Saigon (5 page)

The main living room of the Imperial Delegate’s official residence on a tree-shaded street north of the Saigon Cathedral betrayed little evidence of the great wealth amassed by the Tran family through three generations of collaboration with the French. Sparsely furnished in keeping with the austere, scholarly traditions of the Annamese mandarinate, it was dominated by the family’s ancestral altar, which consisted of three tables of different heights lacquered in red and gold. Beyond the windows, tropical trees and shrubs that bore guava, pawpaw, mangosteen and pomegranate sprouted in profusion from the moist earth of a walled garden, arid heaped bowls of fruits picked from their branches were clustered on the altar, along with tiny dishes of spiced meats, fish, lotus seeds, vegetables and porcelain beakers of tea and rice alcohol. A gilt-framed portrait of a venerable-looking mandarin attired in court robes occupied the place of honor on the highest level of the altar, and as the light began to fade, the wizened Annamese to whom Senator Sherman had spoken an hour earlier entered the room and bowed solemnly before it. 

He was dressed in a wide-sleeved ceremonial gown of dark silk and a soft hat embroidered with colored threads partly hid his face from Lan and her brothers as they followed him through the doorway, walking barefoot between their father and mother. A stream of other relatives followed, and from the shadows they watched the old man touch each of the tall red candles surrounding the portrait with a lighted taper; when four tiny buds of flames bloomed above the altar he sank to his knees and pressed his palms together. 

“In lighting these candles,” he murmured in a reverent voice, “we extend an invitation to the spirit of my greatly esteemed father to come among us and bless us.” For a moment he remained motionless, his eyes closed, then he lifted his joined hands in front of him in a graceful arc and bent to press his forehead against the floor in silent prayer. 

Because she had spent much of that day watching her mother supervise preparations for the traditional Gio ceremony observed by the family on each anniversary of her great-grandfather’s death, Lan knew the altar held all the favorite foods and beverages that the high-ranking courtier had enjoyed during his lifetime. The little girl had been allowed to help with the setting out of the banquet, and noticing suddenly that there were six dishes of each delicacy and six pairs of chopsticks, she had asked her mother why this was so. 

“We provide extra food and drink so that your great- grandfather can bring the spirits of other famous patriots and scholars to join our celebration,” her mother had explained in a whisper, and Lan, remembering this, found herself peering apprehensively at the spare chopsticks to see if any of them showed signs of moving. She and her brothers had always found the idea of ancestral spirits appearing during the Gio ceremony an awesome prospect, but her sense of unease had been greatly heightened on this occasion by the fear of unknown punishments that seemed certain to follow the incident involving her baby gibbon at the governor’s palace. 

Already their father had given an indication of his deep displeasure by ordering all three of them to remain in the room throughout the ceremony. It would last, they knew, about half an hour — until the single joss stick planted in a bowl of white rice on the altar burned down to the level of the cereal. Normally after offering their silent prayers all three children were dismissed to play in the garden and were not recalled until the offeratory food was removed from the altar at the end of the ceremony and eaten along with other dishes at a festive family supper. In addition their father had told them that he wanted to speak to them in his study afterwards, and although he had given no indication what chastisement he planned, they knew from the severity of his expression that he was angrier than they had ever seen him before. Their mother had warned them to beg for forgiveness when their turn came to pray to their great- grandfather’s spirit before the altar, and it seemed certain to Lan’s ten-year-old mind that if she and her brothers had angered their father so deeply they must also have offended the spirits of their illustrious ancestors too. 

Beside her Kim was struggling to hide his feelings, but Lan could tell from the paleness of his face that he was apprehensive and on edge. In Annamese families of their rank supervision of the home and the children was left largely to the mother; like most Annamese fathers, however, Tran Van Hieu kept a sturdy bamboo cane locked in a lacquered cabinet in his study to reinforce where necessary the Confucian notion of filial piety. He had never used the cane before, only the threat of it, but all three children were well aware that Kim’s flagrant disobedience earlier that evening had caused him acute public embarrassment, On Lan’s other side Tam shot an accusing look at Kim from time to time as if to make unmistakably clear to his father that he had done everything possible to dissuade Kim from his folly. Lan, for her part, hoped fervently that her innocence would be self- evident, and as she watched her prostrate grandfather’s lips moving soundlessly she began to phrase in her own mind the plea for leniency she intended to submit to the ancestral spirit. 

