The Corsican

by William Heffernan

  The colonel led Peter across the room to an aristocratic-looking Vietnamese dressed in the uniform of an ARVN colonel, the left side of the blouse overladen with decorations. He was at least five feet eight, unusual for a Vietnamese, and Peter made a mental note to check later whether he was wearing lifts in his shoes.

  As they approached, Duc turned to watch them. He was easily fifty, but seemed younger, with jet-black hair that seemed slightly oiled, hooded eyes, and a tight, thin-lipped mouth. The way he held himself spoke both of a life of long-standing privilege and of an open contempt for non-orientals.

  “Colonel Duc, I’d like you to meet the newest addition to my staff, Captain Peter Bently.”

  Duc offered a modest bow, little more than an inclination of his head, a near-insulting demonstration of his own feeling of superiority.

  Peter made sure his bow was lower, acknowledging Duc’s superior rank. “Chao, dai ta,” he said, using the Vietnamese for “colonel.”

  “Ah, you speak Vietnamese?” Duc inquired in English.

  “It has been my pleasure to learn your beautiful language, dai ta,” Peter said.

  Duc turned to Wallace with a wry smile. Peter noticed his eyes became even more hooded when he smiled. “So, the Americans are finally sending us young men who can speak more languages than their own,” he said. “That’s most refreshing.”

  “Bently here speaks quite a few,” Wallace said, missing the subtlety of the insult. “What is it now?” he said, turning to Peter. “Laotian, French, Italian, and some others, I think.”

  Peter nodded. “Corsican,” he said.

  Duc raised his eyebrows slightly. “We have many Corsicans living in Viet Nam—perhaps you will find use for that obscure tongue. I doubt you get much chance to use it.”

  “I am fortunate, dai ta,” Peter said. “My mother is Corsican, so it is a language I can use frequently.”

  “Ah, she was born there?” Duc asked.

  “In France, in Marseille.”

  “Then your father must have met her …” He paused, gauging Peter’s age, then added, “… during the war.”

  “Before it, sir. She had emigrated to the United States. He actually served in the Pacific theater, and then was based here in Saigon after the war.”

  “So that accounts for your linguistic skill,” Duc said. “For a moment I had hoped the Americans were broadening their educational system.” Duc smiled, enjoying his own cutting remark, then hurried on. “Unfortunately, I was not here after the war. I was in France for my education.”

  “It is sad,” Peter said, “that in such a beautiful country one must go elsewhere to learn.”

  Duc’s eyes flashed momentary anger, quickly covered by a smile. “Yes, it is unfortunate that beautiful countries must often be poor.”

  Peter glanced about the room. “All men must be prepared to struggle against poverty,” he said. “Otherwise it will come upon us from behind and impose its will. I am told wars have been fought for that purpose.”

  Duc’s eyes flickered, then he turned to Wallace. “I like your new officer,” he said. “He seems to have studied our philosophy as well as our language. Perhaps when he is here for a time, he will learn to understand the people as well.” Duc’s attention was drawn to his right. “Ah, my daughter-in-law is about to join us. Please allow me to introduce her.”

  Peter turned in the direction of Duc’s gaze and found a small, exquisitely beautiful young woman approaching. She was wearing a daffodil ao dai that seemed to accent the soft, creamy hue of her skin. Her black hair fell to her shoulders, framing her oval face and high cheekbones. Her eyes, a soft brown, seemed proud, yet shy at the same time, and her small, full-lipped mouth looked as though it had been stolen from some fine porcelain figurine.

  Duc stepped forward. “This is my daughter-in-law, Ba Lin,” he said, placing heavy emphasis on the “Ba,” which indicated she was married. “And this is Captain Bently, a new arrival to our troubled country,” Duc added.

  Peter bowed. “It is a great pleasure, Ba Lin,” he said, rising and looking into the depth of her eyes.

  “I too am honored, captain,” she said. She held his gaze, longer than appropriate, then her cheeks took on a hint of color and she turned to Wallace. “And to see you again as well, colonel. You honor my father-in-law’s house.”

