Saigon (8 page)

When the Moi trackers again descended from the lookout trees shaking their heads, Joseph on an impulse asked Jacques Devraux if he might climb to take a look with Chuck’s binoculars. The Frenchman nodded his assent without displaying any interest in the request, and Joseph bounded immediately into the lower branches of the tree nearest him. Thirty feet above the ground its boughs became too slender to support his weight, and he stopped and raised the binoculars to his eyes. 

For several minutes he saw nothing in the shimmering haze of the plain. Then he thought his eyes must be playing tricks; a mirage of round-backed whales seemed to be sporting amid the waves of golden grass. He kept the glasses trained, and as he watched they turned into a herd of about seven buffalo filing slowly in their direction. They were still a mile off, but their gray-black humps were unmistakable. Joseph called softly to those below and pointed. The Moi immediately climbed other trees and peered in the direction of his finger; then they began chattering excitedly to Devraux in their own language. 

The breeze was blowing from behind the buffalo, and if they remained quiet, Devraux counseled, the animals would have no inkling of their presence. The track of the animals seemed likely to take them within two hundred yards of their hiding place, so they should crawl out onto the plain to try to get a shot from half that range. 

Nathaniel Sherman nodded his agreement and motioned to Chuck, and together they moved bent double into the tall grass. Joseph, although he had not been invited, followed, keeping low, his Winchester clutched in both hands. 

Crawling through the thick grass with heavy rifles in the heat of the day left all three of them gasping for breath. Chuck was the first to recover, and when he pulled himself to his knees to peer across the plain, the closeness of the leading herd bull surprised him. It was no more than three hundred yards distant, and he could see the great flattened scimitars of its horns swaying above the grass as it advanced, scenting the breeze at every step. Its small herd included two sturdy calves, and he ducked down excitedly to report to his father what he had seen, 

Nathaniel Sherman peered at his watch, his face puckering in concentration as he calculated the time necessary to allow the buffalo to move into the most favorable range. When two minutes had passed he motioned Joseph to stay flat, then nodded at Chuck, and they both stood up simultaneously, their rifles at their shoulders. 

The herd bull stopped in astonishment on seeing two men rise abruptly from the grass only eighty yards away. It lifted its great horned head as though to bellow a warning, but in that moment Chuck Sherman’s rifle roared and he let out a yell of delight as he heard the thud of the bullet strike home into the buffalo’s broad chest. He fired again as the wounded bull turned and began galloping clumsily towards the safety of the trees, but this second shot went wide. Beside him his father’s rifle recoiled, and they saw one of the two calves stagger, then begin stumbling after the bull. 

“I think we’ve got the big boy and his calf, Chuck,” breathed Nathaniel Sherman. “Now for a cow!” Retook careful aim with his second barrel at a smaller buffalo that had begun circling in dismay, and they heard the dull thud of his successful shot echo clearly across the plain. The wounded cow, however, dashed frantically towards the jungle along with the other terrified animals of the herd and disappeared with them into the shade. 

Only the dying bull stopped before it reached the trees. Staggering slightly, it turned to stare balefully back at them, standing broadside on. Chuck glanced around inquiringly at Jacques Devraux, who had moved out into the plain with his son and Flavia Sherman. “Shall I shoot again, Monsieur?” 

The Frenchman shook his head and lifted a silent hand in a gesture that implied “Wait!” 

For a minute or two they all watched the wounded bull swaying on its legs. “That was great shooting, Chuck,” said the senator at last, growing impatient. “But I think we have to go forward and finish him off.” 

Once more Devraux raised his hand. “No, Shoot again from here.” 

Chuck reloaded and fired off both barrels with great care, and again he had the satisfaction of hearing his bullets slam into the stationary animal. But although it staggered once more, it still didn’t drop. Instead it stood staring bemusedly at its assailants while blood dribbled from its jaws onto the grass. Only when Chuck reloaded and shot a third time did the animal slowly crumple to the ground and roll onto its side, leaving one great horn curving majestically upward above the tall grass. 

