Saigon (24 page)

The features of the ragged Annamese prisoners appeared uniformly gaunt and pallid as one by one they stepped onto the gangplank of the freighter that had brought them from Paulo Condore. Some carried a few scraps of clothing tied in a bundle, others nothing; all had the watchful, haunted look common to men who have been confined behind bars for a long time against their will. On the quayside Joseph Sherman studied the individual prisoners intently as the companionway sagged beneath their weight. He had retained a clear image in his mind of Ngo Van Loc’s face in the jungle hunting camp, but as the first dozen or so men hobbled ashore, he began to doubt his ability to recognize him. Eleven years before, Loc’s habitual expression had been the servile, respectful half-smile of the domestic servant, but none of the grim, resentful prison faces seemed to bear any resemblance to that memory. 

The small freighter, the second to arrive in Saigon with Communists released under the amnesty, carried about fifty prisoners, and there were almost as many uniformed French and Annamese gendarmes stationed ostentatiously on the quayside, monitoring their arrival. To make their job easier arc lamps had been rigged along the berth, and the prisoners blinked uncertainly in the bright pool of light they cast onto the nighttime quayside. Across the broad boulevard that ran beside the river, another mixed group of Frenchmen and Annamese dressed in civilian clothes watched more surreptitiously from beneath the awnings of the Café de Ia Rotonde at the foot of the Rue Catinat. From time to time one of their number rose unhurriedly from his table and detached himself from the others to follow a particular prisoner or group of prisoners into the darkened streets of the city; always these agents of the Süreté Générale took pains to keep a good distance between themselves and their quarry to ensure that they remained unobserved. 

As Joseph scrutinized each successive face, he felt his chest tightening with the same kind of breathless tension he’d first noticed in himself on his arrival in Saigon; again the night was hot and clammy and he tried to dismiss the feeling as a natural reaction in someone unused to the dense tropical heat. But at the same time he suspected that the events of the day and his impulsive decision to come to the dockside had tautened his nerves. The riot at the Cercle Sportif and the subsequent ride in the malabar with Lan had left him feeling strangely exhilarated; his appetite had fled and he had not been able to face dinner alone at the hotel. Paul had telephoned to thank him for escorting Lan home and to report that the disturbance had been quelled without serious injury; because Paul was on duty that night, they had arranged to meet the next day for lunch, and it was while Joseph was sitting alone on the hotel terrace at sunset that he had seen a photograph in the evening paper of the first group of prisoners arriving from Paulo Condore. He had been peering closely at the blurred faces in the picture for some time before he realized with a start that he was unconsciously searching for Ngo Van Loc. At the end of the story the newspaper announced that a second group was expected to arrive some time that evening, and he had risen immediately from his table and hurried down to the quayside. 

The next two hours had passed with an agonizing slowness, and as he paced restlessly back and forth along the darkened waterfront watching ships arrive and depart, conflicting impulses and emotions had warred endlessly with one another inside his head; one part of his mind, his most rational self, urged him repeatedly to leave before the prison ship docked. What good could be achieved by seeking out the former hunting camp ‘boy”? The past was undeniably past — would anything more be achieved than the opening of old wounds? And would he, when it came to it, have the courage to fire painful questions at a man he barely knew and who had just been released from a harsh spell of imprisonment? He asked himself these questions a hundred times, but still he didn’t leave the sweltering riverside. 

During the long wait, the image of Loc’s sobbing wife fleeing half-naked through the storm, and the sound of his own mother’s faint cries returned to haunt his mind, and he remembered again with a disconcerting intensity the turmoil of shock and bewilderment that those events had caused him as a fifteen-year-old. Subconsciously the vague feeling of betrayal, instinctive in that jungle storm, had deepened as his knowledge of the adult world expanded, leaving him with a legacy of suspicion and wariness; but on that Saigon dockside he realized he had never entirely abandoned the hope that perhaps some explanation beyond his imagining might have existed for what had happened, an explanation that somehow would relieve the disquiet that those terrible moments in the storm had implanted in him. He was half aware that such a hope was a forlorn one, but it was this slender chance, he knew, that kept him there, striding back and forth along the wharves in the sticky darkness, his shirt plastered against his back with perspiration. 

