Saigon (27 page)

The tolling of a single bronze bell high or the gilded balconies of the Ngo Mon heralded the arrival of the emperor’s entourage, and a moment later Joseph saw its vanguard emerge from the deep shadow of the gate’s central arch. Six shoeless bearers in belted court robes and tiny conical hats fringed with tinkling bells carried the Table of the Cult on their shoulders under the watchful eyes of a contingent of the Imperial Guard; behind them a group of mounted generals escorted other litters displaying the emperor’s sacrificial robes and his personal ceremonial objects — incense burners, golden goblets, swords and lanterns, Great throngs of drummers, gong bearers and other musicians striking mournful notes on ancient stone lithophones followed the grave-faced bearers of the Symbols of Good Augury as they emerged blinking into the bright morning sunlight holding aloft the Table of the Wine of Felicity, the Chair of the Nine Dragons and representations of the Sun, the Seven Stars, Rain, Wind, Thunder, the Nocturnal Light. 

The fragrant smoky scents of aromatic resins and aloe-wood swirled on the breeze from little wayside shrines, and as moment by moment new squadrons of richly robed courtiers marched out through the gate to the discordant beat of cymbals and gongs, Joseph felt himself transported deep into Asia’s mysterious past. 

The Imperial Coach drawn by eight stallions and the Imperial Chair — both empty on the outward journey from the palaces — appeared, followed by a jostling crowd of white horses from the court stable; although rider-less, these favored animals were escorted by livened grooms who held a forest of tall yellow parasols above their bare backs. More dancers, musicians and bearers bobbed through the gate in a moving tide of gaudy colors — then abruptly the drums and cymbals ceased their clamor, and the waiting crowds, recognizing the signal, craned forward to catch a glimpse of the emperor himself. 

In the expectant hush Joseph couldn’t resist the temptation to turn his head in Lan’s direction. She was standing with Tam and her mother only a few feet away inside the enclosure that had been reserved for French dignitaries and the families of high-ranking Annamese; poised on the tips of her toes and shading her eyes with her hand, she was gazing intently towards the Ngo Mon, watching for the Annamese sovereign and, among the other senior mandarins who would follow him, her own father. She wore a pale blue ao dai decorated with pink floral motifs, and Joseph felt his senses quicken as he watched the fine tulle of the filmy outer garment, caught by the breeze, mold itself against her slender body. In his jacket pocket his hand closed round a jade bracelet wrapped in an envelope of silk, and he wondered if he were ever going to have the chance to give it to her. On her arrival Lan had greeted him as formally as did her mother and Tam, and afterwards avoided his glance. He had tried without success to catch her eye while they waited for the procession to begin and had sensed then her continuing anxiety. He had considered trying to slip the bracelet to her surreptitiously in an effort to bring a smile back to her face— but then decided against it for fear of embarrassing her. 

A murmur of excitement rippling through the crowds drew his attention back to the ceremonial gate, and he turned in time to see the Imperial Litter shift out of the shadows of the archway on the shoulders of twelve tall Annamese bearers; a gift from Louis XVIII to the Emperor Gia Long, its glossy coachwork of black lacquer and gold filigree glittered and flashed whenever a shaft of sunlight penetrated the shifting glades of yellow parasols clustered around it. As the litter moved by him, Joseph caught a fleeting glimpse in the shadowy interior of the slender figure of Bao Dai resplendent in his yellow robes. He wore an elaborate silken turban of the same color on his head, but he remained motionless in his seat, looking shy and ill-at-ease and glancing neither left nor right as he proceeded; in the profound silence that had fallen over the crowd the only sound was the faint scuff of the bearers’ unshod feet on the metaled roadway. Other male members of the imperial family and the highest mandarins of his court followed the emperor at a respectful distance in hooded rickshaws, and Joseph saw Lan.tug excitedly at her mother’s sleeve as Tran Van Hieu, composed in his black winged bonnet and embroidered gown, glided silently past. 