Nathaniel Sherman slapped Chuck heartily on the back and, taking his arm, hurried him away toward his kill. Jacques Devraux followed more slowly with his son, Flavia Sherman and Joseph. Paul Devraux pointed to the fringes of the thicket into which the remnants of the herd had disappeared: the bulk of the small black calf was clearly visible lying dead on its side a dozen paces short of the trees. 

As they approached the curved horn of the dead bull, Nathaniel Sherman began pumping the hand of his eldest son in congratulation. Jacques Devraux followed them, holding his rifle at the ready until he was certain the big animal was dead. Joseph and his mother, after watching them for a moment, turned and strolled away to inspect the dead calf. 

Nobody was looking at the thicket at the moment the wounded cow broke cover. Bellowing with pain and leaving a bright trail of blood on the grass, the crazed animal galloped frantically towards its dead calf, over which Joseph and his mother were bending. When he looked up and saw the charging buffalo, Joseph raised his Winchester in an instinctive reflex action and dropped to his knees. Peering along its barrel he saw blood foaming around the cow’s mouth and heard clearly the tortured rasp of its breath between each anguished bellow. 

At the moment of firing he closed his eyes tight, hut he never heard the crack of the Winchester discharging because it was drowned in the roar of Jacques Devraux’s Mauser. The Frenchman’s bullet pierced the brain of the buffalo just behind its left ear, and the impact twisted its neck and threw the animal down in a swirl of dust only ten yards from where Joseph was kneeling beside his terrified mother. A long shudder ran the length of its body, then after one last explosive and bloody exhalation of breath, it lay still. 

In the ensuing rush of silence that gripped the plain and its fringe of jungle, nobody moved; for several seconds the tableau of scattered human figures stood as though spellbound among the black and bloody bodies of the dead animals, They didn’t loosen and begin converging around the dead buffalo cow until the first flock of ragged black vultures Flopped clumsily onto an outcrop of rock on the grassland fifty yards away. 

Flavia Sherman was white-faced with shock but she managed to smile at her younger son as he stood up. “You were very brave, Joseph,” she said quietly before the others arrived within earshot. “Thank you for what you did.” 

Joseph’s face was pale and his hands were trembling, but he tried to hide this by gripping his rifle tightly as the others gathered around them. In an uncomfortable silence Nathaniel Sherman and the others gazed down at the dead buffalo cow. Only then did they see the great livid gashes that no man could have inflicted raked along both flanks. 

“A tiger must have savaged her recently,” said Devraux quietly. “She was already half-crazed with pain. We’ve all had a lucky escape.” 

“She is no damned good for display like that.” Nathaniel Sherman frowned down resentfully at the dead animal. “Not with her hide all lacerated.” He lifted his foot and touched the buffalo’s curved horns with the toe of his boot. “Still, I guess her head will make us an unusual little trophy.” He turned ant smiled at his white-faced wife. “A little Souvenir for you and the plantation house perhaps, my dear — of a moment we won’t forget in a hurry?” Each of the Moi carried a long-bladed machete which had been dubbed a coupe-coupe in Annam, and taking one from the nearest tribesman, the senator bent over the dead buffalo. When she saw what he intended to do, Flavia Sherman turned her head quickly. Holding onto one horn, he hacked off the buffalo’s head and handed it, still dripping blood, to one of the Moi. Then he grinned and looked at Jacques Devraux. “I guess we ought to get the ox carts here as quickly as possible, Monsieur Devraux, to take our bull and the calf back for skinning. Otherwise their hides won’t last long in this heat, will they?” 

Later in the afternoon Chuck Sherman ran excitedly into the hut he shared with his brother. Joseph was sitting quietly on his cot, his chin in his hands, staring out thoughtfully at the jungle. “The skinners found two bullets in your buffalo’s head, Joey,” he said excitedly. “Monsieur Devraux’s went through her left ear, but she had another one—: yours — right between the eyes!” He shook his brother’s shoulder delightedly. “How about that? Now we know, don’t we? When it really matters you shoot straight” 

“Thanks for letting me know.”Joseph looked up and smiled, but his expression betrayed no sign of real pleasure. 

