by Ward Just
And what have you learned? Claude said.
That Karla was wrong, he replied. That there are people like you who live between the lines, neither one thing nor another. You live in the shadows, without allegiances except to the life that you have made. And that you won't give up. It's a mystery to me how you manage. Also, I have learned that South Vietnam is not Czechoslovakia, exactly, but is not entirely removed from it, either.
Strange lessons, Claude said.
I hope you are not offended, Sydney said.
We are not offended, Dede said.
I admire the way you live, Sydney said.
It isn't admirable, Claude said. It's what we have.
So she never knew her father, Dede said. Karla never went back and he never came out.
Sydney nodded.
I don't know mine, either she added.
They think he's alive, probably a commissar in Prague.
Mine's alive, Dede said. He used to take me out to lunch on my birthday but he stopped when I went away to school. He's a bond salesman living somewhere up the Hudson, Rip Van Winkle country. New wife, new baby. Wife number three, baby number four.
Karla rarely mentions him, Sydney said. I don't think she thinks about him. Karla's always been self-sufficient. She's a law unto herself. When Karla left Europe, Paul Parkes was a dead letter.
She thinks about him, Dede said.
Maybe she does, Sydney said. I don't know.
Trust me, Dede said.
And Magda? Claude asked.
I don't know where Paul Parkes fits into Magda's theory of history. Probably he's inconvenient to it.
I'll get the cognac, Claude said.
I'll make coffee, Dede said, rising to collect the plates. She seemed to sway as she moved around the table stacking plates and flatware. When Sydney offered to help, she shook her head. Claude followed her into the kitchen.
Sydney lit a cigarette, feeling sheepish. He had not intended a tour d'horizon of his wretched marriage and careful life in New York. He had difficulty convincing them and in the end probably he had failed; that was usually the case, you could never see into another life. Probably they would not think his wretched and careful but normal, the sort of safe middle-class life that people everywhere wanted for themselves. Democratic systems promised that life, monotonous days, a steady job, Sundays in the countryside, a baseball game on a soft summer night, a concert under the stars. He did not know what had made him go on and on about Magda. He was surprised he remembered as much as he had. He had not spoken to her in a year because she and Karla were on the outs and Karla did not want him involved, meaning choosing sides.
Sydney finished his cigarette and still the Armands had not appeared. He could hear them in the kitchen talking, the confidential murmur reserved for married people who were fully attached to each other and dependent equally. He knew it well and missed it now. He missed the early mornings in Manhattan, Karla still asleep in their bed, the sky-blue duvet pulled to her throat, her soft hair spilling onto the pillow. Her eyes were shut but she was smiling. She appeared to blush in the light of early morning and then she moved, stretching herself. Her hand appeared, her fingers slender and supple as a cat's tail, flopping on the sheet. He knew she was dreaming. He thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful. He sat on the edge of the bed and willed her to wake but she rarely did; and then she would shudder voluptuously, smile again, and say something in her downy just-awake voice and he would kiss her on the neck. She moved farther under the covers and then she had part of him under the covers, too, a leg and an arm, and she would begin to laugh softly, her arms around the small of his back. She had something she wanted to tell him, what she remembered of her dream and his place in it. But the memory always feathered away before she could get it out. So he would invent a dream for her; a gaudy, complicated affair, ribald, full of promise. Tell me again, she murmured.
At that moment Dede came through the door with a tray, Claude following close behind with the bottle of Martell and three glasses.
The sun began to fail, casting long shadows through the living room. Dede poured coffee and Claude set ponies of cognac before them. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the songs of birds. Dede had thrown open the window and the room was filled with the thick scent of the forest and something else, acrid fumes from the factory shed at the bottom of the lawn. She stood at the window sipping coffee, dressed in a white shift, the crucifix at her throat, bangles on her wrists, looking like any settled suburban matron at the end of the day. She was evidently fatigued, her shoulders slumping as Karla's did at the end of a long rehearsal. Sydney looked at his watch and reckoned it was about time to say goodbye. He wondered how he could tell them gracefully that he wanted to come to them again for lunch or dinner. He liked their company. He liked the way they were with each other; communicating with a glance or a raised eyebrow. Together they seemed the essence of conjugal life and he wondered whether that was because of or in spite of their isolation from the war around them. He wondered how they had found each other and whether they knew right away, as he had with Karla; probably they were people attracted to extreme situations, such as those who lived on the slopes of a volcano, rising apprehensively each day to glance at the boiling cone. He suspected that between the Armands much was concealed, a specific zone of privacy that no outsider could break or would wish to break. They lived by their own lights.
Sydney looked up to see Claude staring at him with an expression that suggested he was reading minds, and not liking the text.
Claude said, Can your Rostok be trusted?
The remark was so unexpected that Sydney was startled. He answered truthfully, I suppose so. It would depend.
Depend on what? Claude said.
On what was at stake, Sydney replied. He thought a moment and attached an amendment, At stake for him.
You mean, him personally?
From the window Dede murmured, Claude, in a voice somewhere between apprehension and resignation.
It's all right, Claude said.
