for some time. They chattered in Vietnamese and Sydney knew without being told that the Frenchman was asking about the barman's family, the old people, the wife, the children. The barman shrugged, clucking, a comment Sydney interpreted as "the usual." Then Claude put his hand on the barman's arm and spoke to him softly, and from the shock on his face it was obvious Claude was speaking of his wife and their two dead children. In the end the barman only shook his head.
They were seated in the farthest corner of the room under a ceiling fan that turned with the patience of the second hand on a wristwatch. The barman brought them both a gin and tonic and retreated into the silent interior. They were alone in the quiet and coolness of the huge room. In the distance they could hear the thwack of tennis balls and high-pitched cries from the pool.
Sydney tipped his glass and said, Your wife's health.
Claude said, Yes, thank you, and they clicked glasses. He sat back and stretched his legs, relaxed as if he were in his own living room. With his sunburned complexion, his canvas trousers and gumboots, he looked like any planter in from the fields for a sundowner at the club.
I'm sorry about the babies.
Claude nodded, his face clouded and withdrawn. If you had not stepped in, it might have been much worse.
I thought she was wounded, Sydney said.
No, they wouldn't harm her.
Sydney took that in and decided not to pursue it; but he remembered the boy with the carbine who had nudged Dede Armand with his foot as you might an animal. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, and then he smiled, gesturing around the vacant room, its wicker and dark wood, ceramic ashtrays on the tables. It was as comfortable as a ship's saloon and as private; no way of knowing the time of day or the shape of things over the horizon or whether they were in Saigon or Darien.
So civilized, Sydney said. This must have been the way things were in the forties.
There was a war on then, too.
But Saigon wasn't involved.
Not in the obvious ways, Claude said. The old-timers have some grand stories from the period. Sydney waited for a grand story but Claude was silent. At last he said, Smuggling and the like. And most everyone acquired a taste for opium and gambling, though not at the same time. The Cercle Sportif was at the center of things, everyone came here for drinks and a game of cards or backgammon.
But not anymore, Sydney said.
No, not anymore.
So it's a sort of no man's land.
You might say that.
A neutral zone, Sydney said.
Not a neutral zone.
Of course, Sydney said. The Americans.
Claude smiled blandly and said it had been years since he had been inside the Cercle Sportif, although his wife had been a regular when she worked for the embassy. She came with one particular friend for a swim at the end of the day but things became impossible so she quit coming. When she married him, a resident Frenchman, conversation became awkward. There were always questions, how they lived, how the plantation operated and whether it made a profit, and aren't you frightened out there in the—what did they call it, a strange word?—doonblocks—
Boondocks, Sydney said.
Yes, what are they?
The provinces, Sydney said.
—and she got tired of answering the questions and so did I because the answers were no one's business. They wanted to know her routine, day by day, and she resented it. They wanted her to spy for them. The last time I was here, I had business with the ministry and stopped for a drink on the way back, two Americans introduced themselves as rubber brokers. They wanted to make a deal for my rubber. The price they were offering, I told them I harvested rubber not platinum, but they said they didn't care. They were interested in my operation and any information of a political nature that I might have. And if I happened to be aware of any military activity in my vicinity, why, the price would be increased. Of course they were people from your intelligence service, one of them my wife's friend. My God, so young. They couldn't have been more than a few years out of university. They wanted to give me ten thousand dollars as a down payment and I said no. And no again to twenty thousand. Then they said they could make things difficult for me and I said fine, go ahead. But I didn't like it. I walked out of the Cercle Sportif that day and haven't been back since. We have all had the same disagreeable experience with the Americans, who think this war is everyone's war and we owe it to you to collaborate, and when we decide not to, we're threatened with unspecified "difficulties," as if you owned the world and we had to pay rent to live in it. We're trying to get the rubber to market, that's all. We don't want anything to do with this other business. So we stay away from the Cercle Sportif. None of us come here anymore.
Sydney said, We?
Claude said, Planters.
How many are you?
Fewer every day. He rose stiffly and spoke to the barman. Then he used the telephone, leaning on the bar with his elbows, talking quietly into the receiver. The sun was lowering now, casting bright shafts of yellow light across the dark floor. There were no more sounds from the pool or the tennis courts but Sydney heard the growl of a jet overhead. Claude continued to talk on the telephone. The barman brought two fresh drinks and a bowl of nuts. On the margins of his vision, Sydney saw a figure in the doorway. He settled back in his chair; watching Rostok step into the sunlight and peer into the room. Rostok saw Claude Armand but paid no attention to him. Sydney, in the deep shadows at the far end of the room, sat motionless, his eyes cast down, willing himself invisibility. You have to remember that ordinary life goes on here, Rostok had said; and that was what this was, a routine drink at the end of the day. Rostok would be no help here, and Claude had had enough surprise for one day. Ros took a last exasperated look around, shading his eyes with the palm of one hand, and then he turned abruptly and left.
