She compressed her lips slightly, removed her hands from under chin and touched one of her tiny gold drop earrings: “You know how I live, José. I don’t think you really meant to ask me that,” she said a little coldly. “But since you have I will tell you. I live off men.”
“But Nickie …” he started after a seemingly half-paralyzed moment.
“José, please don’t moralize with me. Don’t spoil our fun. I am no different from you or any of these people. Maybe better. You sell your life, your souls for your existence,” she said sternly, her eyes blazing black now. “You can’t live without the people you do business with. You give them your whole life. You all give all. For what? I give my body. What is a body? Go look at a grave, alone, on a rainy day. Have you? Have you? No. No, you haven’t. You wouldn’t.” She reached for the gold cigarette case, opened it, took out a cigarette, snapped it shut. “Men get nothing from me except what is in their heads, and what do I get from them? The same,” she put the cigarette to her mouth and he reached over and lit. “Now please, please, José,” she said in a new soft voice. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s dance and drink and have fun?”
They drank another bottle and left the Club and were rowed out to his boat. From the boat they could see the harbor and the Japanese lanterns hanging on the porch of the Club, and the music floated out over the water. She was like a little child on the boat. He showed her everything from stem to stern and they lay on the deck under a blanket and drank brandy.
She had taken off her shoes and pinned her dress up around her knees, and he could feel the warmth of her thighs against his through the dress, through his trousers.
She looked up at the stars and recalled a story her father had told her about stars being peep holes for angels, and she searched and searched until she found the one that her father had said belonged to her own personal angel. And then she felt the weight of him on her and saw the taut sinewy muscles of his neck, and the blue black of his wavy hair, and the white scar on the brown cheek, and the stars, all the stars in the sky, her star in the sky, and she closed her eyes and reached up her arms around him and there was nothing absolutely nothing at all. And then there were the War Boat Songs of the Burmese River Boatman the steersman delivering the recitative, the crew joining in the refrain, their oars keeping time, shiny brown sweating bodies in the hot noon sun.
“Hoooooooooooye. Yea. Yea.” The steersman.
“Hoooooooooooye. Yea. Yea,” the reply. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, and faster and faster, and then everything at once, all together and at once, the whole world at once, and she heard him moan and felt him quiver all over, saw the little white half moon of the scar under his eye, saw the stars high up far beyond him, and she felt the dead weight of him upon her.
The sun came through the cabin window in lines. The cool sheets made a pattern against her body and in the early morning sunlight her black hair shone resplendently as he looked down upon her.
He could not remember the dream he had, but he could still feel it. He lit a cigarette and rubbed his fingers soothingly over the cut on his lip, then looked out the port hole to the flat calm of the harbor. She did not move and he sat next to her motionless, listening to her breathe, thinking about last night, and all the things she was, and what made her up, knowing now that she did not belong; that she would never allow herself to accept the principles of the clan.
Nothing would ever make her that. The city had ruptured her, the shiny things and the gold things had raped her. But whatever it was that she was, she was all that he would ever desire, and he thought that it was perfectly natural that he should love her.
Booom.… Boom.… Boom.
Boom-a-lay.…
“Du. Du,” he heard from a distance. “Du, Du,” something was shaking his shoulder. “Du. Du.”
Boom … Boom … Boom.
There was a fire in the cabin. “Nickie, Nickie,” his eyes adjusted. He was shaking the little Kachin bearer. His eyes opened and there was fright in the young Scout’s eyes, and Lau’rel relaxed his grip. He looked out over the Scout’s head to the valley grass where the men danced before the high totems. He put his hand to his breast pocket and felt the letter.
“Manila. Manila,” he said to his bearer. “I’m sorry, old boy. Sorry I shook you. Here. Here,” he took out a pack of cigarettes. “Take these.”
“Yes, Du,” the Scout had backed away. He took two steps forward. “Du Niven’s bearer come. Say you are late for hot-tail party,” the Scout looked down at the cigarettes and grinned, pleased with the gift.