Her face was still alight with her smile of pleasure when she turned in his direction, and seizing his chance, he smiled back and moved quickly to her side. “Lan, please let me speak to you privately,” he whispered. “Cart you leave your family for just a moment?” Inside his pocket he clutched the bracelet once more as he waited for her answer. 

For a second or two they stood side by side with their backs to her mother and Tam, watching the procession flow away from them across the esplanade; they heard the gongs and drums begin again as the front ranks reached the Clemenceau Bridge and started across the river — hut. still she made no reply. Then the harsh, incongruous sound of gasoline engines reached Joseph’s ears and he looked around to see a cavalcade of shiny black Citroën motor cars driving out through the Ngo Mon, carrying the governor general of Indochina and his suite. The French officials inside the limousines stared straight ahead in the manner of the emperor, but the lofty hauteur of their pale features contrasted sharply with the uncomfortable expression of the olive-skinned Annamese sovereign. 

“If you want to heat the Nam Giao in time to see the procession arrive,” said Jacques Devraux, appearing suddenly at Joseph’s elbow, “we must leave and cross the river now.” 

A moment later Lan moved away, walking between her mother and Tam, and Joseph could only follow behind disconsolately with the Frenchman. 

Beneath the shade of a gnarled tamarind tree on the southern bank of the River of Perfumes, Ngo Van Loc straightened in the cushioned seat of his rickshaw when he caught sight of Devraux’s sampan nosing out into the stream; the white-suited figure of the Süreté chief was clearly visible seated beside the young American in the rear of the craft, and two hundred yards away along the waterfront boulevard, Loc could see that the two Süreté drivers had come to attention beside their black Renault tourers. After looking round cautiously to see if anyone was watching, he tugged the Beretta pistol from his waistband and slipped it under the cushions of the rickshaw; then nodding meaningfully to his son, who was squatting on the grass by the bole of the tamarind, he climbed down from his seat and set off towards the Süreté cares, walking slowly and casually in the shade of the riverside palm trees. When he had gone, his son put on a ragged shirt, picked up the shafts of the rickshaw arid began trotting towards the two Süreté Renaults as well. 

On board the sampan Joseph saw the rickshaw moving along the waterfront without registering it. His distracted gaze kept returning to the slender figure of Lan who was seated beside her mother in the forward part of the craft. He had tried to force himself to watch the procession strung out now across the length of the bridge above their heads; he could still hear the jangling gongs and cymbals echoing across the blue waters of the river, and from that distance the marchers in their brightly colored costumes looked like a slow-moving tide of confetti; but for the moment their fascination for him was gone — his mind was lost to thoughts of Lan. 

She was seated with her back to him, and because the sun hadn’t reached its full heat she still held her hat in her lap. Her hair was dressed for the occasion in a formal chignon, pierced through with a tiny jeweled dagger, and he sat watching a stray wisp that had come loose in the river breeze elude the absentminded grasp of her fingers. Suddenly she bent and turned her cheek, the better to ensnare it, and caught him watching her; he smiled eagerly, but to his intense disappointment she again affected not to notice and turned quickly away. 

“How has your father managed with the disability he suffered after the accident?” 

Joseph started inwardly at the sound of Jacques Devraux’s voice beside him. “He’s always refused to have a false limb,” he said guardedly. “But he’s too stubborn to let it affect his daily life very much. He does most things that require two arms with only one.” 

The Frenchman nodded. “He’s a very determined man.” 

Joseph stared for a moment at the Süreté chief. “I never expected to see you again, Monsieur Devraux,” he said quietly, trying to hide the sudden intensity of his interest. “But now that we’ve met, would you mind telling me exactly what happened on the day of the accident?” 

Instead of answering, the Frenchman turned to look upriver in the direction of the procession and took his time lighting a cheroot. “I expect your father has already gone into all that, hasn’t he?” he said at last, exhaling smoke slowly through his nose. “I wasn’t directly involved.” 

