A light rain fell as he made for the port of Da Nang. Twice on his ride back to base he experienced the sensation of being followed, but there was nothing to be seen around him. All he could think about was what Carabas had said about his having a son, plus the black shit that had flowed from the corner of his mouth. Did he believe him?
The next morning he heard a rap at his door. Curtis.
‘Sir, I just want to thank you for the other night… what you said I mean.’ Jacques wiped the sleep from his eyes. Outside the sun was melting the tarmacadam of the parade ground. ‘What did I say?’
‘That I’d get out in one piece, it helped me… Sir - what’s the stuff on your lips?’
Jacques put his hand to his face; he’d been too tired to wash away the glue by the time he collapsed in bed. ‘I’m peeling, too much sun.’ Curtis nervously stood there fingering his army cap. ‘There’s something else? Come on spit it out.’ said Jacques.
‘I heard some guys talking in the canteen, some of the Shark’s boys.’ Deschamps sighed, ‘I see.’
The lieutenant looked apologetic, his eyes flicking to the floor as if he had some part in the bad news he’d come to deliver, ‘They said they’re going to put you out of action… permanently.’
‘You take care of yourself Curtis. You’re a good kid. The Colonel and I will be leaving next week. After he’s gone you only have the men in black pyjamas to worry about.’
Curtis smiled, ‘I don’t have too long to go now.’
‘You’ll make it, I’m telling you - you will make it home to Indiana.’
‘Actually, it’s Idaho sir.’ The lieutenant saluted and walked away. The Doors were piping from the dormitory opposite. Back home the hippy movement had blossomed in a trail of drugs and flowers. All that grunts here could do was listen to the music and pretend to get a piece of it; but somehow Hendrix and rice paddies didn’t gel.
That evening Jacques and Maybury ate in the Enlisted Men’s club. Maybury was leaving for Cu Chi the next day; he sat by the window watching the light fade as if it was something wondrous. ‘Just finished that Kerouac book, he was called Jack too, only spelt different… shit, you know what I’m going to do Frenchman?’
‘What?’
‘When I’m done with this war I’m going to take my money and buy myself an old Mustang and shoot through the States just like Kerouac did.’
‘I thought he slept in freight trains.’
‘Screw that, when I’m out of here I’m never going in a dark confined place again, I’ll keep the lights on in every motel I stay in.’
‘You should go and live in Scandinavia, it’s light there day and night in the summer.’
‘You’re serious?’ he asked with the enthusiasm of a child.
‘Sure. So this road trip, where will you go?’
Maybury looked forlorn, as if he knew he would never leave Vietnam. He scratched his chin, ‘Oh, I’ll cover the West Coast first and surf all the way up, every good beach-break from Baja to Big Sur.’ Deschamps nodded and fingered his food. ‘All I want is fresh air Jacques, you can’t put a price on it.’
‘Sounds wonderful, at least it gives you something to think about.’
‘Everyone needs something to hold onto, especially down in the dark.’
‘You’re a braver man than me… I don’t know how you do it, Lucan. To Big Sur then.’ Said Jacques, and they clinked glasses.
‘What about you, what are you gonna do when you’re finished? Straight on to another war?’
‘No, I’m done after this… going back to France then England, to start a family.’
You’re going to have a son.
Maybury played with the remaining liquid in his glass. ‘I hear you and the big man nearly bought the farm outside the Gin Palace… that he owes you his life.’
‘Maybe.’
‘What do you make of him?’
‘He gets results.’
Maybury raised an eyebrow. ‘Very diplomatic, Frenchman.’ He looked around cautiously and leant in with his customary whisper, ‘He makes my skin crawl… I can’t figure why.’
Jacques sighed. ‘Because he’s losing his mind, because he’s a butcher.’
‘I saw him stood looking out to sea last night out the back of the officer’s mess. It was dark, no one around… I almost missed him. He started talking real quiet. At first I thought someone was with him, but then I watched him for a while and I saw no one was there. I didn’t dare move.’
