Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

and sat up stiff-armed, his shoulders hunched. “I’ve had some lunch, but

you must be hungry.” “I’m on a fast.” “Then I’m thinking you might like some tea.” “You got ice?” “No. It’s the temperature of the creek. Which is fairly cool. It comes

from higher country to the northwest.” “Aren’t you gonna ask me who I am?” “Who are you?” “Remains to be seen.” The man smiled. His eyes looked tired.

He rose, and Storm followed him over to the creek, where the man bent to grasp an end of rope and hauled out a large glass jar in a macramé sweater. “Our tea may taste a bit flat. I boil it thirty minutes. Come into the house and we’ll put you right.”

Storm went as far as the porch. He stood at the door and watched. The place had a wooden floor planed smooth. Big wing-shutters propped open by struts at either end of the room let in the breeze and light. He saw an open kitchen, where the man poured the tea into two large glasses, and the door to what might have been a bedroom. As soon as he heard the sound of the liquid Storm’s feet took him inside. “Good glasses,” the man said. “Not old jars.” Storm drank it all rapidly. Without a word his host took the glass from him and refilled it. He sipped his own and put his hand on a small refrigerator by the sink. “No propane today. Somebody’s got to bring it over from town on a horse.”

“Where’s town? “About ten kilometers north.” “We’re in Thailand.” “Yes indeed. Slightly.” Storm had finished his tea. “We’d better keep the jar handy for you.” “What’s your function here? What’s your role?” He hefted the jug by its rope. “I keep out of the way of things.” He

stood with his glass and his jar beside the door. “Take a chair onto the porch, won’t you?” He waited for Storm to precede him out again and then sat on the bench and crossed his leg over his knee while Storm positioned the chair so all its feet rested on boards rather than in cracks and removed his pack and sat down to dig in it for his smoking materials. Storm was determined to outwait him. He smoked a mangled cigarette and observed the chickens as they foraged mechanically.

“I think I will ask for your name again, if you don’t mind.”

“Sergeant J. S. Storm. Staff sergeant. Used to be.”

Storm waited.

“Perhaps once.”

“What outfit are you working for?”

“Allied Chemical Solutions. I’m happily retired.” “Solutions like, We solve the problems? Or solutions like, We dissolve fuckers in acid?” “Solutions to problems, yes. But the pun was appreciated amongst us,

Sergeant, never fear.” “You worked for the Company?” “The CIA? No. Allied’s entirely private.” “When did you come here?” “A couple of years ago at least. Let me see. In June maybe. Just at the

beginning of the rains. Yes. About the first of June.” “How’s Saigon?” “I haven’t traveled as much as some. I’d like to visit there one day.” “Bullshit, motherfucker.” “I hear they’re opening a Coca-Cola plant up north. Hanoi.” Storm snapped the end of his cigarette into the yard. “Are you telling

me you ran some kind of ops up in North Vietnam?” The man squinted at him and sipped from his glass. “What could’ve been going on up north? Some kind of listening post.

Is that what you’ve got here too? The same operation x years down the

line?” “Hm,” the man said. “What’s the situation, man?” The man leaned forward with hunched shoulders. He seemed not so

much uncomfortable as pensive. “You know who I’m here for.” “I’m afraid I don’t.” “The colonel.” The man sat back and cocked his head. “Which colonel?” “Colonel F.X., old maestro. Colonel Sands.” His host took a drink. In his movements, the thinness of his fingers on

the glass, the frailness of skin covering his jumping Adam’s apple as he swallowed, he actually seemed quite elderly. “Sergeant, I can’t remember when I’ve had a white visitor before. So you’re quite unusual here. But I think your manner of approach would seem out of place anywhere. May I ask: Were you a friend of the colonel?”

“We were very tight.” “A friend, I mean to say, and not a foe.”

“Roger. ‘Who goes there/ ‘Friend/ ” “Cheers, then.” “Where is he?” “The colonel is unfortunately deceased.” “I don’t think so.” “Yes, it’s true. Long ago. Somebody should have told you before you

made such an effort.” “I don’t think so.” “I can’t offer to change your thinking. But it’s true the colonel has

died.”

“That’s what they said years ago. His wife was getting widow’s benefits in Boston, meanwhile he was known to be living here, operating around these parts.”

“I didn’t know about this.” “I knew about it. And I know the colonel didn’t die.” “I see. He didn’t die.” “Fuck no.” “Do you know that for a fact?” “Fuck no. But I do know the colonel. He’s doing Plan B.” “And what’s Plan B?” “He let himself get captured in ‘69, he allowed it, man, as part of a

Psy Ops scenario, and whatever that shit led to lies behind the veil, but I can give you this much on stone-ass tablets: he’s still making it just a little bit harder to be a Commie.”

“And that’s Plan B.” “Set to music.” “Did he share this plan with you?” “Shit don’t work if you share it. It’s a one-man show.” “A one-man show.” The man smiled. “There’s the colonel in a nut

shell.” “What’s in your shed?” The man said, “You know, he was a captain when I first knew him.

Though not officially. Officially he was separated from the service.” Storm lit another cigarette and snapped his Zippo shut. “Yeah?” “That’s the way they worked it then. His outfit came as volunteer

civilians. America hadn’t actually joined the war against Japan. But the captain had. Some of you Yanks were bombing the Japs long before they

struck you at Pearl Harbor.” “World War Two. The Deuce.” “For you Yanks that was the best of wars. For me the best of wars was

right here in Malaya, ‘51 through ‘53. We fought the Commies, and we beat them. The colonel was in and out with us all the way along, including Operation Helsby here in the Belum Valley. He and I may have hiked down through this clearing together. May have traipsed through my parlor before it existed. May have done it more than once. I don’t remember. He and I were on the Long Patrol out of Ipoh together—one hundred three days of slime and such. One hundred three days running. That’s when you know a man. If he was alive, I’d be sure of it. Nor would he have to tell me. Not when you know a man.”

Storm nearly believed. “Well, what happened to him?” “Are you after the legend, or the fact?” “I’m after the truth, man.” “I’d venture the truth is in the legend.” “What about the facts, then?” “Unavailable. Obscured in legend.” “How many tunes do you know, motherfucker? Because I’m running

out of nickels.” The man stood up. “Let me take you someplace. Please come along.” The man led him beside the creek and over the hill to a water hole

among a copse of tall trees and much other growth, light coming down among the elephant-ears, cool, damp. In the hole a buffalo had sunk itself, only its nostrils protruding. Storm and his host watched a couple of small children filling four buckets and shouldering them on yokes. They looked terrified. The man spoke to them and they finished their work before departing.

“Over here.”

Just beyond the copse, overlooking the long view of mountains, the man set his foot on a mound and his hand on a waist-high four-by-fourinch post staked before it.

“Here’s the one-man show.” Storm closed his eyes and felt for the truth. Sensed none. “Never happen.