“But wasn’t his safety your responsibility?” 

Again the Frenchman didn’t reply immediately. “In normal circumstances, yes. But that day your father decided to take all responsibility on himself.” 

“Why?” 

“He was suffering from fever. I advised him most strongly to stop hunting in the heat of the day. He chose to ignore that advice.” 

“And was that the cause of the accident?” 

Joseph’s voice shook a little as he put the question, and for the first time the Frenchman turned to look at him. “Have you discussed this with Paul?” he asked carefully. 

“No — not at all.” 

The sampan’s oarsman swung the craft broadside on as they neared the quay, and for a long moment the Frenchman studied Joseph’s taut face. “They went on ahead on their own, your father and your brother, Chuck.. . . When I caught up with them it was too late.” He drew hard on the cheroot once more, then tossed it into the water. “That’s all I can tell you.” 

Fifty yards along the waterfront in the opposite direction Dong had just overtaken his father, who was still strolling casually towards the two Süreté Renaults. Seeing that Devraux’s sampan was about to moor, he stopped the rickshaw and fumbled under its cushion; when he straightened again his ragged shirt bulged above his belt where he had concealed the pistol. He broke into a trot when he saw Jacques Devraux help the older Annamese woman onto the low quay, then began to speed up with the light rickshaw as the Süreté inspector led the way towards the cars. Dong thought for a moment that he had misjudged the distance, but to his relief Devraux motioned the two younger Annamese and their mother into the rear seats of the first car and held the front passenger door open for Joseph; he heard Devraux give instructions to the driver to take them via the side streets to the viewing stand outside the Nam Giao, and the moment the Renault accelerated away he began to sprint, veering diagonally across the wide boulevard towards the second Süreté car. 

The French driver of a Citroën traveling fast behind the rickshaw leaned on his horn immediately when he saw the rickshaw pull out into his path. He could have braked and avoided a collision without difficulty, but the seemingly idiotic change of direction by the pousse-pousse coolie irritated him. On hearing the horn, Dong glanced frantically over his shoulder, but he was too late to swing aside, and one of the Citroën’s big chromium head- lamps caught the hood fabric of the rickshaw and knocked it over, The car’s front wheels ground the frail wooden vehicle to matchwood in an instant and the force of the collision sent Dong sprawling. As he fell, the pistol tucked inside his shirt flew free and clattered noisily across the road in a sudden vacuum of silence. It came to rest by Devraux’s feet, and picking it up, his driver held it towards him with an astonished expression on his face. 

Dong, stunned in the collision, rose unsteadily to his feet; his shoulder had been gashed arid blood was soaking through the tattered remains of his shirt. When Devraux gesticulated angrily in his direction and shouted to his driver to seize him, he turned and began to run back the way he’d come. A crowd of goggle-eyed Annamese gathered instantly to watch the aftermath of what they imagined was a simple road accident, and Ngo Van Loc forced himself to remain quietly in their midst as the driver caught up with the injured Dong and frog marched him back to the remaining Renault. He was near enough to hear Jacques Devraux give the driver curt instructions to take Doug immediately to Süreté headquarters for interrogation, and when the car had gone, he walked numbly away along the riverbank, blinking back bitter tears of anger and despair. 

A thousand tiny lanterns set in the high ramparts of the Nam Giao glimmered like yellow stars in the midnight darkness. Inside the sacred enclosure a chorus of imperial heralds called for silence, and their shrill voices, carrying easily on the soft night air, were audible in the hushed streets of the city far beyond its walls. Above each of the four gates illuminated banners emblazoned with golden Chinese characters marked the four points of the compass; a black flag identified the north, white the west, blue the east, while a blood-red standard swung lazily in the breeze above the open south gate, which according to the cult’s age-old doctrines, gave access to Heaven. 

