The Headmaster's Wager (23 page)

“I didn't know Teacher Mak would be here.” Then she pleaded, “You go to your meeting, it will be successful. Go.”

“You can't leave now,” he declared. “What kind of secretary would leave her boss before an important meeting?” He put her hand firmly on his arm, and proceeded across the patio.

Mak's face was stone. He said, “Headmaster, we are here to do business,” looking straight at Jacqueline.

“Which is why my secretary has joined us, in case I need her to take notes,” said Percival. “A pleasure, Mr. Peters.” The waiter approached.

Percival managed to remember one of Mak's pointers, that many American officials did not drink alcohol in the daytime. A pitcher of cold lime water sat on the table, and Percival flagged the waiter for two more glasses. Peters was clean-shaven, and his blond hair was clipped in the neat, too-short fashion of American military officers and junior government officials. He wore his shirt open, and Percival regretted wearing a tie. He felt as if he were being strangled.

“
Rat vui mung duoc quen biet ban, ong giao su
,” said Peters. He was pleased to see the esteemed teacher again. He bowed slightly, his eyes on Jacqueline, who sat between him and Percival.

“Please, call me Percival,” said Percival in English, “and your Vietnamese is very good.” Mak sat opposite.

“
Toi noi duoc chut it
,” said Peters, making an obvious but reasonably successful effort with the language.

“You speak it very well,” said Percival, “It is also a foreign language to me.” Mak shot him a look. Perhaps he shouldn't have said that, or maybe it was the girl that earned this reproach. There were so many students, he told himself. How could Mak expect him to know them all? He hadn't taught regularly for years. It's not as if he went down to the classroom to seduce a student.

“This is Mr. Peters' second visit to this country,” said Mak. “Decorated for bravery. Nineteen sixty-four, am I right, Mr. Peters?”

“Yes, I was in uniform last time I was here,” said Peters. “Went back stateside, went to college, got a nice quiet government job with the State Department. Guess where it landed me?”

“At least you are in Saigon instead of some firebase,” said Percival. He avoided Mak's eye. Percival absolved himself. He did not look at students in that way, had learned not to, so of course he had not recognized her at Mrs. Ling's side. It was not his fault. “This is a civilized place.”

“Some say it is,” said the American. “Except for the odd grenade, and the politics.”

The waiter brought the two glasses and poured from the sweating pitcher of water.

Mak handed Peters a glass. The American couldn't keep from eyeing Jacqueline.

“How is your work going?” said Percival. “You told me a little about it when we met at the bar. I've been wanting to hear more.”

Peters said, “When I was in uniform, up near Pleiku, we had two enemies—the Cong, and the guys issuing crazy orders from desks in Saigon. Now, I'm a desk. There are advantages, of course. Saigon contains much beauty.” This, he addressed to Jacqueline, Percival
was convinced. Why had he agreed to let Jacqueline accompany him? He could have brought her to the Cercle anytime she wished. There had been no need to bring her now. Percival was tempted to ask the American whether the feminine beauty of the country had also drawn him back to Vietnam, but this was certainly not what Mak wished him to say.

Mak donned a smile. “Headmaster, Mr. Peters has come up with an idea. I might have mentioned it to you. It would be easier for him to hire staff if he knew that all graduates of a certain school had consistently good English abilities. I wondered if your school might be able to help?” Mak ignored Jacqueline, as if she were invisible to him.

“We need a lot of translators in our new spheres of activity. I'm going be involved more on the ploughs, less on the swords,” said Peters. “Health, education, community-building, only a little intelligence and military liaison. There'll be half a million Americans in this tiny country by the end of the year—most of them armed—but I think it may be the unarmed ones who bring the little man on board. Good translation is at the heart of every partnership.”

Percival nodded. “We can supply excellent English-speakers. It would be our way of assisting our American allies.” He raised his lime water to Peters, who clinked his glass in response.

“Headmaster, I have to ask you, what do you think of this war?”

Percival had met enough Americans to know that Peters was not trying to be rude. That's just how they were. He sipped his water, turned to the guest, and considered his English words carefully. What was the most intelligent way to claim indifference? He said, “This war is difficult for me to understand. People have varying opinions, which themselves are clouded by numerous biases. Recently the war has been so … confusing, and so quickly changing, that I have not been able to follow it very well.” He sat back, hoped that his response had been intelligible, and empty.

“And what do you think about us Americans being involved? Some say that we interfere with Vietnamese politics. What is your opinion?”

Mak cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Well, I look at it perhaps with the same eyes that you do. In that …” he struggled for what to say next, “I am an outsider to this place. For me, politics here have been confusing ever since … in fact, ever since Le Loi achieved independence from us Chinese five hundred years ago.” That should be sufficiently distant.