Lau’rel put his hand to his forehead and wiped away the cold sweat: “Manila, tell me something. What are you going to do when you grow up? When the war is over?”
“Hunt and fish,” Manila said simply, grinning whitely. “And go to church on Sunday.”
“What else?” Lau’rel asked putting his hand on the young Scout’s shoulder.
“What else is there?” Manila asked puzzled. “Hunting and fishing is a good life for a man.”
It puzzled Lau’rel. He couldn’t understand whether this was a great wisdom or a great ignorance: “Won’t you work at all?”
“No. What work there is the women will do. I will hunt and fish and if someone makes war I will fight and protect our land,” he said assuredly.
“Life isn’t very difficult for you, is it Manila?”
“It is not difficult. Is it difficult for you, Du?” he asked innocently.
“Well, let’s say, Manila, that it’s a little different.” Lau’rel smiled and patted the youth on the shoulder. He turned and started across the valley grass towards the headquarters radio area where the cocktail party was being held, walking rapidly.
CHAPTER X
The drums beat faster, the wailing chant of the warsongs were louder. Con lay on his back in his hammock, his eyes focused upwards, the headquarters firelight driving shimmering shafts into the dark of the trees above him.
He reached between his legs for the bottle of scotch and barely touched it to his lips. He wiggled his feet against his freshly laundered socks inside his new jungle boots. The pleasant remembrance of the cold stream water rushing solidly against his body was still with him.
And he felt clean. Cleaner than he had ever felt before. He smelled the earth through the crisp mountain air and it was warm and soft, pristinely different and new. He stretched his body to its full length and held his forearm up in front of his eyes urging the pores to breathe in and swallow, assimilate and digest the energy of this new world.
Only a few minutes before his appetites had been ravenous. He had thought that there wasn’t enough liquor in the world to make him drunk, not enough food in the world to fill his belly, not enough woman in the world to satisfy his lust, and had laughed loudly, almost hysterically, as the hungers raged through him. And then after a while he was conscious of something else from above overshadowing all the naked things he yearned for.
A new desire. A sweeter desire than he had ever known wrapping itself around him like a boa-constrictor slowly, deliberately, forcibly until the head of it stared him in the face. The desire to deny himself of his hungers, to feel the all overmastering power, the power of himself over himself. And in his mind he saw his being as a universe in itself, dividing him into hemispheres and continents and nations. He the master of it all. The administrator. The judge. The all powerful.
The thought fascinated him completely and he lay perfectly still that he might not lose it, and in the strength of his new thinking his hungers had spiralled away, and he had a great longing to give of himself, to sacrifice himself utterly.
For the first time in his life he felt a sense of mass, a wholeness, as if all the loose and dangling ends of his living had been tied together and now the living itself made sense. His mind felt acutely, keenly knowing and he knew why as a small boy he had always wanted to climb trees, and why he had run alone on the beach when there was nowhere to run to. And why always a man must hav
e time to be alone within himself.
There was something in every man that was greater than the sum of his days and the totaling of his experiences, Con knew now. There was in man’s accomplishments something richer than he could ever realize. He must believe that always. And trust in it. And trust in himself. He would obey his will without reason and command by the right that was in him. He saw in this the wisdom of what Nautaung had said only a few days after he had first met him: Press your luck, Dua. Always press your luck. Take the knowledge you have and plan carefully, calmly, and you will find maybe that luck is really not so much luck. It was the great gamble, Con thought. Only real gamblers, winning gamblers, never really gambled; they just played the percentages.
A piece of dry firewood popped loudly shattering sparks. Con ran his fingers through his soft and silken goatee, then through his hair, vividly aware of the difference in texture. Quicker than it had come the spiritual all knowing, all seeing feeling now vanished, yet something remained with him. He swung out of the hammock and squatted by the fire. A spark floated up and caught on the soft furlike wool of his brown sweater. He flicked it away.
Had everything he had been taught and thought and done been false? Had he lived a lie?
