The Ugly American (10 page)
Authors: Eugene Burdick,William J. Lederer
Li turned to MacWhite as if nothing had happened. He spoke distinctly to MacWhite in English.
"He denies stealing the whiskey and watch," Li said, "but he is lying. Once we establish that he has stolen them we can ask him about the typewriter and the briefcase. Those are what we really want."
MacWhite nodded, going along with Li's deception, but he was angry. Also, he was startled by the change in Li. Li had always struck him as Anglicized, as open and straightforward. Li knew American jokes, English ballads, Irish dialects. He was as American as a tractor salesman. But now he looked menacing, hooded, tight with cruelty. Every word Li spoke was like a whiplash.
MacWhite had seen interrogations before. During the war he had earned a reputation as a skillful interrogator himself. But he had seen nothing like this. It was not so much an interrogation as the deliberate destruction of a person. What Li did was like a physical assault aimed at destroying Donald. It was all MacWhite could do to keep from interrupting.
With exquisite detail Li was telling Donald what the informal penalties for lying were. He told of a Sarkhanese police sergeant who specialized in battering a single testicle to a pulp, of a police corporal who had maimed a common thief for life. He told these facts as if they were commonplace, ordinary, and well-known; and this gave them an awful authenticity.
"Now, Donald, you know the penalties of lying," Li said, quietly. "I have warned you. So tell me the truth. That's all . . . just the simple truth. When you have done that, you can go." His voice ended soothingly, but then changed into a commanding harsh tenor.
"You say you come from Moukung," Li went on. "That is in Western Szechwan province. Did you ever hear of Peng Teh-huai? Answer quickly, at once."
Donald hesitated and licked his lips.
"Yes, I have heard of him," Donald said.
"Did you march with Peng and his Communists to Shensi in 1934?" Li asked.
"No, I did not."
"Where were you in 1934? You have been to school. You speak with an educated accent. But you are the son of a pig peasant in Szechwan and there is nothing so poor as a pig peasant in that province. How did you get the money to go to school?" Li said, and his voice was heavy with loathing.
Donald flushed with anger.
"Even a pig peasant's son can go to school . . ." Donald began, but Li cut in sharply.
"If he is given money by the Communists to go through school?"
"I did not say that. I was trying to say . . ."
"You were trying to lie. You have told Ambassador MacWhite that you could not write, but already you confess that you went to school in Moukung."
Donald's eyes blinked, a quick involuntary tic of surprise.
Li abruptly changed the questioning and began to interrogate Donald about his family. He never allowed Donald to finish an answer. Whenever Donald hesitated, Li supplied the answer; and each of Li's answers damned Donald. Li insulted Donald and teased him about being a Communist; then he suggested that any honest Chinese should properly be a Communist, interpreted Donald's silence as agreement, and attacked him on that. He ridiculed Donald's family ancestors, and threatened that Donald's children would be hounded to death by Chiang's agents. Donald's answers became more tense, more confusing, more protective. MacWhite had a first suspicion that part of what Li had concluded might be right.
Then abruptly Li looked terribly tired. He seemed to shrink in size, to become more harmless. His voice became pleading. He seemed to wish the interrogation were over.
"Help us all out, Donald," Li said quietly. "Tell us where the whiskey and wristwatch are. That's all we want. Then you can go."
Donald straightened, seemed to grow in strength as Li weakened. MacWhite felt his confidence in Donald return. He felt a flash of admiration for the courage of the old man. Donald was even smiling slightly.
"I know nothing of the wristwatch or the whiskey," he said easily. "But I know that the typewriter and briefcase were not stolen. They are both in Ambassador MacWhite's study. I saw them there."
Li wheeled, as quick and sharp as a mongoose, as terrible as a tiger about to kill.
"Who said anything about a typewriter or briefcase, Donald?" he screamed. "Who? Where did you hear that?" Donald's face was stricken.
"You heard that because I mentioned it in English to Ambassador MacWhite," Li said, and now he was speaking in English. "You understand English. And for months you have been overhearing what the ambassador says as you serve martinis and pick up trays and clear cigarette butts away." He put his face close to Donald's and his intensity was so awful, his presence so menacing, that Donald went rigid.
"Yes, I lied," Donald said in English. It was not flawless English, but it was English, and his voice held both horror and humiliation. "I did it only because the Communists hold my children in Moukung. They will kill them if I do not supply them with information."
"And you have told the Communists of Ambassador MacWhite's plans to smash them in Sarkhan," Li said, and this time it was not a question.
Donald nodded dumbly.
"You may leave the room, but do not leave the house," Li said. "We will want to talk to you later."