Three times in all her grandfather prostrated himself on the altar mat, then he rose slowly and stepped aside to make way for his son. In his turn, Tran Van Hieu knelt to perform the same silent acts of obeisance as the older man, but after prostrating himself for the third time, he remained on his knees and to his children’s surprise began to pray aloud. 

“Above all, help us never to forget the teachings of the great sage. Confucius, which remind us of our daily obligations towards our parents, our ancestors, our emperor and all those set in authority over us,” he said, speaking in a firm voice that carried clearly to his children’s ears. “Help us, too, to live in closer harmony with the great forces of nature and the world of spirits so that you and all our ancestors may continue to dwell restfully and happily in our midst. If we fail in these duties we know that we risk forfeiting the protection of your spirit and all the spirits of our nation’s past heroes 

Kim bit his lip and stared at the floor as his father rose to look meaningfully in their direction; Tam and Lan’ also shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, which remained on them unwaveringly throughout their mother’s act of devotion. When she had finished, he motioned Tam forward first because he was the oldest, and the twelve-year-old boy rushed eagerly across the room to fling himself down on the altar mat. 

“Great-grandfather, you must know already that I did all I could to sop Kim taking the gibbon,” he said, whispering aloud in the hope that his fervent words might be audible to his father and grandfather standing a few feet away. “I always obey my father without question as I did today, and all I ask is that you help me to continue to do that.” He pressed his forehead fiercely to the floor and hurried obediently back to his place, taking care not to look at Kim. 

To Lan’s astonishment her father signaled for her to approach the altar next; as she was the youngest she had expected to go last, hut her father was clearly singling Kim out for special treatment by allowing her to precede him. Her bare feet made no sound on the polished wood floor as she approached the altar with her head bowed devoutly over her clasped hands. “Please, Great-grandfather, don’t let my father be angry with me for what Kim did,” she prayed silently, closing her eyes as tightly as she could in an effort to add force to her thoughts. “I only ever wish to please him and I’m very sorry my pet gibbon was taken to the palace. But because I am a girl I can’t stop my brothers from doing wrong, so please help Kim to behave better so that there is no more trouble.” She remained bent towards the portrait of the dead mandarin for several seconds to show the spirits how deeply repentant she was, and when she rose to return to her place she kept her head bowed so that her dark hair fell across her face and hid the tears of remorse in her eyes. 

When his father motioned him forward, Kim approached the altar more slowly, his lips pursed in a determined line. For a long time he remained bent over his hands without uttering any form of prayer. Then a moment before rising to rejoin his brother and sister, he clenched his teeth together hard. “If my father decides to beat me for what I did,” he whispered fiercely to himself, “please help me to endure the pain and not to cry. That is all I ask.” 

From the back of the room where they were made to stand apart from the family for the rest of the ceremony, the three children were able to hear only snatches of their grandfather’s words as he conducted a long discourse praising the virtues of his dead parent. When at last the joss stick on the altar burned down, their mother ushered them to their father’s study and arranged them in a line before his writing-table on which the bamboo cane had already been laid out. 

“You all know how disrespectful your behaviour was this evening,” Tran Van Hieu said severely when he had seated himself, “both to the French governor and to your parents. And though I am well aware that you, Kim, are the main cause of the trouble I have no alternative but to punish all three of you.” 

Tam’s face fell and Lan felt tears start to her eyes again, but Kim received the news without showing any visible sign of emotion. “Tam, because your responsibility for what happened is not so great as Kim’s, you and your sister will kneel in the corner of this room for one hour with your faces to the wall. If you remain perfectly still and keep your backs straight, you won’t be punished further. Use the time to reflect on your disgraceful behaviour —. and resolve never to disobey me again.” 

As the elder boy and Lan turned away in relief, the mandarin let his hand fall on the bamboo cane; he rolled it between his fingers for a moment before glancing up at his younger son again. “Your punishment, Kim, will depend on the quality of your answers,” he said, speaking in a quiet voice. “And I want you first tell me why you took the gibbon to the palace when you knew it was wrong.” 

For a long time the boy maintained a defiant silence and didn’t look at his father. 

“If you don’t tell me, I will beat you without mercy,” said the mandarin at last and rose from his chair with the cane in his hand. Still the boy didn’t speak, but when his father advanced around the table and stood over him, he looked up into his face. 

‘I did it because some of the older boys at school dared me! They said I was too frightened of our long-nosed French masters to do such a thing. I wanted to show them I wasn’t afraid!” 