‘What was he saying?’ said Jacques putting on his beret.
‘That’s the fucking thing, he wasn’t speaking any language I’ve ever heard, almost sounded as if he was speaking in tongues or something.’
Jacques clapped him on the back as he stood up. As if to say, forget about it.
The Australian nodded, ‘Well, I’ll be fucked if I care. I’m out of here tomorrow, but you watch your back with him – I mean it, I get a bad vibe. And there’s something between you two, I can’t put my finger on it. Just watch your back, Jacques.’
‘Are you coming tonight?’
‘On a drop mission? Fuck no. I’ll stick to what I know… man to man in a tunnel. At least I can sleep with a clear conscience.’
- 17 -
I rose early and walked through the old quarter’s peeling streets toward Gerald King’s café. It was only half past eight and already the people looked as if they’d been up for hours, busy as ever. The sky was a hard, cornflower blue, I’d slept well and I felt ready for anything the day threw at me. It was time I wrote a few emails and gave my mum a call to let her know all was well; maybe I could do it in his place. But Gerald’s café was closed when I arrived, boarded up by a steel shutter. Even now, the war long over, King still felt the need to foxhole himself in a little security. I’d come back later.
To kill a little time, I caught a cyclo to look around Hanoi. We pedalled down a street called Dien Bien Phu and stopped by a small square with a statue of Lenin, old men playing draughts and brewing tea in enamel kettles. I headed for the Army Museum to learn what I could about the American Vietnam conflict. I knew a bit, the usual staple of war films we’ve been reared on in the west – Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket, Platoon... but the Vietnamese version of those dreadful years is rather different.
Predictably, most of the presentations in the museum focused on the extraordinary accomplishments of the VC and the North Vietnamese Army, and I had to agree, given their limited means against a powerful superpower, winning that conflict was an extraordinary coup. The kindly face of Ho Chi Minh, the great Vietnamese leader, seemed to look at me inquisitively from every wall. He was a small wiry man who’d gone into exile, travelled the world with the Merchant Navy and had then allied himself to the Russian Communist party and spent a time in Moscow. There was even a rumour that during a stint as a cook in Paris - long before he was famous as a rebel leader - he spent the night with Mae West.
After he’d been a spy in China, he returned to Vietnam and lived in a cave on the Chinese border where he put together his manifesto for a new country, a fresh political menu. He’d been away more than twenty years and had never stopped thinking about how he could liberate his country from the oppressive French colonials – my father’s people. With yet another alias, Ho crossed the border dressed as a mandarin to avoid the authorities who’d put a price on his head. Along with a man called Giap he magnetized the people to him and sought about freeing the Vietnamese from their Gallic chains. Giap was brutal, a master strategist, but it was Ho that got to me and I began to feel guilty of my admiration for him. Despite his wishes to be remembered a humble citizen, after his death they embalmed his body and preserved it in a memorial tomb where people could flock and marvel at his waxy repose. I wondered what it must feel like to believe in a country so much you’d give your life for it. England? For
me it had been taken over by chavs, the St George’s cross a symbol of small-minded white van drivers, bigots and Sun readers.
There was a Russian MIG plane outside the museum with some children playing beneath its nose. Not far away I noticed the crumpled remains of a B52 bomber slumped indecorously against a tree. Everything that morning seemed acutely real, vivid and sharp. Also this photo I’d seen in the museum, I couldn’t get it out of my mind; a young G.I with a cigar in his mouth holding up half a Vietnamese boy by his hair, his legs shot away. The soldier’s smile belonged in a game-hunting photograph. Behind him was a pile of bodies clothed in black pyjamas. Another soldier was lighting a cigarette, his jungle-boot casually resting on the severed head of a dead Vietnamese as if she were a footstool. However forcibly I tried to ignore it, the image of my friend lying cold and prized open, alloyed itself to the fresh grotesque of the boy’s limbless corpse.