Donald left, and MacWhite watched him go. MacWhite knew that all of his careful work, his spending of millions of dollars, his cunning strategy, were all wasted. He knew that he, the Honorable Gilbert MacWhite, had made a terrible mistake. Somewhere in his carefully trained mind, in his rigorous background, in his missionary zeal, there was a flaw. It hit him very hard. Beneath the humility he had always, consciously kept on the surface, and which he had always believed in, not only as a necessity in dealing with the world, not only as a requirement of the social human, not only as a prerequisite of the receptive mind, but also as a reality of himself—beneath that humility there had been a rigid core of ego which had permitted him to place a fatal amount of faith in his own, unsupported judgment. He did not know where it was or how it got there or even how to remove it. But he knew that it was there, and he hated Li for showing it to him. But he was too tough-minded and analytical to remain stunned.
He looked up slowly. Li was standing in front of the window looking out over the beautiful countryside of Sarkhan, up at the snow white clouds of the Sarkhanese sky. Li swung around and faced MacWhite.
"I am sorry, Gilbert," he said softly. "It is not an easy thing to be cruel to an old man. Nor is it an easy thing to put doubts into a man as skilled and dedicated as you. But it was necessary. But necessary things are not always nice. This was very, very bad."
They were both standing there quietly, looking out over the landscape, when Molly came down the stairs in a simple, light blue, expensive dress from Saks Fifth Avenue, and gaily called for a martini.
MacWhite had learned long ago that recriminations are a kind of luxury, and he never let himself afford such a pleasure. He knew he had made a mistake, and he knew that it was a mistake both of judgment and of information. For two days he sat quietly in his office, analyzing his errors of omission, the nature of his problem, and the alternatives open to him.
He recognized that he did not know enough about the Asian personality and the way it played politics. There was a strain of coldness, an element of finality, about the whole thing he had never encountered before. Politics in Asia were played for total stakes. He also recognized that he could learn from the experience of others.
The evening of the second day MacWhite sent a cable to the State Department.
Request permission travel Philippines and Vietnam to study firsthand their handling internal Communist problem X Am convinced my fattest effectiveness hinges on broad knowledge Asian problems X Have already made one serious mistake and 'wish make no more X George Swift fully competent to serve in my absence X Have checked with Sarkhan Foreign Office and trip has their support X.
Twelve hours later the State Department replied that the proposed trips were approved.
The first person MacWhite saw in the Philippines was Ramon Magsaysay. As the Minister of Defense, Magsaysay had led the long and fatiguing battle against the Communist-dominated Huks in the Philippines. Later he led a unified government that efficiently ruled the huge archipelago.
Magsaysay and MacWhite talked long and earnestly, and MacWhite's notes on the conversation became the substance of a long (and well-ignored) report that was sent to the State Department. But there was one point which Magsaysay made that MacWhite did not have to put in writing, and never forgot.
"The simple fact is, Mr. Ambassador, that average Americans, in their natural state, if you will excuse the phrase, are the best ambassadors a country can have," Magsaysay said. "They are not suspicious, they are eager to share their skills, they are generous. But something happens to most Americans when they go abroad. Many of them are not average . . . they are second-raters. Many of them, against their own judgment, feel that they must live up to their commissaries and big cars and cocktail parties. But get an unaffected American, sir, and you have an asset. And if you get one, treasure him—keep him out of the cocktail circuit, away from bureaucrats, and let him work in his own way."
"Do you know any around?" MacWhite asked wryly. "I could use a few on my own staff."
"I do," Magsaysay said. "The Rag-Time Kid—Colonel Hillandale. He can do anything. But I hope you don't steal him from here."
MacWhite noted the name.
"What else would you do if you were I?" MacWhite asked. "I'd go up to Vietnam and take a look at the fighting around Dien Bien Phu," Magsaysay said without hesitating. "I know you're a diplomat and that warfare is not supposed to be your game; but you'll discover soon enough out here that statesmanship, diplomacy, economics, and warfare just can't be separated from one another. And if you keep your eyes and ears open, you'll start to see some of the connections between them. It's not something you can learn from text-books. It's a feel for the thing."
The Ragtime Kid
In the Air Force there is a man with the improbable name of Edwin B. Hillandale. The "B" stands for Barnum. Colonel Hillandale is one of those happy, uninhibited people who can dance and drink all night and then show up at eight fresh and rested. However, the Colonel seldom dances and drinks
all
night. About two in the morning he usually joins the orchestra in a jam session, playing his harmonica close to the mike, improvising like Satchmo himself. When he plays with a good combo, it sounds like a concerto for jazz band and harmonica.
But jazz is not the colonel's only pleasure. He enjoys eating, and he loves to be with people. Any kind of people.
In 1952 Colonel Hillandale was sent to Manila as liaison officer to something or other. In a short time the Philippines fascinated him. He ate his meals in little Filipino restaurants, washing down huge quantities of
adobo
and
pancit
and rice with a brand of Filipino rum which cost two pesos a pint. He embraced everything Filipino—he even attended the University in his spare hours to study Tagalog.
