Saigon (6 page)

The incandescent flowers of roadside flame trees blazed like orange candies overhead as Jacques Devraux’s gleaming black Citroen B-2 landaulet slid through the shadows they cast on the road leading northeast out of Saigon. Devraux himself was sitting in the front beside his Annamese driver while Senator Sherman shared the rear seats with his sons and Paul Devraux. Flavia Sherman had elected to spend the day shopping on the Rue Catinat and was to join them for the first hunt next morning. With their baggage truck trundling fifty yards behind they were heading towards the junction of the Dong Nai and La Nga rivers sixty miles from Saigon, where wild water buffalo and other rare animals of Southern Asia roamed freely through a low-lying region of jungle and plain. 

Outside the city the road passed through a broad expanse of flooded paddy fields where swarms of Annamese nha que were bending and straightening, belly-deep in the sludge. To tend the rice shoots all wore broad, mollusk-shaped hats and identical trousers and tunics of black cloth that made men and women indistinguishable to the eyes of the Americans in the car. Domesticated buffaloes lumbered through the flooded fields, too, hauling tiny wooden plows, or wallowed at rest in deeper hollows with only their scimitar shaped horns and noses showing above the water. Endless streams of similarly clad peasants hurried barefoot along the dikes and roadsides, moving with the same tireless rhythm as those workers in the fields. In baskets slung from shoulder poles they carried paddy seedlings, husked rice, fruit, vegetables, matting and even, as Joseph once delightedly pointed out, two live piglets squealing and squirming in separate nets at the pole ends. As in Saigon the mouths of the men and women alike oozed with betel juice and the roadsides there too were stained with red saliva blotches. 

“This is the other side of the coin,” said Jacques Devraux in English and gestured peremptorily toward the windshield. “In Cholon you saw the fat Chinese millionaires taking their ease. They set up the mills to husk the rice and charter the ships to transport it to the best markets — then sit back. These gullible Annamese peasants are the ones who do all the hard, dirty work to make them rich. Sometimes to me Indochina looks like a Chinese colony run for the fat men of Cholon by Courtesy of France.” 

The Frenchman’s voice betrayed no trace of humor, and his tanned, leathery face remained set in unsmiling lines as he spoke. The hardness of his tone produced an uncomfortable silence in the car, and Paul Devraux, sensing this, hastened to lighten the atmosphere. “We say in French, senator, that the Annamese are the ‘rizicultivateurs’ — the rice growers — and that the Chinese are the ‘usuricultivateurs’ — the cultivators of usury,” he said with a laugh. “That’s neat, isn’t it?” 

The senator laughed and patted the French boy on the arm. “Whatever you call them, Paul, I wouldn’t mind having a hundred or two of these peasants come over to Virginia to work my plantation.” He gazed out of the window at the jog-trotting crowds of peasants moving in both directions along the road. “They seem to have fancy little engines driving them, don’t they? They never seem to stop running.” 

“They’re a very hardworking people,” said Paul earnestly. “They have a surprising amount of energy in those frail-looking bodies.” 

“Then how come they don’t make anything for themselves out of all this hard labor?” inquired the senator politely. 

“However much they earn seems to make no difference. They constantly get themselves in debt.” Jacques Devraux spoke quietly without turning around. “Then they have to go to the Chinese to borrow money at highwaymen’s rates. Sometimes the Chinese charge thirty-six percent and the peasants are foolish enough to agree. Often they lend as little as ten piastres knowing they will be able to take the borrower’s scrap of land, his house — and his wife and daughters too, probably — when he fails to repay.” 

“But that’s not the whole story, Papa,” protested Paul hotly. “The peasants have a hard time of it all round, it seems to use. We robbed them of their land in the first place to reward the Annamese who collaborated with us. Now those landowners have become greedy and demand high rents — and we help to exploit the peasants by levying crippling taxes. Who can they turn to if the native landowners and the French are against them?” 

Jacques Devraux did not reply immediately. Joseph, who was watching him closely, saw the muscles of his jaw tighten as he continued looking ahead through the windshield, and when he spoke there was a new undertone of coldness in his voice. “The Annamese were part of the Chinese empire for a thousand years, Paul, remember. They’re a people who succumb easily to exploitation. It’s in their nature. They seem to need it. If we hadn’t colonized this country when we did somebody else would have 

The landaulet jolted suddenly as the Annamese driver trod on the brake, and Joseph, who was sitting directly behind him, heard Jacques Devraux curse softly under his breath. Glancing up the American boy saw a peasant pole-carrier, who had skipped across the road close in front of the Citroën, grinning triumphantly from a roadside ditch. As they accelerated away Joseph turned to stare out of the window and saw the peasant jump up and break into a little celebratory caper in the middle of the road. 

