Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

A half hour along the rain caught him and he sheltered under the awning of a tiny store whose leather-faced papasan smoked a cigarette with exquisite languor and had nothing to say. When Skip smiled at him the old man’s face broke open in an exalted smile quite full of healthy-looking teeth. The storm was a harmless roaring downpour interrupted, however, by startling gusts that tore at the vegetation and furrowed the large puddles in the roadway. Skip bought a “Number One” soft drink in one of its several unidentifiable flavors and drank it rapidly. He addressed the old man in English: “Do you know what I think? I think maybe I think too much.” The rain stopped. Across the road in front of a small house a young woman played peekaboo with a child just walking, who lurched on tiptoes while a slightly older sister danced a solitary improvisation, with sweeping, parallel gestures of her arms, all three of them smiling as if the world went no farther than their happiness.

That morning he’d been very moved by the tale he’d learned, which began: Once upon a time there was a war; a soldier left his wife and baby son behind and went off in defense of the country. The young wife looked after their house and their garden and their child. Each evening at sunset she stood by the river behind their home and looked for her beloved husband to come sailing on it back into their lives …

One night a storm burst over their little home and snatched at the roof and battered the walls. It blew out the lamp, and the little boy wept in terror. The mother held him close and relit the lantern. As she did so, her shadow leapt up on the wall by the doorway, and she comforted her son by pointing at it and saying, “We have nothing to fear tonight—see? Daddy stands by the door.” Immediately the child was comforted by the shadow. Every evening after that, when she came back into the house after standing by the river and longing for her husband to return out of the last rays of the sun, her little boy called for his daddy, and she lit the lamp, and every evening he bowed to the shadow on the wall and said, “Goodnight, Daddy!” and slept in peace.

When the soldier returned to his little family, his wife’s heart nearly burst with joy, and she wept. “We must give thanks to our ancestors,” she said to him. “Please prepare the altar and look after your son,” she said, “while I get food for a thanksgiving meal.”

Alone with his child, the man said, “Come to me, I am your father.” But the child said, “Daddy’s not here now. Every night I say goodnight to Daddy. You’re not Daddy.” As he heard these words, the soldier’s love perished in his heart.

When his wife returned from the market, she felt a cloud of death in their home. Her husband refused to give her even a word. He folded up the prayer mat and refused her the use of it. He knelt in silence before the meal she prepared, and when the food was cold and no longer worth eating, he walked from the house.

His wife waited many days for his return, standing by the river as she’d done when he was a soldier. One day her despair overcame her, and she took her child to a neighbor’s house, kissed and embraced him one last time, and ran to the river and drowned herself.

Word of her death reached her husband in a village down the river. The shock broke the ice in his heart. He returned home to look after his son. One evening, as he sat beside his son’s pallet and lit the oil lamp, his shadow leapt up on the wall beside the door. His son clapped his small hands together, bowed to the shadow, and said, “Goodnight, Daddy!” At once he realized what he’d done. That night as his child slept he built an altar by the river and knelt by it for hours, making it known to his ancestors how deeply he regretted his failure. Just before dawn he took his sleeping son to the riverside, and together they followed his faithful wife into the waters of death.

The old woman had relayed the tale without any expression or detectable interest. It gripped his heart. The child and the mother alone in their life. The man and the woman who misunderstood one another, the shadow who was a father. The river that washed away their histories.

He entered a valley with a wide flat creek running down its middle, and this time was caught in the downpour. He walked through it under a black umbrella. The creek foamed under the battering rain. Afterward it rolled along swiftly, brown and muscular, with scummy whorls. He came again onto the level ground, carpeted with paddies, that predominated the landscape around Cao Quyen.

He passed the dwellings, not peasant hooches but small homes with gardens out front, and behind them the rectilinear tombstones over the family graves with their half hoods, like large stone bassinets. Here and there along the road ahead people had set fire to small wet neighborhood trash piles that sent up a smoke disorientingly reminiscent of the autumnal perfumes of his childhood.

The old woman had added a coda to the tale: After the tragic deaths, the sky rained among the mountains. The river that had drowned the family swelled, its waters grew angry, even the biggest stones in it wobbled from side to side, and the noise of its outrage never again abated. Even in the dry months, when its water moves along calmly, the river still roars. A bit of sand scooped from it and held in the hand makes a loud noise. Drop the sand in a pot and fill the pot with water; in a minute it boils.

When he got back to the villa the black Chevy sat out front, and his uncle lay inside on the divan in the living room, while beside him, on the floor, lay a dog who’d been around the place lately. The colonel lifted his hand from the dog’s head and waved at Skip and said, “I’m being digested by your couch.” Skip helped him sit upright. “By these pillows.” He appeared flushed, and yet, beneath that, pale. ‘Tour silken pillows.”

Nguyen Hao occupied a rattan chair beside the low black lacquer coffee table. Sitting right there but managing to seem much farther away, he said nothing, only nodded and smiled.

“What time is it?” the colonel asked.

“Almost one. Are you hungry? And welcome, incidentally.”

He’d been told to expect the colonel sometime after the rainy season, and that was all. Been told in fact by the colonel.

“I ordered coffee,” the colonel said.

The dog attacked its privates with a volcanic, ecstatic grunt-music.

“Got yourself a dog.”

“It’s Mr. Tho’s. I think we might eat it.”

The toilet flushed in the downstairs bath. Jimmy Storm came out in clean fatigues. Adjusting the hem of his shirt, he stared at the masturbating animal. “I think your dog’s in love.”

“My dog? I thought he was your dog.”

Storm laughed and sat on the couch and said, “You’re a foolhardy moocher of a mutt.” He scratched the dog’s head and then smelled his fingers.

“Why didn’t you take the chopper?” The sight of Jimmy Storm made

him speak brusquely. “The chopper’s no longer mine.” “Oh. Whose is it, then?” “It still belongs to our allies, but they’ve put it to better use. And we’re

breaking down the LZ—that’s official now.” “I thought all this was happening months ago.” “The gods move slow, but they never stop moving. No more Cao

Phuc, as of this September first.”

UT7 77

1 m sorry. “Fortunes of war,” the colonel said. “In any event, I wouldn’t have

taken the chopper today. This is an unofficial visit. Just family.” “Tho can bring you a beer. Or what about a drink?” “He’s making coffee. Let’s talk with our heads clear. I’d like to con

duct some business.” “Well, okay. I’m not here for the free doughnuts.” It was something

his mother sometimes said, and it sounded silly to him. “Have you thoroughly reread the Dimmer article?” “On double agents. Yes, sir.” Storm said, “Jesus Christ.” “What.” “I read that thing.” “What.” “Nothing what. It’s not applicable.” “Sergeant.” “Colonel, if you want to assassinate the Virgin Mary with Oswald’s