Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

The colonel returned with a glass in his hand.

” ‘Routine radical,’ ” Skip said. “How do you like that?”

“Here. Please. Here. You need a good stiff shot.”

“Jesus, okay.”

His uncle stood over him holding out the glass, but Skip failed to accept it. Palms up, he held the cablegram like a big delicate ash. “I’ll miss the funeral.”

“It’s bad stuff.”

“I hope somebody’s there.”

“She was a fine woman. I’m sure she has many mourners.”

The colonel drank away half the glass he’d carried here for his nephew. “The cable came three days ago. I was in Cao Phuc. They radioed me that a cable had come, and I meant to get in touch with somebody and find out the content, but I failed to make it a priority—there’s so much cable traffic, and it’s generally so picayune, as you know … And in all honesty, Skip, I was distracted.”

“Well, no, you don’t need to—you know.”

“It’s all done. No more Echo. Courtesy of Johnny Brewster, probably. But maybe not. For all I know, they’re just getting us out of the way so they can carpet-bomb the place.”

Jesus.

“So I’m sorry about the delay. When I got back, Trung said he was ready to move. In all the excitement about losing Cao Phuc, I’d almost forgotten him entirely.”

“The funeral is day after tomorrow.”

“Go, if you feel you have to.” “Obviously, I can’t.” “The folks back home understand. They realize you’re off to war.” “Can I have my drink?” “Oh, shit.” Skip drained the glass. “Skip, I’m going to leave you a few minutes to collect yourself. Then

we’ll need you back inside ready to do your work.” “I know. Jesus. Both in one day.” “I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.” “Sure. I’ll be in.” Skip watched the road beyond the gate. Not thinking about his

mother at all. He supposed he’d think about her later. He couldn’t predict the order of these emotional events, his mother had never died before. Nor anyone close to him. His father had gone before he could remember. His Uncle Francis had lost a young son, drowned while sailing off Cape Cod, to say nothing of all the comrades fallen in war. Skip himself had watched his uncle shoot a man who hung from a tree branch. Guess what? People died. He wished he didn’t have to take this moment alone. It was useless to him. He was glad when his uncle returned and sat by his side.

“Well, Uncle. I’m your orphan nephew.”

“Beatrice was a wonderful wife to my brother. I never thought of it before, Skip, but he must have died in the micjst of his happiness. It was short, but she made him very happy.”

“They killed her. The butchers.”

“No, no, no. They know their stuff. You’ve seen what they can do. You bring in a foot soldier in half a dozen pieces—a year later he’s ready for the parade.”

Skip folded the cable in half and again in half but couldn’t choose which one of his pockets to defile with it. He tossed it overhand toward the road.

“You know what? Your dad knew what counted. He married early. He wasn’t like the rest of us. Hell, in our family none of us is like the rest of us. I’m five-foot-eight with shoes on. Your Uncle Ray is six-four.”

“Is he your senior?” “Ray? He’s two years younger. Two years and three months.”

“Oh.” “The point is, you’ve got family. You’re not an orphan. I guess that’s

the point.” “Thank you.” “I mean it. But you know that. You always have. Now, listen, it’s bad

stuff, and the timing’s terrible …” “I’ll be fine. Let’s go in.”

Rflr. Skip had said the local priest might know where to buy a certain kind of powdered bark from which Kim wished to brew a medicinal tea. These days her health seemed good. But herbs and medicines still enthralled her. Hao and his nephew left the Americans and went looking for the priest’s house, taking the creekside path for only a couple of hundred meters, passing behind a series of small yards, each with one or two or three monuments covering family graves, and entered the Catholic domain by the back garden.

In the homes up and down the creek old women boiled the day’s rice over charcoal or sticks of kindling, but no smoke came from the priest’s. Minh had to whistle twice. The little man came from the back of the house barefoot, cinching his belt, buttoning a long-tailed American-style shirt hanging nearly to his knees.

Hao felt irritation at finding him home. He’d only wanted to talk to his nephew about the family business.

“Yes, I know you,” the priest said when Hao began to introduce himself, and Hao explained he needed herbs for his wife. Also, perhaps, something for a bad tooth.

“I can give you directions, but I can’t escort you.”

“That’s fine.”

“I’m not going out today,” the priest said. “I’m staying in. I had an important dream.” Minh asked, “Did the dream tell you to stay indoors today?” “No, I just want to be quiet and remember and understand.” Hao wished he didn’t have to talk to such people. But his wife—

ghosts, dreams, potions, every kind of nonsense. So here he was. “Do you know of an herbalist or not?”

“Take the road north out of town. The third hamlet you reach, ask for

the Chinese family. They’re not really Chinese,” he added. “Thank you.” They walked back to the villa by the roadway. Hao decided this quest

for phony remedies would end here. No enchanted powders for Kim. He’d make up a lie. “It doesn’t matter,” he told his nephew. “I only wanted to talk to you. We haven’t seen you for weeks. Three months, at least.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” Minh said. “I’m the general’s slave. I can’t get away.” “And the last time you visited you didn’t even stay for tea. It wasn’t us

you came to the city for. It was your woman friend.” “It’s difficult, Uncle.” “I asked the colonel to bring you to my house today, or you probably

wouldn’t have come.” “And the colonel brought me here.” “Is it such an inconvenience?” “It’s a journey. I’m not necessary here, but I like to see you, and it’s

good to see the colonel.” “There’s a problem with my wife’s brother. Huy.” “I know about it. Uncle Huy.” “It’s impossible. Do you have guns on your helicopter?” “It’s General Phan’s helicopter.” “What kind of guns?” “One machine gun.” “I want you to attack the house.” “Uncle Huy’s house?” “He doesn’t belong in it. It’s my house. He owes me eleven years’

rental.” “You want me to strafe the house?” Minh said, using the English word. “No,” said Hao in English, “not strafe. Not strafe. Destroy.” “With much love and respect, Uncle, that’s not a good idea.” “You see how angry I am.”

UT yy

I see. “Then go back home to Lap Vung. Talk to your Uncle Huy, tell him how angry I am. Will you go home for Tet?” “No, I can’t go. I’ll go for my aunt’s birthday.”

“His wife?”

“In March.”

“What date exactly?”

“March eighteenth.”

“Talk to him, please.”

“He’s a stubborn man. I don’t want to ruin Aunt Giang’s birthday.”

“Ruin it. I don’t care. You see how angry I am.”

They’d arrived at the low iron gate of the big villa in which his old friend Trung, surrounded by Americans, gambled negligently with his future. So. Trung had all along been completely sincere. Hao had never believed him.

Inside, the colonel was talking, seated on the divan next to Trung with a teacup in one hand and the other hand on Trung’s shoulder. Hao had seen little of the colonel lately, and in any case was terrified of him now. On Trung’s other side sat Jimmy Storm, his arms crossed in front of his chest and an ankle resting on his knee, as if someone had tied him in a knot and left him helpless. Trung, however, seemed completely at ease.