We were quartered in a house at the eastern edge of the village, one that the fields did not enclose. Three cots were set up inside, along with a table and chairs; the yellow walls were brocaded with mildew, and weeds grew sideways from chinks in the concrete blocks. Light was provided by an oil lamp that—as darkness fell—sent an inconstant glow lapping over the walls, making it appear that the room was filled with dirty orange water.
After dinner Fierman produced a bottle of whiskey—his briefcase contained three more—and a deck of cards, and we sat down to while away the evening. The one game we all knew was Hearts, and we each played according to the dictates of our personalities. Fierman became quickly drunk and attempted to Shoot the Moon on every hand, no matter how bad his cards; he seemed to be asking fate to pity a fool. I paid little attention to the game, my ears tuned to the night sounds, half expecting to hear the sputter of small-arms fire, the rumor of some ghostly engagement; it was by dint of luck alone that I maintained second place. Witcover played conservatively, building his score through our mistakes, and though we were only betting a nickel a point, to watch him sweat out every trick you would have thought a fortune hung in the balance; he chortled over our pitiful fuckups, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in delight, and whistled as he totaled up his winnings. The self-importance he derived from winning fouled the atmosphere, and the room acquired the staleness of a cell where we had been incarcerated for years. Finally, after a particularly childish display of glee, I pushed back my chair and stood.
“Where you going?” asked Witcover. “Let’s play.”
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Christ!” He picked up the discards and muttered something about sore losers.
“It’s not that,” I told him. “I’m worried if you win another hand, you’re gonna come all over the fuckin’ table. I don’t wanna watch.”
Fierman snorted laughter.
Witcover shot me an aggrieved look. “What’s with you, man? You been on my case ever since the hotel.”
I shrugged and headed for the door.
“Asshole,” he said half under his breath.
“What?” An angry flush numbed my face as I turned back.
He tried to project an expression of manly belligerence, but his eyes darted from side to side.
“Asshole?” I said. “Is that right?” I took a step toward him.
Fierman scrambled up, knocking over his chair, and began pushing me away. “C’mon,” he said. “It’s not worth it. Chill out.” His boozy sincerity acted to diminish my anger, and I let him urge me out the door.
The night was moonless, with a few stars showing low on the horizon; the spiky crowns of the palms ringing the village were silhouettes pinned onto a lesser blackness. It was so humid, it felt like you could spoon in the air. I crossed the dirt road, found a patch of grass near the tin-roofed building, and sat down. The door to the building was cracked, spilling a diagonal of white radiance onto the ground, and I had the notion that there was no machine inside, only a mystic boil of whiteness emanating from Tuu’s silky hair. A couple of soldiers walked past and nodded to me; they paused a few feet farther along to light cigarettes, which proceeded to brighten and fade with the regularity of tiny beacons.
Crickets sawed, frogs chirred, and listening to them, smelling the odor of sweet rot from the jungle, I thought about a similar night when I’d been stationed at Phnoc Vinh, about a party we’d had with a company of artillery. There had been a barbecue pit and iced beer and our CO had given special permission for whores to come on the base. It had been a great party; in fact, those days at Phnoc Vinh had been the best time of the war for me. The artillery company had had this terrific cook, and on movie nights he’d make doughnuts. Jesus, I’d loved those doughnuts! They’d tasted like home, like peace. I’d kick back and munch a doughnut and watch the bullshit movie, and it was almost like being in my own living room, watching the tube. Trouble was, Phnoc Vinh had softened me up, and after three weeks, when we’d been airlifted to Quan Loi, which was constantly under mortar and rocket fire, I’d nearly gotten my ass blown off.
Footsteps behind me. Startled, I turned and saw what looked to be a disembodied white shirt floating toward me. I came to one knee, convinced for the moment that some other ghost had been lured to the machine; but a second later a complete figure emerged from the dark: Tuu. Without a word, he sat cross-legged beside me. He was smoking a cigarette…or so I thought until I caught a whiff of marijuana. He took a deep drag, the coal illuminating his placid features, and offered me the joint. I hesitated, not wanting to be pals; but tempted by the smell, I accepted it, biting back a smartass remark about Marxist permissiveness. It was good shit. I could feel the smoke twisting through me, finding out all my hollow places. I handed it back, but he made a gesture of warding it off, and after a brief silence he said, “What do you think about all this, Mr. Puleo?”
