by Adib Khan
He drank greedily from a water bottle and sprinkled his face to soothe the burning sensation. He had been reluctant to move further inland. Even now he could suggest that the chase might be futile…But Ken beckoned them forward to a position behind some shrubs.
‘You wouldn’t think there was a fucking war on,’ Ken sneered. ‘Stay close together. We’ll check every hut. Be careful! The geeks have a habit of springing out of nowhere.’
The peasants ignored the soldiers as they sloshed through the waterlogged field. All villagers were accustomed to foreign men invading their homes. They had been coming for years, speaking in different languages, often angry, occasionally friendly, depending on the information they received. The locals had learned to offer harmless intelligence, appear innocent and give the impression of being cooperative. Entrances to any network of underground tunnels here had remained undetected.
Except for a gaggle of geese and a few emaciated cows roaming the dirt tracks, the village itself appeared deserted.
Martin burst into a hut, pointing his rifle at the dark corners, kicking and poking sacks of rice, breaking clay pots and scattering meagre belongings. Then he stood panting in the middle of the earthen floor, unable to understand the momentary calm.
Tension increased as the search continued.
Angrily Ross Knight kicked a wall of a hut and smashed the butt of his machine gun against it. The entire structure shuddered and then collapsed in a crescendo of noise, scattering geese and briefly attracting the attention of the workers in the fields. They intensified their labour, keeping their heads down, pretending that the violence had no relevance to them.
Ransacking the other huts proved equally useless.
‘What do we have here? Look what I found!’ The note of glee in Chris Simmons’ voice brought the others running.
Behind a cow shed, Chris stood over a young Vietnamese girl. She squatted on her haunches and looked up at him. Next to her lay a bamboo basket laden with vegetables.
‘I think we should head back now,’ Martin said innocently. ‘We don’t want to be in the jungle in the fading light.’ He didn’t acknowledge the leer on Ken’s face or the looks that passed among the men.
Despite the heat, he shivered.
The girl smiled and held up a bunch of spinach as a friendly offering. Graham spat on the ground. Chris grinned.
Ken was scrutinising Martin.
‘We really should be going,’ Martin insisted. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘Martin, can you keep an eye on them—Ken pointed towards the field—‘while we search behind the other sheds and huts. Thanks, mate.’ He gave Martin a friendly push. ‘We won’t be long.’
Graham and Chris grabbed the girl. They dragged her behind the nearest hut. The look on her face—bewilderment and fear.
No. Let her go. Now!
That was what he should have said.
He should have pointed his gun at Ken. Fired shots in the air—to distract them, and bring the other soldiers running.
Instead he turned and ran.
He stumbled and fell in the muddy wetness of the paddy field. He struggled to his feet and trudged to the sanctuary of the jungle.
Behind a tree, he dropped his gear and slid to the damp earth. ‘It has nothing to do with me,’ he mumbled repeatedly to himself. But he knew even as he uttered the words that this did not hide his cowardice.
He covered his ears and screamed. Then, eyes closed, he lowered his head between raised knees.
Mechanically he recited lines from poems that he remembered.
He could not tell how long he sat reciting on the mat of leaves. ‘Any form of art is ultimately a pain reliever,’ Colin had told him only days earlier. ‘But sometimes we forget that it is a product of life and not its substitute.’
The sting of an insect’s bite startled him. He grabbed the rifle. Headed towards the village.
The crack of a single gunshot stopped him mid-stride. As if the bullet had struck him.
He sank to his knees and raised his rifle, pointed to the sky. One…two…He kept firing until the magazine was empty.
Chris prised the rifle from his hands. They were kind to him, gentle in what they said. Again, suddenly, they were rational men, talking to a fellow soldier unhinged by the stress of war. There was no thought of abandoning him. They were a unit, bonded. There were times when things got out of hand. A war could never be planned in every detail of its execution. Some things were best left unsaid, unexplored.
Other soldiers came running. Ken Davis took them aside. He spoke to them briefly—a villager, he said, had drawn a rifle from a sack of rice. It was self-defence. Graham and Ross spoke up, agreeing. Chris nodded. The bulk of the soldiers broke into a run when ordered to return to base. Now the enemy was the approaching darkness.
