by Alexis Jenni
‘You exhibit a certain naivety, my young friend. I find it amusing, although hardly surprising. Indeed, it is threefold, the naivety of youth, of the soldier and of the European. You will forgive me if I smile – although at your expense, it is kindly meant – to find you possessed of such innocence: it is a privilege of age. The fact that you can distinguish no human form in no way indicates that the painting does not portray man. Do you need to see the man to infer the presence of man? That would be mundane, don’t you agree?
‘In this country there is nothing that is not human. The people are everything, Lieutenant Salagnon. Look around you: everything is man, even the landscape; especially the landscape. The people are the reality. If they were not, the country would be nothing but mud; it would have no solidity, no existence; it would be swept away by the Red River, sucked out by the tide, dissolved by the monsoon. All dry land here is the work of man. A moment of inattention, a hiatus in his ceaseless labouring, and all would return to mud and slide into the river. There exists nothing but man: earth, wealth, beauty. The people are everything. It is hardly surprising that communism is so well understood here: to speak of Marxism here, to say that social structures alone are real, is a truism. And so war is waged on man: the battleground is man, the weapon is man, distances and quantities are measured by how far a man can walk, how much a man can carry.’
He rolled up the paintings, slipped them into their sheaths and carefully retied the silken threads.
‘Come and see me again, if you wish. I shall teach you the art of the brush, since you seem to be unaware. You have a certain talent, I have seen it at work, but art is a more subtle state than talent. It lies beyond. To be transformed into art, talent must become aware of itself, of its limitations, and must be drawn like a magnet towards a goal which points in an unambiguous direction. Otherwise talent moves aimlessly, it babbles. Come back and see me, I shall be happy to see you. I can show you the path.’
Salagnon spent his long convalescence visiting the old man, who welcomed him with the same elegance, the same fluidity of movement, the same graceful precision in his words. He showed him his scrolls, explained the circumstances of their painting, gave him advice in a way that was at once simple and cryptic. Salagnon believed that they were friends. He talked enthusiastically about the man to his uncle.
‘He invites me to his home. He is always pleased to see me. He makes me feel at home. He shows me the paintings he keeps hidden in cabinets and we spend hours talking.’
‘Be very careful, Victorien.’
‘Why do I need to be careful of an old man who seems happy to show me the greatest achievements of his civilization?’
The emphasis made his uncle laugh.
‘You could not be more wrong.’
‘About what?’
‘About everything. Friendship, civilization, pleasure.’
‘He treats me as an equal.’
‘He is slumming it. And it amuses him. He’s an Annamese aristocrat; and Annamese noblemen are even more arrogant than noblemen in France. Back home, we cut our aristocrats down to size, they keep their noses clean; not here. To the nobles here, the word “equality” is untranslatable; the very idea makes them smile, an example of European vulgarity. Here, noblemen are gods and their peasants are dogs. It amuses them that the French pretend not to see it. They know. If he does you the honour of inviting you in to discuss the hobby of a man of leisure, it’s because it amuses him; it is a diversion from more sophisticated acquaintances. He probably thinks of you as a playful little puppy that followed him home. And frequenting a French officer without ceremony allows him to affect a kind of modernity that must serve his purpose in some way or other. I know the guy a little. He’s linked to that idiot Bảo Đại, the one they want to make emperor of Indochine, after convincing us to withdraw without actually leaving. To him and his cronies, the nobles of Annam, the French alliance is inconsequential. They count in centuries the way you count in hours. The presence of France here is like the common cold. We’ll go. They’ll blow their noses. They’ll still be here. They make the most of it to learn other languages, read other books, enrich themselves in other ways. Go ahead, learn to paint, but don’t set too much store by this man’s friendship. Or his conversation. He looks down on you, but he finds you amusing; he has assigned you a role in a play you know nothing about. Make the most of it, learn what you can, but be wary. Just as he is always wary.’