“You will have to get used to that, I’m afraid,” said Paul Devraux in an apologetic voice. “It happens all the time.” 

“Why do they do it?” asked Joseph in alarm. “Are they trying to kill themselves?” 

“Not quite. They’re trying to kill their rna-qui. But unfortunately they sometimes do kill themselves, too.” 

“What are their ma-qui?” 

“Their evil spirits. All Annamese peasants — and that’s about eighty percent of the population — worship invisible spirits. House spirits, hearth spirits, river spirits, tree spirits — in the jungle you’ll sometimes see little offerings of food in the fork of a tree. Their ma.-qui are the two spirits which they believe live in their shadows. One is good and one is bad. The bad one leads them into temptation and they believe that the only way that they can get rid of it is to drag it close to danger. If they narrowly miss death themselves and their shadow is ‘hit’ by a car, or ‘gored’ by a buffalo, they believe the evil spirit living in it will be destroyed. That’s why the peasant was dancing in the road — we’d killed his bad shadow. It happens a lot at this time of year — it’s Tet soon, the festival of the lunar new year, and they like to start afresh without any evil following them around.” 

The car slowed again more gently as the Annamese driver spotted another group of peasants gathering themselves at the roadside Fifty yards ahead. From the back seats the Shermans heard Jacques suck in a long irritable breath. “Don’t slow down every time, Loc,” he told his driver curtly in French. “Otherwise we shall never get there.” 

The Annamese pressed the accelerator and the landaulet gathered speed again; it didn’t falter as three more young peasants darted white-faced into the road, and Joseph found himself holding his breath until they got clear. 

As the Citroën began to climb away from the crowded rice paddies into the red-soiled rubber plantation region, Joseph studied the face of the driver in the rearview mirror, trying to guess his feelings. He wondered if he’d understood what Jacques Devraux had said earlier in English about his country. But from his impassive, narrow-eyed face it was impossible to gauge his thoughts; like many Annamese he had the kind of boyish appearance that made it difficult for an American to estimate his age. He could have been anything between twenty and forty years old, thought Joseph. Jacques Devraux had not troubled to make him known to the senator, but while his father made a final check of the baggage truck, Paul Devraux had patted him affectionately on the shoulder and introduced him to them as “the great all- purpose Annamese genie Ngo Van Loc, who’s houseboy, camp boy, chauffeur and indispensable general assistant to the humble Devraux family.” Loc had giggled with embarrassment then shook hands and greeted them hurriedly in French before Devraux returned to the car. There seemed no reason why he should have known any English, Joseph reflected as they drove on and concluded in his own mind that the wary-eyed Annamese probably hadn’t understood the earlier conversation. 

For mile after mile the car ran on through the shadowy rubber groves where the straight-trunked trees with herringbone scars and metal latex cups stretched unendingly into the distance on either side of the road. The repetitive, uniform appearance of the soldier-like trees made it seem as if the car was scarcely moving, and their silent, gloomy shade gradually eased the tension created inside the Citroën by the earlier near-accident. But then as the car sped out of the rubber groves and down a steep hill towards another village Joseph stiffened in his seat again. A big crowd of peasants had gathered around the slimy village pond to wash their clothes and themselves in the gray, brackish water. They had spilled halfway across the road, and although most of them shuffled quickly aside when they saw the car approaching, four boys gathered themselves quickly into a group and remained standing defiantly in its path. Ngo Van Loc instinctively eased his foot from the accelerator again, but Jacques Devraux lifted his open hand in a gesture of admonishment and leaned across to press the horn in the center of the steering wheel. 

“They will never learn to get out of the way if you slow down every time,” he said sharply. “Keep going.” 

As they drew nearer Joseph could see the flat peasant faces of the four Annamese boys clearly; they were wide-eyed with apprehension, but obviously determined to remain rooted to the spot until the last moment. Jacques Devraux’s face was visible in the rearview mirror and his cold expression did not flicker as he held his hand firmly on the blaring horn. 

When the large chromium headlamps of the Citroën were only five feet from them, the first boy flung himself into the roadside ditch and let out a yell of triumph as he tumbled into the filthy water. Two of the others stumbled but managed to leap awkwardly over the offside fender of the car. The fourth boy, however, slipped and fell to his knees and was only beginning to scramble upright again when the fender caught his chest with a thud that shook the vehicle. His arms and legs flew wide as he cart wheeled over the hood and fell in a motionless heap in the dusty road behind them. 

