Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

poration. They contribute plenty to malaria eradication.” “I’m all about DDT and swamp recovery. But I don’t know what sort of organism might make the little mud dabs.” Colonel Francis Sands tipped back his head and poured half a snifter down his spout, blinked against the dark, coughed, and said, ‘Tour own

dad —my own brother—lost his life in that sleazy Jap run on Pearl Harbor. And who were our allies in that war?”

“The Soviets.”

“And who’s the enemy tonight?”

Skip knew the script: “The Soviets. And who’s our ally? The sleazy Japs.”

“And who/’ said Pitchfork, “was I fighting in the Malay jungle in ‘51 and ‘52? The same Chinese guerrillas who helped us with the Burma business in ‘40 and ‘41.”

The colonel said, “We’ve got to keep hold of our ideals while steering them though the maze. I should say through the obstacle course. An obstacle course of hard-as-hell realities.”

Skip said, “Hear, hear!” He disliked it when his uncle dramatized the obvious.

“Survival is the foundation of triumph,” Pitchfork said.

“Who’s on first?” the colonel asked.

“But in the end,” Pitchfork said, “it’s either liberty or death.”

The colonel raised his empty glass to Pitchfork. “At Forty Kilo, Anders manned a little crystal radio set for seven months. To this day he won’t tell me where he kept it hid. There were at least a dozen little Jap sonsabitches in that camp did nothing but think how to locate that contraption day and night.” Forty Kilo had been the Burmese railroad outpost where their work gang had been interned by the Japanese in 1941. “We used coconut shells for rice bowls,” he said. “Everybody had his own coconut shell.” He reached out and clutched his nephew’s wrist.

“Uh-oh,” said Skip, “am I losing you?”

The colonel stared. “Uh.”

He leapt to bring his uncle back: “Colonel, the file catalog goes back to Saigon at some point, am I right?”

The colonel peered at him in the dark, moving slightly, making many tiny adjustments in his posture, as if balancing his head on his neck. Apparently as a kind of focal exercise he examined his cigar stub, trying it at various distances, and seemed to rally, and sat up straighter.

Sands said, “I’ve been working on my French. Get me assigned to Vietnam.”

“How’s your Vietnamese?”

“I’d need to brush up.”

“You don’t know a single word.” “I’ll learn. Send me to the language school in California.” “Nobody wants Saigon.” “I do. Set me up in an office over there. I’ll look after your card files.

Appoint me your curator.” “Talk to my ass; my head aches.” “I’ll make every little datum accessible and retrievable—you’ll just

comb through with these two fingers and zip-zip, sir, whatever you want pops up at you.” “Are you so in love with the files? Have you fallen under the spell of

rubber cement?” “We’re going to beat them. I want to be there for that.” “Nobody wants to go to Saigon. You want Taiwan.” “Colonel, with the very deepest respect, sir, what you implied before

is completely mistaken. We’re going to beat them.” “I didn’t mean we don’t beat them, Skip. I meant we don’t beat them

automatically.” “I realize that. I expect them to be worthy of us.” “Aaaah—despite all my best efforts, you’re one of these new boys.

You’re a different breed.” “Send me to Vietnam.” “Taiwan. Where the living’s good and you meet all the people on

their way up. Or Manila. Manila is number two, I’d say.” “My French is improving. I’m reading well, always did. Send me to

the language school and I’ll land in Saigon talking like a native.” “Come on. Saigon’s a revolving door, everybody’s in and out.” “I need rubber bands. Big long thick ones. I want to batch your cards

by regions until you get me some more drawers. And more card tables. Give me a room and two clerks in Saigon. I’ll write you an encyclopedia.”

The colonel chuckled, low, wheezing—sarcastic, histrionic—but Skip knew it for a happy sign. “All right, Will. I’ll send you to the school, we’ll work that out. But first I need you to go on assignment for me. Mindanao. I’ve got an individual down there I want more on. Would you mind poking around Mindanao a little bit?”

Sands vanquished a rush of fear and said emphatically, “I’m your man, sir.”

“Get in there. Have intercourse with snakes. Eat human flesh. Learn

everything.” “That’s pretty broad.” “There’s a man named Carignan down there, a priest, he’s been there

for decades and decades. Father Thomas Carignan. You’ll find him in the files. Familiarize yourself with the stuff on this guy named Carignan. American citizen off in the boonies there, a padre. He’s receiving arms or such.”

“What does that mean?” “Well, I don’t know what it means. That’s the phraseology. Receiving

guns. I’ve got nothing elaborated.” “And then what?” “Off you go. See the man. Looks like we’re gonna finalize the file.” “Finalize?” “We’re laying the ground for it. Those are the orders.” ” ‘Finalize’ seems …” He couldn’t quite finish. “Seems?” “This sounds to be about more than files.” “It’ll be months before any decisions. Meanwhile, we want things in

place. If it’s a go, that’s not us. You are there only to report to me. You’ll

transmit the report through the VOA station there on Mindanao.” “And then I’m your cataloger in Vietnam?” “Vietnam. Better ship your Ml home to Mama. We don’t issue that

ammo anymore.” “Shit. I think I’ll have another brandy.” The colonel held out his glass while Skip poured. “A toast—but not

to Vietnam. To Alaska. Yowza!” Anders and Skip raised their drinks. “This is a happy coincidence. Because I wanted to give you a little

task, and I think if your conduct in the field is as exemplary as I’d predict

for you, then I’ll have every reason to get you reassigned.” “Are you playing me? Have you been playing me all night?” “All night?” “No. Not all night. Since-” “Since when, Skip?” He drew on his cigar so his fat face bloomed or

ange in the darkness. “You’re a vaudevillian.” “Playing you?”

“Since I was twelve.”

The colonel said, “I went to Alaska once, you know. I toured the Alaska-Canada road they built there during the war. Fantastic. Not the road, the landscape. The mighty road was just this insignificant little scratch across that landscape. You’ve never seen a world like that. It belongs to the God who was God before the Bible … God before he woke up and saw himself… God who was his own nightmare. There is no forgiveness there. You make one tiny mistake and that landscape grinds you into a bloody smudge, and I do mean right now, sir.” He looked red-eyed around himself, as if he only halfway recognized his environment. Sands willed himself not to be too disconcerted. “I met a lady who’d lived there for quite some years —later, that is, just last Christmas is when I had the pleasure. An elderly woman now, she spent her youth and most of middle age near the Yukon River. I got to talking about Alaska, and she had only one comment. She said: It is God-forsaken.’

“You poor, overly polite sonsabitches. I read your silence as respect. I appreciate it too. Would you like me to get to the point?

“The lady’s remark set me thinking. We’d both had the same experience of the place: Here was something more than just an alien environment. We’d both sensed the administration of an alien God.

“Only a few days before that, couple of days before at the most, really, I’d been reading in my New Testament. My little girl gave it to me. I’ve got it right now in my kit.” The colonel half rose, sat back down. “But I’ll spare you. The point is—aha! yes! the bastard has a point and isn’t too damn drunk to bring it home—this is the point, Will.” Nobody else ever called him Will. “St. Paul says there is one God, he confirms that, but he says, ‘There is one God, and many administrations.’ I understand that to mean you can wander out of one universe and into another just by pointing your feet and forward march. I mean you can come to a land where the fate of human beings is completely different from what you understood it to be. And this utterly different universe is administered through the earth itself. Up through the dirt, goddamn it.