It was lunchtime so I went back to Hoan Kiem lake, bought a local sim card, a ‘pay as you go’ voucher and phoned Mum. She was relieved to hear I was no longer in Bangkok but she wanted answers, specifics. How was I feeling? When was I coming home and why was in Hanoi? I couldn’t really answer any of them satisfactorily and I hung up feeling guilty. Then I phoned Giselle. I hesitated before dialing, spiders of guilt wriggling in my stomach. Then I took the plunge. Besides, I told myself, you’re lonely, Skip wouldn’t mind. ‘How was your trip today, did you get much done?’ I said, feeling tongue-tied.
She sounded tired and a little distracted, ‘Oh hi, Alain. Yeah, I shot some sunrise pictures. I’m a little deadbeat - been up since 5.30 am. I’m still up north in fact. How you feeling today?’
‘I’m fine, I’ve got to go and see someone and then, well I’m not up to much…’
‘I’m glad you called,’ she said.
‘I don’t know if you feel like having a bite to eat if you get back later but it would be good to see you again. I promise I’ll try and be better company this time.’
‘Don’t be silly. I didn’t think you’d call… are you interviewing someone?’ she said.
‘Yeah, he’s an old soldier who fought with my dad in the Vietnam War. He runs an internet café on Hang Bac.’
‘You’re a man of many turns, Alain Deschamps - you never told me your dad was in the war.’
‘You never asked. What do you mean you didn’t think I’d call? I’ve been trying not to all morning. So, shall we meet up?’ I tried to imagine her brushing her brilliant black hair from her freckled face.
‘I’d like that.’
‘Where?’
‘Meet me at the Ice Museum at four, and wear some trousers or you’ll freeze.’
‘Where do you live, I could come by your place?’
‘Oh it’s just a little hotel on the other side of the market, not very nice really but I’m hardly ever there. There’s a funny smell in the air.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s a market of dead dogs. You ask a lot of questions Alain.’
An hour later I found King with his back to me, the Bangkok Post folded over on itself next to the scrabble board he’d been playing with. I didn’t know whether I was welcome or not so I lingered in the doorway and called his name. He flashed his gold tooth in a poor smile, its faded glint echoing his sombre expression. ‘Hey, nice to see you again! I’m sorry I took off like that yesterday and you’ve come such a long way to see me… really sorry.’
‘Don’t mention it. It was probably insensitive of me to ask you all those questions in the first place.’
‘Not at all.’ He considered me a moment, ‘Let’s talk a walk. Let me just get something warm on, it’s cold this time of year.’ He disappeared into a back room, reappearing a moment later in a pea coat and a black beanie on his head.
‘Hanoi’s beautiful this time of day. I’ll show you my favourite lake.’
We drove in his rusted 70s Mercedes to an open lake, littered at its edges with colonial villas. In the burnt afternoon light the water looked as if it were made of spun gold. The air was brisk, King buttoned his pea coat to the throat and paid for a rowing boat us to take out on the lake. We were silent as he rowed us to the centre and the drone of bicycles became but a mechanical, distant chirrup. Once, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw Giselle on her moped among the other people returning home from work on bicycles. It couldn’t have been her, I was certain she said she’s gone north for the day.
King trailed my gaze, suddenly guarded. ‘What is it? You were followed here?’
I looked back at him quizzically, ‘Followed by who Mr King?’
He tried to smile. ‘I know this might seem a little dramatic, taking you out here and all but…’ his sentence fell away as he searched the water for a place to start, ‘You hear some of the stuff I’m going to talk about, it could get you in trouble, you understand that?’
‘Thanks, but I think it’s already found me.’
He looked at me with a hangdog expression. ‘I don’t think you have the slightest understanding of what you’re up against. I don’t want to say I’m sure, but I have a feeling your friend got clipped for a reason.’
‘Why?’
