Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

cord and pull the plug from the wall. The plug came flying at his face and he dodged it and hesitated, blinking, before he sat back down to say, “Skip, I don’t believe this. I’ve never seen anybody fuck himself so thoroughly and so completely. And for no good reason. What’s the point?”

“I don’t know, man, there’s just something about you that pisses me

off.” “You’re pretty good at this. I wish you were working for our side.” “I’m not going to touch that crap.” “Excellent. Let’s meet the machine. I’ll be back.” He went out, leav

ing Sands alone.

Within seconds Sands heard activity in the hall. Escorted by a black civilian, Nguyen Hao passed the open doorway. For ten minutes Sands sat alone at the conference table with his thoughts banging against nothing.

Crodelle came back with a middle-aged man, apparently civilian, and introduced him as Chambers, the technician. “Chambers has been doing this longer than any of us have been telling lies.”

“Is that true?” “Twenty-plus years,” Chambers said. “Fm down the hall if you need me,” Crodelle said, and went out

while Chambers sat next to Sands and peered beneath the table. When he sat up again he said, “YouVe been polygraphed before.” “Yes. One time. What’s under the table?” “Just making sure it’s unplugged.” “Oh.” “This is the dry run.” “Oh.” “So you’ve been polygraphed. Just the once?” ‘Tes. For clearance.” “All right, now, this exam. We’ll probably be taking you through the

same steps you went through when you were polygraphed originally for your security clearance. What we’re after is minimal exam-created stress. In other words, ha-ha, relax, buddy.”

“I’m relaxed.” “Sure you are. So, okay. Couple questions.” “Okay.” “Have you been schooled in methods for evading the truth while be

ing polygraphed?” “I’ve been told. Not schooled. I’ve just—it’s been mentioned.” “You haven’t been trained, using an actual machine.” “No. Never.” “After the session, you’ll be examined physically. We’ll check

your tongue for signs you’ve been biting it, palms for nail marks, and so on.”

“I’ve heard about those things, but I don’t remember when you’re supposed to use them. Whether it’s when you’re lying, or when you’re telling the truth, or—”

“Have you been schooled in techniques for slowing your breathing, staying calm under stress, that kind of thing?”

“Not for these purposes. Not schooled. Just—’Keep a tight asshole when the guns go off, breathe shallow when your heart beats too fast/ that kind of thing.”

“So, first step: This test consists of twenty questions. I have the questions here, and you will read them silently to yourself. We do this in order to eliminate any reaction of surprise from the graph. Do you understand the purpose of seeing the questions in advance of the test?”

“Yes. We’re eliminating reactions of surprise.”

Chambers opened his manila folder and handed it over. The questions were typed on a single sheet of paper bound to the inside cover by a paper clip. Sands looked them over.

“At this point, is there anything you need clarified about the process?”

“Will there be more tests? Subsequent to this one?”

“Oh, right, good. The exam itself consists of four tests, each with different questions, although some questions may be repeated in subsequent tests or in all four tests. Sorry. I forgot to say that. Anything else you need clarified at this point?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Anything you need clarified at any point, just ask. Now. In order to familiarize you with the procedure in advance, I’m going to hook you up without turning on the machine. The machine will not be operating. Do you understand that the machine will not be operating?”

“The machine’s off. Yes.”

“When the machine is operating, this scroll will be moving along, and these three needles will move up and down to create lines across the graph.”

“I understand.”

“I’ve got to ask you to remove your shirt, please.”

Sands complied and laid his shirt across the arm of his chair.

“And the watch. Just lay it on the table. Are you right-or left-handed?”

“Right.”

“Will you place your right arm here on the table, please? Lay it out flat.” Chambers wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around Sands’s bicep. “We’ll record blood pressure, and breathing, and galvanic skin response. If you’ll lean forward, please.” Sands leaned forward and Chambers wrapped a beige rubber tube around his chest and joined its ends to

gether with a small metal clamp. “Too tight?” “No. I don’t know. You’re the technician.” “These clips go on your fingertips here. That gives us skin tempera

ture.” After the finger clips, Chambers touched the attachments gently, the cuff, the tube, the clips, making small adjustments, and sat back in his chair. “Comfortable?”

“Definitely not.” “Well, nobody ever is. You’ve read the questions, correct?” ‘Tes.” “To you some of them seem stupid, probably, and some seem irrele

vant. Others seem obviously true or obviously false. That’s how we get a reading of your response to different categories. I’m just assuring you it all makes sense.”

“I understand.”

“Very good. At this point in our dry run, I’m going to read the questions to you so you hear them in my voice and we eliminate the random stress of any surprises. You don’t answer the questions. I just read them. You can stop me at any time to discuss any question.” Chambers picked up his manila folder and opened it on his lap. “Ready?”

“Begin.”

“Is your name William Sands? … Were you born in Miami, Florida?.. Do you know the whereabouts of footlockers containing the files of Colonel Francis Xavier Sands? … Did you graduate from Indiana University?”

“Excuse me.” “Yes.” “I have two degrees, a BA from Indiana and an MA from George

Washington. So I wouldn’t know exactly—” “Okay. Bachelor of Arts from Indiana University, correct?” “Correct.” “All right. The question will read as follows: Do you have a Bachelor

of Arts degree from Indiana University?” “Okay.” “Okay. The queries continue as follows: Do you know Trung Than? …

Are you the nephew of Colonel Francis Xavier Sands? … Am I wearing a shirt with short sleeves? … Do you enjoy telling lies?”

“Wait.”

“Yes.”

“The one about whether I’m a nephew—I assume I’m someone’s nephew whether they’re living or dead.” “Hm. You know what? I have to check on that one. Excuse me.” Chambers stood and left the room, taking with him the manila

folder.

Sands waited and watched the door left open, past which he now believed any of his acquaintances might be seen drifting, Minh, Storm, Trung, his mother, uncle, father, a parade of ghosts.

When Chambers returned he said, “We’ve changed two queries. I’ll continue with my little recital here, and then you can read it all to yourself again, okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Do you know the whereabouts of Trung Than? … Were you born in the month of December? … Are you stationed in Cao Phuc, South Vietnam?.. Do you know the whereabouts of files compiled by Colonel Francis Xavier Sands? … Have you ever met a man named Trung Than? … Do you have a son named John? … Are the lights on in this room? … Has Trung Than ever been a VC operative? … Did you ever witness Trung Than having direct contact with Colonel Francis Xavier Sands?.. Do you know where the colonel’s files are at this time?.. Do you have a master’s degree from George Washington University? … Do you know the probable whereabouts of the colonel’s files? …