When the prison ship finally appeared Joseph had hurried to join the little crowd of Annamese relatives who had anticipated its arrival, and it was then that the Süreté agents across the boulevard noticed his presence for the first time. When he moved closer to the foot of the gangway to get a better look at the disembarking prisoners, the inspector directing the undercover operation from the back of the café gave quiet instructions to a heavily built Frenchman to put him under immediate surveillance. 

More than half the prisoners had left the ship before Joseph saw a man who bore a faint resemblance to Ngo Van Loc; like all the others, however, his features were blurred by the ashen pallor of long confinement, making recognition difficult. His threadbare black cotton tunic and trousers hung loose on his skeletal frame, and Joseph noticed that his left arm dangled uselessly at his side. At the moment of stepping ashore the prisoner glanced incuriously into the American’s face before turning away, and for a second Joseph decided he had been mistaken. Then on impulse he stepped towards the man and touched his shoulder. 

“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said quietly in French, are you Ngo Van Loc?” 

The released prisoner turned to look at him with a startled expression; fear and suspicion were mingled in his gaze, and he didn’t reply. He glanced warily around at the faces of the uniformed gendarmes crowding the quayside, then back at Joseph again. 

“Weren’t you once the hunting camp ‘boy’ of Jacques Devraux?” asked Joseph desperately. 

For a fleeting instant he fancied that the emaciated face of the Annamese registered surprise, but then he turned his back without speaking to catch up with another of the released prisoners. Joseph watched for a moment or two as they crossed the boulevard, then looked back again towards the ship. But none of the remaining faces aroused his interest, and making up his mind suddenly, he hurried across the quayside in the direction taken by• the Annamese with the paralyzed arm. 

The streets were crowded, and fearing he might lose track of the man, Joseph broke into a run. He caught sight of him and his companion as they turned into a street leading towards the central market, but the sound of his running feet caused the two Annamese to turn their heads, and to Joseph’s dismay, on seeing themselves pursued, they began to run too. By one of the arched entrances to the vast covered market they turned and glanced frantically in his direction again, then disappeared inside. Joseph followed without hesitation, and although he could see nothing in the subterranean gloom, he clearly heard the scuff of running feet and the labored breathing of the two Annamese. 

“Monsieur Loc, please wait,” he called frantically in French. “I just want to talk to you.” 

His voice echoed and re-echoed hollowly in the cavernous interior of the deserted market, but the men didn’t stop, and Joseph plunged on in the direction of their footsteps. When he paused to listen again, to his surprise he could hear nothing except the sound of his own breathing, and he walked on more cautiously through the silent darkness that reeked of overripe fruit and rotten Fish. From time to time he called Loc’s name, but still there was no response, and when an unseen arm encircled his neck from behind he was taken completely by surprise; in the same instant he felt the point of a knife pressed hard against the small of his back. 

“Who are you?” whispered an Annamese voice in French, close to his ear. “Why do you follow us?” 

“My name’s Joseph Sherman,” gasped the American, struggling to loosen the fierce arm lock clamped around his throat. “Jacques Devraux once guided my family on a hunting trip when Ngo Van Loc worked with him.” He heard the two men mutter rapidly to one another in their own language, but the pressure on his windpipe didn’t ease and the knife was jabbed harder into his back. 

“And is Devraux living here in Saigon?” 

“No, he’s chief of the Süreté Générale in Hue now. Are you Ngo Van Loc?” 

“Yes!” 

The headlights of a car passing one of the market entrances penetrated the gloom briefly as the hold on his neck was released, and Joseph turned to see Loc still holding the knife warningly in his good hand; beside him the other Annamese stood in a half- crouch, ready to move against him again if necessary. 

“How did you know where to find me? How did you know I was a prisoner?” Loc’s voice, still threatening, betrayed his curiosity. 

