Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

no reply for. “I’m sorry,” she said. He cleared his throat carefully. “You could go home, couldn’t you?” “Oh, no. I couldn’t do that.” She could sense him fearing to ask why.

“Just because then I’d never get anything straightened out.”

This American created a silence hard to resist. She had to fill it: “You know, it’s not unusual, it’s not weird, it’s not unheard of, to go on in the middle of tragedy. Look at where we are! The sun keeps rising and setting. Each day kicks more room in your heart—what would be the word… the love is relentless, relentlessly pushing, it keeps pushing and kicking like a child inside you. All right, then! That’s enough out of me!” What a fool I am! she almost shouted.

The setting sun lowered from the clouds and struck up at them in such a way that suddenly the entire town throbbed with a scarlet light. The American didn’t comment on it. He said, “And what happens when all this is, is, is —concluded?”

“There, congratulations, you found a word.” “Sorry.” “You mean if Timothy’s dead?” “If, well—yes. Sorry.” “We don’t know what happened to him. He got on the bus for Malay

balay, and we’re still waiting for him to come back. He seemed ill, he promised he’d see a doctor at the sanitarium there before he kept any other appointments. As far as we know, nobody at the sanitarium saw him. We’re not sure he arrived in Malaybalay at all. We’ve been to every town between here and there —nothing, nothing, no news.”

“And I guess it’s been a little while.” “Seventeen weeks,” she said. “Everything’s been done.” “Everything?” “We’ve contacted everybody, all the authorities, the embassy, and our

families, of course. We’ve all made a thousand calls, everyone’s gone crazy a thousand times. His father came over in July and posted a reward.”

“A reward. Is he pretty well off?” “No, not at all.” “Oh.” “There’s been a development, though. Some remains have been

found.” True to his midwestern origins, the American reacted to this remark

by saying, “Ah,” and, “Uh-huh.” “So right now we’re waiting for word about the corpse’s effects.” “Mayor Luis told me.” “And if it’s Timothy? I’ll stay for a while, and then find a new post,

which is what we planned on anyway. Or, if Timothy comes back to surprise us all—which he might do, you don’t know Timothy—and if he does, we’ll probably just go on with the plan. He’s due for a change. Wanted a change, a new challenge. Meaning the same old problems in a brand-new location. And I’m a nurse, they’ll take me wherever they can get me. Thailand, or Laos, or Vietnam.”

“North Vietnam, or South?”

She said: “We do have people in the North.” “The Seventh-Day Adventists?” “The ICRE-International Children’s Relief Effort.” “Right, the ICRE.” And suddenly he launched out passionately, “Lis

ten, these folks around here will never have much better than what they’ve got. But their children might. Free enterprise means innovation, education, prosperity, all the corny stuff. And free enterprise is bound to spread, that’s its nature. Their great-grandkids will have it better than we do in the States.”

“Well,” she said, taken aback, “those are nice thoughts, those are hopeful words. But ‘these folks’ can’t eat words. They need some rice in their bellies, and I mean tonight.”

“Under Communism their kids might eat better tonight. But their

grandkids will starve to death in a world that’s all one big prison.” “And how did we get on this topic, anyway?” “Did you know the ICRE is considered a Communist front?” “No. Is that true?” In fact she hadn’t heard, and didn’t much care. “The U.S. Embassy in Saigon considers them Third Force.” “Well, Mr. Sands, I’m not a fifth column, or a third force. I don’t

even know what a third force is.” “It’s neither Communist nor anti-Communist. But more helpful to the Communists.” “And do you folks at Del Monte spend a lot of time at the U.S. Em

bassy in Saigon?” “We get bulletins from all over.” “The ICRE is a tiny outfit. We get along on grants from a dozen char

itable foundations. We have an office in Minneapolis and about forty nurses in the field in I don’t know how many countries. Fifteen or sixteen countries, I believe. Mr. Sands, you seem upset.”

He said, “Do I? You must have been pretty upset yourself the other

night.” “When?” “In Malaybalay.” “Malaybalay?” “Oh, come on —in the Italian place? When the mayor mentioned

Kathy Jones the Seventh-Day Adventist, the name was the same. But I sure didn’t think it was you.”

“Why is that?” “That night you didn’t seem like any Seventh-Day Adventist.” The American seemed to be waiting in his colorful Bermuda shorts

for some word from her, though plainly there wasn’t any use. “The

mayor and his family have been very good to me.” “Well, I mean —come on.” “We don’t always tell the whole story about ourselves, do we? For in

stance, the mayor thinks you’re not who you say you are at all. He says

you’re on a secret mission.” “I’m not from Del Monte, you mean? I’m a spy for Dole Pineapple?” “Your uncle said he was from AID.” “Did you get much chance to talk to him?” “He’s a colorful old rogue.” “I guess you did. Who was he with?” “Nobody.” “Oh. But the mayor mentioned a couple of others. A German,

maybe.” “They came around much more recently.” “The other two? When were they here? Do you remember?” “I left Friday. So they were here Thursday.” “You’re saying last Thursday. Four days ago.” “One two three four, yes, four days. Is that bad?” “No, no, no. I just wish I hadn’t missed them. Who was the German

with?” “Let me see. A Filipino. From the military.” “Aha, Major Aguinaldo.” “I didn’t actually see him.” “He’s a friend of ours. But I’m not sure about the German guy. Was

he German? I’m not sure I know him. The mayor said he had a beard.” “A Swiss, the mayor said.” “With a beard?” “I didn’t see him.” “But you saw the colonel.” “We don’t see many beards around here. That must prickle. So does

that mustache, I bet you.” He faced her in silence, as if in defiant expectation of her examination of him—no hat, sweat dripping from his drenched scalp, also from

his drooping mustache … Now he allowed himself to look around, to take in the vermilion glow surrounding them just as it faded. “Wow,” he said.

“My grandmother called this the gloaming.” “Sometimes it just knocks you out.” “In five minutes the skeeters will be swarming and we’ll be eaten

alive.” “The gloaming. Sounds Gaelic.” “There it goes. It was almost like liquid.” “Makes you feel more certain of Heaven.” “I’m not sure Heaven is really all that much to be desired,” she said. She’d assumed this would shock him, but he said, “I think I kind of

know what you mean.” She said, “Do you travel with the Word?” “The word? —Oh.” “Do you have a Bible with you—I mean at the hotel?” “No.” “Well, we can certainly arrange to place one in your hands.” “Well-all righty.” “The Catholics don’t quite cling to the Word the way the rest of us

do, do they?” “I don’t know. I don’t know how the rest of you do.” “Mr. Sands, how did I get on your bad side?” “I’m very sorry,” he said. “That’s not the situation at all. I’m just not

being very polite, and I should be ashamed.” The apology touched her. She sought to frame some gracious acceptance. Sands said, “Who’s this coming with Mayor Luis? The guy’s toting a spear.”