Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

and Hao searched for hope in his almost sociable tone of voice. On the table were arranged devices and wires like an elaborate radio system. “I’m Terry Crodelle. Everybody calls me Crodelle, and I hope you

will too. Okay if I call you Mr. Hao?” “Okay. Yes.” “Sit, sit, please.” He sat in the hard wooden chair beside Crodelle’s. A third chair

waited, but Mr. Johnson remained at attention. Here were two very different American types, both dressed the same in their somber slacks, their brilliant shoes, white short-sleeved shirts: Johnson standing, extraneous, mildly uncomfortable, brown-skinned and blackheaded, Crodelle relaxed and in charge, with pale, freckled skin, and hair the color of straw.

Mr. Johnson said, “Do you want Sammy?” Crodelle gave no answer. “Mr. Hao,” Crodelle said, “we’re going to keep this short, never fear.” “That’s good.” “You’ll be back home within the hour.” “Today we’ll plant a tree for the Tet.” “Do you understand my English?” Hao said, “Sometimes I don’t understand many things.” He still held

his half bottle of Coke with its drifting cigarette butt. Gently Crodelle

took the beverage from his grip and placed it on the table. “Another drink?” “No, thank you. But it’s quite good.” Crodelle put his glasses in the pocket of his shirt and leaned in to

contact Hao’s gaze without hostility or guile, but studiously. He had stubby eyelashes the color of his hair, and irises a pale blue. “I don’t want an interpreter in here. Can we talk without an interpreter?”

“Yes. My English is not good to speak, but I understand better.” “Good enough,” Crodelle said. And Johnson said, “Good enough,” and left the room, shutting the

door behind him. “Do you know what this contraption is?” “Maybe a radio.” “It’s a machine that can tell who’s lying and who’s telling the truth.

Or so they claim.” Did the machine transmit this news about himself now?

“How can it work?” “It’s not my area. We won’t be using it today.” Hao said, “I am searching true peace. I cannot wait for you to make

the peace. I cannot wait for you guys.” Crodelle smiled. “War is not peace.” Crodelle rose and went to the door and opened it. “Ken?” he called,

and then said, “Excuse me, Mr. Hao.” It was Johnson who appeared. “We need a translator.” Johnson left the door ajar. Crodelle arranged the third chair, saying,

“Just someone to help us get things across.” He sat down and again crossed his ankle over his knee. Hao wondered if they’d let him smoke in here. “When was the last time you saw the colonel?” Hao patted the Marlboros in his shirt. Crodelle produced a lighter

and held out the flame while Hao steered the tip of his cigarette into it and puffed, reflecting that life in this city of feints and reversals called for nimble steps and a long view, and he lacked this combination. He found himself unable, for instance, to cope with his wife’s brother, who owed him money, who had lived in Hao’s father’s house since the old man’s death, when it became Hao’s property, but who refused to acknowledge his debt. Relatives and business: he’d failed to navigate between them. And since his father’s death he’d run the family’s enterprises into the ground. He couldn’t handle the day-to-day of simple commerce; much less whatever these people had in mind for him now. He inhaled delicious smoke and said, “Not for a long time.”

“One month? Two months?” “I think maybe two months.” Johnson had returned. “Here’s Sammy,” he said, and a very young

Vietnamese man dressed in slacks and shirt just like the Americans’ sat in the third wooden chair while Johnson left again and Crodelle spoke rapidly, looking at Hao.

“Mr. Hao,” the boy translated, “we’ve invited you here instead of arranging an apparently chance encounter in a public space. I will tell you the reason.”

“Tell me,” Hao said in Vietnamese.

“Because we want you to understand that this inquiry has the weight

of the United States government behind it.” In English Hao said, “Fm a friend for the United States.” “Do you have a lot of friends?” Hao asked the interpreter, “What does he mean by such a question?” “Fm not sure. Do you want me to ask him to explain?” “Why did they bring me here? Why do they ask if I have a lot of

friends?” “That’s not my business.” “Sammy,” Crodelle said, “just ask him the questions. I talk to you,

you talk to him. He talks to you, you talk to me. You two don’t sit back chatting.” “It’s best just to speak to him, and not to me,” the boy suggested to Hao.

Hao held his cigarette almost vertically so as not to lose the two-inchlong ash and put his lips under it to get a puff. Crodelle said, “I forgot the ashtrays. I don’t actually smoke myself.”

Sammy said, “Can I get one?” “An ashtray? Please, if you don’t mind.” Now he was alone with pale Crodelle again. A lot of friends? Not a

lot. Perhaps the wrong ones. He’d clung to the colonel as to a mighty tree, expecting it to carry him from the tempest. But a tree isn’t going anywhere.

Sammy knocked and came back in with an ashtray as well as his own burning cigarette, put the tray on the table in front of Hao, dipped his own ash. “It’s all right?”

“Smoke away,” Crodelle said. “Smoke like Dresden, man,” and Hao brought his Marlboro gently above the ashtray and let fall the pendulous ash.

“American cigarette,” he said. “I like it better than Vietnam.” He

stubbed it out and sat back. “Who’s the friend who visits you? The VC.” A simple enough question. But the route to the answer started some

distance from it and passed through a thicket of irrelevant histories. He spoke of his training at the New Star Temple. Of how the tenets had seemed, in a way, cowardly excuses for old men to hide behind, but afterward, in middle age —now—had begun to reveal their importance.

He spoke of the Five Hindrances—they did, indeed, hinder—and the Four Noble Truths—they were actually true. When he’d run out of things to say, the translator Sammy dragged from his cigarette and said: “Buddhist.”

Crodelle said, “To each his own. I’m not here in the name of any particular outfit except Five Corps. So your friend’s name is Trung, correct?”

“Trung. A very old friend. We went to school at the New Star Temple.” “What name does he travel under now?” “I don’t know.” “What’s Trung’s full name?” “I don’t know.” “You went to school with him, and you don’t know his full name?” Hao said in English: “Wait one minute, please.” “Mr. Hao, his name is Trung Than.” “I think so.” “When was the last time he came to your house?” “Please wait one minute.” —And Kim, in the hallway, her head down. Had they arranged it that

way? Possibly. Probably. To what end? He didn’t want to think this out too far. He hoped he understood his position. He hoped he had a grip on his goals. He said, in English, “I want to go from here to a good place. To Singapore.”

“Singapore?” “Yes. Maybe Singapore.” “Just you?” “My wife also, please.” “You and your wife want to emigrate to Singapore.” ” ‘Zeckly.” “Is that your first choice?” “I want to go to the United States.” “Then why did you say Singapore?” “The colonel says I can go to Singapore.” “Colonel Sands?” “He’s my friend.” “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Malaysia’s a better bet.—

That is, if we’re the ones helping you.”

Hao didn’t want their help. But the choice seemed help or harm. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Do you understand the expres