She's resting, Claude said when he returned.
Sydney nodded. He watched Rostok march down the path and disappear in the direction of the swimming pool.
They said they would call me if there was any change but you never know with them. They promised to keep a nurse in the room all night.
They know what they're doing, Sydney said.
Do you think so?
He shrugged. He had no idea what they knew or didn't know.
Claude smiled and pointed at the doorway. Who was that?
A friend. Rostok.
You didn't invite him in.
He'd ask for the rent money.
He works for you?
I work for him.
I know who he is, Claude admitted. He's around, here, there, and everywhere. Dede has seen him in
the market. And I thank you again.
I like him, Sydney said loyally. But probably this isn't the time to make the introductions.
He's not CIA, is he?
No, he's not. And I'm not either.
Claude looked at his knuckles, nodding, suddenly distracted. When the telephone rang he rose to answer it, but the barman arrived first, spoke a few words, and shook his head. The Frenchman settled back into his chair.
She wasn't due for another six weeks, he said abruptly. Still, he had the nursery all arranged and an amah to help out. My mother sent us some baby things from Comminges. And Dede's friends in America sent books about babies. How to feed the baby. How to rock the cradle. These are strange things to learn from books, no? He paused expectantly, watching the telephone. She was so excited, arranging the nursery. It's a pretty room, the big window gives out onto the garden where Dede's bird feeders are. The deer come to graze and farther out you can see the rubber trees. It's a peaceful spot with southern light all day long, shaded in late afternoon. It's a wonderful place for children.
You were planning to stay on at the plantation, then?
Of course, Claude said. Where else would we go? This war can't last forever. It's impossible. It's not logical. What more can you do that you're not doing? And with everything you've done so far, you're still losing. The Vietnamese are laughing at you.
Sydney sipped his drink, taking his time about it. Claude had the common myopia. He had been in the Far East too long. He did not appreciate the immensity of America, its industry, its restlessness and sprawl, its impatience, its confidence, its anger and its desire. He was not aware that this was only the beginning of the war. All that had gone before was prelude. America was irresistible. This was the twentieth century eye to eye with the fifteenth, the arsenal of the modern world in joust with the bare knuckles of a rural peasantry led by an antique born in the Edwardian Age who had spent his youth making pastry swans for Chef Escoffier in the afternoon and wandering London's gray crabbed streets in the evening, dreaming his exile's dream of revolution. The coming battle would consume all South Vietnam. There would be no sanctuaries, no region immune from it. Claude's American wife would understand this if Claude didn't.
What do you mean, laughing at us?
Something absurd about it, something—and here Claude shrugged futilely.
Listen, Sydney said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. He described what was on order, the inventory of the struggle to come, four reinforced infantry divisions before the end of next year, another aircraft carrier, as many as four more air wings—and as he recited the data he realized how colorless it was. You had to see the arsenal with your own eyes, the lethal beauty of the ships and the reptilian menace of the aircraft, all but invulnerable to enemies; and then he remembered the VC infantry on their bicycles, rice socks hanging from their shoulders. To witness was to believe. Sydney added that two billion dollars had been appropriated for reconstruction, roads and bridges, ports, airfields, clinics, schools. He told Claude nothing more than had been in the newspapers but Claude seemed surprised at the numbers. Judging from his expression, he suspected that Sydney was pulling them out of the air, American propaganda.
You and your wife don't want to be here, Sydney concluded.
They'll never give up, you know.
They won't have to. There won't be any of them left to go on. No army, no fighters.
You can't do it.
It has to be done, Sydney said with a vehemence that surprised him. We made commitments. We promised to do it. We said we would do it and we will.
It's hard to believe, Claude said.
Believe it. Go away for a few years, and when you come back South Vietnam will look like—California! Vietnamese only wanted what good Americans wanted—a full stomach and domestic tranquillity, an opportunity to go about their affairs unmolested. They were a subtle people whose politics shifted with the tides. They believed in magic and astrological signs. They were fatalistic. They were poised as acrobats, always moving in the direction of the net. But they could not fail to notice the progress made, it was everywhere to see. Indochina was the great test of American character. This had been true in all the other wars and it was true in this one. Anyone who sat on the sidelines would suffer a lifetime of regret, shame was not too strong a word—
Claude was listening intently, waiting for the voice of the Jacobin, the one who swept all reason before him. He waited for the fanatic but what he heard was an earnest imperialist who believed in California. This American was surely right to see the Vietnamese as aerialists, not that he had ever met one. If he ever did, he would understand that there were no nets in South Vietnam. Yet this was also true. Americans were easy to underestimate. They almost asked for it, begged and pleaded to be underestimated in order that victory, when it came, would be sweeter.