  “The honor’s mine, Ba Lin. All mine. Your father-in-law puts on the best party in all Saigon.”

  “Perhaps you can introduce the captain to our other guests,” Duc said to his daughter-in-law. “The colonel and I have much to discuss.”

  Lin bowed to her father-in-law, then turned back to Peter. “Would that please you, captain?”

  “Very much. It is always difficult for a stranger in a new country. Your father-in-law is most kind.”

  He had answered in Vietnamese, and her reaction was a mixture of surprise and pleasure, but she said nothing. They excused themselves and began circulating among the guests. The variety was impressive. Each embassy and consulate was represented, along with the ranking military of the various nations involved in the conflict. Peter found himself wondering who among the Vietnamese officials also represented the Viet Cong. Perhaps even Cao himself, if such a person actually existed.

  Walking toward the final group, Lin allowed the conversation to become personal. “Tell me how you came to speak our language so well,” she said.

  Peter offered a shortened version of his father’s service in Saigon, his love of the culture and the life here, and his employment of a Lao servant who had returned home with him, and his own subsequent university studies. “He wanted me to know and appreciate the people and culture as well,” he concluded. “So I had the good fortune to be taught from an early age.”

  “It is pleasant to hear we have been able to export more than our difficulties,” she said. “I only pray one day we will be able to again enjoy the pleasure others find here.”

  “Tell me, Ba Lin,” Peter said, taking advantage of the personal turn she had allowed the conversation to assume, “will I be able to meet your fortunate husband?”

  She stopped and looked up at him. She was no more than five feet two, a full foot shorter than he, and she seemed almost childlike standing before him. “I thought you knew,” she said. “My husband was killed three years ago by the Viet Cong. He was captured by them and never found. But there is little doubt of his fate.”

  “I am very sorry,” Peter said. “My clumsiness embarrasses me.”

  She smiled at him. “You had no way of knowing. Colonel Wallace should have informed you. But the social graces do not appear to be his strong point. We all pray he is a better soldier.” She began moving toward the group again, then bypassed them and stopped in a doorway that looked out into the tropical garden.

  “Your garden is very beautiful,” Peter said. “I was admiring what little I could see of it when I arrived.”

  “Yes, it is very old. I am told in another generation it will reach perfection. I only hope there will be another generation in this house to enjoy it.” She turned to him and smiled. “Let us not speak Vietnamese anymore. I seldom get a chance to practice my English.”

  “You speak it beautifully,” Peter said. “Did you study abroad?”

  She nodded. “In Paris. The lyées are poor here, and to attend university in France has become almost a custom for my family. We are a people who have had many masters,” she said. “And with each we have assumed some of their culture.”

  “But never surrendered to any,” Peter added.

  “Surrender is not in the nature of the oriental. We have always known that we will overcome all eventually. If by no other means than assimilation. We are like the amoeba, constantly changing shape and form, but engulfing that with which we come in contact.”

  “You are a particularly beautiful amoeba,” Peter said. “Had I known they could be so lovely, I would have spent many more hours studying my biology.”

  She laughed, then covered her mouth to hide it
. “There must be some French in your ancestry,” she said. “The French always waste little time reaching the point of romantic compliments.”

  “My mother was born in France,” Peter said.

  “Ah, I thought so.” She was still smiling at him.

  “I hope I didn’t offend you,” he said, knowing he had not.

  “As I explained, I spent many years in the west—too many, according to my father-in-law. And I have learned to accept western ways.”

  Instantly Peter wanted to ask to see her again. But he knew it was much too soon, and the situation was dangerous for her. To accept would mean being ostracized by all, even her family.

  “Do you miss Europe, and the less restrictive life-style there?” Peter asked.

  She smiled at him, seeing through the clumsiness of his question. “Europe is very beautiful, very exciting, but it is always good to return to one’s home.” She hesitated, toying with the real part of his question. “Restrictions are something, I have found, that one chooses to allow, or chooses not to allow.”