The four men lingered behind with Martin. Their mood changed. They encircled him and grabbed his shoulders. ‘Nothing unusual happened today, right?’ Ken whispered fiercely. ‘Mates don’t dob each other in.’
‘You didn’t see anything!’ Graham hissed. ‘You ran away.’
They limped back to camp in the haze of dusk, not together in a group, but spaced out, almost hiding from each other as scattered parts of an entity never to be whole again.
Martin did not sleep that night. He sat on a drum outside the tent, thinking about loss. Everything important had deserted him at a time when he needed his humanity—love, generosity…compassion. All that remained were the pulse and the heartbeat, the throbbing of a mass of life and a primitive desire to be alive.
By morning he had resolved to write a detailed report to the battalion commander, with a view to initiating a disciplinary process.
That day he was conscious of Graham, Ross and Chris hovering at a distance wherever he went. As Martin showered, Ken barged in, fully armed. He was fingering the trigger of his rifle. ‘What you didn’t see can’t be remembered. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? You do want to go home and quickly forget about all this shit. Everything here is a mistake. One big fuck-up.’ Just as abruptly he left. Martin trembled under the stream of water.
He found a dozen bottles of beer under his bed. He determined to hand the commander his report personally. Then he imagined the conversation.
How much of it did you see?
They dragged the girl behind a hut.
Did you follow them? See what happened?
No, sir.
Then how can you tell that the men attacked her?
They all went behind the hut.
That is not proof that she was raped.
Later there was a gunshot.
So?
They killed her!
Did you actually see someone shooting her?
No, sir.
Did you see the body?
No, sir.
Did you make an effort to prevent this so-called attack?
The four men would be summoned for their version. A simple story. They would have ironed out all possibilities of contradiction. Martin would figure prominently. The heat had affected him. He was delirious, mumbling incoherently. Foolish. They had suggested that he rest in the jungle. They held no grudges against Martin. He had not been well.
Later, retribution would begin in subtle ways.
‘ALL THESE YEARS.’ Colin stares at him, enraged. ‘All this time I had no inkling that you were involved in something like that. It was naïve of me to think that the sordidness of war wouldn’t affect you. But why now? Why tell me about it after so many years? What good can it do?’
‘I didn’t know who to turn to.’ Martin is shamed. ‘I thought of Andrew Gribble, but he isn’t a therapist for the soul. I thought you might understand. You’ve told me often enough about the “cathartic effect of narrating life’s stories”. Well, this was mine! It’s created a whirlwind inside me. I’ve been asking myself questions ever since. They’re stale and exhausted, Colin, and I’m no closer to answering them than I was thirty years ago. It’s time to clean up th
e mess and begin again. Haven’t I earned the right to find peace?’
Colin sits quietly, thinking. He regains his normal composure, then speaks.
‘We have been friends for a very long time. Over the years I have created an image of you—of what I think you are and your qualities as a person. It has remained as a clear and consoling picture. To have it blurred, well…if I were not rational, I would be insane with self-pity. It was an unpardonable response, selfish to the extreme. I am sorry.’
What do friends talk about? Martin looks at Colin and thinks about their separate inner lives. They have communicated about words and ideas, speculated and dreamed. But they’ve deluded each other into thinking that the reflections of life are more important than the real thing.
Colin is quite still when he speaks again. ‘I’ve let myself down too, Martin, by not speaking to you about the fear of dying, or what it’s like to be gay, and never to have had a partner. I wish I hadn’t held the rage of it all within me. Now I don’t know how to let it out. I, too, have hidden things that clutter the space inside.’
SIXTEEN
After a while, Martin makes them ham and cheese sandwiches for an early lunch. And he decides not to tell Colin about the possibility of moving to live near Frank and Maria in the country. Ponderously he says, ‘I’ve given up thinking that everything will be all right and I can retire, having resolved all of life’s problems. I am reconciled to living with pockets of contentment, instead of waiting for a flawless period of old age living.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Colin responds without bitterness. ‘I won’t experience old age.’