“I’ve talked with Paul Devraux,” replied Joseph, massaging his neck. “He’s in the army here. He told me he thought you were in Paulo Condore.” He hesitated and rubbed his neck again. “He told me, too, the tragic news about your son, Hoc. I was very sorry to hear that he’d died.” 

“He didn’t ‘die’ — he was butchered by the French with their guillotine! Did he tell you that they murdered my wife too? And that I lost the use of my arm when their brave pilots bombed and machine-gunned defenseless peasants at Vinh? Did he tell you that the French killed ten thousand Annamese because we dared to defy their despotic rule?” 

“Paul feels deeply sorry for all that’s happened,” said Joseph desperately. “He regarded you and your sons as his friends.” 

The Annamese snorted in contempt. “Did he send you himself to tell me these lies?” 

“No. He doesn’t know I’ve come.” 

“Then what did you wish to talk to me about?” 

Joseph suddenly found himself unable to summon up the words he wanted. “It’s a very personal matter, Loc,” he said hesitantly. “I wanted to speak to you alone.” 

The Annamese muttered a few rapid words in his own language, and Joseph waited until the shadowy figure of Loc’s companion had moved away through the gloom and taken up guard inside the nearest archway. 

“Loc, do you remember that night of the bad storm in the jungle camp at the start of my family’s expedition?” Joseph’s voice shook slightly as he spoke. “Do you remember what happened?” 

No reply came from the darkness, but Joseph thought he sensed an unseen tension in his listener. 

“I couldn’t sleep and wandered out into the rain. I was walking past Monsieur Devraux’s hut when I saw your wife rush from there weeping Joseph felt suddenly that his heart was expanding in his chest, threatening to choke him, and he became acutely aware of the sickening reek of putrefaction inside the darkened market. “I wanted to ask. 

“Don’t ask me questions about that night!” The ferocity of Ngo Van Loc’s words shook Joseph, and he sensed that the Annamese was trembling beside him in the darkness. “Every day for five years in my cell in Paulo Condore I’ve had to live with my own misery. And often I saw the accusing face of my dead wife in my dreams!” 

For a long moment they stood facing each other silently in the evil-smelling darkness. 

“What do you mean, Loc?” whispered Joseph at last. 

“I forced her to do it. In the end it was my fault that she fell into the hands of her French murderers.” He paused, his breathing agitated, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “So the senator and I have something in common, haven’t We? Does he have bad dreams too?” 

Joseph started at the unexpected reference to his father. “Why should he, Loc?” 

“Because just as my stupidity led to the death of my wife —it was your father’s stupidity that caused the death of your brother, wasn’t it?” 

“My father tried to save Chuck,” said Joseph, his voice rising incredulously. “He was injured badly in the attempt he lost his arm.” 

Loc’s bark of humorless laughter startled Joseph. “Is that what he told you?” 

“Yes.” 

“It was the other way round.” 

Joseph leaned forward anxiously; he had suddenly remembered the startled look on Paul’s face when he mentioned the accident. “What are you suggesting, Loc?” 

“I’m not ‘suggesting’ anything, Monsieur Sherman. Your brother was killed trying to save the senator. Your father was suffering from fever— he was too sick to hunt. He drank a lot of alcohol with the medicine he took and foolishly followed the wounded seladang into a thicket against Devraux’s orders. Your brother lost his life trying to save him.” 

“You must be lying!” The words leaped to Joseph’s lips before he considered what he was saying. 

“What reason have I to lie?” asked the Annamese in an indifferent voice. 

Another car passed one of the entry arches, and in the reflected glow of its lights Joseph saw the second Annamese turn and begin running swiftly towards them. Loc listened to his urgently whispered words for a moment, then leaned towards Joseph again. “Two Süreté agents are watching the market entrances,” he said accusingly. “So you are in league with them after all!” 

Joseph started to protest, but the Annamese didn’t stop to listen; after cursing him bitterly in their own language they ran off in opposite directions, and he was left alone again in the reeking darkness. For several minutes he stood rooted to the spot, grappling with the enormity of Ngo Van Loc’s revelation; then he left the market in a daze and returned slowly to the Continental Palace.