Be careful, she said as if she were speaking privately, tête-à- tête.
Claude said, Do you mean personal risk?
Not risk in a physical sense, Sydney said quickly. Rostok doesn't care about that because he thinks he's invincible. He does not want to be cornered, to be put in a position where he might be—outflanked. He likes to be able to see ahead, around the next corner. He likes to see from today to tomorrow. Meaning, to identify the contingencies. He watches his back. Your wife has worked in the government. She knows what it's like, the rivalries and the knives in the back.
Claude grunted doubtfully, reaching for his cognac and sipping, staring into the middle distance. Dede did not move from the window, where she stood listlessly watching her birds through a pair of binoculars.
Rostok likes to be in control of things, Sydney went on. He likes to be in charge and be certain everyone knows he's in charge. If he sensed a situation where he could be at the mercy of other people or unpredictable events, he would worry. Rostok worried is Rostok unreliable. He knows he has enemies, people who want him to fail and aren't above pushing things along. But in his own way he's very able. He's shrewd and he knows what he wants and will bend rules to get it.
That's what you need to know, Claude, Dede said from the window.
What are you seeing? Claude said.
I thought I saw a Bonaparte but it was only an ordinary parrot, Dede said.
Keep looking, Claude said.
Usually at dusk it's the best time. They're always moving around at dusk. You should find yourself a pair of binoculars, Sydney. Vietnam has the most extraordinary array of avian life. But I guess I've mentioned that before. She opened the door and stepped onto the verandah where she stood with the glasses lowered. In the distance they heard the beat of a helicopter.
Is his word good? Claude asked.
He very seldom gives it, Sydney said. Almost never. But when he does give it, his word's as g
ood as anybody's.
That's not encouraging, Claude said.
It wasn't meant to be, Sydney said.
And you, Claude said. What about your word?
My word's good, Sydney said. I don't give it often, either, but that's because I can't deliver the way Rostok delivers. I can get a roof on a church but I can't stop them bombing your rubber trees. I thought I could, but I can't.
Claude said, Where do you fit in, then?
Sydney went through it again, Rostok and Pablo Gutterman and the others, Rostok in charge and Gutterman doing what Rostok gave him to do. He, Sydney, was third in line. But Rostok was the principal, he said, knowing that was what Claude was asking. But when the Frenchman did not reply, only continued to stare into the middle distance, Sydney said, What's this all about?
I understand you've lost someone, Claude said.
Sydney shook his head. He thought that the Frenchman meant Karla but the expression on his face showed otherwise.
What do you mean?
Your young army officer, Claude said. Captain Smalley.
Yes, Sydney said. He's missing. He and three comrades from an action a week or so ago. They were ambushed, hit hard, a very bad scene. They went in at night without sufficient force and were overwhelmed. Many dead and wounded and four missing. We'd like to get them back, all four. It's important to us.
Claude nodded soberly.
Very important, Sydney said.
That will not be possible, Dede said from the doorway. She gestured with the binoculars in the direction of the forest.
There are ways and means, Sydney said. He hesitated and added, Some kind of exchange or other reward. There are people working on it now, in the embassy and at MACV. And Rostok's working on it, too. I'm certain something can be worked out, something beneficial all around. Naturally we would have to verify. We'd have to know the situation. Where they are and in what condition. We'd have to communicate with them. And we'd have to approve the terms, of course.
Three of the four are dead, Claude said.
Rest in peace, Dede said.
The big one's still alive. Smalley.
Badly injured?
I don't know the nature of his wounds. I don't have that information. The information that I have is that he's alive and being held. I know he's been on the march, here and there over the past few days.
Where is he? Sydney asked.
Claude moved his head vaguely. Why, he's out there—
Sydney followed the Frenchman's line of sight, to the forest and the hinterland of the forest. Smalley could be anywhere, aboveground or below. He could be in a village or on a boat. He could be in the hills to the west or over the border in Cambodia or Laos. He could be in Saigon or one of the coastal cities, Qui Nhon or Nha Trang, though that was less likely. He would never be found unless his captors wanted him to be found. He had effectively disappeared from the known world, a ghost soldier.
Sydney said, Is he being well cared for? Are they looking after him?
I suppose they are, Claude said. It's not a suite at the Continental.
You know what I mean, Sydney said.
My information is limited. I doubt if there's torture. Is that what you mean?
They like torture, Sydney said.
Not always, Claude said.
Are they locals?
Claude shrugged and did not reply.
They are local, Dede said.
Claude glanced sharply at his wife, then turned again to Sydney. Is Captain Smalley important in some way? More important than an ordinary infantry captain on assignment?
They say so, Sydney said.
Who is he, then?
This must be between us, as friends. Are we friends?
Yes, Claude said.
He's related to a congressman, Sydney said.
I thought it was something like that, Claude said. There are rumors, more rumors than usual. We have them all the time but these are different. There's activity in the district, night patrols and so forth. Interrogation of villagers, offers of money or threats, depending on who's doing the interrogating. Helicopters checkerboarding. It's more activity than we've ever seen. So the people here had an idea that this captain might be out of the ordinary, a special sort of captain. They thought he must be a spy despite the uniform.