In the center of the compound flaming oil cressets set on tall poles bathed the stepped terraces of the Azure Temple with flickering orange light. On the highest level three altars dedicated to Heaven, Earth and the Imperial Ancestors had been set up beneath a dark blue tabernacle of dyed animal hides, which betrayed the origins of the ancient cult among the desert nomads of Central Asia; a single opening in this sacred marquee allowed a broad beam of white light to escape southwards into the night, and beneath it a massed throng of silent dancers and musicians spilled down the steps of the lowest terrace and out through the open south gate into the darkness beyond. 

Joseph and Lan were standing together in the group of specially invited guests who had joined the governor general’s suite on the first terrace below the yellow-draped Altar of lncense. Joseph had been among the last to arrive, but a moment before the heralds’ voices rang out, he forced his way through the close-packed crowd to a place on the steps beside the Annamese girl and her brother. In the deep silence that followed, all eyes turned towards the House of Fasting where the emperor had secluded himself fourteen hours earlier, and as the crowd shifted, Joseph felt the softness of Lan’s silk-clad shoulder move unconsciously against his arm. He looked down quickly at her; for the evening she had knotted a square of pale green silk around her hair, and in the flickering torchlight her cheeks seemed to glow like polished amber. Already the clouds of incense swirling into the hot night air from the nearby altar were making him feel dazed and lightheaded, but this new glimpse of her shy beauty and the tantalizing softness of her body sensed in that fleeting moment of contact induced in him a passionate yearning. 

Ring the bells! Beat the drums! The Son of Heaven approaches!” 

The falsetto voices of the heralds quavered again, then the instruments of the massed musicians jangled and throbbed in greeting as a line of flickering torches appeared winding through the trees of the Sacred Grove that ringed the House of Fasting. When the emperor’s golden litter came into sight, Joseph heard Lan let out a little gasp of admiration, and he looked up to find Bao Dai arrayed magnificently in the elaborate antique court dress of the emperors of China. Over yellow robes he wore a wide-sleeved purple surcoat embossed with mythological symbols which only a sovereign might display; around his waist was clipped a gem- encrusted belt hung with ornaments of jade and precious metals which tinkled as he moved to ward off evil spirits, and from the fringes of his bejeweled crown dangled another twenty-four auspicious pendants. The young emperor’s thin face was pale and taut, but the grandeur of the moment transfixed the crowd, and Joseph seized the opportunity to take the jade bracelet from his pocket. Without anyone noticing, he slipped it into Lan’s hand and closed her fingers carefully around it before she had realized what he was doing. 

The bracelet was still wrapped in its envelope of silk and she glanced at him with a mystified expression, holding it out of sight at her side; then perhaps she guessed what it might be and turned anxiously to make sure that Tam hadn’t noticed anything. 

“Prepare to enter! Strike gongs and drums!” 

The emperor was borne slowly aloft to the terraces above, where subsidiary shrines were set up, and Lan, her face suddenly animated, touched Joseph’s arm to draw his attention to the booted and gowned figure of her father pacing up the temple steps with other senior courtiers who were to act as co-celebrants; they were dressed with equal ceremonial extravagance in state coats of blue, green and gray and wore about their waists clanking belts of metal pendants. The ritualistic chanting and musical responses continued until the emperor and his entourage entered the tabernacle of the Azure Temple, then silence descended abruptly on the sacred enclosure. The French officials around Joseph and Lan immediately began to shuffle and converse in low tones, and the Annamese girl turned to her brother. 

“Before the final rites begin, Tam,” she whispered, “I’d like to show Monsieur Sherman our family’s tree in the Sacred Grove. May 1?” Tam nodded, and Lan turned back to smile at Joseph. “It’s the highest honor for a family to be given a tree in the Sacred Grove of the Nam Giao like receiving a coat of arms from the king of France.” She pointed in the direction of one of the burning pyres that had been used to prepare sacrificial buffalo meat: the flames were guttering now, but their glow still lit the dark screen of tall larches nearby. “It’s over there — would you like me to show you?” 

