Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

every heart. Every soul. There isn’t one of us who isn’t guilty of his death.” “This is sounding—” Skip didn’t want to say it. Religious. But he said it. “This is sounding religious.”

The colonel said, “I’m religious about my cigars. Otherwise … religion? No. It’s more than religion. It’s the goddamn truth. Whatever’s good, whatever’s beautiful, we pounce, and whap! See those poor critters?” He pointed at the wires of the bug-killing device, where insects crashed and flared briefly. “The Buddhists would never waste electricity like that. Do you know what ‘karma’ is?”

“Now you’re getting religious again.”

“By God, I am. I’m saying it’s all inside us, the whole war. It is religion, isn’t it?”

“What war are you talking about? The Cold War?”

“This isn’t a Cold War, Skip. It’s World War Three.” The colonel paused to shape his cigar’s ember on the bottom of his shoe. Eddie and Pitchfork said nothing, only stared at the darkness—drunk, or exhausted by the colonel’s intensity, Skip couldn’t guess which—while the colonel, predictably, had surfaced clear-eyed from the cloud he’d seemed lost in earlier. But Skip was family; he had to show himself equal to this. To what? To scaling that social Mount Everest: an evening of dinner and drinks with Colonel Francis X. Sands. In preparation for the ascent, he took himself to the sideboard.

“Where are you going?” “I’m just pouring myself a brandy. If it’s World War Three, I’d better have some of the good stuff.”

“We’re in a worldwide war, have been for close to twenty years. I don’t think Korea sufficiently demonstrated that for us, or anyway our vision wasn’t equal to the evidence. But since the Hungarian uprising, we’ve been willing to grapple with the realities of it. It’s a covert World War Three. It’s Armageddon by proxy. It’s a contest between good and evil, and its true ground is the heart of every human. I’m going to transgress outside the line a little bit now. I’m going to tell you, Skip: sometimes I wonder if it isn’t the goddamn Alamo. This is a fallen world. Every time we turn around there’s somebody else going Red.”

“But it’s not just a contest between good and evil,” Skip said. “It’s between nuts and not nuts. All we have to do is hang on until Communism collapses under the weight of its own economic silliness. The weight of its own insanity.”

“The Commies may be out of their minds,” the colonel said, “but they aren’t irrational. They believe in central command and in the unthinkable sacrifice. I’m afraid,” the colonel said, and swallowed from his snifter; the hesitation made it seem the end of his statement: that he was afraid… He cleared his throat and said, “I’m afraid it makes the Communists uncontainable.”

This kind of talk embarrassed Sands. It had no credit with him. He’d found joy and seen the truth here in a jungle where the sacrifices had bled away the false faith and the center of command had rotted, where Communism had died. They’d wiped out the Huks here on Luzon, and eventually they’d wipe out every one of them, all the Communists on earth. “Remember the missiles in Cuba? Kennedy stood up to them. The United States of America stood up to the Soviets and backed them down.”

“At the Bay of Pigs he turned tail and left a lot of good men dying in the dirt—No, no, no, don’t get me wrong, Skip. I’m a Kennedy man, and I’m a patriot. I believe in liberty and justice for all. I’m not sophisticated enough to be ashamed of that. But that doesn’t mean I look at my country through some kind of rosy fog. I’m in Intelligence. I’m after the truth.”

Pitchfork spoke from the dark: “I knew a lot of good Chinese in Burma. We laid down our lives for each other. Some of those same folks are now good Communists. I look forward to seeing them shot.”

“Anders, are you sober?”

“Slightly.”

“God,” Skip said, “I wish he hadn’t died! How did it happen? Where do we go from here? And when do we get through one day where we don’t say these things over and over?”

“I don’t know if you know it, Skip, but there’s an element on the Hill thinks we did this. Us. Our bunch. In particular, the good friends of Cuba have come under scrutiny, the folks who ran the Bay of Pigs. Then we have the investigation, the commission, Earl Warren and Russell and the others—Dulles was on it, working to keep any suspicion away. Worked very hard at it. Made us look guilty as hell.”

Eddie lurched upright. His face was a shadow, but he seemed unwell. “I can’t think of one single palindrome,” he announced. “I’ll take my leave.”

“You’re feeling all right?”

“I need to drive the roads with some air in my lungs.”

“Give him air,” the colonel said.

“I’ll walk you to the car”—but Skip felt the colonel’s hand on his arm.

“Not at all,” Eddie said, and soon they heard his Mercedes start up on the other side of the house. Silence. Night. Not silence—the dark screeching insect conflagration of the jungle.

“Well,” the colonel said, “I didn’t think I’d get anything out of old Eddie. I don’t know what they’re up to. And why does he say he worked extensively with Ed Lansdale? He wasn’t out of short-pants around Lansdale’s time. In ‘52 he must’ve been a tiny babe.”

“Oh, well,” Sands said, thinking that when passion stirred Major Eddie’s heart, he tended to speak in a kind of poetry—you wouldn’t do it justice to call it lying.

“How have you been keeping yourself busy?”

“Riding around at night with Aguinaldo. And familiarizing myself with the card catalog, as instructed. In the horrible manner instructed. Clipping and gluing.”

“All right. Very good, sir. Any questions?” “Yeah: Why do the files make no reference to this region whatsoever?”

“Because they weren’t compiled here. Obviously they’re from Saigon. And its environs. And a bunch from Mindanao, which I inherited. Yes, I am the section officer for Mindanao, which has no section. Anything you need?”

“I’m stacking the duplicates back in the boxes after I get them down to size. I’ll need more of those drawers.”

The colonel grabbed the seat of his chair between his legs and drew himself close to Skip. “Just use the cardboard boxes, okay? We’re going to ship them out soon.” Again he seemed taken by drink, his gaze was vague, and probably, if it could be seen, his nose was red, a reaction to liquor featured by all the men on his side of the family; but he was brisk and certain in his speech. “Other questions?”

“Who is this German? If that’s what he is.” “The German? He’s Eddie’s man.” “Eddie’s man? We had lunch with him today and Eddie didn’t seem

to know him at all.” “Well, if he’s not Eddie’s man I don’t know whose man he could pos

sibly be. But he ain’t mine.” “Eddie said you’d met with him.” “Eddie Aguinaldo,” the colonel said, “is the Filipino equivalent of a

goddamn liar. Any other questions?” “Yeah: Anders, what are these little dabs of mud on the walls?” “Beg pardon?” “These little pocks of mud? Do they have something do with insects?

Aren’t you an entomologist?” Pitchfork, waking from his nap, took a meditative taste of his brandy.

“I’m more about mosquitoes in particular.” “The deadlier pests,” the colonel said. “I’m rather more about draining swamps,” Pitchfork said. “Anders has been giving me a very good report on you. Positively

bragging on you,” the colonel said. “He’s a good lad. He’s got the right kind of curiosity,” Pitchfork said. “Have any of our bunch in Manila contacted you?” “No. Unless you call Pitchfork basically living here a form of contact.” “Pitchfork isn’t with our bunch.” “Then what is he?” “I’m a poisoner,” Pitchfork said. “Anders is actually and honorably employed by the Del Monte Cor