Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

“Is all that written on those little cards?” Storm asked. “Jimmy,” the colonel said, “you make me tired.” “All this is hypothetical,” Skip felt it necessary to be assured.

“Yes, yes, nothing’s figured out. We don’t know what we’re doing yet. Thus the coming debriefing. And you’re the debriefer. The man’s name is Trung. You have some Vietnamese. He has some English. You both have some French. Right, Hao—he’s got some English?”

Hao spoke his first complete sentence since entering: “No, Colonel,

excuse me. He doesn’t speak English. None.” “Well, fine. That’s why Skip spent a year in Carmel.” “We’ll work it out,” Skip promised. “I know you will. Mr. Tho!” the colonel called. Tho appeared with a dishtowel in his hand. He was probably in his

sixties but seemed physically no more than middle-aged—although philosophically seasoned, imperturbable—and he smiled radiantly because the colonel smiled at him first.

“Mr. Tho-break out the Bushmills.”

They all took Bushmills mixed with water. Even Hao accepted one and held the glass with both hands without drinking from it. The potion banished the colonel’s paleness, and halfway down his highball he seemed rescued from any symptoms of his illness. And clearly he was ill.

Without any bitterness that he could, himself, detect, Skip said, “Do you wonder what I’ve been doing?” “The same as all of us—waiting while a viable strategy emerges.

Meanwhile, what are you doing to keep busy?” “Nothing. I’m wasted here. I’m a pogue.” Storm said, “That’s jarhead terminology.” “It applies.” “Up until this stage we’re entering,” the colonel said, “the candidate

has to set the pace. And look—the most convincing thing about him is all this delay and this reluctance. It says to me he appreciates what a step this is. And he’s honest with us about being doubtful.”

Hao spoke: “Yes. He is honest. I know him.” “But now he’s committed,” Skip said. “He’s come over. That’s right. That’s the situation,” the colonel said.

“Now he’s ours and I want him here with you. I don’t want him in Cao

Phuc or in Saigon. I want him where he hasn’t worked before.” “But what’s the delay?” “He can’t just disappear. He’s part of a cell. The cell is part of a net

work. He can’t just go on vacation. He’s offered credible reasons for reloeating to this area, or he assures us he has, but it takes time. He says it

takes time and I believe him.” “Meanwhile, Fm a pogue. Reading Dickens, as you know.” “And Ian Fleming. Sorry I couldn’t get the Tolstoy.” “Anything big and fat, or full of suave secret agents.” “Have you read Shell Scott?” “Sure. You mean the series. Richard S. Prather.” “What about Mickey Spillane?” “Everything. A dozen times.” “Henry Miller?” “Can you get Henry Miller?” “He’s legal now. He went to court. I’ll get you Henry Miller.” “Get me Tropic of Capricorn. I’ve read Tropic of Cancer.” “I didn’t like Cancer. Boring. Capricorn’s really good.” “Wow. I didn’t know you stayed so current.” “They were written in the thirties, man. Mr. Tho!” he called. “Do I

smell food?” He drained his glass. “Let’s get out while lunch cooks. Let’s

take a drive.” “Or walk,” Skip said. “There’s a tunnel just down the road.” “You’re kidding. Here?” “We’ve got all the latest stuff, Uncle.” “Let’s explore,” the colonel said. “And don’t forget the bottle.” The outing was a failure. They followed a zigzag course down the

main road, walking around the puddles. “Don’t talk to me about current events,” the colonel said. “That’s all I ask. Jesus Christ, another Kennedy. Can’t somebody kill Uncle Ho? These folks mean business.” He stopped as if to make his next point, but more likely to catch his breath. “You whack them down in January, they’re back all bright and shiny next May, ready for more of our terrible abuse. Is that the tunnel?”

“What’s left of it.”

The colonel waited silently ten seconds before persevering over the last twenty yards to stand before the tunnel, now an eroded delve in a small bluff.

“Well, no, Skip, no. I don’t think so. Have you seen the tunnels in Cu Chi? You haven’t, have you?”—pronouncing it the native way, so it came out Goochy.

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“This isn’t a tunnel, Skip. It looks more like the man’s own excavation. More like he was excavating a cavern or something—but the geology doesn’t seem the kind where you’d find caverns—don’t you need limestone for that?”

“A cavern?” “Maybe there’s a subterranean crevasse here. A crevasse in a buried rock.” “Okay. Yeah. He was definitely fascinated by caverns. Possessed. I looked at his notes.”

“Sure. But it’s not a VC-type tunnel in the least. The VC tunnels aren’t like this at all. The entrances go straight down. Makes it harder to breach one.” Skip couldn’t tell if the colonel was disappointed in the tunnel alone, or also somewhat in his nephew.

They left the mystery behind and went back to see about lunch, Skip dealing with his irritation—the tunnel wasn’t a tunnel. Nor even, probably, a cavern. He felt jilted by the dead man. Bouquet had let him down.

At the villa’s low gate the colonel reached for Hao’s elbow. Clinging to the smaller man’s arm, he stooped to pick up a tree limb thrown down by the recent storm as if he’d grown interested, suddenly, in jetsam, and leaned on it as a staff as he took the last few steps to the entry.

Mrs. Diu had lunch ready. They went directly to the black lacquer dining table, where Tho officiated, Skip thought, with a certain air of accusation: in sixteen months, except for the priest, these were his first guests to a meal. Local fare today, beef noodle soup with mint leaves and bean sprouts. But American-style sliced bread fresh from the oven, and butter too. And Bushmills throughout. No chopsticks, not even for Hao. And no Bushmills for Hao. Dessert was a kind of pudding made from guava.

“To the Irish,” the colonel suggested, having cracked a second fifth, or, Skip feared it possible, a third.

“Well —I didn’t think we did.” “We started out Shaughnesseys. All of a sudden on the boat over it was Sands.”

“That’s what Aunt Grace told me. All my life my mother treated it like some great mystery and scandal.” “No, it’s just a source of amusement and minor shame. How’s the

news from your mom?” “All good, I guess. I get letters from her. I send back postcards.” “Anyway, fellas, I wasn’t toasting a whole nation. Just my old team—

the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. I’d say they’re the majority of them

Polish. At least we were when I was on the squad—look at Skip. Look at

his face. He thinks the old man is about to start.” “Go ahead, Uncle. I’m drunk enough, if you are.” “Yes yes yes, I’m full of hot gas. You could raise a balloon with my

reminiscences. Go ahead, change the subject.” “Your paper for the journal. I didn’t understand your paper.” “I didn’t either.” “This isn’t exactly changing the subject—if the subject is hot air.” “I’m impervious to criticism.” “Lotta wild terms in there. ‘Insulated activity.’ ” “Insulated activity: showing initiative, i.e., taking the bull by the

horns while the brass sits on its ass.” “And others.” “What others? I’m your glossary.” “I can’t remember.” “Jargon is important. Consider the potential audience. These folks

are all about mumbo-jumbo. Have you read ‘Politics and the English

Language’?” “Urn-George Orwell. Yeah.” “Have you?” ‘Tes. And 1984.” “Well, 1984 is coming. And it won’t take seventeen years to get here.” “Anyhow,” Skip said. “More like sixteen,” Storm announced. “Sixteen what?” “Sixteen years till 1984.” “Wait a minute. Eighteen. Eighteen.” Storm laughed, waving a slice of bread around beside his crew-cut