The Violent Century (23 page)

– Yes, yes, Oblivion says, patiently. Jeffries sighs. We have no official involvement, he says. Our main interest is commercial.

– Commercial?

– Someone has to make guns, Jeffries says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which perhaps it is. Ammo. Airplanes. Helicopters. Waves his hand through the smoke vaguely. What have you. Bombs, he says. Lots and lots of bleeding bombs.

Oblivion waits. Vietnam, Jeffries says. What a mess. His glass is empty. He signals for a replacement. Oblivion covers his own glass with his hand. Jeffries shrugs. But you’re not going to Vietnam, he says. You’re going to Laos. It’s a shit-hole, frankly. You know what the problem with this whole place is? he says. That we let the French take over. Should have taken Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia for ourselves. Goddamned frogs. No. Now look at this mess. Communism, Jeffries says, what do these yellow bastards know about Communism, what they need is a firm hand. Says, Malaya is ours, at least.

Oblivion waits him out, his face revealing nothing. Jeffries says, Laos. It’s in the middle of an ugly civil war. The Royals are desperately trying to hold on to power, the Commies – they call themselves the Pathet Lao – are Soviet-backed. The Americans have no official presence in Laos. Unofficially, though … he smiles. His teeth are yellow, and crooked. You’ll see, he says. Not pleasantly.

– Tell me about our involvement, Oblivion says, and this time the
our
has a different meaning, and he sees Jeffries flinch. That’s for you to find out, Jeffries says. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Challenging him. You don’t like us, Oblivion says, and Jeffries laughs, an almost hysterical sound, and the realisation hits Oblivion, like an old remembered pain, what is he scared of, he is scared of
you
.

92.
DONG MUANG AIRPORT, THAILAND
1967

– You’re the Brit?

The pilot is tall and tanned, with white even teeth and green agate eyes. Mike! he says. Oblivion says, Oblivion. They shake hands. Pleasure to meet you! Mike says. His hand sweeps the airfield. Welcome to Air America, he says.

They’re at an airfield outside Bangkok. A dozen Bell helicopters sit alongside a similar number of cargo planes, twin-engine de Havilland Caribous and Fairchild C-123s. It is early morning, but already hot. The pilot, Mike, examines Oblivion in admiration, his linen suit, his wide-brimmed hat. I dig your style, man! he says.

– Thank you, Oblivion says, gravely. Mechanics swarm over one recently arrived plane, its side peppered, Oblivion notices somewhat uneasily, with bullet holes. Mike follows his glance and laughs. Don’t worry about that! he says. I’ll get you there safe and sound. Oblivion shrugs and follows him down the field to a makeshift square building with the door open. A handwritten note on cardboard, in crude letters:
Air America: Anything, Anywhere, Anytime
. They go inside, where the light is dim. A television flickers in one corner of the room without sound, it shows the American president, Lyndon B. Johnson, talking to reporters in the White House, the image replaced with that of planes flying in formation, replaced again, something about the Israel-Syria War. A group of men in civilian clothes sit inside the room on upturned crates of beer. The air is rife with marijuana smoke. A radio plays Jefferson Airplane’s ‘White Rabbit’. For a moment Oblivion feels ripped out of time, transported to this alien place, this alien time. A couple of the men nod greetings. Mike, Someone says, Who’s the spook?

– Passenger, Mike says.

– One of ours?

– No, Oblivion says, with a slight apologetic air. I’m afraid not.

– A Brit? Then they seem to realise and suddenly the atmosphere changes, heads turn away, minutely. It’s funny, Oblivion thinks. Or – no, not funny. Strange. That the Americans, as much as they celebrate their heroes in public, in private shy away from them, as though they are unclean.

– Spliff? someone says, passing it around. Oblivion waves away the offer, accepts a beer instead. It’s warm. Don’t worry, Mike says, we’ll get you to Laos in no time.

– What’s it like? Oblivion says.

– Laos?

– The war, Oblivion says.

– What war? Mike says, and the others laugh – it has the feel of an old, worn-out joke. Don’t you know there’s no war on in Laos.

– I’ll tell you for free, one of the pilots says, I’m glad as fuck I’m not in the army. Fucking
jungles
, man. Viet fucking Cong.

– Yeah, Mike chimes in, it’s OK as long as you’re in the air, right?

A chorus of assent. Mike shakes his head. But down there? he says. You might as well be fighting fucking
ghosts
.

