Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

trotted off with it. He watched it go, a man without graceful reflexes. “I’ve been calling him Docteur Bouquet, but I think it should be ‘Monsieur/ His degree wouldn’t stay with him into the next life, would it?

What are you doing up here in Cao Quyen?” “What am I doing here?” “Yes. More or less.” “I’m with WCS now. No more ICRE.” “WCS?” “World Children’s Services is a network of nearly sixty agencies

around the world, providing social services to children and their families

since 1934.” “I’m sure it is.” “Adoption assistance is the core service of WCS. In several districts,

including this one, we’re doing what we can to coordinate efforts on be

half of children without families.” “I wouldn’t doubt it.” “Stop it. So I was visiting the missionary family in Bac Se, and they

told me about you. The Thomases.” “I never met them. Never heard of them.” “They heard about you from a priest.” “Thong Nhat—Pčre Patrice.” “I wouldn’t know. I just know I came out of my way to say hi to a fel

low Canadian, and instead I find you. The Quiet American.” “Oh, well,” he said, “thanks for not calling me Ugly.” “You wouldn’t hear it anyway. You’re deaf. We all know that about

you by now, all but you Americans yourselves.” “It seemed like we were getting along there for a second.” “Sorry.” She ran out of things to say and gazed at him pitiably. “Que pasa?” ” ‘Que pasa’? You talk like a GI.” “I know. Que pasa?” “I’m all worn out.” “I’m sure you are.” “I mean—I’m the ugly one. It’s worn me down, hasn’t it?” “Look,” he said, “I’m so glad you came. I’m so happy, Kathy.” “Really?” “Do I have to make a fool of myself?” “I wouldn’t mind,” she said.

Fortunately, the dog was back for more. Skip roughed his fur and fed him bites of mango. “And you’re here about orphans, I guess. For WCS.”

She nodded her head, slice of mango speared on a fork and upheld like a flag, mouth full of bread roll. Swallowed the bread, the mango, almost the fork too.

“Now it’s me who’s sorry. I wasn’t thinking—do you want a regular meal?” She shook her head, still chewing. “No, thanks. Yes—I mean, yes, adoption. We’re an umbrella organization for adoption agencies.” “If every family in North America adopts one Vietnamese, we win the war.” “Something like that. I wouldn’t mind clearing the country out and

just leaving it to the killers.” “Are you guys as hard up as ICRE?” “Oh, sure—relative to the size of our effort we are. But as I once

heard Mayor Luis say—We will find the money, we will kneel to many

people.’ ” “You’re good. You sound just like him.” “Have you been in touch?” “No.” “Me neither.” “Let’s get back to the other thing,” he suggested. “Where you said you

wouldn’t mind if I made a fool of myself.” “Let me eat first.” In a few minutes he showed her to the upper rooms. From what he

could see, climbing behind her up the stairwell, she’d kept a little weight in her hips and thighs, but she’d called it right, the life had worn her down. He himself had gone the other way. He didn’t have a scale, but his bathing trunks fit him tighter and he wore them lower, beneath the belly roll. No scale, but he’d been provided a stethoscope and a blood-pressure gauge. A dozen rolls of bandage, no adhesive tape. Wartime supplies were like that—all cocked up. These were the thoughts that ravaged him as he tried to figure out how to deal with his overwhelming happiness and lust, his buzzing fingertips, clenched heart, dizziness. Not that he thought she’d mind a pass, but she was nuts—at the very least complicated—hidden-wounded, phony-cynical, overpassionate. Definitely angry. And all of it inflamed him. And she was the last woman he’d slept with, one of five in thirty-odd years of life. Men with graceful reflexes don’t interrogate their opportunities. Men without them should stop the questions. And of the five, she was the only one he’d slept with more than once. He led the way into his bed suite, turned to her, and — nothing. No reflexes.

“I said I wouldn’t mind,” she said, and they commenced with an awkward kiss.

“Mr. Benęt, do you have any wine?”

“I do. Thank God, I do. And half a fifth of Bushmills.”

“Sounds like a party,” she said, and laid two fingers lightly on his forearm. Taking the fingers in his hand, he led her to the double-sized bed, where he put to use what he’d learned from Henry Miller’s daring passages, from small obscene photographs, dorm-room bull sessions. As in the time in Damulog, they didn’t speak. Everything they did was a secret, especially from each other. As she’d said, she didn’t mind, and at the very last part she gazed upward at something on the ceiling and cried out. And for an instant he thought, I am James Bond, before he dropped again into gray doubting—Artaud and Cioran, the dog, the weather, the point of it all, waiting for contact with a supposed double agent, the thing he’d been brought here nearly two years ago to accomplish. And it was folly. The wild-card operation and the war itself—folly on folly. And this woman beside him with whom hęM just made love, perspiring like a handball player.

There was a little contest, then, it seemed to him, as to who was going to talk first. “It takes a fire to make hot water,” he said, “but if you want a shower—”

“Oh, come on! I’ll take it cold.”

“I’ll pee,” he said. “And then you can have the shower, okay?”

While she showered he wiped himself down with the bedsheet and got back into his bathing trunks. He thought he might look at a book, but the weather was ominous and he had only the rumored, greenish daylight from storm clouds to see by. All the books, he thought, are downstairs. There’s nothing to do, he thought. Nothing to be done. He sat at the little tea table staring at his knees, his bare feet.

She came back with a towel wrapped around her and her hair slicked back, the high pinks visible even in her sun-browned cheeks. She had sad, pouched knees. Holding the towel to her breast she stretched, extending only her left arm, keeping the towel close. Across from him was a chair, but she sat on the bed. “Those look like the first clothes I ever saw you in. You were wearing an odd sort of bathing suit, just like that, with pockets.”

“The very same pair, actually. They’re sturdy as hell.” “What about your wild Bermuda shorts?” “They fell apart, I guess.” “There was a storm then too.” “The first time you saw me I wore pants. That restaurant in Malay

balay, remember?” “I refuse to remember.” She’d come at just the right time. This was her atmosphere. This was

the light for her, for sad, pale skin below the tanned neck and above the rough elbows, for a virgin martyr’s poise, for her unexpectant waiting— her right calf, rather thick and like a peasant’s, dangling from the bed and the foot plunged into shadow near the floor, which was of old wood, the other leg akimbo and the sole of its foot against the other knee, making a number 4 with her legs as she lay back on the bed, her hand across her breasts, the other behind her head—pond-light, church-light. Had she known how he stared, she’d never have allowed it. But she turned her eyes to him and looked at him full on as if he didn’t matter, without any change of her expression. She wasn’t, herself, beautiful. Her moments were beautiful.

The room darkened and gusts carried voices from the ville and the rattle of things shaken, though just before the rain the wind let off, and what came down might have fallen any summer’s day in New England.

“You’re really staring.” “You are a goddamn relief. You’re making everything go away.” “Everything such as?” “Boredom. Boredom. And too much thinking. Cabin fever.” “Oh, we know all about cabin fever in Manitoba. Come spring, guys