Joseph nodded eagerly and fell into step beside her as she led the way through the crowd of dancers and musicians towards the Sacred Grove. By the dark hole of one of the larches, Lan stopped and pointed. “This is the tree of the Tran family. My great-great-grandfather planted it at the invitation of the Emperor Dong Khanh.... But please wait a moment.” She glanced over her shoulder to see if Tam was watching them, then hastily opened the silk envelope and looked at the bracelet. When she raised her eyes to his they were shining in the firelight. “It’s exactly like mine, Joseph. Wherever did you buy it?” 

“I didn’t buy it, Lan — it is your own bracelet.” 

She held it towards the light of the sacrificial pyre, inspecting the fine golden flecks in the blue stone, then stared at him in disbelief. “But how did you get it back?” 

“I took a sampan up the river before dawn this morning and slipped into the tomb before it was light. As soon as the sun came up I swam across the lake to the spot beneath the bridge where you dropped it.” His smile broadened. “I was lucky — the bottom of the lake was not too muddy and I only had to dive four or five times before I put my hand on it.” 

She shook her head in wonder. “I can hardly believe, Joseph, that you’ve done such a kind thing.” 

Joseph took the bracelet from her and slipped it on her left wrist. “I’m glad I’ve been able to make you smile again.” 

She held it away from her, admiring it, her mouth curved in an unconscious smile of pleasure. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough, Joseph. You always seem to come to my rescue. First at the governor’s palace, then at the tennis match — now here in Hue.” 

Joseph felt the familiar breathless sensation constrict his throat, and he took hold of her hand suddenly and pressed it to his lips. “I did it because I love you, Lan! I love you very much. I knew the moment I saw you praying at the tomb you’re so pure and good, so beautiful. I want to be with you always — to protect you and take care of you. I never want to leave your side.” The words tumbled from him in an impulsive torrent, and he was suddenly afraid that she might find his passion offensive. But to his surprise she said nothing; he thought he felt her body tremble once, then she detached, her hand gently from his grasp and half turned away to steady herself with one hand against the larch tree. 

“I feel a little dizzy, J0se1)h,” she said softly, pressing her other wrist against her brow in a little gesture of distress. “Perhaps it’s all that incense 

He took her by the arm, his brow crinkling with concern. “Why don’t we get a breath of fresh air in the street outside?” 

She nodded mutely and together they walked towards the south gate, which still stood open to allow the blessings of Heaven to flow in. 

At the moment that Joseph and Lan stepped into the narrow, tree-lined avenue leading to the River of Perfumes, Jacques Devraux was descending for the second time that night into the dank cellar beneath the city’s Süreté headquarters half a mile away. Fingers of green mold reached up walls from which all whitewash had flaked long ago, and as Devraux entered, his nose wrinkled involuntarily with distaste at the strong smell of sweat and stale urine that hung in the air. 

Because the cellar was close to the river, the cracked concrete floor never dried out entirely and puddles of condensation glimmered in the light of a single unshaded bulb. Close to the ceiling a thick wooden beam passed through the cellar, and Ngo Van Dong’s ankles were lashed to it by coarse hempen ropes that had already chafed raw weals around the lower parts of his legs. His hands were manacled behind his back and the weight of his long, thin body was half supported on the damp floor by his shoulders, but every time the half-caste Indian guard slammed his heavy wooden baton against the swollen, bloodied soles of Dong’s feet, the convulsion that racked his body lifted his head clear of the floor. 

Devraux had left his jacket in his office upstairs but he still wore the pale trousers of the suit in which he had watched the emperor’s procession leave the Citadel and he stopped two or three yards away from the prisoner because experience had taught him that at that distance blood would not splash on them. His ravaged features betrayed no sign of emotion as he watched the half-caste’s baton rise and fall, but on the twelfth blow he stepped forward and tapped the Indian on the arm, motioning him to stop. Dong’s loud cries of pain subsided immediately to a low, continuous moaning noise, and when Devraux walked round to stand beside him, the Annamese opened his eyes and twisted his head to look up into his face. 