Ngo Van Loc started to slow the car, but to the surprise of the Americans Jacques Devraux motioned him to keep driving. The Frenchman studied the scene behind them in the rearview mirror for a second or two but did not turn his head. Joseph and the other occupants in the landaulet twisted in their seats and watched the rest of the villagers rush to surround the fallen boy. The baggage truck that was following slowed as the crowd in the road thickened, then stopped, unable to pass. 

“Won’t you turn back, Monsieur Devraux, to see at least if he’s alive?” asked Nathaniel Sherman in a quiet voice. 

“There is really no need to inconvenience yourself, senator,” replied Devraux calmly. “I assure you this is a very common occurrence here.” 

“But shouldn’t the accident be reported to your police?” 

“There is no need. The most a French judge will fine you is the cost of the funeral expenses— twenty-five piastres if in fact the boy has died. And the judge will only do that if he really has to. Repeated warnings are given to the peasants to stay away from passing traffic. They ignore these warnings completely.” He glanced briefly in the mirror again. “The baggage truck driver will take care of it. He is Annamese.” 

The Frenchman spoke the final words in a tone that suggested he would find it disagreeable to discuss the subject further, and the senator lapsed into silence. Joseph glanced at Ngo Van Loc, but although his knuckles were white on the steering wheel he made no comment, and nobody else spoke for the rest of the journey. 

“You will never argue with me again in front of clients, French or foreign, is that clear?” Jacques Devraux held himself ramrod straight on the back of his stocky saddle pony and delivered his order to his son in a vehement undertone. “Your behavior was unpardonable! It’s astonishing to me that a boy whose father and grandfather have both been soldiers before him should have such a poorly developed sense of loyalty and duty.” 

Paul bit his lip as he jogged at his father’s shoulder along a trail that wound through fringes of jungle beside the La Nga River. His face had grown pale at the harshness of the rebuke and he drew a long breath before replying. “You can’t expect me to agree with you on every single thing, Papa,” he said, keeping his voice low so that it did not carry to Senator Sherman and his sons, who were strung out in single file on their ponies behind them. “But that doesn’t mean I’m disloyal to you.” 

“Perhaps you will learn the meaning of obedience and respect at St. Cyr. I hope so. If you don’t, you won’t remain an officer cadet for long.” Devraux didn’t look at his son as he spoke, but stared straight ahead along the track, his face set in harsh lines. “After the Americans leave I must travel to Canton again. You will have to conduct on your own the party of French officials who want to shoot muntjac. I don’t wish to hear from them on my return that you’ve been airing the kind of sentiments I heard from you today.” 

Paul rode without speaking for a minute or two, listening absently to the strident cries of unseen birds in the tangled roof of the tropical forest. He sensed that his father was silently demanding some expression of regret, but whenever he glanced at his grim, unsmiling face he found it impossible to summon an apology to his lips. “Are you going on Sureté General business?” he asked at last in a low voice after glancing around again to see if they could be overheard. “Is it to do with the bomb that was thrown at the governor general?” 

“You know I can’t discuss my work for the Süreté with you,” replied his father brusquely. Then he turned his head and eyed his son coldly. “But perhaps holding the views you do makes you feel no action should be taken against the enemies of France.” 

A faint flush rose to the French boy’s face. “I’m as proud of our country as you are, Papa,” he said softly. “But if we did things differently here there wouldn’t be any need for resistance movements. And the Süreté wouldn’t need to spy on anybody.” 

“Life is not that simple,” replied the older man sarcastically. “There are outside forces in Russia and China trying to stir up trouble for us here.” Then he paused and looked more thoughtfully at his son for a moment. “But don’t think there’s any pleasure or satisfaction in such work, Paul. Many hours are wasted watching and waiting. And often there’s nothing to show for it at the end. I do it from a sense of duty — for my country. For myself I would much rather be hunting — or even back in the army again.” 

Paul detected a faint note of weariness in his father’s voice and for a fleeting instant his mask of grim detachment had seemed to soften. “I’m sorry, Papa,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t that clever of me.” 

Jacques Devraux continued to ride straight-backed in his saddle without acknowledging the grudging apology, and Paul was beginning to wish he had left it unsaid when his father spoke again in a softer tone. “Your mother’s death caused me great pain, Paul, you already know that. But having his only son turn against him is painful for a man too.” 

The French boy looked up sharply at his father, but the familiar expressionless mask had already settled back on his face. “You’d better ride back now and check the baggage carts,” he said sharply. “Make sure the Moi haven’t lost anything. And stay in the rear till we get to the camp.” 