Chuck stared down at him in puzzlement for a moment. Then he shrugged and turned away. A moment later he was running eagerly back across the camp to help the Moi with the skinning of the massive bull he himself had killed, unaided. 

At sunset, darkness enveloped the hunting camp in a sudden rush. The fading light gave way in a matter of seconds to a moist, velvet blackness, as if a curtain had been drawn swiftly across the sky, and the shadows beyond the glow of the hurricane lamps immediately began to come alive with the shrill vibrations of the jungle night. On the riverbank a small army of frogs croaked a hoarse descant to the incessant, high-pitched whine of unseen cicadas and from somewhere far off a bird screamed intermittently as though in agony. 

In a shadowy corner of the cook tent,. Ngo Van Loc crouched beside an upturned packing case that he was using as a makeshift writing-table. His face was clenched tight with concentration and he wrote quoc ngu, the phonetic rendering of Annamese into the roman alphabet, in a large, ungainly hand. Every now and then he stopped to peer out through a slit in the tent wall and check that Jacques Devraux was still seated with the American hunting party at the table in the center of the clearing. He had seized the opportunity while they dined to make another copy of a revolutionary tract calling for an end to French rule. It had been prepared originally by the secret society he had joined two years earlier after being forced off his own rice lands for nonpayment of taxes, and he had copied it out dozens of times already in trying to win new recruits for the society in remote jungle villages far from Saigon. He had been hurrying to finish this latest copy before the meal ended, and seeing through the slit that his wife was heading out across the clearing with his two small sons to begin collecting the dishes, he put aside his pencil and hastily read over what he’d written. 

O Brothers! O Brothers! For seventy years We have been slaves to the tyrannical French. They beat us down with duties arid taxes and pitilessly steal the fruits of our labors. We are treated like buffaloes and horses in our own land. Under the pretext of accomplishing a civilizing mission, the red-bearded French barbarians have stolen our rice fields, our mines, our seas, our press, Our commerce. All power, all profits, all our sources of livelihood are in their hands — hut the one thing they leave behind will destroy them — the hatred of a million coolies! The time is coming, Brothers, for us to take the destiny of our nation into our own hands! United we are a vast army against a few thousand Frenchmen! 

O Brothers and compatriots, join our society today! Unite with all those who hate the French and revolt against their despotic rule. 

At the sound of footsteps outside the tent Loc quickly folded the copy and its master and hid them inside the packing case. Peering through the eye-slit he saw his wife, Mai, approaching, carrying the dishes from the supper table. Not yet thirty, she wore a long dark skirt and a pale scrap of cheap cloth above the waist that left her arms and shoulders bare. The sensuality of her broad, peasant face was heightened by her modestly downcast eyes and the long swathe of glossy black hair that reached to her waist. Barefoot, she moved with the natural sinuousness of her race, arid looking beyond her, Loc saw Jacques Devraux lift his eyes momentarily from his plate to follow the swaying movement of her hips as she walked away from the table. For a second or two the expression of the Annamese camp “boy” hardened as he stared at his employer, then he moved away from the peephole and began to busy himself cleaning the pots arid pans that had been used to prepare the meal. 

“Devraux told me today he is going to Canton again soon,” he said in an excited whisper when his wife came to plunge her arms in the suds beside him. “And he wants me to go with him this time— as his driver.” . 

Her impassive face showed no sign of reaction and he leaned closer to emphasize the importance of his news. “Don’t you realize what this means? I’ll be able to meet other revolutionaries in exile there. We’re very lucky to have positions of trust with Devraux.” He glanced briefly towards the Frenchman, who was still seated at the table. “We must be very careful not to jeopardize them.” 

His wife nodded at his side but continued to clean the pans without replying or looking at him. 

“Why aren’t you interested n this good news?” he asked at last in an exasperated voice. “Don’t you understand what I’m saying?” 

“Yes, I understand,” she said quietly. 

“Then what’s the matter?” 

She scraped away at a pan in silence for a while. “He has been behaving differently today.” She hesitated, seeming uncertain of what she wanted to say. “Normally he ignores me. But today he has looked at me two or three times in a certain way.” 