Sydney said, In a few months the war will become general. You and your wife will have to choose sides.
You sound like one of those intelligence people.
It's not a threat. I'm afraid for your safety.
Well, Claude said, and smiled. Stop them bombing my rubber trees, then.
I can do that. I'll need something in return.
There's nothing I can give you.
Information, Sydney said.
Claude thought a moment. The information the Americans needed was in front of their own eyes; but probably they were the sort of people who did not trust what was in plain sight. He said, I can understand about pride, it's like an affair of the heart. But I don't understand why you care so much. What does Vietnam matter to you? Who wants it? Is it your capitalists? The munitions industries? Do you think there's oil here?
Sydney did not think the question worth a reply. He said, This is only the beginning.
We'll see, Claude said. I think you'll be out in a year.
At that, Sydney laughed. No chance.
Claude looked at his watch. You should leave now.
Why?
It's best for you to be in Tay Thanh before dark. The road is dangerous now.
The road is secure, Sydney said confidently. Rostok had seen to that.
Claude rolled his eyes. Some nights it is, and other nights it isn't. Tonight it isn't.
Do you know something I don't know?
Claude waited a moment before answering. I have no specific information, he said. The VC do not inform me of their battle plans. But I have lived here a very long time. After a while you have an instinct for things.
We prefer evidence to instinct, Sydney said.
Do you think you are in a court of law?
Those boys at the market, Sydney began.
Local cadre, Claude said.
You know them?
I see them around. I see policemen, too. I see your army. As I said, I've lived here a long time.
One of them was armed, Sydney said.
They did not harm my wife, did they? This was a statement, not a question. Claude rose and they shook hands. Nor you. They did not harm you. They had every opportunity. You were an unarmed American, yet they allowed you safe passage. Perhaps—and here he made a little gliding motion with his hand—Americans are not so important to the situation. Perhaps you are the tip of the iceberg, with nine-tenths invisible beneath the surface; and it is the nine-tenths that controls.
Sydney did not know what to say to that.
I thank you again for what you did, Claude said. I think you saved my wife's life. I am very grateful. I think you are making a terrible mistake in this war, but that is not my affair. In any case, my wife and I will remain here. We will have more children, and they will grow up on the plantation. I wish you good health, Sydney. And now I must go. I have no information to give you.
Every day now when Sydney woke, he thought of the Armands and heard Claude's voice. "They did not harm my wife..." He thought their conversation hallucinatory in its disharmony, the Frenchman refusing to believe what was in front of his eyes. It was the United States t
hat was nine-tenths beneath the surface. But it was also true that in the Cercle Sportif reality took another form and color, that of seductive nostalgia. The reassuring bartender the gin and tonic with its quartered lime, the sounds from the pool and the tennis courts. The war was far away. War's reminder was mechanical, the chug of helicopter gunships and the acrobatics of jet fighters, or the bicycle caravan on the Tay Thanh road.
A week later Sydney called the hospital to ask after Dede Armand, but whoever answered the phone claimed to speak no English and hung up. The day after that he asked Pablo Gutterman to inquire, using his private sources, and Pablo reported back that she had been discharged, healthy but weak. She had gone home to the plantation. Her husband had taken her home. Why do you want to know? I had a tip, Sydney said vaguely.
"I have no information to give you." Sydney took Rostok aside to explain the encounter and its unsatisfactory conclusion; he said nothing about the Cercle Sportif. He described Claude Armand, muscular, rangy, dressed in a khaki shirt, canvas trousers, and gumboots. He was often bemused. He had the looks and bearing of a colonial planter, meaning he walked into rooms as if he owned them, friendly with the help. An attractive man, Sydney said. I was drawn to him and tried to give him what advice I could, none of which he accepted; and he did not accept an offer to collaborate, either. He was well spoken with excellent English and fluent Vietnamese, droll when he wanted to be.
No question he knows things, Sydney said.
But whatever they are, he's not telling.
He evidently loves his wife very much and is not too shy to say so; not too shy to describe the nursery they had furnished and the life he envisioned with his children. He believed he could live between the lines as he always had, and if his twins had lived, they would be between the lines also. The war was a nuisance that would go away sooner rather than later.