Joseph Sherman saw Paul turn his pony and begin trotting back towards him. He had been riding in front of Chuck and his father, watching with admiration the erect, narrow-backed figure of Jacques Devraux jogging easily at the head of the column; the fierce-eyed Frenchman had quickly made a deep impression on Joseph’s fifteen-year-old mind and he was trying to hold his own shoulders high and square in the same fashion. The Frenchman’s dark aquiline features and unsmiling silences made him think of history-book pictures he’d seen of the warrior heroes of ancient Greece and Rome, and the dismay h had felt at first when their car had struck the Annamese villager had increased his sense of awe. 

He had forgotten the incident, however, the moment they entered the jungle for the first time, riding on the little saddle ponies which Devraux’s Mol bearers had brought to the road from the hunting camp. One moment they had been crossing a burning glade of shoulder-high grass in the full glare of the sun and the next they descended abruptly into a dark, silent, mysterious world where the air was cool and moist, the earth soft and spongy underfoot, and dazzling orchids blazed suddenly among the deep green undergrowth. The change had been so abrupt that Joseph had been moved to speak only in hushed whispers of the thrilling sights and sounds that unfolded all around them. They had disturbed alligators in the shallows of the river, listened to unseen deer bark in the riverside thickets, and a herd of wild pigs had fled snuffling and grunting from a stagnant pool at their approach. He and Chuck vied to identify the exotic birds they saw: ibis, king- fishers, herons, white pheasants arid once a peacock darted frantically across their path. A wide grin of delight had become a permanent fixture on his face, and Paul smiled at him in return as he cantered back to check the ox carts. 

“Regarde, Joseph.” said the French boy suddenly reining in his pony beside him and pointing to the far edge of the plain that they were crossing. “Do you see the elephants?” 

Joseph turned in his saddle in time to see a score of shuffling gray humps slip silently into the distant trees. “Those are the first wild elephants I’ve ever seen in my life,” he whispered reverently, and his grin of delight spread from ear to ear. 

He was still grinning when they rode into the camp which had been built by the Moi in a bend of the Slow-flowing river. Four huts of palm thatch laid over jointed poles had been constructed, arid cooking and storage tents were pitched nearby. Immediately the little mountain tribesmen, who seemed to have stepped straight out of the sepia photographs in his history book, began unloading the baggage, and Joseph saw them take their crossbows and arrows from the carts and carry them to their own huts a hundred yards away along the riverbank. “Moi,” he knew from his reading, was an Annamese term derived from the Chinese word for “savage,” and looking at the dark-skinned, low-browed men, he could see they were of a different racial stock from the Annamese; they wore only breechclouts that left their haunches naked and they grinned and chattered animatedly in their own language as they moved quickly about their work. Some of them had plaited scraps of cloth in their long black hair and all wore beads around their necks. 

The women who waited to greet them outside their huts wore bracelets of tin on their wrists and ankles, but otherwise their only other garment was a long dark cloth wrapped round the hips, which left their jutting, dark-nippled breasts uncovered. Seeing Joseph staring at the women, Paul walked over to him and put an arm around his shoulder. “You like our Moi women then, young Joseph, do you?” he asked, grinning broadly. 

The American boy colored and laughed. “They’re okay, I guess.” 

“They’re a branch of the Rhade tribe but a bit ancient, wouldn’t you say, for your youthful tastes? ‘The chief in the next village has a dozen wives and a lot of juicy young daughters who would better suit a passionate young man like you.” He slapped Joseph on the back and laughed again.. Then he nodded towards the senator and Chuck who were helping his father and Ngo Van Loc supervise the unloading of supplies. “Everyone else is busy at the moment, so why don’t we try to get something fresh for the pot. Nice little muntjac for supper, say.” He winked broadly. “And if we have time I’ll show you the Moi village, too.” 

Joseph looked doubtfully towards his father. “Hadn’t we better ask?” 

“Fetch your rifle. I’ll go and check if it’s okay.” 

He ran across to talk to the senator and his father while Joseph collected hi light Winchester carbine from the hut he was to share with his brother. A moment later the French boy returned carrying a Mauser .350 slung carelessly over his shoulder. “It’s all right. I’ve promised we’ll bring back a young hog deer.” He leaned close to Joseph and whispered, “That means we’ve got to shoot two, okay?” 