When Salagnon arrived, an elderly manservant – thin, stooped and much older than his master – would open the door and lead him through the empty rooms. The old man would be standing, waiting for him, a faint smile playing on his lips, his pupils often dilated, but his hand steady to greet the Frenchman. Salagnon noticed that he used only his right hand to salute, to paint, to tie up his scrolls, to lift the little bowl of tea to his lips. He never used his left, keeping it in the pocket of his elegant, pale suit, hiding it under the table when sitting, and clamping it between his knees. It trembled.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he would invariably say. ‘I was just thinking about you.’ And he would nod to an unopened scroll laid on the long table he had had installed in the largest of his vast rooms. A second rattan chair had been added to the first, with a low table between them, on which were laid out the painting tools. As he set himself to painting, another servant would arrive with a scalding pot of tea, a slender young man who moved like a cat. He never raised his wild face, his lowered eyes flickered furiously to left and right. His master would watch him with an indulgent smile and never commented when he ineptly served the tea, always spilling a little water next to the bowl. The master would thank him in a soft voice and the very young man would turn on his heel, glancing around with brief, angry glares.
After a sigh from the master, a lesson in the art of the brush would begin. They would open the ancient painting and unroll it, each admiring the unfurling landscape. With his right hand the old man would wind up the silk panel at a measured pace, while his trembling left hand pointed out certain strokes without insistence, his ungainly hand fluttering over the unfolding painting, accentuating the soft rhythm of respiration, his trembling movements accompanying the breath of the ink that sprang, living and fresh, from the roll in which it was habitually imprisoned. Sometimes the table was not long enough for the landscape and he would have to work in several stages, furling the base even as the summit continued to appear. They strolled together along a path of ink, he pointing out the details with few words, few gestures, which Salagnon acknowledged with little grunts and nods; he now felt he was beginning to understand the silent music of ink strokes. He was learning.
He made his ink, taking his time, gently grinding the compressed pigment in the hollow stone with a drop of water; and these delicate gestures prepared him for painting. He used highly absorbent paper on which it was possible to make only a single stoke, a single fixed path of no return, a single, definitive mark. ‘Each stroke should be precise, young man. But if it is not, what matter? Ensure that the following strokes make it perfect.’
Salagnon held the ineradicable between his fingers. At first it caused him to freeze, then it liberated him. There was no longer any need to go over past traces; once made, there was nothing to be done. But the strokes that followed could heighten their perfection. Time flowed on, and rather than agonize, it was enough to confidently set one’s mark on it. As he learned, he explained what he had understood to the old man, who listened with the same patient smile. ‘Understand, young man, understand. It is always good to understand. But paint. The singular stroke of the brush is the only path in life. You must set out on it alone. You must live it for yourself.’
It came to an end, one day, at the usual hour, when Salagnon came to the front door and found it was ajar. He rang the bell used to summon the servants, but no one came. He went inside. Alone, he wandered through the empty rooms to the ceremonial room used for painting. The red lacquer cabinet, the rattan chairs, the table rose in the dusty light of
afternoon like ruined temples in a jungle. The elderly manservant was sprawled in the doorway. There was a neat hole in his skull, between the eyes, but there was only a thin trickle of blood. His aged, shrivelled body seemed to have had little blood left. His master had been at his table, painting, his forehead rested on an antique scroll now irreversibly tainted. The back of his head was a bloody pulp, his painting tools had been overturned; the ink, mingled with blood on the tabletop, formed a shimmering, dark red pool. It looked solid. Salagnon did not dare touch it.
The young servant was never found.
‘It was him,’ Salagnon said to his uncle.
‘Or maybe not.’
‘Why else would he have run away?’
‘Here, regardless of what people have done, they run away. Especially a young man whose only support has vanished. If the police had questioned him, he would have been guilty. They know how to do these things. With them, everyone confesses. The colonial police are the finest in the world. They systematically find the guilty party. Everyone they arrest is guilty and eventually confesses. So, even unimportant witnesses run away; and in doing so confirm their guilt. It’s inexorable. In Indochine we’re spoiled for choice when it comes to finding guilty men. The streets are full of them. You only have to go out and round them up. You could be one of them.’
‘Was it my fault that he died?’