Tran Van Hieu’s eyes glittered and the muscles of his jaw tightened. “Why should you need to show you are not afraid? You know very well you should accord the French governor and his officials the same respect you show to me and your grandfather. They are the ruling authority. Our position and our wealth depend on their goodwill.” 

“Some of the older boys at school say we are nothing more than dancing puppets of the French!” The boy blurted his words in a rush, his pale face Rushing suddenly. “They say we’ve sold our souls to France in return for rice fields over which the crane might fly all morning without encountering barriers. They call us ‘licensed pirates’ behind our backs!” 

In the tense silence that followed, Tam and Lan, who had their faces to the wall, heard their father draw a long shuddering breath; then the first crack of the bamboo cane rang through the quiet room like a pistol shot. As the sound was repeated again and again the tears that had been brimming in Lan’s eyes spurted down her cheeks, and beside her Tam listened rigid with horror, waiting for the sound of his brother’s wailing to begin. 

But although the cane continued to rise and fall with a terrible regularity, and they continued to hear the awful blows landing, no sound came from their brother. Once Tam darted a terrified glance over his shoulder and saw Kim sprawled across the writing-table; white faced and trembling from head to toe, he had his eyes closed and his fists were clenched tight as he summoned up every last ounce of courage in his eleven-year-old body to endure his father’s beating without weeping or crying out. 

In the bright, clear sunlight of the morning that followed the governor’s reception, the three-mile highway linking Saigon with Cholon was aswarm with almost every form of land transport that had ever served mankind. Drawn by light-stepping ponies, lowing bullocks, sweating, yellow-skinned men or smoking petrol and steam engines, unending processions of carriages, carts, rickshaws, trams, trains, cars, and motor buses were plying urgently back and forth across the drab plain of treeless rice fields, hurrying to complete their business before the heat of noon drove their passengers to seek shelter and shade. 

Perched on the tailboard of a tiny wooden malabar pulled by two short-legged Cambodian ponies, Senator Nathaniel Sherman was puffing reflectively on a Havana cigar as he surveyed the early morning scene. “It’s worth remembering, Chuck, that without the white man’s know-how this road would be nothing more than a dusty cart track today. And the only vehicles on it would be those native ox carts. Maybe even this quaint little matchbox on wheels wouldn’t be here.” 

Chuck and Joseph were hunched on facing seats in the covered interior, their sun helmets touching the underside of the curved wooden roof. As they jolted along they grinned at each other, letting out little exaggerated groans of pain every time the unsprung wheels hit a bump in the road. A line of the malabars, named after the Indian immigrants who had brought them to the colony, had been drawn up under the trees in the square outside the Continental Palace Hotel when they emerged to go to Cholon with Jacques and Paul Devraux to buy the last of their hunting supplies. On learning that the French called them disparagingly ‘boites d’allumettes” — matchboxes — and that they were usually only used by poor Annamese, the senator had suddenly elected to ride in one with his sons and meet the Frenchman at the market. 

“I’m saying this, Chuck, to remind you that it’s the rich and powerful nations that call the tune around the world,” continued the senator through a burgeoning cloud of pale blue cigar smoke. “And I thought that maybe a few bruises under the seat of your pants might make sure you remember something else that’s important. Wealth and power go hand in hand, at home too, as well as in the big wide world. Men from families like ours have always governed America — and the great countries of Europe. But I don’t want you to make the same mistakes the French make here. High-handedness and arrogance are their trademarks, as you saw last night at the governor’s palace. But no American politician, especially a wealthy one, is going to last two minutes if he’s caught looking down his nose at folk the way the French do. It’s the ordinary folks at home who vote you into office, remember — and out of it. So first and foremost let everyone see that you make common cause with the common people. And never be too proud to be seen riding in a little buggy like this, instead of a limousine. The people like it — especially in the South. That’s how they want it there. It makes them feel close to you and they like that.” 

‘I don’t think I’ll ever feel anything ever again with the region I sit on,” grinned Chuck as he continued to bounce up and down on the plank bench. “I sure won’t forget this malabar ride in a long while.” 

The senator drew hard on his cigar and studied the glowing end. “I guess you saw through the governor’s speech last night, Chuck, did you — all that hypocritical talk about the civilizing mission?” The senator glanced up inquiringly at his elder son. 