He had no wife, no children, no home, no money, and at the moment no future. He had invested his body and soul in the sin of war. He had killed. He had done the opposite of everything that they had told him he must do and have in order to make a worthwhile life. And in having none of the things that he should have, he had for a moment found everything.
Or had he? It was difficult to analyze. Maybe what just happened was an illusion that had filtered in with the weird atmosphere of this valley. Or maybe he had too much of this fighting and drinking and going without sleep. Maybe this is how a man gets before he goes off the deep end. Con had read enough about what happens to men at war and he had seen it. But now he really didn’t care. If that was madness that he had just experienced then he was addicted to it, addicted like any dope addict to his pipe, addicted like a man to a woman. But you really couldn’t compare it with that. It was much greater than that.
He threw several branches into the fire, then lit a cigarette.
The newly lubricated wheel of his mind spun slowly, smoothly touching only the essentials. Con remembered Danny once saying much the same thing and how it had puzzled him. He could hear it again now plainly, vividly as if it was coming off a tape recorder: “Con, old man, never waste your time with the writings of the followers. Study the lives and actions of the teachers. Jesus was followed by Paul, Socrates by Plato, Confucius by Menicus. The teachers themselves talked little and wrote less, but it is in the pattern of their lives that the true wisdom is hidden.”
He understood now what Danny had meant. Con knew it would be by his actions that his own life would be governed.
“Ahhh, Dua,” Nautaung came walking in. “I come for you. Shall we go to the party? Have you eaten?”
“Nautaung,” Con said looking up. “Come sit by the fire. We will have a drink. I have not eaten but we shall have a bite at the party. Have you eaten?”
“No, Dua,” Nautaung squatted by the fire. “I thought maybe you too would not eat. I waited.”
“Here, have some of this scotch.” He passed the bottle. Nautaung drank and Con drank.
“I think this manau will be a big success,” Nautaung said. “Many people from the nearby villages have been coming and Billingsly had much luck securing laku.”
“It is good that we rest.”
“Yes, Dua. The men deserve it and they will be better later on for it.”
They smoked a cigarette and nipped at the scotch and talked for a while.
“Before we start Dua, I wish to tell you something. It could be important,” Nautaung said seriously eyeing Con. “Billingsly brought back with him a Shan woman and gave her to the Du Niven. I do.…”
“Is she pretty?” Con laughed. “So that’s the surprise Junior said he had for me.”
“It could be serious,” Nautaung said stolidly.
“How is that?” Con asked in a new voice.
“Shan women, white men say, are the most beautiful in all the world. They can ruin a man. I have seen it. If they set their minds to it they can ruin a man, Dua.”
“I have heard that,” Con said seriously now. “And it is true then?”
“It is true, Dua. There are many men who were fine officers of the British that now live native in the Shan hills, slaves to their women.”
“I heard that too, Nautaung. I heard that when I was a small boy and lived in Rangoon for two years. But I didn’t believe that, though I should know that such things are possible.”
“If I see that this woman has set her eyes for the Du Niven I will tell you. Then we can send her away. If not, she will do no harm,” Nautaung smiled, his ancient eyes twinkled. “And she is very pretty, Dua.”
“Let’s go,” Con laughed.
They walked side by side through the clearing by the mule picket line.
“Look Dua, the moon.”
Con looked up to the moon low in its upward arch. It was a perfectly clear night, star filled and cloudless. They continued on into the thin forest, through the headquarters kitchen, through the headquarters supply approaching the radio area. They stopped in the dark shadows of a tree seeing the whole of the radio headquarters and Con knew that Nautaung was smiling too.
There was a huge fire burning in the center of it and near the fire a Christmas tree. The generator was whrring and Niven had run lines from it to the tree, with flashlight bulbs burning red and blue and white. The red ones he must have dipped in mercurochrome, Con thought, the blue had parachute silk around them. There was tinsel hanging from the tree and Con visualized Niven shredding it from the wrappings of candy bars. Jungle potatoes and fircones and candy bars and paper dolls dangled from the branches of the tree.