‘It’s possible. But don’t overestimate your importance. An Annamese nobleman has many reasons to die. It could be in anyone’s interests. Other aristocrats, to set an example, to discourage blatant westernization; the Viet Minh, to widen the colonial gap and make it seem irreversible; the Chinese merchants, who traffic opium and run the gambling houses with the approval of Bảo Đại, the French authorities and the Viet Minh, since we all get a cut; our intelligence service, to muddy the waters, to throw suspicion on others so they will kill each other. And it could have been the young boy for personal reasons. But even he could have been manipulated by any of the parties I’ve just mentioned. And they themselves could be manipulated by others, and so on, ad infinitum. You already know that in Indochine death comes quickly, for the haziest of reasons. But if the reasons are vague, death is always clean; in fact, it is the only thing that is clean in this bloody country. In time you come to love it.’
‘Indochine?’
‘Death.’
Salagnon painted out of doors. The number of children all around was unimaginable. They shouted, they chirped, they leapt into the river, ran barefoot along the dirt road. A line of trucks passed, raising clouds of dust, hawking thick black diesel fumes, escorted by two motorcycles that rumbled like an operatic bass, the riders bolt upright, wearing thick goggles and leather helmets. The boys raced after them; they always moved in gangs and always ran, their small, bare feet slapping against the dirt, jeering at the soldiers sitting in the back of the trucks, the weary soldiers who waved half-heartedly. Then the convoy sped away in a clatter of metal, a roar of engines, leaving a thick cloud of yellow dust, and the boys scattered like so many starlings, then flocked together again and raced off in another direction to plunge into the river. The number of children here is unimaginable, many more than in France. One might think they sprout from the fecund earth, that they grow and multiply like water hyacinths on tranquil lakes. Fortunately, death comes quickly here, otherwise the lake would be overgrown; fortunately, they multiply quickly, because there is so much death that the whole country would be killed off. Just like the jungle, everything grows and comes to nothing, death and life in the same moment, in the same act. Salagnon drew children playing on the water’s edge. He painted them with delicate lines, with no shadows, in vibrant strokes, as they constantly scrabbled and scurried above the level line of the water. While in this country he was plunging deeper into death and blood, the sketches he was sending home to Eurydice became increasingly delicate.
When the red sun sank in the west, Hanoi began to bustle. Salagnon went to eat. Tonight he ordered soup again – never in his life had he eaten so much soup. The huge soup bowls were whole worlds floating in a pungent broth, just as Indochine floats on the water of its rivers, in its scents of flesh and flowers. The bowl was set down in front of him and, among the diced vegetables, the translucent noodles and the slivers of meat, was a chicken’s foot, claws at the ready. He thanked them for this touch; they knew him. Around him, Tonkinese diners slurped hurriedly; French soldiers ordered more beers, while air force officers, having set their striking caps adorned with gold wings on the table, chatted among themselves, laughing at the stories they took turns telling. They had invited him to join them, seeing that he was an officer, but he had declined, gesturing to his brush and his sketchpad open to a blank page. They had saluted sympathetically and returned to their conversation. Salagnon preferred to eat alone. Outside, the bustle carried on; inside the Tonkinese took it in turns to eat, always hurriedly, while the French lingered at their tables to drink and chatter. A middle-aged woman with a perm served, her eyes daubed with blue eyeshadow, her mouth a vivid red. She spent her time yelling at the young girl in the slit skirt, who served drinks without a word and wriggled like an eel to avoid the soldiers as they laughed and tried to grab her. She tirelessly carried beers to the table and Salagnon could not tell whether the owner was telling her to avoid the soldiers’ hands or to allow them to grope her.