Ghosts? Oblivion says; a little sharply.

The others note his tone; look uncomfortable. Pilots, Oblivion realises. These guys are all pilots. An odd assortment, and he wonders how they’d all ended up here, working for the CIA.

– Ghosts, someone says, but softly.

– Yeah, someone else says. But they’re not looking at Oblivion. Looking away. Bad luck, someone mutters, and Oblivion knows it is him they are talking about.

– Come on, Mike says, standing up. Don’t mind these guys, they’re fried. Too many flights, too many joints.

– Not enough, someone says, and they all laugh. Oblivion smiles. Nice to meet you all, he says.

– Yeah, you too, spook. That laughter again – relief, he thinks, that he is going. The music changes, the first notes of the Monkees’ ‘Daydream Believer’ start up on the portable radio.

They emerge out into the sunlight. Mike talks briefly to a mechanic, nods. It’s ready, he says. They go to the plane, You can sit in the cockpit, Mike says, Oblivion says, What’s at the back?

Mike shrugs. Cargo, he says. Guns, bombs, dope, food, you … everything is cargo.

Oblivion stands there, takes a deep breath of the air, machine oil and fuel and that heavy, humid smell, and salt and tar from the sea. What is he doing here? This war is not their business, their war was a lifetime ago and in another place. And he is alone, he’s been alone for what, sometimes, very late at night, awaking in the cold, fog misting the window, feels like forever.

93.
ISAN, THAILAND
1967

Mike’s playing ‘Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds’ at full volume and Oblivion stares out of the aircraft’s grimy window, looking down at flatlands, the wind roaring outside. Flatlands and small villages of thatch and bamboo, herds of cows, banana trees, smoke rising from cooking fires – and again he feels that disconnect, that sense of being torn from time.

– Here it comes! Mike shouts over the engine noise and Lennon’s singing, and suddenly the land is cut by a deep gushing wound and the plane swerves, following it, and Mike shouts, The Mekong!

Empty land ends and a city begins on the other side of the river, as if, simply by crossing, they had transitioned from one world to another. Oblivion sees streets, colonial French buildings, Buddhist temples with golden roofs, a black stupa squatting like an ancient toad, cars and carriages and pedestrians, palm trees, the swimming pool of a modern hotel. The plane swoops past the Mekong and over the city and Oblivion can see other planes in the sky, rising overhead, a flock of ravens.

– Our city, baby! Mike shouts. Our city, our planes, our fucking war. The plane swoops down towards a landing strip, the Beatles stop singing and the music changes, and it takes Oblivion a moment to recognise the song – it’s Johnny Rivers’ ‘Secret Agent Man’.

94.
VIENTIANE, LAOS
1967

Oblivion lands at Wattay Airport and the sky is full of wings. He can hear English spoken in a variety of American accents, as well as French and Lao. He’d not expected there to be so many people, so many planes, so much traffic. Hmong, Mike says, pointing at a group of men coming off a large helicopter, carrying heavy-looking boxes. Hill tribes. Oblivion says, What’s in the boxes? Mike shrugs, looking shifty, Shit, he says. What do I know.

A man in civilian clothes hurries over to them, Thank you, Mike, he says, you’re dismissed, Mike says, Jeez, we’re not in the army here, Bob, Bob says, Yeah, yeah, turns to Oblivion with a tired smile, says, Pilots, right?

In moments they’re in the city. The jeep stops sharply, jostling Oblivion. Come on! Bob says. Oblivion wonders if that’s the man’s real name. They’re outside the Samlo Bar, on Setthathirat Road. Inside it is dark and dim and full of smoke. There’s a long wooden bar and a pool table at one corner and a group of drunk pilots surrounded by girls, who all greet Bob effusively as he and Oblivion walk in.

– Come on, Bob says. He buys two pints of beer and carries them to an empty booth. There is no one else around. The juke box is playing the Beatles’ ‘Paperback Writer’. So, Bob says. Takes a long sip of beer and sighs when he’s done. The Old Man sent you.

– Yes.

– That fucking asshole, Bob says, and laughs. He has an easy, comfortable laugh. He’s been a pain in our ass for years, Bob says. No offence.

– None taken, Oblivion says.

– How’s the beer?

– Good, Oblivion says. Almost, we suspect, beginning to lose his patience. The beer’s good.

– Best in Southeast Asia, Bob says, with pride.

– I’m sure, Oblivion says, with his patience running increasingly thin. Now, tell me about your Übermenschen,
Bob
.