“About Stoner?”
“Yes.”
“I think”—I jetted smoke from my nostrils—“it’s crap that you’ve got him penned up in that astral tiger cage.”
“Had this discovery been made in the United States,” he said, “the circumstances would be no different. Humane considerations—if, indeed, they apply—would have low priority.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s still crap.”
“Why? Do you believe Stoner is unhappy?”
“Don’t you?” I had another hit. It was very good shit. The ground seemed to have a pulse. “Ghosts are by nature unhappy.”
“Then you know what a ghost is?”
“Not hardly. But I figure unhappy’s part of it.” The roach was getting too hot; I took a final hit and flipped it away. “How ’bout you? You believe that garbage you preached this mornin’?”
His laugh was soft and cultivated. “That was a press release. However, my actual opinion is neither less absurd-sounding nor more verifiable.”
“And what’s that?”
He plucked a blade of grass, twiddled it. “I believe a ghost is a quality that dies in a man long before he experiences physical death. Something that has grown acclimated to death and thus survives the body. It might be love or an ambition. An element of character…Anything.” He regarded me with his lips pursed. “I have such a ghost within me. As do you, Mr. Puleo. My ghost senses yours.”
The theory was as harebrained as his others, but I wasn’t able to deny it. I knew he was partly right, that a moral filament had snapped inside me during the war and since that time I had lacked the ingredient necessary to the development of a generous soul. Now it seemed that I could feel that lack as a restless presence straining against my flesh. The sawing of the crickets intensified, and I had a rush of paranoia, wondering if Tuu was fucking with my head. Then, moods shifting at the chemical mercies of the dope, my paranoia eroded and Tuu snapped into focus for me…or at least his ghost did. He had, I recalled, written poetry prior to the war, and I thought I saw the features of that lost poet melting up from his face: a dreamy fellow given to watching petals fall and contemplating the moon’s reflection. I closed my eyes, trying to get a grip. This was the best dope I’d ever smoked. Commie Pink, pure buds of the revolution.
“Are you worried about tomorrow?” Tuu asked.
“Should I be?”
“I can only tell you what I did before—no one has been harmed.”
“What happened during those other experiments?” I asked.
“Very little, really. Stoner approached each subject, spoke to them. Then he lost interest and wandered off.”
“Spoke to them? Could they hear him?”
“Faintly. However, considering his reaction to you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you could hear him quite well.”
I wasn’t thrilled by that prospect. Having to look at Stoner was bad enough. I thought about the eerie shit he might say: admonitory pronouncements, sad questions, windy vowels gusting from his strange depths. Tuu said something and had to repeat it to snap me out of my reverie. He ask
ed how it felt to be back in Vietnam, and without forethought, I said it wasn’t a problem.
“And the first time you were here,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Was that a problem?”
“What are you gettin’ at?”
“I noticed in your records that you were awarded a Silver Star.”
“Yeah?”
“You must have been a good soldier. I wondered if you might not have found a calling in war.”
“If you’re askin’ what I think about the war,” I said, getting pissed, “I don’t make judgments about it. It was a torment for me, nothing more. Its geopolitical consequences, cultural effects, they’re irrelevant to me…maybe they’re ultimately irrelevant. Though I doubt you’d agree.”
“We may agree more than you suspect.” He sighed pensively. “For both of us, apparently, the war was a passion. In your case, an agonizing one. In mine, while there was also agony, it was essentially a love affair with revolution, with the idea of revolution. And as with all great passions, what was most alluring was not the object of passion but the new depth of my own feelings. Thus I was blind to the realities underlying it. Now”—he waved at the sky, the trees—“now I inhabit those realities and I am not as much in love as once I was. Yet no matter how extreme my disillusionment, the passion continues. I want it to continue. I need the significance with which it imbues my past actions.” He studied me. “Isn’t that how it is for you? You say war was a torment, but don’t you find those days empowering?”