The light went out. The creaking fan slowed and stopped. This brought a burst of applause, of laughs and mock-frightened cries, all made by French voices. Outside the sky still twinkled and the paraffin lamps hanging from the street stalls cast a quivering light. Shots rang out. Without a word, all the Tonkinese got up and walked out. The two women vanished, leaving the French officers alone in the restaurant. The conversation trailed off and they began to get to their feet, visible only as silhouettes, their faces reflecting the orange flames from the lamps outside. Salagnon was caught unawares, cupping the bowl in his hands and drinking when the light went out. He did not dare continue drinking for fear of swallowing the chicken claw in the darkness. His eyes adjusted. A crowd swelled through the street. There was a sound of running, shouting, gunfire. A dishevelled Vietnamese youth burst into the restaurant, bathed in red by the flickering lanterns. He waved a pistol and peered into the darkness. He spotted the gold-piped white shirts of the airmen and fired, screaming ‘Criminals! Criminals!’ in a thick accent. They fell, wounded, or threw themselves to the floor. The boy stood in the doorway, gripping his gun. He turned to where Salagnon was sitting, holding his bowl. He moved forwards, aiming the pistol, yelling something in Vietnamese. This was a stroke of luck: that he shouted rather than fired. Two metres from Salagnon, he stopped, staring intently, his fingers tensed. He raised the gun and aimed it right between the eyes of Salagnon, who was still sitting, cupping the bowl in both hands, not knowing where to look – at the bowl and the floating chicken’s foot, the young man’s eyes, the ominous hand, the black barrel of the gun – when the Vietnamese boy crumpled in a burst of machine-gun fire. He fell face first on to the table, which splintered. Instinctively, Salagnon jumped to his feet, saving the bowl he was still holding and losing the flask of ink, which fell and shattered. The light came on again and the ceiling fan started up, squeaking intermittently.
In the doorway two paratroopers wheeled slowly, their slim bodies bowed over their machine guns. Their hunter’s eyes scanned the room. One of them turned over the dead Vietnamese boy with his foot.
‘You’re lucky, Lieutenant. A second longer and he would have put a bullet in you.’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
‘Luckier than our pilots, in any case. Without their wings, they’re helpless.’
One of the airmen got to his feet, his shirt stained with blood, and bent over those still lying on the floor. The paratrooper expertly frisked the Vietnamese boy; he ripped off his pendant, a silver Buddha the size of a fingernail on a leather band. He turned to Salagnon and tossed it to him.
‘There you go, Lieutenant. With this,
he should have been immortal. But you’re the one he brought luck to. Keep it.’
The strap was spattered with blood, although it had already dried. Not knowing where to put it, Salagnon hung it around his neck. He drained his soup, leaving the chicken’s foot, claws bared, at the bottom of the bowl. The two women did not reappear. They all left together, taking the dead and the wounded.
Commentaries VI
I saw her around all the time, but I’d never have dared speak to her
‘WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?’
‘Nothing. Events pursued their sinister course. I survived everything. This was the only event worth reporting. I was protected by something. Everyone around me was dying, I survived. The little Buddha I wore constantly must have absorbed all the available luck and transmitted it to me; all those who came near me died, but not me.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve still got it.’
He opened a couple of buttons of his shirt. I leaned forwards. He showed me his emaciated chest, which resembled an arid, windswept plateau where rivers had once flowed. A few sparse grey hairs barely covered it, the flesh had receded, the skin clung loosely to the bones in little folds; it looked like a fossilized network, like the riverbeds of Mars where water no longer flows, except deep below a little blood still flows, perhaps.
Dangling from a leather thong I had never noticed before was a little silver Buddha. He was seated on a lotus, his knees visible beneath the folds of his robe; he held up an open hand and, if you looked closely, you could just make out a smile. His eyes were closed.
‘You still wear it?’
‘I’ve never taken it off. It’s exactly as it was the day I got it. Look.’
He showed me a crusting of rust in the folds of the little figurine: the neck, the crossed legs.
‘I’ve never cleaned it. Silver doesn’t rust, that’s the blood of the kid who was wearing it. I keep it with me, a souvenir of the day I died. I shouldn’t have survived that moment. All the rest of my life has been a bonus. I wear it next to me. It is a monument to the dead I carry, to the memory of those who were not so lucky and to the health of those who were. If it was a trophy, I might have cleaned it, but it is a testament, so I have left it as it was.’