Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

The conversation thrilled him. She was more than considering the move, she was bargaining over it, compromising, as with something inevitable. They went upstairs, and despite the heat, which always stayed a bit longer in the top of the house, he embraced her and held her until she slept. War and war and war like a series of typhoons against their lives, and now, on the other side of it all, a distant peak of safety, a place to travel toward. And Kim’s breath came quietly, just as she’d claimed, no more of the wheezing, at least not tonight.

He moved to his own bed, putting his clothes and his sandals on the floor just outside the net—his plastic sandals, which said on the instep, in English, “Made in Japan.” The high walls between cultures were dissolving. Collapsing as mud. He and Kim might go anywhere. Malaysia. Singapore. Hong Kong. Even Japan was possible. He laughed to think he could walk out into the road now and remark to someone, “Japan is possible.”

Kim woke him in the night. He looked at the clock’s radium hands. Quarter to four. “What is it?”

She said, “Dogs were barking down the lane.”

“Sleep. I’ll listen for a while.”

Until she slept again he lay quietly, watching the tiny ember of insecticidal incense burning on the dresser across the room. From out in the lane he heard Trung—of course it was Trung, who else could it be?—imitating a gecko’s warble. Trung had never before arrived this late. But a cautious man would vary his approach.

Hao reached down and drew up the netting and swung his feet out. He took his trousers, shirt, and Japanese sandals to the head of the stairs and dressed there and stood in the darkness hearing nothing, tasting his own breath. Headed downstairs as softly as he could. The cousins slept right below his feet, in the shop of which the staircase made the slanting ceiling. There was no way to go quietly, every tread had something to say. At the bottom he waited until he was sure he hadn’t wakened the two girls.

He made his way into the kitchen, to the window behind the gas stove, and turned the clasp. As soon as he opened it he heard a small cough just outside.

1 rung? “Good morning.” “Good morning.” “I’m sorry to disturb you.” “I can’t offer you anything hot. Would you like a glass of water?” “Thanks for your kindness, but I’m not thirsty.” “I’ll come outside.” He went out the kitchen door into the tiny courtyard, where Trung

stood by the wall in the dark. “My cigarettes are upstairs,” Hao said. “I don’t think we should smoke. We might be seen.” The two men squatted side by side against the wall beneath the

kitchen window. Hao said, “You take a chance coming into the city.” “It’s a risk to be anywhere now. Just a couple of years ago, I could

travel in a wide area. Now we’re fugitives anywhere in the South.” “And coming to the house, it’s a risk for both of us.” “More of a risk for me, I’d say.” “I’m protecting you, Trung Than. I give you my word.” “I believe you. But it’s best to assume the worst.” “Trung, I understand completely that you have to feel protected every

step we take.” “Don’t push ahead too fast. I don’t yet agree we’re taking steps.” “Each meeting we’ve had has taken us a little farther, don’t you

agree?” “Farther toward an understanding, maybe. But we haven’t actually

taken any steps.” “Are you ready to change that?” “No.” A ploy, in Hao’s opinion, and not an actual refusal. “Before we go any farther,” Trung said, “I have to make sure I’m un

derstood.” “Please tell me. I’m listening.” “It took three days to go north on a Russian ship. That was in ‘54.

They said we’d come back to a reunified country in two years.”

“Go on,” Hao said. “Six years later it took me eleven weeks to get back by Ho s trail, and

on the way I nearly died a hundred times.” Hao said, “I’m listening.” “In ‘64 I realized I’d been waiting ten years to come home. And yet

by then I’d already been back in the South for four years.” “In all these numbers I hear the massing of resentments. You’re dissatisfied,” Hao said. “I’ve been living a contradiction. It isn’t going to go away.”

1 see. “I’ve been a coward. I have to resolve this for myself.” “I’m here to help you any way I can.” “I know that,” Trung said. “But what do you want from this?” “I want to be helpful to an old friend.” “We need to talk honestly. You say you want me to feel safe, and then

you lie. Tell the truth: What do you want from this situation?” “The survival of my family.” “Good.” “And what do you want?” Hao asked. “The survival of the truth.” What now? Philosophy? Hao said: “How can the truth be threatened?

It’s the truth.” “I want the truth to survive inside me.” Hao thought, I’m a businessman; let’s talk profit and loss. But said

only, “I’m trying to understand.”

“I don’t think words can take me any farther in explaining what I’m doing. I just want you to understand that nothing forces me. I’m not in any trouble. I don’t need money. I just need to steer closer to the truth.”

Hao disbelieved him. He was betraying his comrades, what could be the motive for that? Not philosophy.

Squatting at Hao’s side, Trung leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. It seemed he might make his farewell. “All right,” he said instead, “let’s have a smoke together.”

Hao crept back upstairs and found his cigarettes and his American Zippo lighter. At the head of the landing he got two going and brought them downstairs, wondering if the Monk would still be waiting. There he was. Very good. Tonight they’d take important steps.

Hao said, “He wants to meet you.” “He wants too much.” “He’s willing to protect you.” “As long as he can’t identify me, I won’t need his protection.” “He wants to protect you from his own people. From his side, not

from yours.” “I’ll be the one to worry about both sides.” They smoked, each with his hands cupped around the glow, Hao

thinking, I can’t even light a cigarette for my friend, he can’t survive a light on his face. It’s years since I’ve seen his eyes. “Trung, in order to get where you’re going you need a protector, and this protector has to trust you.” “It’s not time yet.” His friend scraped the ember from his cigarette and put the butt in his shirt pocket. Hao said, “Three years ago, shortly before you first contacted me

again, my nephew burned himself alive behind the New Star Temple.” “I know about it.” “Is that what you’re doing too? Destroying yourself?” What a slow, thoughtful man the Monk had become. He’d always

had a dogged sincerity, but this was deeper. His silences were searches. They were inspiring. “There’s been a lie told. I’ve told it. I’m going to let the truth reclaim me. If I can’t survive that process, so be it.”

“We have to express a more intelligible motive.” “No. The truth. They’ll assume I’m lying anyway.” “It takes time to gain trust. They’ll need something. Can you give me

something?” “This time I’ll tell you something they probably already know. Next

time a little more.” “Ah. We’re going to cross, but we’re not going to jump.” “The ones returning from the North say a big push is coming. Not

soon. Probably around the next Tet.” “I’ve heard nothing about this.” “Your colonel has. Surely he’s heard rumors. But I’m telling you it’s

not a rumor. Everyone can feel it. It’s coming.” “He’ll want to debrief you. A few days’ interrogation. It’s standard.” “Don’t expect me to be stupid.” “Forgive me.”