Con glanced around. There were twelve or fifteen present. Niven, Lau’rel, Danforth, La Bung, Billingsly, some of the other Subadars and Jemadars and several young Kachin girls. Young Scouts passed plates around and there was a hastily built table heaped with foodstuffs and wild flowers.
Niven was sitting at the far side of the area, lounging on spread red silk parachutes, his arm around the Shan girl. She was exquisite. Niven said something to her and she stood up. She took Niven’s cup walking over to refill it while he eyed her drunkenly, lordly.
She was tall, at least five-six Con thought, and largely built, and as she walked her large young breasts moved rythmically with her gait against the white of her silk sari. She was red-lipped and light and glowingly skinned. She had about the most beautiful complexion that Con had ever seen; “God, what beautiful skin,” Con whispered.
“Oh, they care greatly for their skin, Dua. They know their beauty. They take oil and mix it with lemon juice and papaya juice. They rub their bodies with it often, these Shan women. The papaya juice on your own skin will make it like a baby’s, Dua. And it leaves them smelling fresh and clean. They are very wise, Dua, these Shan women. They are professionals,” Nautaung spoke softly.
She was walking back toward Niven. She walked womanly wise, her round buttocks swaying. She handed the cup to Niven. She looked at him, half whore, half mother, Con thought. She sat down next to him and put her long fingers to the back of his neck and ran one finger up around his ear. Niven sat half smiling, glazed blurry eyed, a big black cigar in his young mouth. He had the same astonished look Con thought, that Art Sykes had when Joe Louis knocked him down with the first left hand he threw at him.
Con looked over at Danforth and saw that he was wild eyed Indian drunk. He had seen Danforth like that before and knew that he would be mean and hard to handle. Danforth was standing next to a pretty little Kachin girl who barely came up to his chest and was talking to her loudly. She had on a black longi and red blouse and silvery jewelry on her wrists and around her neck, and he had his hand up underneath her blouse. She was not afraid of him, but s
eemed pleased.
Subadar Major La Bung La was talking to Lau’rel and Billingsly and three other Kachin girls. Con noticed that Lau’rel was dejected. He looked a little lost and out of place. Con had seen that look before, and he made a mental note to keep Lau’rel active. From out on the valley grass he heard the resounding increased tempo of the drums beating louder. The dancers had stopped singing and now chanted a pulsatingly weird chant. Con glanced around the radio clearing once more. He nudged Nautaung and they walked forward together.
“The Dukaba,” someone said.
All the Subadars and Jemadars stood to attention. Niven stood up and came forward. Nautaung melted away. Subadar Major La Bung La turned to Con and saluted.
Con waved them at ease and said his greetings around.
“How do you like it, boss?” Niven asked.
“You really went all out didn’t you, Jim? That’s some Christmas tree.” Con admired the tree.
“That ain’t all, boss. How do you like your Christmas present to me,” he pointed to the Shan girl and giggled. “Billingsly bought her for me with money out of the fund. I’ll bet I’m the first son-of-a-bitching sergeant in the history of the You-nited States Army that ever got a woman from his commanding officer for a Christmas present,” he said proudly. He took the cigar out of his mouth and waved it sweepingly, then adjusted his gold rimmed glasses. “And I got more surprises. Old Jim certainly has. Hey, bearer!” he hollered at one of the Scouts passing the wooden trays, then turned back to Con. “I had some whores’ ovaries made up. I mean hors d’oeuvres.”
The Scout came over and held the wooden tray before Con. There were fresh tiny whole minnows that they must have gotten when they threw the grenades in the stream to blast out the fish. The minnows were on small pieces of native bread. There were slices of peacock, and squares of water buffalo with pepper seed, and melted cheese sandwiches from the K-1 ration boxes, and slices of hard boiled eggs. All around the edge of the tray were stems of evergreen leaves and in the center of the tray a rounded pile of monkey brains the size of a baseball, a wooden spoon stuck in them.
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