“Yes,” said Chuck uncertainly, “I think so. He did paint a kind of rosy picture, didn’t he? But I guess they have got something to point to if they’ve built good roads and railways and so on.” 

“But what’s the point of building all those roads and railways?” 

Chuck hesitated and peered out at the teeming streets of Cholon, which they were entering. Beneath the shady colonnades built out over the pavements, fat Chinese stripped to the waist like living Buddhas sat flicking their abaci behind high mounds of fruits, foodstuffs, silks, porcelains, hardware and a dozen other commodities. Wooden-wheeled ox carts trundled through the dense throng and the air was heavy with the pungent reek of salted fish, oriental teas and spices. Reluctantly Chuck turned his eyes back to his father. 

“To improve their communications, I guess said Chuck, his voice trailing off without conviction. 

‘Isn’t it to help them transport the rubber and coal and rice and all the things that they export from the colony?” Joseph made his suggestion diffidently in the uncomfortable silence. “Don’t the French really get more benefit from having roads and railways than the Annamese?” 

The senator nodded at Joseph. “Exactly. And all that talk about the hardworking Annamese people was a mite misleading. The American consul told me they still force the peasants to do corvée. Every man jack has to work ten days each year for nothing as a kind of tax. They build those roads arid railways or canals — working like the serfs did for their feudal lords in Europe in the Middle Ages.” 

“So why did you say, Daddy, last night, that the people in the streets seemed content and happy?” asked Joseph eagerly. “After I told you what we’d seen.” 

‘Perhaps you’ve figured that one out, Chuck?” said the senator, turning to his elder son with a self-satisfied smile. “A little bit of wide-eyed innocence is good for lulling your opponents into a false sense of security. If you listened carefully to what I said, though, most of it could be taken two ways. A lot of folks drop their guard when they think they’re dealing with a man of simple mind — and if behind that kind of pose you hide the steely determination I’ve been trying to drum into you, son, you’ll do just fine.” He leaned forward and patted Chuck’s arm encouragingly as the sais brought the malabar ponies to a halt outside Cholon’s biggest covered market. 

Jacques Devraux and his son were waiting beside a baggage truck that was already loaded with the rest of their hunting equipment, and leaving their sons to stand watch, the two men disappeared into the shadowy interior of the market to haggle over a purchase of several hundred pounds of salt and arsenical soap that would be used for drying and preserving the hides of animals they hoped to shoot. At the pavement’s edge Joseph stood surveying the crowd with fascinated eyes; in Cholon’s narrower streets, Europeans were far rarer than on the boulevards of Saigon, and the vast majority of the faces were Chinese. Gleaming French cars nosed along the cluttered roadway bearing corpulent Chinese and their bejeweled wives or concubines in their curtained interiors, and the staccato, unmelodious babble of the Cantonese dialect had entirely replaced the softer, sibilant tones of the Annamese language. 

“Look there,” whispered Paul, draping his arms around the shoulders of both American boys and turning them to face across the street. “Do you see the Chinese beauty with her little mu tsai?” He pointed to the straight-backed figure of a striking Chinese girl in an embroidered silk dress before whom the crowds were parting as she made her way slowly along the opposite pavement. Her face was powdered and rouged, and beside her trotted a younger, plainly dressed girl holding a parasol above the delicate head of her mistress. 

“What is a mu tsai?” asked Joseph, staring. 

“She’s a little slave girl,” said Paul, a lascivious note creeping into his voice, “But she can still be very important. In an arranged marriage the husband often insists that his wife brings a pretty little mu tsai along as part of her dowry. Then if the wife displeases him he can distract himself with her little slave.” 

“And have you got a little mu tsai tucked away somewhere, Paul?” inquired Chuck, grinning broadly. 

“Unfortunately not,” sighed the French boy. 

“What, no congaie, no mu tsai?” asked Joseph precociously, straining to bridge the gap of those few years that seemed to separate him from the world of adult banter inhabited so effortlessly by Paul and his brother. “And the Annamese girls are all virgins? Flow on earth do you manage?” 

The French boy turned on one of his fierce expressions of shock and outrage and leaned back from the waist to subject the American boy’s now-blushing face to pantomime scrutiny. “There are ways, my dear young Joseph,” he said at last, his eyes twinkling merrily, “that even your audacious mind has not yet dared to conceive. Since you’re obviously a young man of ardent passions, perhaps I’ll have a chance to show you personally what I mean — and sooner than you think.”