– It’s hardly
our
Übermenschen you’re interested in, though, is it, Oblivion? Bob says. Oblivion stares at him, the fine tanned wrinkles around the man’s eyes. Used to the outdoors, and smiling. And not to be underestimated, Oblivion thinks, a Company man, Central Intelligence Agency, the guys who won the last big war and can’t imagine losing one, ever. Although in that, he thinks, a little uneasily, it’s just possible they may be wrong.

– I understand the Viet Cong utilise Übermenschen in combat operations? Oblivion says, bluntly.

– And the Pathet Lao, Bob says, though there seems to be a bit of an ideological issue, there.

– How so?

– Remember your Orwell? Bob says. Smiles. Lights up a cigarette. War, Oblivion thinks, remembering. Everyone smoked in the war. All animals are equal, Bob says. But some animals are more equal than others.

– What does that mean?

– It means they don’t
trust
you, Bob says. Over-Men. Beyond-Men. Fucking
Übermenschen
. Whatever the fuck you guys are. All animals are equal but you’re – what are you? Are you even an animal, in this fucked-up metaphor? He was a Brit, wasn’t he, Orwell? I prefer Hemingway, myself.
The Sun Also Rises
? Fucking
great
book. Did you read it?

– No.

– Oh. Really? Bob looks a little surprised at that. You should, you know.

– I’ll make a note of that, Oblivion says.

Bob shrugs. Cigarette? he says.

Oblivion reluctantly accepts one. Not smoked in years, now this new mission, this new war. Takes him back. He says, So they do not employ Übermenschen on a regular basis?

No. Only—

Then Bob stops, as if he were about to say something he was not supposed to. He smiles and waves the cigarette in the air and downs the rest of his pint as if it were water. Listen, buddy, he says, standing up. He lays a hand on Oblivion’s shoulder, all friendly, but there’s steel in his grip. Stay a couple of days, he says. A week. Hell, stay as long as you want! Take in the sights, shoot some pool, find yourself a girl. Smirks at Oblivion. Or a boy. Whatever. Gestures at the bar. Just take your pick. Then go home. There’s nothing to see. Hell, boy – Laos is a neutral state. We don’t even have a
presence
here! Bob laughs. Lifts his hand, pats Oblivion on the back. See you around, he says. Leaves Oblivion sitting there, blinking in the darkness of the Samlo Bar.

95.
VIENTIANE, LAOS
1967

What does it feel like to be Oblivion? Not Oblivion and Fogg, Fogg and Oblivion? Just Oblivion: Nothing to mask him from the world, no one to share the burden of the long years?

– Have there been any new ones, Oblivion? Fogg says.

– You know the answer to that.

– Then no.

– No, Oblivion says.

Alone, and yet not alone, for in the night, he doesn’t remember quite how it happens, the bar, too many drinks later, and a meeting of two strangers, about to become lovers, that knowledge between them, and then going back to the cheap hotel and making love on humid sheets and then.

The pipe. The ball of resin. That sweet and cloying smell, spreading over the room. He accepts the pipe, puts it to his lips, draws the sweet smoke of it into his lungs. Feels far away from anyone and anything.

He feels his world shrinking, the room compresses around him, becomes two-dimensional, a frame; it traps him inside it, and he tries helplessly to flee, the square like a window squeezing him inside.

He makes to
move
and is at once caught, suspended, in a new frame, and then again, each movement a frozen moment inside a panel. In the next his mouth opens in a helpless cry, the words emerge from his mouth:
EEEIIIGGHHH!

What the
— he thinks, and the thought bubbles above his head in the next frozen frame, like a cloud. Oblivion, scared, punches as a shadowy figure materialises beside him, KA-BOOM THWK! The shadow dodges, fires at him, BLAM! BLAM! Oblivion rolls, ahead of him is a light, an opening, he crawls through ever narrower frames, his body passing from one to the other, etched between cages of black ink, POW! A gunshot explodes, somebody screams,
AAAARRGGHH!
Oblivion crawls to the light and it opens, sucking him in, the frames, the shadows, all the black and the grey and the white—

He passes through blinding light into a world of rich primary colour. A red sun shines in the sky, tall skyscrapers rise into the air like silver rockets, men in hovercars jet jauntily through the sky, a man in blue walks past wearing red underpants and a cape, a woman like a cat with a mask on her face. Everywhere he turns, Oblivion sees masks.