Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

“Yeah, yeah. But I don’t hear the laughter, you dig?” James said, “I’m laughing at you, but you’re making me kind of sad.” The door banged. The little sergeant from Psy Ops strode from the

Quonset hut and sat down facing James like an Indian at a powwow and

said, “Another perfect day. Whether we know it or not.” “I don’t think so.” The sergeant read James’s name tape and said, “$o-^ Houston, J.

What’s the for—jerk-off? I’m just kidding. Sorry. I’m an idiot this mornp>

ing again oh shit. And I bet you never been to Houston.” “Nope. I’m from Phoenix.” “It’s hot there. What’s the for?”p>

ŤT 77

James. “They call you Jimmy?” “Sometimes, but I tell them don’t.” “They call me Jimmy. But don’t call me James. I like Jimmy. Don’t

ever call me James. Let’s keep it loose. It’s hot in Phoenix. It breaks a

hundred there. One-oh-two, one-oh-three, one-oh-four.” “You that guy from Psy Ops?” “Yeah.”

UT 77

Jesus. “What.” James just shook his head. Jimmy lay back and pulled his cap down over his face. “It’s hot here

too. Vee-yet Nam. It means ‘permanent sweat’ in their fucked-up language.”

Once again the door banged. A guy came out and walked off toward the latrines without greeting them. Storm hopped upright. “Phoenix Houston’s turn.”

He followed James in and stood beside Sergeant Burke and said not a

word while the Cherry Loot took his turn. “Corporal Cowboy.” “Yes, sir.” “Did you think I wouldn’t get around to you?” “Matter of fact, sir—” “I saved the worst for the last.” James looked around for a chair, but Cherry Loot had the only one in

the room.

“We got sixty-six days left on this thing.” “Yes/sir.” “Before we have to break this thing down and we all go back to the

regular Twenty-fifth Infantry.” “Yes, sir.” “We had ninety days and we’ve wasted twenty-four out of ninety. Speaking of which,” the lieutenant said, “you were AWOL twenty-one

days last February. I know your history. Where were you —demonstrating

at the Democratic Convention?” “The who?” “The Democratic National Convention?” Sergeant Burke said, “Sir, the Democratic Convention was last week.” “Where’d you run to, Corporal?” “I was on a special assignment.” “No. You were drunk and running, and the colonel fixed it with my

predecessor. Say yes, sir.” “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant looked at the sergeant from Psy Ops as if expecting

comment. None came. The lieutenant said, “We want focus, which

means we want mission, which means we want goals. Otherwise we get

pulled and sent thirty kliks over that way, to the most horrible place on

earth. Have you seen that wasteland along Route One?” ‘Tes, sir.” “Our mission is mapping the local tunnels. You’re the one jumped

down in there.” “Me?” James said. “You went in there.” “Just to sort of, you know,” James said, “sir.” “Well, what’s your report?” “I don’t know. Like what?” “What did you see?” “Just tunnels.” “What about it? Tell me something.” “The walls are very smooth.” “What else?” “It’s small in there. You can’t stand up.” “You have to crawl?”

“Not exactly crawl. Just stay bent over is all.” “You must be insane,” the Cherry Loot said. “No argument there, sir,” James said. “I’d like to put you back in those tunnels. Get those suckers mapped

in detail. Not these raggedy drawings. You kind of like it down there,

don’t you?” “It ain’t exactly that.” “Well, no, shit no, nothing ain’t exactly nothing no more. But you

kind of like it down there.” “You can go ahead and volunteer me if it gets you all hard,” James said. “Look, sojer, I want to create an environment about two-by-two kliks that I know every single thing inside it that lives and breathes.”

“You know, there ain’t but six tunnels around here. I been in them all and they don’t go nowhere. The real tunnels are north of here. Northwest.”

“Don’t tell me that. You take away my reason for living.” “I want reimbursement for my kit.” Tour kit, is it.” “I paid two-eighty-five for the gun and the silencer and the headlight.

Seems like I should’ve been issued one, but if I’d waited on the army I’d

still be waiting this minute.” “You mean two hundred and eighty-five dollars?” “Yes, sir.” “What’s that on your hip?” “Hi-Power.” “Where’s your.380 for tunnels, then?” “It’s kind of complicated.” “Is it? Is there anything not kind of complicated in this fuck-a

monkey show?” “Never happen.” “Two-eight-five?” “Thereabouts.” “If I could put in for actual cash money, I’d get a whole bunch for

myself. I can put in for a tunnel kit, maybe. That much seems reasonable.” “Put in for one, then. I can sell it and break even.”

“Are you going to make me an accessory to black marketeering

now?” “Just thinking out loud is all.” “I can’t have people thinking. I can’t have it.” “Yes, sir.” “Meantime for sixty-six more days you hit the ground running every

day and all day you bust hump for Echo Platoon. No leave no furlough

no beer at the Purple Bar say yes sir.” “Yes sir.” “Dismissed up and at ‘em rocknroll.” James turned to go. “All right. Wait.” “Yes, sir.” “After I chew you up for sixty-six days, what’s your plan?” “I’m over to Nha Trang for Lurps.” “No shit. The recondo school? That’s on-the-job training, man.” “I know it.” “You know who they do their training maneuvers against?” “Yeah.” “The NVA Seventeenth Division. They just put you on patrol and see

who eats who.” The little Psy Ops sergeant laughed happily. “You fuck up in training

you’ll be dead, and mushrooms,” he said, “will be growing outa your

ass.” “Shut up, Sergeant—please. Corporal, this your second tour?” It IS. “They’re gonna make you do your third.” “Fine with me.” “Dismissed,” the lieutenant said. “Good luck. Dismissed.”

H e woke in the late afternoon to the quarreling of birds. Gave himself a sponge bath of water and, for its cooling effect, rubbing alcohol at the bowl in the upstairs bathroom. Put on his army surplus bathing trunks and zoris and went downstairs. “Mr. Skip, it is tea?” Mr. Tho said in English. “S’il vous plait,” he said. He sat at the desk and went to work on the passages of text even before his tea had arrived or his head had cleared of dreams, for he’d often found this a favorable state in which to come by the meaning of a foreign phrasing, to catch its glimmer. He kept the lamps off and worked in a kind of twilight. During pauses he peered at the porcelain model of the human ear, running his finger along the delicate Labyrinthe membraneux—the Utricule and Saccule, the Canal endolymphatique and Nerf vestibulaire, the Ganglion de Scarpa and Ganglion spinal de corti—and

Si incroyable que cela paraisse, les Indiens Tarahumaras vivent comme s’ils étaient déjŕ morts …

“Incredible as it may seem,” Sands had rendered it, “the Tarahumara Indians live as if they were already dead …”

Il me fallait certes de la volonté pour croire que quelque chose allait se passer. Et tout cela, pourquoi? Pour une danse, pour un rite d’Indiens perdus qui ne savent męme plus qui ils sont, ni d’oů ils viennent et qui, lorsqu’on les interroge, nous répondent par des contes dont ils ont égaré la liaison et le secret.

It required a definite act of will for me to believe that something was going to happen. And all this, for what? For a dance, for a rite of lost Indians who don’t even know who they are or where they come from and who, when questioned, answer us with stories of which the thread and the secret have drifted from their grasp.