The Corsican

by William Heffernan

  Peter sipped his beer and stared at the grimy, knife-scarred table-top. The words FUCK VIET NAM had been scratched in the wooden surface. He drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, it’s a start,” he said at length.

  “What can I do to help?” Morris asked.

  Peter smiled at him. “Start asking around about Mr. Canterina.”

  Chapter 30

  Francesco Canterina ran his fingers through his gray wavy hair and looked around at the cramped dank chamber. His nose and mouth wrinkled with discomfort. The room was nothing more than a carved-out section of tunnel, running beneath the streets of Cholon, the ceilings so low even the smaller Vietnamese had to stoop to walk through them.

  Francesco hated cramped spaces, this one even more so because it was dark, illuminated only by the light of two Coleman lanterns stolen from the U.S. military. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The tunnel smelled like a sewer. No place for a fifty-five-year-old man to be doing business, he told himself. This was worse than the days in the resistance. At least the hills of Provence didn’t always smell of shit and rotting food.

  Cao sat behind the makeshift desk, watching Francesco, amused by his discomfort. “You would not make a good revolutionary. You’ve learned to enjoy your comfort too much.”

  “It would be nice to meet somewhere that wasn’t a hole in the ground, my friend,” Francesco said. He gestured with his hands, trying to dismiss his words even as he said them.

  “Oh, perhaps a nice restaurant, or a bar in one of the nicer hotels.” A disquieting smile filled Cao’s face. “I’m afraid being seen with you in public would harm my reputation.”

  Francesco laughed. He was older now, but still strikingly handsome and fit. He lit a cigarette and allowed it to dangle from the corner of his mouth. “We all know what an excellent reputation you have,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to tarnish it. It might upset your father-in-law, Ba Lin.”

  “I prefer you to use my revolutionary name,” Lin said. “And you never will harm my reputation. Not if you wish to continue working under our protection in the north. You see, Francesco, you’re a necessary evil. Your expertise provides a way to fund the war against the imperialists, while not using manpower needed in that fight. But we could spare the manpower if you forced us to do so.”

  Francesco smiled at the warning. “But that would make it difficult for those in authority to earn some small personal profit, would it not?”

  “That’s an interesting point, Francesco. But don’t rely too much on it.” Lin fitted a cigarette to a small ivory holder, lit it and exhaled the smoke in a direct line toward Francesco’s face. “I do enjoy your company, but I think it’s time we turned our attention to business matters. We will need an additional twenty kilos by the end of the month.”

  Francesco’s eyebrows rose at the figure. “I’ll have to work my chemist day and night,” he said. “Why the sudden need for more?”

  “It seems our customers have run into difficulty. There seems to have been some pilferage. They will fall short in the amount that has been ordered. And since the latest silver train has already been arranged, they don’t want to send any of it off empty. You can deliver, I assume.”

  “I’ll have to pay my chemist more.”

  A hand covered Lin’s mouth, as laughter filled the small dirt-walled chamber. “You have no grace about you at all,” Lin said, eyes hard now. “The additional amount will be a private transaction that will not involve the north. If you can arrange that as well you can expect another ten percent.”

  “I always think of how much more I could make if I dealt directly with the generals myself,” Francesco said.

  “Yes, but then you would have to worry about finding a certain old man standing at your door some evening.”

  “Even Buonaparte Sartene cannot live forever,” Francesco said.

  “That’s true,” Lin said. “But I’m told Corsican vendettas can outlive any man.”

  Francesco felt the hatred build in his belly. Having to rely on someone for protection offended him. Being forced to hide in the boredom of Hanoi cut him even more. Fourteen years and he was still at that bastard’s mercy. And every time he came to the south to earn his bread he was forced to watch for Sartene’s hand. He forced a smile. “Vendettas, my dear Cao, are the dreams of old men. Today’s young people forget the need of them.”

  Lin laughed again. “You lie to yourself as easily as you lie to me.” The cigarette smoke streamed across the chamber again. “There’s one other matter we must also discuss. This American newspaperman, Morris. You remember him. He was involved with that young man, Constantini.”

  Francesco nodded.

  “At a dinner party a few days ago, Mr. Morris became very involved with a new young officer in Colonel Wallace’s foolish little group of spies. I’m afraid the investigation the generals so cleverly put an end to may start up again.”

  “The solution, my dear Cao, as I told you before, is to mange a traffic accident for Mr. Morris.”

  Lin raised a hand. “We do not want to kill newspeople. They have been useful, and killing one might turn others to the side of our enemies. But we should find out what he is up to, so we can neutralize this new officer if necessary. I am already keeping close watch on him, but it is something I must do carefully.”

  “Who is this new officer?” Francesco asked.

  “His name is Bently. Peter Bently.”

  Francesco’s features hardened.

  “The name is familiar to you?” Lin asked.

  “I knew a man named Bently once. But his name was Matthew.”

  “I’m told it is a very common name for an American,” Lin said.

  Francesco nodded. “Yes, so is Peter. I knew someone by that name also.” Francesco forced a smile to his lips. “But I will look into it, my dear Cao. And if it proves dangerous, I will take care of it in a way that will never find its way back to me.”