Just as when he had offered me the joint, I realized that I didn’t want this sort of peaceful intimacy with him; I preferred him to be my inscrutable enemy. Maybe he was right, maybe—like him—I needed this passion to continue in order to give significance to my past. Whatever, I felt vulnerable to him, to my perception of his humanity. “Good night,” I said, getting to my feet. My ass was numb from sitting and soaked with dew.
He gazed up at me, unreadable, and fingered something from his shirt pocket. Another joint. He lit up, exhaling a billow of smoke. “Good night,” he said coldly.
The next morning—sunny, cloudless—I staked myself out on the red dirt of Cam Le to wait for Stoner. Nervous, I paced back and forth until the air began to ripple and he materialized less than thirty feet away. He walked slowly toward me, his rifle dangling; a drop of sweat carved a cold groove across my rib cage. “Puleo,” he said, and this time I heard him. His voice was faint, but it shook me.
Looking into his blown-out pupils, I was reminded of a day not long before he had died. We had been hunkered down together after a firefight, and our eyes had met, had locked as if sealed by a vacuum: like two senile old men, incapable of any communication aside from a recognition of the other’s vacancy. As I remembered this, it hit home to me that though he hadn’t been a friend, he was my brother-in-arms, and that as such, I owed him more than journalistic interest.
“Stoner!” I hadn’t intended to shout, but in that outcry was a wealth of repressed emotion, of regret and guilt and anguish at not being able to help him elude the fate by which he had been overtaken.
He stopped short; for an instant the hopelessness drained from his face. His image was undergoing that uncanny sharpening of focus: sweat beads popping from his brow, a scab appearing on his chin. The lines of strain around his mouth and eyes were etched deep, filled in with grime, like cracks in his tan.
Tides of emotion were washing over me, and irrational though it seemed, I knew that some of these emotions—the fierce hunger for life in particular—were Stoner’s. I believe we had made some sort of connection, and all our thoughts were in flux between us. He moved toward me again. My hands trembled, my knees buckled, and I had to sit down, overwhelmed not by fear but by the combination of his familiarity and utter strangeness. “Jesus, Stoner,” I said. “Jesus.”
He stood gazing dully down at me. “My sending,” he said, his voice louder and with a pronounced resonance. “Did you get it?”
A chill articulated my spine, but I forced myself to ignore it. “Sending?” I said.
“Yesterday,” he said, “I sent you what I was feeling. What it’s like for me here.”
“How?” I asked, recalling the feeling of emptiness. “How’d you do that?”
“It’s easy, Puleo,” he said. “All you have to do is die, and thoughts…dreams, they’ll flake off you like old paint. But believe me, it’s hardly adequate compensation.” He sat beside me, resting the rifle across his knees. This was no ordinary sequence of movements. His outline wavered, and his limbs appeared to drift apart: I might have been watching the collapse of a lifelike statue through a volume of disturbed water. It took all my self-control to keep from flinging myself away. His image steadied, and he stared at me. “Last person I was this close to ran like hell,” he said. “You always were a tough motherfucker, Puleo. I used to envy you that.”
If I hadn’t believed before that he was Stoner, the way he spoke the word motherfucker would have cinched it for me: it had the stiffness of a practiced vernacular, a mode of expression that he hadn’t mastered. This and his pathetic manner made him seem less menacing. “You were tough, too,” I said glibly.
“I tried to be,” he said. “I tried to copy you guys. But it was an act, a veneer. And when we hit Cam Le, the veneer cracked.”
“You remember…” I broke off because it didn’t feel right, my asking him questions; the idea of translating his blood and bones into a bestseller was no longer acceptable.