  “And the penalties for rejecting them?”

  “Penalties often produce a greater burden on the person who imposes them.The Viet Cong imposed the penalty of death on my husband, and in doing so, earned the lifelong enmity of those who cared for him.”

  Peter was forced to admire her deftness at switching the conversation from the personal to the political. “Many of your countrymen, even those who support the government in the south, seem to have great sympathy for the Viet Cong.”

  “Yes, that is true. There is a great admiration and respect for Ho Chi Minh, and I think it carries over even to those who fight against him. It is a strange conflict in our minds. To us he is, and always will be, a great national hero, a great patriot. Unfortunately he seeks to change a way of life that has been good to us, so we must resist him. But you must remember, captain, we are a country that has fought for hundreds of years to escape the domination of other, larger, stronger nations. That need to be free of others is still at the very soul of our being. It is only a different choice of means to the same end.”

  “And that is why your people feel a prejudice toward mine?” He was trying to bring the conversation back to a personal level, knew he was being clumsy in the attempt, but could find no other way. The clumsiness made him feel awkward, a feeling he was not accustomed to, one that annoyed him.

  “I’m afraid my people always considered the Europeans to be uncultured. The Americans even more so.”

  “They also find our odor offensive, I’m told,” Peter said, trying to lighten the conversation.

  She laughed, covering her mouth again, as required by Vietnamese custom. “Yes, I have heard that. But every race has its own scent, I think. When one becomes accustomed to it, it is no longer either strange or offensive.”

  “To me you smell like a beautiful flower,” Peter said.

  The laughter flickered in her eyes now. “You are being French again,” she said. “Or you are confusing me with the scent that comes from our garden.”

  Peter bowed in submission. “Still, I wish the prejudice did not exist. I would very much like to meet with you again. To speak with you at greater length.”

  She looked away toward the garden. “Each Friday, at four, it is my custom to go to the cathedral, to light candles in my husband’s memory. Later, I visit the Street of Flowers to select floral arrangements for the weekend. It would not be improper for two who have been introduced to meet, and for the gentleman to help bring the flowers to my home.”

  She looked back at him. He felt a nervous tide swell in his stomach, the muscles in his back tighten. Her delicate beauty was almost overpowering.

  “I have always had a great interest in flowers,” he said. “And a great curiosity about those of this region.”

  She lowered her eyes and smiled again. “I must see to my other guests,” she said.

  Peter stood in the doorway to the garden, watching her walk away. Her movements, accented by the ao dai, seemed to carry her away in an effortless gliding motion. He found himself watching her long after she had gone.

  “Beautiful woman, isn’t she?”

  He turned to the sound of the gravelly voice that had come from his left. The man was in his early thirties, overweight and sweating. He had unruly brown hair that stuck out in tufts over his ears and a face that showed a love of alcohol. His tropical cord suit, though clean and pressed, looked as though it belonged to someone else, someone thinner.

  “Yes, she is,” Peter said.

  The man squinted at Peter, as though he needed glasses to see properly. “You new here, captain?” he asked.

  “Yes. The name’s Bently, Peter if you like.”

  “Joe Morris, UPI,” he said, raising a glass of amber liquid in place of a handshake. “Where you from, Pete?”

  “South Dakota,” Peter said. “And make it Peter, please.”

  Morris made a face, quietly critical of the formality. His eyes squinted again. “Saw you with Wallace before. You one of his new spooks?”

  Peter was forced to smile at the crassness of this sloppy, overweight man. “I’m assigned to Saigon.”

  Morris snorted. “Bet he’s got you working on the great Cao caper, hasn’t he?”

  Peter raised his own glass to his lips. “Am I supposed to know what that means, Mr. Morris?”

  “Aw, come on, Peter. You call me Joe. And Cao is no big secret. He’s the bogey man, the local make-work project. If your boss ever catches him, he’ll have to start investigating some of the real stuff around here. And nobody wants him to do that.”

  “The real stuff, Joe?”