  Out on the street, Francesco climbed into the rear seat of a waiting Citrëen. He had planned a speedy return to Hanoi, a plan he had now decided to change. Cao believed his only protection came from the north and the Viet Cong. But there were others who ensured his safety here to a limited degree, in exchange for certain services about which Cao would never learn. It would take several days to find out what he now had to know. Probably a waste of time, he told himself. But he had not stayed alive the last fourteen years by failing to give a few days over to waste.

  Chapter 31

  He had watched her throughout dinner, fascinated by the delicate grace that seemed to mark everything she did. He had kept the room dimly lit, and the very faintness of the light seemed to accent the silver ao dai she had worn, further heightening the contrast to her soft, clear, sallow skin, the silky black hair, and the endless warmth that seemed to come from her dark-brown eyes.

  She had looked at him and smiled repeatedly throughout the meal, knowing how greatly her beauty was affecting him, confident in her ability to maintain his interest. Gone now was the tension of Vung Tau, replaced by the pleasure of being alone together for the first time.

  Peter had always known he was attractive to women. But it had never before been important that he be attractive to one in particular. With Lin it was, and it left him feeling almost adolescent.

  They sat on the small terrace just off the sitting room. In the distance the Saigon harbor could just be seen, the lights from the endless flow of cargo ships glimmering far off like yachts dotting some Mediterranean port, a far cry from the reality of war supplies being offloaded in the endless heat. From the terrace even the heat was softened by the breeze that floated above the city. Peter stood, leaned against the terrace railing and stared toward the distant harbor.

  “From here, even the harbor looks beautiful. Nothing at all like it is,” he said.

  “The longer you are here, Peter, the more you will learn that nothing, no one person or thing, is as it appears to be. It is the great truth about Southeast Asia.” Her voic
e had been soft, with a slightly tolerant, laughing quality.

  Peter thought about her words for several minutes. “The war certainly isn’t as it appears to be,” he said at length. “The bursts of violence, mixed with the endless lethargy. I’ve come to believe that the lethargy is more damaging to the men fighting here than the violence. It’s the lethargy that produces the fear, the despair. When there’s violence there’s no time for either.”

  She stood and walked up beside him. Her voice held a note of laughter again. “You would prefer that the Viet Cong choose a site, bring their army to it, and fight your army to the death. And after a series of such battles a winner be declared.”

  Peter laughed softly at the idea himself. “It would be nice. Win or lose, there would be some end in sight.”

  “Then you ask your enemy to give up the only powerful weapon he has,” Lin said.

  “Which is?”

  “Time, Peter. Your enemy knows that someday you will have to leave. That someday your countrymen will tire of sending their children here to suffer and die.”

  Peter turned to her. Lin was standing in profile, her delicate bone structure picking up hints of light from the city below. “And the people here in the south believe one day we’ll abandon them?”

  She smiled slightly. “‘Abandon’ is such a harsh word,” she said. “Lose interest, perhaps. Or become more interested in some other area of the world. The people here in the south only hope it will not happen until there is strength enough to fight the war alone. To do that they will have to have a strong government, and a strong army in support of that government. Now there is neither.”

  “That could take many years,” Peter said.

  “Years are only drops of sand, Peter. If I said twenty years, you would think I was exaggerating. Others, who know my country better, would accuse me of being overly optimistic. Do you think your country will send people to die here for the next twenty years, Peter?”

  “No, Lin. I don’t.”

  “Neither do the Viet Cong,” she said.

  Almost as if on cue, flares burst in the distance beyond Cholon, spreading their eerie glow outward like some signal that death was now taking place.

  “It seems the Viet Cong are listening to you,” Peter said.

  She laughed, then turned her head toward him and smiled. “Why do you call the Viet Cong ‘Charlie’?” she asked.

  “On military radios we spell words out, giving each letter a name. Alfa, Bravo, Charlie; A, B, C. Viet Cong is VC—Victor Charlie. Charlie for short. I think Americans have to have derogatory names for their enemies. It makes them less threatening.”

  “Ah, so you feel threatened by the Viet Cong,” she teased.

  Her eyes were warm with laughter, and it made him want to reach out and touch her. He resisted the impulse, afraid it would somehow shatter the beauty he felt for the moment.

  “I feel threatened by any person or thing that would try to kill me. The kraits in the grass make me feel threatened, so I learn how to deal with them. I avoid them.” He laughed suddenly. “Do you know what our men call the kraits?”

  She shook her head slowly, keeping her soft brown eyes on his.

  “Two-step Charlie.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They claim that’s just about how many steps one can take after being bitten. Before the snake’s venom takes effect, that is.”

  She pursed her lips. “It’s such a gentle little snake. It bothers no one unless it’s molested. The Viet Cong do not have to be molested to strike.” She smiled again. “And they cannot be avoided like the krait.”

  Peter reached out and took her hand, held it up, studying the long slender fingers, then released it. “Like all Vietnamese, you seem to have a grudging admiration for the VC.”