Colonel Hillandale became Manila's own private character.
The politicians and the eggheads fondly called him Don Edwin; the taxi drivers and the
balut
vendors and the waiters called him the
Americano lllustrado;
and the musicians referred to him as The Ragtime Kid. The counsellor up at the American Embassy always spoke of him as "that crazy bastard."
But within six months the crazy bastard was eating breakfast with Magsaysay, and he soon became Magsaysay's unofficial advisor.
In the summer of 1953, Magsaysay was campaigning for the presidential election. He barnstormed the Philippine Archipelago, and was greeted with enthusiasm everywhere he went. Everywhere—except in one province north of Manila. Here the Communist propagandists had done too good a job. The Reds had persuaded the populace that the wretched Americans were rich, bloated snobs, and that anyone who associated with them—as did Magsaysay—couldn't possibly understand the problems and the troubles of the Filipino.
The political experts predicted that Magsaysay would lose the province.
One Saturday Magsaysay's friend, Colonel Hillandale, went to this province. When he arrived in the capital about halfpast eleven, the people of Cuenco saw something they had never in their lives seen before. A tall, slender U. S. Air Force Colonel with red hair and a big nose drove into Cuenco on a red motorcycle, whose gas tank had painted on it in black "The Ragtime Kid." He chugged up the main street and stopped at the most crowded part. He parked his cycle, and smoothed out his uniform; then he sauntered over near a large pool hall and sat down in the street—on the curb. After waving and smiling at everyone, he took out his harmonica and began to play favorite Filipino tunes in a loud and merry way; he played the first few stanzas in the classical manner, and the last two or three in a jazzed-up style. Within about fifteen minutes a crowd of about two hundred people surrounded the colonel. They enjoyed the music, but they were suspicious of this man who represented the richest of the rich Americans.
Colonel Hillandale began playing
Planting Rice is Never Fun
. After going through a stanza he stopped, looked around at the crowd, and said in Tagalog, "Come on, join in." In a thin tenor he sang a few words; then, jamming the harmonica up to his mouth, he played as loud and sweet as he could.
The crowd began to sing—about three hundred Filipinos standing in a tightly-packed circle singing their heads off, and pushing to get a look at this strange man.
At twelve o'clock the church bells sounded the Angelus. The Ragtime Kid put his harmonica in his pocket and stood up.
"Well, I sure am starving," he said. "I'd sure like some
adobo
and
pancit
."
The Filipinos looked at each other shyly.
The Ragtime Kid in colonel's uniform let his eyes go around the circle. "I'm hoping someone here will invite me to lunch. I'm broke."
"You don't have any money?" said one of the Filipinos.
The colonel put his hands in his pockets, dragged out his wallet, opened it, and showed that it was empty. He thrust his other hand into his side pocket and pulled out some change. "Sixty centavos."
"But Americans are rich."
"Not me."
"You're fooling."
The colonel was still speaking in Tagalog, "We have poor people in America just like you have in the Philippines."
"But you're a colonel in the American Air Force. I know you get about two thousand pesos a month."
"That's right. And that's a lot of money. But I have big expenses. I have a wife and three children back in America. How much does a bottle of rum cost here?"
"Two pesos."
"In America it costs six pesos."
"Honest?"
"Yes. And how much rent do you pay a month for your house?"
"Forty pesos."
"A line in America costs two hundred and forty pesos— and it's a very small house. I can't get any for less."
"It seems impossible."
The crowd stood silent. "This is undignified," said the colonel quietly. "Never before have I met Filipinos who would turn down a hungry man."
One of the Filipinos thrust through the crowd. "You will eat at my house! "
"No, come to my house."
"I own a restaurant on the corner; you will come with me." And that's where the colonel went, with about ten Filipinos. They ate
adobo
and
pancit
and rice, and they washed it down with Filipino rum and San Miguel beer; and they sang many songs to the accompaniment of the Ragtime Kid's harmonica. And when lunch was through, the Filipinos invited him to come up again next Saturday, which he did. And the next Saturday after that. And the next Saturday after that, too.
And so, after a while, no one in that area believed any more that all Americans were rich and bloated snobs. After all, their Ragtime Kid who played sweet music on his mouth organ was one of them, and he was a colonel in the U. S. Air Force.
The Communists in the hills and the barrios objected; but the other Filipinos outshouted them. They said, "Do not tell us lies. We have met and seen and eaten and got drunk and made music with an American. And we like him."
And 95 per cent of the inhabitants of that province voted for President Magsaysay and his pro-American platform in the 1953 elections. Perhaps it wasn't The Ragtime Kid who swung them; but if that's too easy an answer, there is no other.