“Who are you?” The tip of one of Devraux’s pointed shoes struck Dong a gratuitous blow in the ribs. “Who sent you? The Communists?” 

The injury to Dong’s shoulder sustained in the collision with the Citroën had been treated, but the wound had opened again since, and blood was soaking through the dressings. Devraux looked at him hanging upside down, without compassion, then kicked him sharply in the ribs again. “Who were your accomplices?” 

Dong gritted his teeth and remained silent as he had done for the past fourteen hours, and the Frenchman, losing patience suddenly, stepped up close to him and repeated the questions in a more threatening tone. But instead of answering, the Annamese jerked his head sideways and spat a large gobbet of blood-flecked spittle onto the pale material of Devraux’s trousers. 

The Süreté chief didn’t speak or move. For a long time he just stood and looked at the Annamese as he twisted slowly at the end of the rope. Then he turned and spoke to the half-caste in a matter-of-fact voice. “Give him some water now.” 

The half-caste untied the end of the rope and tautened it, drawing Dong’s ankles closer to the beam. When he had refastened it, he fetched a bowl of water and a soggy cloth from a table at the far end of the cellar. Dropping to his knees he soaked the cloth in the bowl, then pressed it hard against Dong’s face so that it blocked his mouth and water streamed Out of it into his upturned nostrils. He worked with quick, practiced movements, holding the back of Dong’s head with his free hand as the Annamese choked and struggled on the rope. After two applications the half-caste repeated the questions, but still Doug remained silent. 

“Give him some more water,” said Devraux dispassionately. 

“I don’t think he’s going to talk,” said the torturer, glancing anxiously up at his superior. “I think he’d rather drown.” 

“They all talk,” replied Devraux in a dull voice. “I’ve seen a hundred of them hold out until they get the water. Give him some more.” 

The Frenchman stood and watched for a moment longer, then glanced impatiently at his watch. “I’ve got to attend the governor general’s champagne reception at the Nam Giao,” he said in an irritable voice. “I’ll interrogate him again afterwards. Just keep watering him.” 

As Devraux hurried away up the cellar steps he heard the half-caste dip the cloth into the bowl, and a moment later Doug began choking again. 

Flickering lanterns suspended in the trees above little wayside shrines cast dancing shadows on the faces of Joseph and Lan as they strolled towards the river through the balmy night. Just short of the waterfront Lan stopped beside one of the shrines and traced the golden Chinese characters on a silk-fringed banner. “Wan Sui,” she murmured. “If only the emperor could really live ten thousand years in peace, Joseph. It’s a beautiful thought, isn’t it?” 

“I feel tonight as if we’re going to live ten thousand years, Lan,” said Joseph, moving close to her in the scented darkness. 

“Perhaps we are.” Her eyes sparkled as she reached out and touched one of the pine trees surrounding the little shrine. “These pines are symbols of longevity.” 

Joseph touched the tree too. “Then I’ll wish for a long, happy life for both of us—-together.” 

Their eyes met and they smiled at one another; Joseph, to his delight, detected a new spark of excitement in her gaze, an intimacy of expression that told him beyond any doubt that she too was intensely aware of the enchantment of the night. As they stood there, the liquid chimes of tiny silver bells carried on the still air from the top terrace of the Azure Temple, and Joseph lifted his head to listen. “The ceremonies have begun again, Lan,” he said gently. “Shall we return now?” 

Lan listened for a moment, her head on one side; then she shuddered and pulled a face. “They’re burying the blood and hair of the buffaloes. I’m happy to miss that. There are still quite a few duties of that kind to be performed before the Imperial Communion begins.”