Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

The next morning he moved. The small desk clerk Thuyet was on duty downstairs. “Checking out?” she said when she saw his valise, and he said he was. As he waited for transportation, he asked her about the name of this hotel. “It means ‘Around the Town,’ ” she said.

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“Are you leaving for the Europe?”

“I have to do a lot of traveling.”

“Okay. It’s good for your business.”

“This is the New Year.”

“We call Tet.”

“Happy New Year.”

She laughed, as if surprised by sharp wit. “Happy New Year!”

“Is it the Year of the Dog? Goat? Monkey?”

“Not now. The Year of the Monkey is finish. Now will be the Year of the Rooster.”

An hour later he checked into Room 214 at the Continental Hotel. This place was famous, and somewhat expensive, and it had air-conditioning. He took lunch in a restaurant downstairs full of Europeans and Americans. Afterward he went down to the square out front, where seven or eight celebrations seemed to be taking place, each oblivious to the others, all under the eyes of armed figures in a variety of uniforms and helmets—local police, American MPs, American and Vietnamese infantry.

Fest spoke with a cyclo driver, who walked with him to a side street and introduced him to a girl in a café and then proposed to escort them both to a room in a hotel Fest had never heard of.

“We’ll go to my room.”

The driver explained this to the girl, and she nodded, smiling, and wrapped Fest’s upper arm in a full embrace and put her head on his shoulder. Her deeply black hair smelled like vanilla extract. Perhaps she used exactly that as a perfume. He didn’t want her, but something like this was necessary. He’d learned on these operations that he came as a predator, he must violate the land, he must prey upon its people, he must commit some small crime in propitiation of the gods of darkness. Then they’d let him enter.

Richard Voss spent the morning at the embassy reading and sorting cables that had come in over the weekend designated “Classified,” which meant almost everything. Anything of importance had already been dealt with, but somebody—anybody—from Internal Ops had to see every word, that was the rule. “Send it Classified,” his first boss at Langley had once told him, “otherwise they won’t read it.” He didn’t mind being shut away. He preferred it to drinks with foreign diplomats and Vietnamese semi-dignitaries, and if Crodelle stretched their lunch with Skip Sands far enough into the afternoon, he could return here, look over the new cables, and find some excuse for hanging around through the cocktail hour.

At noon he left the embassy and made his way down the block and across Tu Do, through the mass of vendors and celebrants who all week had made the thoroughfare impossible for four-wheeled traffic. He found a taxi on a side street. For this short trip he’d allowed thirty minutes; even so he was ten minutes late when they came into view of the Green Parrot.

Skip Sands stood out front in the noon sun wiping perspiration from his eye sockets and looking confused—and don’t we all these days, Voss thought. Skip had gained weight. And haven’t we all done that too. Aren’t we all fat and sweaty and confused.

Voss opened the cab’s door and beckoned him in. “Long time, my man! Come on—I thought of a better place.” “Good. Scoot over.” Sands climbed in beside him. “I saw a guy I don’t like.”

“Who?”

“A guy from Manila. Let’s move, okay? I need a breeze.”

“Cross the river,” Voss told the driver.

“What about the Rex?”

“We can’t go downtown,” said Voss, “they’ve got checkpoints everywhere. Uncle Ho won’t catch us sleeping! We are absolutely thoroughly prepared for one year ago.”

“What’s going on across the river?”

“Not a thing, brother. It’s like real life. Some nuns opened a French place last month.” “Nuns? Can they cook?’ “Outrageously well. Nobody goes there yet, but they will.”

The driver said, “One bridge no good. I take other bridge.” “Go ahead, make a buck,” Voss said. Sands said, “How’s the family?” “They’re great. Haven’t seen them since April. I missed Celeste’s

birthday.” “How old is she?” “Jesus… No, wait—four. What about you? Still solo?” “Afraid so.” “Completely? No fiancée in the States?” “Not yet. Completely single.” They crossed the bridge to the east side, where junks and miscella

neous unsinkable wrecks jammed against the bank. “Jeez, the river stinks worse than ever.” “Welcome back.” “Thanks. I think.” “No, I’m serious. It’s good to see you,” Voss said, and he meant it.

“How long have you been gone?” “I’m in and out.” “So you’ve been gone all this time?” “I’m just back for a week or two. Collecting stories. How goes the fray?” “Oh—we’re winning.” “Finally someone who knows.” “You’re collecting stories?” “Stories, yeah—folktales. Fairy stories.” “Well, you’ve come to the right place for that stuff.” Neither of them

laughed. “Folktales.” “Yeah —remember Lansdale.” “I never knew Lansdale.” ” ‘Know the people’—songs and stories.” Voss heard himself sigh. “Hearts and minds.” “Yeah. It’s for a project at the Naval Grad School.” “Over there in—where.” “Carmel.” “I’ve never been there.” “A beautiful place.” Small talk, Voss thought, in the Terminal Ward. He had to take over

directing the driver, and he was spared.

Only a few blocks across the river, and not far from the neighborhood of the old CIA-Psy Ops villa where for several weeks Voss and Skip had lived together, they found the Chez Orleans. “I like these vines,” Voss said of the incredible overgrowth almost extinguishing its façade. “You can hardly see through the windows. Privacy.” I sound like a fool.

“Do you still stay at the old place?” “The old place is no more. I think the army got it. Fm at the Meyerkord.”

The vines continued around the building and flourished over lattices to make relatively cool shade for the flagstone patio. Music emanated from a burlap-wrapped PA high in the coolest corner of the trellis— flamenco, classical guitar—and beneath the speaker, near the small fountain, three officers with large yellow Fifth Cavalry patches on their sleeves ate without speaking. Otherwise not a soul. They sat down and Sands ordered 7Up and grenadine. “Fm having a martini,” Voss said.

“I don’t like olives,” Sands said. While Voss wondered how you reply to such a statement, Sands went on: “I didn’t mean to sound cynical a while ago.”

“I’m the one who sounded cynical. And I kind of think I meant to.” “No, no, I understand. We’ve all got questions.” “Yeah, and the left thinks we don’t, we’re all brainwashed and stupid,

we have to have somebody shouting up our ass—do they think they’re intellectuals? Who wants to be an intellectual? Who cares how powerful your equipment is if you can’t safely operate it? What have the intellectuals got?”

“Chess.” “Cross-eyed Communism. Unhealthy unsatisfying perverted sex lives.” Sands said nothing. He seemed as clear-eyed as ever, and just as

blind. Where, Voss thought, is the fun in this? Crodelle, you’re a shit. “Skip. Skipper. What’s the matter?” “My mom died.” “Oh, shit.” “I just got the news yesterday.” “I’m sorry.” “Well, I’m dealing with it.” “I guess you have to.” “I know. What can you say? Let’s eat.”

The lunch menu was light, salads, crepes, and sandwiches, and Voss recommended the salade niçoise, which he promised was made with real tuna and which Skip declined because of the olives. Sands asked instead for the salade d’epinard et crevettes, and they spent the interval looking over the dinner menu with admiration: filet de porc rôti, carré d’agneau aux pistaches, thon aux pignons de pin, these nuns had it all—and privacy—if in fact the management were nuns. He’d never seen any nuns here. “Better than the Yacht Club,” he told Sands, “and cheaper, man.” He was hungry, and he took his salad as a reprieve. But Sands, after going at his shrimp and spinach for several bites, drifted visibly from the scene and began poking with his fork, stirring whorls in his orange-andcaper sauce, and Voss felt terrible about Skip’s situation and said, “It’s hard to believe people back home can pass away. It gets so you think we have all the dying right here. All the death in the world.”