Loc stared hard at her for a moment then glanced out across the clearing again, remembering suddenly the expression he’d seen a few minutes before on the Frenchman’s face. 

“I think the American woman has upset him in some way,” she continued in a quiet voice, “He never talks to her at the table — but she stares at him strangely sometimes.” 

“You’re probably imagining it,” he said quickly. “I’m sure there’s 

nothing to worry about.” - 

From the corner of his eye Loc noticed Flavia Sherman rise from the table and begin sauntering back towards her hut, Although she walked slowly, he saw there was a noticeable agitation in her manner; she tossed her head frequently, as if finding the heat oppressive, and ran her fingers repeatedly through her long black hair. He watched her, frowning, for a moment but then a squeal of high-pitched laughter rang across the camp, distracting him, and he turned to see his two sons, Dong and Hoc, squatting at the side of the clearing beside Paul and Joseph. The far-off cries of the lone bird they’d been hearing since sunset had recently seemed to double in intensity, and Loc realized that Paul Devraux had been echoing its call by blowing on blades of jungle grass between his thumbs. The American boy, he saw, was puffing out his cheeks and making loud trumpeting noises in an attempt to emulate these feats, and it was this comic performance that was causing the Annamese boys to shake with laughter. 

Fearing suddenly that their behavior might upset Jacques Devraux, Loc ran quickly across the clearing towards them. “Monsieur Paul, please don’t excite them any more,” he called in French. “It is time they both were in bed.” 

Before he reached them Paul and Joseph had hoisted the two boys, aged eleven and thirteen, onto their shoulders and were encouraging them to joust at one another with chopsticks from the table. When Loc, with another worried glance in Jacques Devraux’s direction, insisted it was time for them to go to bed, Paul galloped across the clearing with little Hoc on his shoulders and dumped the boy squealing with laughter on his sleeping mat. Joseph followed suit with Dong, and when the commotion died down and they had bidden the Annamese boys goodnight, he and Paul stripped off their shirts and walked over to the bamboo skinning platform where Chuck was already back at work on his buffalo hide. 

In her hut Flavia Sherman, distracted by the sounds of merriment, gave up trying to read by the light of a hurricane lamp and walked restlessly to the front opening. Her bush shirt was sticking to the small of her back and she could feel tiny rivulets of perspiration trickling between her breasts. In the distance thunder rumbled across the dark sky, and she suddenly raked her hands through her hair, holding both palms tight against her temples until the noise ceased. 

In-the center of the camp Senator Nathaniel Sherman was still seated at the table on his own, savoring his third post-prandial cognac. He had drunk a lot of wine during supper “to celebrate Chuck’s mighty fine bull,” and she had noticed that his manner had been louder and more expansive as a result. On the far side of the camp, she saw Jacques Devraux stripping to the waist in order to resume work at the skinning platform, and suddenly unable to remain in the hut any longer, she strolled out across the clearing again. By the ox cart that had been used to haul the dead buffalo in from the plain, she paused to watch the men working on its hide. The curly-haired Moi were wearing only breechclouts, and their naked haunches gleamed in the lamplight as they moved vigorously around the platform; beside her pale-skinned sons, their glistening bodies looked almost black. Chuck’s broad back was bowed over his task, his pride in his kill visible in every movement, but the slighter figure of Joseph bent and straightened at his side with less enthusiasm. Once Chuck turned and grinned delightedly at her as he paused to mop his brow, and she smiled warmly back. Against her will, however, she found her gaze straying repeatedly to Jacques Devraux. 

Without a shirt the Frenchman’s body looked lean and hard, and she guessed he must be a man of her own age. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were tight and sinewy, flexing like knotted cords beneath a sheen of perspiration, and in the flickering light of the lamps she could see a livid white hunting or battle scar running down the base of his throat and across his ribs. The American woman watched him intently for several minutes, a commotion of half-forgotten sensations stirring within her, but if he had noticed her presence he gave no sign. 