Two of the Moi carrying short poles followed them to a dugout canoe moored by the camp, and they paddled across the river to the plain on the other side. When they lauded Paul crept forward to peer out into the grassland from behind a tree. Then he waved Joseph forward. “See over there, look! There are about a dozen deer grazing.” 

The late afternoon sun was beginning t lose its heat, but under its fading glare the waving grass of the plain still shimmered in a gray-green haze and Joseph’s unpracticed eye could detect no movement. 

‘There! Half a mile away; the red blotches close to the trees.” Paul turned Joseph’s head gently in both hands until he saw the deer. “And we’re in luck, the wind’s blowing straight towards us. We’ll just walk quietly down behind the tree cover and bag two of those beauties. One for us, and one for the chiefs daughters, eh?” He chuckled quietly and set off towards the feeding animals. 

When they were only fifty yards from the herd the French boy came back to Joseph and raised a mischievous eyebrow. “Have you ever He nodded and winked exaggeratedly. “. . . before, Joseph? Have you?” 

The American boy looked away, his cheeks burning suddenly. 

“I thought not.” Paul laughed and took his arm confidentially. “You know, at your age I had. . . well, never mind. Let’s shoot the muntjac first 

He led them to within thirty yards of the unsuspecting deer, then motioned for Joseph to sit down on the ground at the edge of the plain. He squatted beside him and demonstrated how to prop his elbows on his knees to steady the rifle. “Take the little fawn nearest to us,” he whispered, pointing to one of the young. 

Joseph fingered his rifle and gazed at the pretty little muntjac. Its red flanks were flecked with white, and it stood broadside on to him, a perfect target. 

“Go on, take aim,” urged the French boy. 

But Joseph didn’t raise his rifle. “You shoot, Paul. I might miss and scare them,” he said softly, his cheeks coloring again with embarrassment. 

The French boy gave a grunt of exasperation and fired almost casual1 from a standing position. The fawn bounded forward instantly in a reflex action, then fell dead in the grass. He shot a larger doe on the run as the little herd began dashing for cover, and the Moi bearers ran out into the plain to hoist the two dead animals on their shoulder poles. Grinning broadly the French boy led the way into the forest, and for a quarter of an hour they threaded through the trees following a narrow trail. 

The village when they reached it consisted of three dozen palm-thatched huts raised on poles ten feet above the ground. In the shade beneath them pigs, dogs, domestic fowls, horses and even a few ancient buffalos swarmed in a stinking congregation. Moi children who had heard the noise of their approach came running helter-skelter to surround them and began shouting excitedly when they saw the dead deer. Paul pulled several cubes of sugar from his pocket and tossed them among the children, and they squealed and fought among themselves, passing the prizes eventually from hand to hand. 

“Ah, at last! Here comes the pholy.” The French boy nudged Joseph as a tall, white-haired Moi who was obviously the village chieftain slowly descended the stepped tree trunk that led from his hut to the ground. Paul gestured towards the biggest muntjac suspended from the carrying pole and made an elaborate gesture of donation. 

The old man, who wore a cloth bow in his long gray hair, looked at the French boy for a moment, then his weather-beaten face cracked in a slow smile and he raised his arm above his head. From inside the hut behind him came the sudden sound of gongs and drums being beaten and immediately a bare-breasted woman appeared in the doorway at the top of the stepped log, holding aloft a tall earthenware jar. 

A sigh of satisfaction escaped the French boy’s lips. “That’s the ternum,” he whispered. 

“The what?” 

“Ternum — the Mois’ own special rice alcohol. Fermented for three years — very potent. Think you can take it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“For a man who can catch a gibbon in a Ming vase it will be child’s play.” The French boy laughed loudly and followed the pholy up the log staircase into the gloomy interior of the long hut. 

The moment Joseph stepped through the doorway he began coughing uncontrollably. Several fires were burning inside and their smoke stung his throat and eyes. The floor was made of bamboo strips laid haphazardly side by side, and he staggered several times as his feet slipped between the round poles. Maize had been hung to dry beneath the thatch, and he knocked his head against a bunch as he straightened up, bringing a shower of husks and crawling insects cascading down upon himself. 

By the light of the fires he could see Paul already sitting cross-legged on a buffalo skin by the pholy, and he sank gratefully down on the other side of him. He heard the French boy whispering urgently, then the chief grunted and plunged a long hollow bamboo rod into the ternum jar and drank a deep draught. When he’d finished he wiped his mouth and passed the jar to Joseph. The American boy hesitated, then sucked hard on the bamboo. The harshness of the alcohol took his breath away and made him choke again, and Paul collapsed in a fit of laughter as he expelled half of it in a further bout of coughing.