He's not a spy, Sydney said.
If they knew he was a spy, they'd shoot him.
He's not, my word.
I'll let them know, Claude said.
You've spoken to the people who have him?
Not directly, Claude said.
Indirectly, then.
I get word, Claude said vaguely.
Sydney hesitated, then asked, Is it good for him? Is it better for him to be somebody or nobody? Does he have a better chance if he's somebody or if they think he's somebody? Do they know what a congressman is?
Maybe, Claude said.
And if they don't, someone could tell them.
Claude was toying with a rubber band, wrapping it around one finger and then another, drawing it tight like a bowstring, and holding. I don't know what they think, he said finally. I don't know how they think. It's one of the things I like about the Vietnamese, because they don't know me, either.
The poor bastard, Sydney said. He had a sudden image of Smalley curled in a bamboo cage, disarmed, exhausted, thirsty, feverish, frightened, near tears. He had always been the biggest boy in his class. His size protected him. Probably he had heard a lecture at Bragg, What to Do If You Are Captured. Lesson one: don't be. And when the laughter died down in the darkened auditorium, he gratefully fell asleep. They said he was a nice boy, just a big dumb blond. It wasn't likely that he would talk his way out of it, or make a marvelous escape.
Claude raised his eyebrows, continuing to toy with the rubber band, pulling it until his fingers stung; and then it snapped. He said, It isn't pleasant for him. And it'll only get worse. They have no facilities. They're—very young. They're inexperienced. They're nervous. They don't want to make a mistake because they know they're responsible if something goes wrong. Something goes wrong, and they're in as much trouble as Captain Smalley.
Sydney said, So they might execute him to have done with it.
Claude said, Might.
Sydney said, Why are you telling me this?
Claude did not reply for a moment. He was looking at his fingers, white where the rubber had made its noose. Dede had moved off the verandah and onto the lawn, out of earshot. He said, Perhaps there's something to be done. I don't know what it is but your Rostok might. If he's as clever as you say he is.
I'll tell you something, he said.
What you do with it is your business, so long as you leave us out of it.
Claude leaned close and confided that one of his workers had brought him a message. Captain Smalley was in the district. Local cadre were holding him until one of the headquarters commissars could take charge. Their radio was broken so they had sent a runner to Central Office in Tay Ninh. The local cadre were waiting for instructions and until then were keeping their American in one of the caves. But they're nervous and worried that they've done the wrong thing. And the American—and here Claude allowed himself a sympathetic smile—is not responding well to captivity.
Do you know where he is exactly?
No. They would never tell me that.
Can you find out?
I would never ask, Claude said.
Why did they tell you anything at all? What was the purpose of their message?
Claude sighed. They're out of their depth.
I'd say they are.
They're just local boys, Claude said. They don't want much. They want to be let alone, mostly. And for the Saigon administration to resign and the Americans to resign with them so they can set about building their socialist paradise. They think that once Uncle Ho is in charge everything will be fine and they can go back to their villages, their farms, and their girlfriends. Meanwhile, they have an American officer they don't
know what to do with.
And they want your advice?
Not in so many words, Claude said.
But they sent you a message?
One of my workers brought me a message, Claude said.
So they trust you, Sydney said.
They don't think I'm their enemy. I have nothing against them. What is an enemy, anyway? Someone who has what you want or has taken what you think is rightfully yours. Or you see something in a man that reminds you of your worst self. I want nothing from them except their labor in return for wages. I suppose in the socialist paradise they will confiscate this plantation. But they'll still need someone to run it, and it makes no difference to me who I report to. That will be an affair between Hanoi and Paris. The work itself will not change. We are governed by the seasons, by temperature and rainfall. It's the same for farmers everywhere.
Sydney listened impatiently to this strange recital.
A few nights ago one of your bombs almost got them. It missed by a hundred meters. So they decided to move their bivouac. And they wanted me to know.
Sydney ignored the obvious question and said instead, You could tell them the Americans would make an arrangement. Ransom, if you like.
They don't take instructions from me, Claude said.
Still, Sydney said. Obviously you have some influence with them.
I have no influence. That I am not their enemy does not make me their friend.
They sent you a message, Sydney said. That counts for something.
That is what I think, Claude said abruptly. Take it for what it's worth. I believe that if it was up to them, they'd keep Captain Smalley for themselves. They'd like to make their own arrangements for Captain Smalley. But it isn't up to them. Once the commissar arrives from Tay Ninh, the captain is out of their supervision, probably on the trail north under escort. Either that or the commissar orders an execution. Captain Smalley disappears, fate unknown. Perhaps the commissar is angry that the captain was not killed on the spot because, believe me, at Central Office they know about the congressman, who he is and what he does, and his specific gravity in his own milieu. They would be calculating his propaganda value alive and his propaganda value dead; and that would depend on who is being propagandized. So it's logical that there's important radio traffic between Tay Ninh and the North. What do we do with this captain? It's probably a decision made at the top, maybe Giap personally, or even Ho.