  “As I told you before, Peter, they want what all Vietnamese want. Freedom from outside influence. We only differ on the end result, once the goal is achieved, not the goal itself. Not so different from the radical conservatives and radical liberals of your country.”

  “It would be nice if it could be settled with one nice tacky election, full of baby-kissing and handshaking.”

  “I fear both sides are too afraid they would lose. Guns are a much more effective way to take control. Once one has control, one can choose one’s opposition. And in doing so, one can limit its power and effectiveness.”

  Peter shook his head slowly. “What did you study in Europe?”

  The half-knowing smile was on his lips now, and seeing it, Lin was amused. “Political science, Peter. And philosophy.”

  “Such a strange interest for such a beautiful woman,” he said.

  Her eyes widened; her mouth formed a small circle. “Oh, in your country beauty and intellect do not mingle?” she asked.

  Peter winced. “That was a bit chauvinistic, wasn’t it?”

  “No more than if I asked why a big, strong man like Peter Bently had such a deep interest in flowers. Here in my country, a strange phenomenon has developed. In the north the men have always been the dominant force in family life. Here in the south that role has fallen to the women.”

  He held up both hands in surrender. “I will never speak such words again.” He laughed softly. “But my interest in flowers is rather closely linked to you.”

  She turned away from him as he spoke, allowing her eyes to move over the city below them. Peter joined her gaze. To their left even the neon gaudiness of Tu Do Street appeared gentle in its beauty. Her words returned to him. No one person, or thing, is as it appears to be. He looked at her in profile again, allowing himself to be slightly overwhelmed by her beauty. There had been subtle suggestions of availability. Just coming to his hotel was an unheard-of act. And he knew he wanted her, but somehow, at the same time, did not.

  He had difficulty understanding it himself. It was as though reaching out for her, as he wanted to, would somehow destroy his image of her. He wondered if perhaps he feared he might shatter the illusion of her in his own mind. It was pure adolescence, all of it. And it was foolish.

  “Have you ever wondered why the rich, who live in cities, always choose to live high above those cities?” Her voice was soft and distant, almost as if she was asking the question of herself.

  “I suppose one gets a sense of power looking down on everyone else,” Peter said.

  “I’m sure that’s a part of it. But only a small part,” Lin said.

  He waited for her to continue, to finish the thought. She looked at the city below, taking time before she did. “I think much of it is that from elevation, one only sees the beauty of the city. The poverty, the decadence, even the suffering are all hidden from view. Perhaps that is why politicians, like the rich, never see what is wrong with their society. They view it from too lofty a height.”

  “Soldiers are like that too,” Peter said. “They prefer to concentrate on the effect, rather than consider the cause.”

  “But that’s not the job of the soldier, is it?” She turned back to him, her face serious. “The soldier merely carries out the will of those in power. He is told to kill and he kills. He is not supposed to question the reason for the killing. To do so is to be disloyal.”

  “Your husband was a soldier, as is your father-in-law. Haven’t you heard them question?”

  “My father-in-law merely protects me,” Lin said. “To him I have become a living memory of his son.” She smiled softly. “It is not that his devotion to me is not real. It is merely self-directed. I represent to him something he has lost. Something that meant very much to him. And he loves me because I share that loss with him.” She turned back to the city. “But he would never discuss his inner thoughts with me. His work, perhaps. But never his thoughts about that work. To discuss that with me would be to display weakness.”

  “And your husband?”

  “My husband, like you, was young. He was very much in love with being a soldier. He loved the power, the romance, the illusion of danger that it held.” She brushed back a stra
nd of hair the wind had blown across her forehead. “Like many Vietnamese women, I knew my husband as a boy. It was very interesting to see the boy become a man. Even more interesting to see how much of the boy remained. But he, like his father, would never display weakness to me. He enjoyed what you call the bravado of his life. I’m sure, in some way, he even enjoyed the death of a soldier, because of the romance the idea held for him.”

  An involuntary shiver passed through Lin. She hugged her shoulders.

  “Are you cold?” Peter asked.

  She shook her head. “Too much talk of death and those already dead, I think.”

  He stepped toward her, placing his hands on her arms. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t very considerate of me. And not very good use of our time together.”

  Lin moved closer to him and looked up into his face. Her body seemed to soften under his touch; her eyes appeared to grow deeper. “There should be no time together,” she said. “It is wrong for me to even want this time together.”

  “I know,” Peter said. “It’s something I should not have asked for, but I didn’t know how not to.”

  She rested her head against his chest. “It will cause problems for you if it is discovered.”

  “I’m more concerned about the effect on you.” He ran his hand along her back, allowing his fingers to enjoy the brocade of the silk ao dai.

  “The reactions would not be equal, Peter,” Lin whispered. “If my father-in-law were to find out, I would simply cease to exist in his eyes. You he would have to punish, or he would lose face.”

  He stepped back and took her face in his hands, allowing her hair to run between his fingers. “I’m not afraid of his punishment. But I’ll do everything I can to see he doesn’t find out you were here. The manager is a friend, and arrangements were made to ensure privacy.”

  “There is no difficulty with accidental meetings on the street.” She was smiling at him as she spoke.

  “I want more than that with you,” he said. “Much more.”