‘The question is,’ Martin looks sharply at his friend, ‘where should one live out the last years of life?’
‘You mean you have a choice? Unlucky you!’
AT TWELVE THIRTY Martin has an appointment at home. He finds Glenda already talking to the smart young estate agent in front of the house.
‘Stephen Merrick, Martin,’ she introduces them. Martin smiles grittily at her and takes the man inside.
Merrick checks the place meticulously. He looks out at the large well-maintained backyard.
‘I don’t think we’ll have any difficulty getting a buyer, Mr Godwin,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have a For Sale sign put up in the next couple of days and—’
‘Can you give me some idea how much it might fetch?’ Martin is blunt, not favourably disposed to this haste.
But Stephen Merrick avoids a direct answer. ‘The land price in this area is high, and there’s a huge demand for houses in the inner suburbs. I think you’ll do very well.’
They leave it like that. When Merrick has gone Glenda appears at the door with a teacake. She looks disturbed and frail.
‘Are you selling the house?’
‘Only getting an idea of what the place might be worth,’ Martin answers truthfully, letting her in. ‘At the moment I don’t really know where I’ll end up.’
‘I never thought that you would even consider moving.’ Tearfully she offers him a wedge of the cake. ‘You are such a dependable friend, and a source of comfort to me.’
Martin is touched by the admission. ‘Glenda, I want to be near Frank, and Maria and my grandchild. You know that there comes a time when you have to make a move towards the final stage of your life.’ He speaks softly to her.
‘You are too young to talk like that!’ she says crossly. ‘Look at me! I’m almost seventy-eight but I don’t make any big decisions. I just flow with my age.’ She looks pleadingly at him. ‘I wouldn’t like to have anyone noisy and unreliable living next to me. Change upsets me.’
‘It might all fizzle out,’ he comforts her as she leaves. ‘I’ll come around and fix the kennel tomorrow and replace the hinges on the back door.’
As he watches Glenda leave, Martin realises that the dream about the empty coffin has removed the dread of death and the fear of impending danger that has preoccupied him. He has created his own meaning from the anticlimax that culminated the dream. So the emptiness of the coffin has brought him hope. He thinks of Jeffrey Benson and the story of Kisagotami. He feels relaxed and strangely contented.
He makes his way out again to the ute, to visit Nora. A small removalist’s van sits on the opposite side of the street. A man is loading bedroom furniture and a television. Martin’s young neighbour appears with a suitcase and a half-filled garbage bag. He envies her travelling so lightly. He thinks about his own possessions, especially the junk in the shed.
Martin walks across the road. ‘Sorry to see you leave.’
She smiles brightly. ‘Finally! I’m Sally. I meant to come over and say goodbye.’
They have lived opposite each other as strangers, but Martin cannot help a twinge of resentment, as if he were being unfairly left behind. Her cheerfulness reminds him of his own enthusiasm on the day he left for Brisbane. There was so much pride in being a soldier representing his country in a noble cause. He’d had absurd notions of never dirtying his starched uniform or his glossy black boots. The time in Vietnam would be full of high adventure, culminating in victory. After the war he would find a steady job, marry Moira and raise a family. The years had lain ahead of him like a set of well-lit steps. Sally’s generation is more aware of the complex dimensions that determine their lives.
‘Good luck, and take care of yourself!’ he says heartily. They shake hands.
BY THE TIME HE reaches the hostel, the afternoon is full of pre-season spring weather. He has vaguely planned to take Nora out at last, drive along familiar routes, hoping it might jog her memory and give them something to talk about. He hasn’t made up his mind whether he should mention a later trip to Daylesford, or even hint that he might be moving. It’s impossible to judge the likely impact.
Inside Sarah Dickson reports that Nora is eating well and cooperating with the staff. ‘She appears to have found great determination to improve her mobility. She’s doing just fine using a walking stick. But take the walker just in case she wants to use it. Her hand movements are steady and her overall motor skills are terrific. Martin, she says she needs to be strong for a long journey.’