“Dying?” His lips thinned. “Oh, yeah. Every detail. You guys were hassling the villagers, and I thought, Christ, they’re going to kill them. I didn’t want to be involved, and…I was so tired, you know, so tired in my head, and I figured if I walked off a little ways, I wouldn’t be part of it. I’d be innocent. So I did. I moved a ways off, and the wails, the shouts, they weren’t real anymore. Then I came to this hut. I’d lost track of what was happening by that time. In my mind I was sure you’d already started shooting, and I said to myself, I’ll show them I’m doing my bit, put a few rounds into this hut. Maybe”—his Adam’s apple worked—“maybe they’ll think I killed somebody. Maybe that’ll satisfy them.”
I looked down at the dirt, troubled by what I now understood to be my complicity in his death, and troubled also by a new understanding of the events surrounding the death. I realized that if anyone else had gotten himself blown up, the rest of us would have flipped out and likely have wasted the villagers. But since it had been Stoner, the explosion had had almost a calming effect: Cam Le had rid us of a nuisance.
Stoner reached out his hand to me. I was too mesmerized by the gesture, which left afterimages in the air, to recoil from it, and I watched horrified as his fingers gripped my upper arm, pressing wrinkles in my shirtsleeve. His touch was light and transmitted a dry coolness, and with it came a sensation of weakness. By all appearances, it was a normal hand, yet I kept expecting it to become translucent and merge with my flesh.
“It’s going to be okay,” said Stoner.
His tone, though bemused, was confident, and I thought I detected a change in his face, but I couldn’t put my finger on what the change was. “Why’s it gonna be okay?” I asked, my voice more frail and ghostly-sounding than his. “It doesn’t seem okay to me.”
“Because you’re part of my process, my circuitry. Understand?”
“No,” I said. I had identified what had changed about him. Whereas a few moments before he had looked real, now he looked more than real, ultrareal; his features had acquired the kind of gloss found in air-brushed photographs, and for a split second his eyes were cored with points of glitter as if reflecting a camera flash…except these points were bluish white, not red. There was a coarseness to his face that hadn’t been previously evident, and in contrast to my earlier perception of him, he now struck me as dangerous, malevolent.
He squinted and cocked his head. “What’s wrong, man? You scared of me?” He gave an amused sniff. “Hang in there, Puleo. Tough guy like you, you’ll make an a
djustment.” My feeling of weakness had intensified: it was as if blood or some even more vital essence were trickling out of me. “Come on, Puleo,” he said mockingly. “Ask me some questions? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? I mean this must be the goddamn scoop of the century. Good News From Beyond the Grave! Of course”—he pitched his voice low and sepulchral—“the news isn’t all that good.”
Those glittering cores resurfaced in his pupils, and I wanted to wrench free; but I felt helpless, wholly in his thrall.
“You see,” he went on, “when I appeared in the village, when I walked around and”—he chuckled—“haunted the place, those times were like sleepwalking. I barely knew what was happening. But the rest of the time, I was somewhere else. Somewhere really fucking weird.”
My weakness was bordering on vertigo, but I mustered my strength and croaked, “Where?”
“The Land of Shades,” he said. “That’s what I call it, anyway. You wouldn’t like it, Puleo. It wouldn’t fit your idea of order.”
The lights burned in his eyes, winking bright, and—as if in correspondence to their brightness—my dizziness increased. “Tell me about it,” I said, trying to take my mind off the discomfort.
“I’d be delighted!” He grinned nastily. “But not now. It’s too complicated. Tonight, man. I’ll send you a dream tonight. A bad dream. That’ll satisfy your curiosity.”
My head was spinning, my stomach abubble with nausea. “Lemme go, Stoner,” I said.
“Isn’t this good for you, man? It’s very good for me.” With a flick of his hand, he released my wrist.
I braced myself to keep from falling over, drew a deep breath, and gradually my strength returned. Stoner’s eyes continued to burn, and his features maintained their coarsened appearance. The difference between the way he looked now and the lost soul I had first seen was like that between night and day, and I began to wonder whether or not his touching me and my resultant weakness had anything to do with the transformation. “Part of your process,” I said. “Does that…”
The Best of Lucius Shepard Page 27