Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

with translation.” “Let’s speak English,” the priest said in English. “Whatever you like.” Pčre Patrice said, “Shall I hear your confession?” “No.” “Thank God! You’re not Catholic?” “Seventh-Day Adventist.” “I don’t know about Seventh-Day people.” “It’s a Protestant faith.” “Of course. God doesn’t care who is Protestant or Catholic. God

himself is not Catholic.” “I hadn’t thought of that.” “What is this universe to God? Is it a drama? Is it a dream? Perhaps a

nightmare?” The priest smiled yet seemed angry. “That’s a big question. I think it qualifies as a mystery.” “I’m reading a most wonderful book.” Skip waited for him to finish, but he didn’t say anything further about

the book. “I have met Mr. Colonel Sands, there at your villa. He’s your friend?

Your colleague?” “He’s my uncle. Also my friend.” “The colonel fascinates me. I don’t understand him. But I don’t think

we should talk about him, do you?” “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I believe that we should confine ourselves.” Sands decided that the priest was a subtle man unable to complete

his thoughts in English. “Can you help me collect folk tales in the area?” he asked the priest. “Folk tales? Fairy tales, perhaps?” “Yes. Ifs a hobby, a personal interest of mine. Not associated with my

work.” “Not associated with your Bible work?” “Well, of course it helps me as a translator. It helps me to understand

the language of myth.” “But do you say that the Bible is a myth?” “Not at all. I say it’s in the language of myth.” “Of course. Surely. I can help. Do you like songs also, perhaps?” “Songs? Of course.” “I’ll sing you a Vietnamese song,” the priest said. He gazed into Skip’s eyes. His features seemed to clarify. His look be

came earnest. For almost a minute he sang quite beautifully in a clear, strong voice, unabashed, completely unselfconscious. The tune was high and struck a note of yearning.

“Did you understand the song?” Skip was speechless. “No? For three years, he is a soldier at the outpost, far from his vil

lage. He’s very lonely and he works hard to cut bamboo all day. His body hurts. He eats only bamboo shoots and some fruit, and his friends are only the bamboo. And he sees a fish in the cistern, swimming by itself, also with no friends. I think we are like this—Mr. Benęt and Pčre Patrice. Don’t you think so? I’m far from my home in my village, and you are far from Canada.”

He said no more. “Is that the end of the song?” “The ending. He sees the fish swimming alone.” “I think you’ve got a little Irish in you, sir.” “Why?” “The Irish love to sing.” “Sometimes there are singing competitions, and I place very well. It’s

also my hobby, like yours. Here in this district, every man must sing. We must sing to the demons.”

“Really?”

“Mr. Benęt, it’s true, the demons live here.”

1 see.

“If you do something disrespectful, for instance if you relieve yourself in the forest, you will suffer some tricks from them. Trees may fall on you, huge branches may break off and hit your head, or you might fall in a crevasse and get a broken bone. It might be a shocking way to learn there are spirits here in the forest.”

Skip said, “Yes, I’d be shocked if that happened.”

“Certain Chinese doctors in this district practice their medicine here. They know about these spirits. I’ll take you to the shop sometime. Would you like to go? They keep many fascinating things. He keeps practically all parts of a tiger in jars and tiny boxes. If he grinds the bones and feeds to a dog, that dog will become fierce. Did you know that even the wax from a tiger’s ears can cure you of something? And the tough hairs from the elephant’s tail can ease the woman while she gives birth. They also grind the teeth and bones of the elephant to rub on certain kinds of lesions to cure it. They grind the horns of the deer and mix it up with alcoholic beverage to make an evil kind of drink. It makes a man too powerful in sexual matters. Other animals too. Many snakes, many kinds of animals. Perhaps insects, I don’t know. The Chinese doctor knows these things.”

“I’d probably enjoy seeing a collection like that.”

“Everything is not merely superstitious with these people. Some things are already verified. The tribes make shrines and altars in the forest. A tiny house for the spirits from bamboo, perhaps the coconut shell. The spirits are there, they live there, I must believe it from the evidence. As in the case of a young man who scornfully urinated in front of an altar in the forest, and then he suffered a complete mental breakdown.”

“Shocking.”

“My name is Thong Nhat,” said Pčre Patrice. “I hope I will be your friend.” “I look forward to it,” Skip said. “Please call me Skip.” So it went—tea with the priest, walks when it didn’t rain, a pro

gram of calisthenics. He took to puttering among the dead physician’s French magazines, translating passages the physician had underscored. He tended the colonel’s files. Sometimes he heard distant choppers, fighters, bombers, and felt himself captured in a rainbow bubble of irrelevance.

Next visit, Hao brought a letter from Major Eddie Aguinaldo, forwarded

by the embassy in Manila to the Saigon Embassy’s APO address in San

Francisco.

I’ve decided to marry myself to a certain young and quite beautiful woman. Indeed! I knew you’d be amazed. I can see you before me right now with your mouth dropped opened. Her name is Imogene. She is the daughter of Senator Villanueva. I intend to become some kind of politician of a local sort, not too corrupt, but certainly rich, and you can depend on me to help you make money if you come back to our fair land.

I have had a somewhat curious visit from a “Mr. so-and-so” from your Political Section in Manila. I hesitate to refer to him more specifically. He expressed considerable interest in our friends and relations, that is, my friend and your relation. I hope you’ll understand the reference. Mr. so-and-so’s intensity was very uncharacteristic of people from your crowd. I must say he left me feeling a little shaken. When he was gone I went immediately to the sideboard to pour myself something stiff, and now I’ve sat down to write this letter to you at once. I am feeling some urgency. I can’t be depended on to know everything, but I convey my sense of things to you that our friend and relation should be talked to about this right away. About the violent interest shown in him, about an adversarial tone on the part of someone supposed to be our friend and relation’s colleague. I believe you should immediately warn him to begin casting the occasional glance behind, even when he feels the safest.

Skip, in Mindanao that was a botched thing. An intolerable mistake, and very much regretted. I cannot say anything past that. Yours Quite Sincerely,

— “Eddie,” in a flourishing hand.

Jame s dreamt of firefights: shooting useless bullets from an impotent gun. Dreams send you messages, this he knew. He disliked these particular messages, warnings that in battle he’d have no power. Not that he saw battles anywhere outside his nightmares.

The choppers in and out of LZ Delta carried strictly supplies, no battle teams. Once in a while somebody hurt had to touch down in a shot-up chopper that couldn’t make it farther, but Echo only heard about these things.

James didn’t mind the patrols. A patrol took two days. Your squad went west up the zigzag track, through the LZ, and around to the south—along an old track through the open farms, into a patch of jungle, and out into the craggy wasteland made by herbicides—and back to Echo Camp; or you went around to the north, then east up through the LZ, then down the mountain and back to Echo. On the way you camped one night. Nothing ever happened.