When they had scraped and gouged all the fat from the buffalo’s hide, Jacques Devraux showed the others how to rub in arsenical soap to repel the hordes of flies that would otherwise blow on it, and gradually the pungent reek of arsenic mingled with the other rank odors of human sweat and animal fat hanging in the saturated air. Another distant roll of thunder added a bass note to the orchestrated shrillness of the tropical night, and Devraux lifted his head for a second to listen. Anticipating rain, he ordered the Moi to sling the hide on poles and move it into a canvas tent set up nearby. There he broke open some of the salt sacks and instructed the tribesmen to begin drying the skin. When he was satisfied they were doing it correctly he picked up the head of the dead buffalo and carried it to the river. Wading knee-deep into the warm, muddy water he drew a broad-bladed hunting knife from his belt and began hacking the flesh from it. 

The American woman strolled over to the riverbank to watch him, and as the fragments of the raw flesh floated away downstream she saw the water churned to a white froth by shoals of ravenous fish fighting to devour them. Fascinated and repelled in the same moment she continued to watch the macabre spectacle despite herself, her lips parted, her eyes bright. Then she turned to look at the Frenchman and spoke softly in his language. “You honor us, Monsieur Devraux, by working so late into the night for our expedition.” 

“If we don’t start drying the hides now, dampness and the heat will destroy all our efforts within a few hours.” He stopped work long enough to look up directly into her face, then bent his head once more and continued cleaning the skull with neat, precise movements of the knife. 

“I also wanted to thank you for what you did this afternoon,” she said quietly. “It was a fine shot that killed the wounded buffalo.” 

The Frenchman scrambled out of the river and stopped in front of her. She had been standing on the bank above him with her booted feet apart, her hands jammed into the pockets of her tight-fitting breeches, and for a fleeting instant he looked at her appraisingly as he had done at the reception. Then he thrust his knife back into its sheath and spoke towards the gleaming skull he still held in his left hand. “I think, Madame Sherman, it might be, more diplomatic if you were to return to your quarters now. We’re about to rid ourselves of the blood and fat of the buffalo.” 

When he glanced up at her again his thin mouth had returned to its habitual unsmiling lines and she turned away immediately. From her hut she heard him call to the Moi and her sons, and a moment later they all plunged naked into the river. For several minutes she heard them splashing and laughing in the water, then gradually quiet returned to the camp. Chuck and Joseph, flushed and tousle-haired from their dip, looked in to bid her goodnight, and after they had returned to their hut she tried to resume her book by the lamp. But the words on the page didn’t have the power to blot out the crack of hunting guns she was beginning to hear again inside her head, nor make her forget the sight of the blood trails on the hot plain. She saw too, in her mind’s eye, the heaving bulk of the buffalo bull struggling in the grass in its death throes, saw once more the blindly charging cow and the ragged black vultures flopping down out of the sky, and all these images crowding through her mind heightened the vague sense of turbulence that was growing inside her with the gathering storm. 

When she heard Jacques Devraux join her husband for a final drink at the table in the center of the clearing, she tried to listen to their conversation. What they said remained inaudible, but it was clear that the Frenchman was offering only an occasional monosyllable to punctuate her husband’s rambling drawl. They talked in this desultory fashion for a few minutes, then when she heard them bid one another goodnight she ducked quickly under her mosquito net and lay down without undressing. 

Inside his hut on the other side of the camp Ngo Van Loc also heard the two men take their leave of one another. He had been keeping a wary eye on Jacques Devraux while he made another laborious copy of the revolutionary tract and he stopped writing to watch the Frenchman walk back to his own quarters. In the rear of their hut his wife was bending over a bowl of water, naked to the waist, washing herself, and she snatched up a towel to cover her bare breasts when she heard Loc hiss a sudden warning. Glancing over her shoulder she saw him fumbling frantically to hide the pencil and paper he had been using, and a moment, later Jacques Devraux ducked under the hut’s front flap. Blushing furiously she turned away but still she felt the eyes of the Frenchman on her naked back. 

“Send Mai to my hut in two minutes,” she heard him say at last in a curt voice. “I wish to give her instructions for tomorrow’s meals. Ask her also to bring needle and thread.”