‘Lucan didn’t wind up in jail because he was muling for some two-bit drug baron, it was a little more complex. Someone framed him, got him incarcerated where they could keep an eye on him.’
‘You said Skip was killed for a reason, let’s stick with that first.’ I said.
His lip curled in irritation; my ‘bull in a china shop’ routine wasn’t working. ‘You hear what I have to say first - then unravel the snake. Right now you have now idea how big it is, or how far back it goes into the tunnel - all you’ve seen is the tail. So do me a favour, shut the fuck up and listen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
His eyes flicked across the lake to the old men folding up their card tables. ‘In Laos we were hired by the CIA. And just for the record, it wasn’t just about stopping commies - our people knew there was money to be made in the Golden Triangle, easy untraceable, black money. CIA funded the Secret War in Laos on opium money and quite a few after it, that’s straight up God’s honest truth. Problem was your Dad didn’t play ball with his doubles partner.’
His conversation was switching track quicker than I could keep pace. ‘What do you mean, “didn’t play ball”?’
‘Oh he did his job well enough – Jacques had a knack with people, they trusted him. He could get on with anyone from a Hmong soldier to a King. It was Carabas he fell out with. And he was the wrong cat to get on the wrong side of.’
‘Carabas, who was he?’
The wind ripped across the lake scalloping pockets out of the darkening water. King’s skin was goosepimpled; he rubbed his nose in earnest and took his time before he answered. ‘It’s hard to say… a butcher, magician? To those who later followed him he was a kind of god. When it got ugly and they lost control of him, even the CIA couldn’t take him down. To others - well let’s just say the nurse should have spotted horns on him at birth.’
‘Would those others include my dad?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. He was everything Jacques wasn’t. Your dad was hard as flint but he had compassion, too much maybe. But I never came across a man with no feelings before, like Carabas. It’s strange but I still get the creeps saying his name. CIA had their eye on him before he was even out of Military School. He was the most outstanding marine cadet they ever had and the Spooks turned him into a monster. Ask me? He was probably already a fucking monster when they found him. He just kept it well hidden. If he hadn’t been a soldier he would have been a serial killer.’
He looked up at me briefly then back to the water, ‘I guess he took it to the next level all on his own.’
‘What?’
‘Madness, egoism, next step… dominion.’
‘Gera
ld, this is fascinating,’ I said, ‘But what’s Carabas got to do with my dead friend?’ I was getting cold now.
‘I think it probably ties in, you just don’t know it yet.’
‘Is he still alive?’ I said, noticing for the first time the dark gathering around us.
‘Carabas? Shit no. They say he wound up crucified to a tree near Vang Vieng, that his Hmong warriors flayed him and strung him in a garland of his keepsakes.’
‘Keepsakes?’ I asked.
‘They used to call him “The Collector” cos he kept body mementos. He’d pay his Hmong boys ten dollars a commie head, and one dollar per ear. Can you believe the American tax payer was funding that?’
‘These days, I’m not surprised about anything they do. So how does this connect with what Maybury said about the coming of the darkness? Or was that just druggy nonsense?’
King looked at me patiently, realising his explanation hadn’t penetrated very far into my grey-matter. He laid an emollient hand on my shoulder. ‘Your dad was sent to Laos to help raise an indigenous army and protect the Royal Family in Luang Prabang.’
Luang Prabang - the name on my map from Dad.
‘Luang Prabang?’ I said out loud.
‘Yeah, northern Laos, up in the mountains beside the Mekong River, where the King used to live.’
‘What happened to him, the King I mean?’
‘He was captured by Pathet Lao and left to rot in a cave in Viengsai up by the Viet border. Look, I wish I could tell you more. It’s getting cold, maybe we should head in.’
I leant forward, twilight fading quickly around us. Green and blue lanterns had been turned on around the lake’s perimeter. ‘You still haven’t told me where the connection lies between my friend and my dad, and what Maybury was saying. Is there one? Who are these people, Gerald?’ I could feel feeling the anger building.
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