Martin does not engage with this. He thinks back, but can’t remember if he told Nora they might go out.
‘We had a problem the other day with a little girl’s doll,’ Sarah Dickson says tentatively.
‘I heard about it.’
‘It was very gracious of the mother to let Nora have it.’
‘I’d like to pay for the doll,’ Martin offers.
‘It’s not worth it. It was a mangled old thing. We replaced it with one we had in stock.’
‘I thought I’d take Nora for a short drive…’ Martin notices the hint of a frown on her face. ‘Since this is the first time, I don’t want to overdo anything.’
‘Well. We think it’s wonderful that you are able to do this much.’ Now Sarah Dickson reveals that Nora has insisted on having her hair shampooed and make-up applied.
‘Let me guess. She’s wearing the blue dress.’
Sarah Dickson laughs.
Martin checks a few details. He borrows a foldable wheelchair. As a precautionary measure he is advised to carry a mobile phone. The walking stick and the walker will go in the car as well. There are no restrictions about Nora’s eating or drinking.
Eventually he finds himself loitering in the corridor, chatting to a few of the inmates. His lips are dry and momentarily he feels nauseous. The door to Nora’s room is ajar. He can hear her talking. Noiselessly he enters and stands with his back against the wall.
Nora is stooped over the walker, facing the window, her right hand clutching a doll. He steps forward. ‘Nora.’
She makes an effort to hide the doll, finally dropping it on the floor. With surprising agility she turns the walker around. ‘Who are you?’ she frowns.
‘Martin,’ he says absent-mindedly, lost in the sad mystery of the doll.
‘I’m busy right now.’
‘I’ve come to take you out.�
�
She stares at him and makes no attempt to hide her disappointment. ‘I thought it would be someone else.’
Martin unfolds the wheelchair, and checks to see that she has enough warm clothes. He wheels her out to the ute and helps her to climb inside. To his surprise, Nora cooperates meekly. He folds the wheelchair and places it in the back of the vehicle, along with her walker and the stick. He drives cautiously, as though extra care is necessary with Nora sitting next to him. He imagines her as a young woman—rebellious, wild and self-indulgent, without the restrictions of trepidation or sorrow, honest about her physicality He reaches over and caresses her shoulder. ‘Everything okay?’ She nods, almost shyly. He looks at her seat belt several times to make sure that she is securely fastened in.
They turn past Flinders Street Station and reach St Kilda Road. Nora looks wide-eyed at the buildings and the landmarks. She claps her hands and points to the spire of the Arts Centre. Martin turns into Linlithgow Avenue and finds a parking space just around the corner. ‘Do you know where we are?’
Nora blinks at him. ‘River?’
‘And the name of the river?’
Her lips move noiselessly as though she is trying out whatever names she can recall. ‘Journey?’
‘No, the name? We came here often,’ Martin reminds her.
‘To walk?’ Nora looks at him.
‘Yes, and sometimes to sit on the bank to eat and drink. It’s the Yarra.’
Nora giggles, as though recalling forbidden memories.
‘Do you remember the floral clock? There, to your left.’
She takes a while to focus on the circular arrangement of flowers and the movement of the dial. Her hands push against the door of the ute.
Martin comes around and seats her in the wheelchair, with the walking stick across her lap. He looks across St Kilda Road. In front of the entrance to the theatres is a steady flow of pedestrians. A crowd has gathered around two men performing a mime. He turns the wheelchair around and crosses to the other side.
Nora is entranced by the performers. She follows the gestures of their hands, her head swaying in the directions in which the men move. They are dressed in loose-fitting silvery garments, their faces and hands identically painted. Nora begins to imitate them, her arms and legs moving delicately. Martin pushes the wheelchair closer to the players. One of them notices what Nora is doing. He glides up to her and offers his hand. She rises. The look of delight on her face stops Martin from intervening. Nora’s steps are slow, but fluid and graceful. The crowd claps. There are shouts of encouragement. Martin releases his grip on the back of the wheelchair and begins to enjoy the spectacle.