  Morris squinted out across the room. “Oh, little things, like narcotics, and how easy they are to get here.” He turned back to Peter, trying to gauge his reaction.

  Peter’s face remained impassive. But the mention of narcotics had made his blood surge. Francesco’s business was heroin, and this man wanted to investigate it, write about it. Perhaps he could use Morris to draw Francesco into the open. “If you think there’s a drug problem, why don’t you write about it?” he asked.

  Morris snorted again. It appeared to be his method of laughter. “Tried to, Peter. Tried to many a time. The editors back home don’t want to hear about it. They want a nice comic-strip war. Nice happy copy about the clean-cut American kids, fighting the sneering yellow horde.”

  Peter turned to face the garden. “Your idea sounds interesting to me,” he said. “But then, what do I know about journalism?” He turned back and smiled at Morris. “Or narcotics,” he added.

  Morris looked him up and down. “You never know. Maybe someday you’ll come across something.”

  “If I do I’ll let you know,” Peter said, smiling again. “Then we might be able to help each other.”

  Chapter 25

  Molly Bloom sat behind her large teak desk, idly playing with a carved jade letter knife. She was listening far more closely than it appeared, as her man, Po, rattled on with his report in a flat North Korean dialect.

  Suddenly she looked up, stopping him in midsentence. “The party at Colonel Duc’s home,” she said in the inflection of someone raised in the south of Korea. “You had someone there?”

  Po nodded, then watched as a smile made its way across Molly’s soft delicate mouth. “It is so amusing,” she said, more to herself than Po. “They all gather together, eating and drinking and telling wonderful stories of war. And all the time, we are standing right beside them. Sometimes I wish I could tell them, Po. Just to see the looks on their faces.”

  She held the letter knife between her two index fingers, still smiling, then lowered it to the desk.

  Po stood silently, his short stocky body like some block of granite that came to life only on command.

  “And our friend Captain Bently met this fool Morris there.”

  “Yes, Luc-binh,” Po said, using the name Water Hyacinth, preferred by Molly’s employees.

  “And what did they tal
k about, Po?”

  “Narcotics, Luc-binh.”

  The smile on Molly’s lips faded quickly. “That is very bad, Po. That news will not be happily received when I pass it on. And what did our young captain do earlier today?”

  “He went to the Continental Palace Hotel, and met with Philippe Francisci and later with the man Auguste Pavlovi. I do not know what they talked about. But I will try to find out.”

  Molly waved her hand. “No, that won’t be necessary, Po. But I want you to have someone close to our young captain at all times. When possible, I want you to be close to him. Observe what he does, who he sees, especially anything involving this narcotics business. But don’t interfere. Just let me know what is happening, so if it becomes necessary we can intercede.”

  Po bowed his head. “Will the captain be here for dinner tonight?” he asked.

  She nodded her head, her thoughts distant from her actions. She looked back at him, her mind in the present again. “Yes. I received a note this morning accepting my invitation. He will be here at eight. Please tell everyone that we will use the private dining room on the third floor.” She smiled to herself, her mind appearing to drift off again.

  Po bowed and started to leave, but her voice stopped him. “And please send a messenger to me. I must send this information on to our friends.”

  The private dining room was beyond even Peter’s expectations. The long, narrow trestle table and heavy carved chairs were set before a floor-to-ceiling window that looked down on a lovely tropical garden. Along the walls fine Japanese and Korean ceramics were displayed on pedestals, interspersed with priceless figurines that Peter recognized as from the Jomon period, ranging between. 750 and 1000 B.C. The art in this room alone could ensure the comfort of Molly Bloom for the remainder of her life, he decided.

  Across the long table, she smiled at him. He looked at her now, needing the diversion of her beauty, yet realizing he was wary of everything else about her.

  “This is an evening I’ll find difficult to forget,” he said. He paused and looked around the room, then down into the garden. “An American guest, wonderful European food, and all in a surrounding of beautiful oriental art.” He smiled at her. “It’s really what this country is at this time. A blending of three cultures, each different yet, for the time, inseparable.”