“That's right, you Chinese had your time occupying this country.” Peters grinned and sat back a little. “As the French did? I assume you are part French,
mademoiselle
 …”

“Jacqueline,” she managed to say.

“The most beautiful women in the country are half-French, don't you think?” he asked Percival. Then to Jacqueline, “Does it seem to you we have occupied the country, we Americans?”

Why was the American pressing so hard for their opinions? wondered Percival. He felt as if he were at a gaming table, except that he did not know what was the winning hand. Jacqueline couldn't manage a reply. Percival said, “It is for you Americans to decide whether your presence is an occupation—but this does not change what I teach.”

Peters laughed. “You should be a diplomat, Headmaster. Did you know that Roosevelt offered Chiang Kai-shek control of Indochina at the end of the Second World War? He didn't want the French to get it back. Didn't think it was good for the region and didn't think they deserved it after bending over for the Japs. Thought the Chinese should manage the situation.”

Percival knew that Chiang had refused Roosevelt's offer. The Annamese, Chiang explained to the American president, would never accept Chinese control, for they resented outsiders.

It must be a compliment, if Peters called him a diplomat, since Peters' bosses were diplomats. Equally, Percival realized, that might make it an insult. The winning hand, Percival intuited, was to allow the American to feel that he knew more. This should be coupled with impartiality. He said, “Is that so? Fascinating. Mr. Peters, you are interested in history.”

“Smart guy, Chiang, to stay out of it. Of course, history twists in every direction, doesn't it? I met a guy in D.C. who used to advise Ho Chi Minh, Uncle Ho was our friend for awhile. Our Office of
Strategic Services once backed him. Yeah, incredible, the guys who became the CIA.”

Percival had read some of Ho Chi Minh's early speeches, written by his American advisors, and modelled on the Declaration of Independence. He said, “Well, there is your expression, history twisting: Half of the officers in the South Vietnamese Army were once Viet Minh, yes?” Percival heard Mak take a deep breath. He wondered whether the American understood that this also could equally be a compliment or a criticism. In any case, complete naivety did not suit Percival.

“Some say so,” agreed Peters, narrowing his eyes. “They speak good French, too, embarrasses me when I try.”

Having run out of words, Percival settled on a tight-lipped smile. The difficulty with this game, if that's what it was, was that not only did Percival not know the winning hand, but the American would decide whether he held it. Finally, he broke the silence by saying, “I don't pay much attention to Vietnamese history. What I do hear is like hearing some other family's troubles. After all, I am Chinese. It is not my country, nor my war.”

Mak interrupted with forced enthusiasm, clapped Percival on the back. “Our English teaching is the best in South Vietnam, Mr. Peters, and Headmaster Percival Chen ensures that all graduates are excellent conversationalists. There is no politics in our curriculum. No history, either.”

“I see. Yes, of course. You are Chinese. That is ideal, to observe this mess from the outside. I would like to come to Chinatown one day, to visit your school.” Peters looked into his glass and said, “Tell me something else. Do people in Cholon think that the bombing of North Vietnam will draw the Chinese into this war?”

This time, Percival's smile was wide, for the correct answer was obvious. “I'm too preoccupied running my school to consider such things. In any case, wouldn't China be foolish to fight with America, the world's greatest power?”

Peters laughed. “I suppose that's who we are, isn't it?” He turned his eyes to Jacqueline. She looked into her lap. Why did he think she would improve the mood, Percival berated himself.

“What prompted you to start an English school, Headmaster Chen?” asked Peters.

Now, Percival paused for a moment. Should he say that he had been at a loss after the rice trade was forbidden to the Chinese? Should he say that it was Mak's idea, that to attract students they could print advertisements saying that Headmaster Chen was a graduate of a British school? Almost true, a few semesters shy of it. Should he say something grand, perhaps? That it was because the Chinese believed that the highest calling was to teach and to learn?

Percival said, “To make money.”

Peters gave a broad and relaxed smile. “It's so refreshing to meet someone in Saigon who cares about sensible things. We'll get along fine. Making money is the American way.” He signalled to the waiter, who came over. He said to his companions, “Have a beer?” and before they had answered told the waiter, “
Bon bia hoi
.”

When the chilled beer came, the men clinked glasses, and Peters took a long swallow. He turned to Percival and said, “We've got the Cong beat in the shooting war. When I was looking at this place through a rifle, orders were to frag them first and sort them out later. We blasted the villages, the countryside, made life a living hell. Problem is, all those peasants we're trying to keep free from communism … more and more want to slit our throats. I get that. The rice farmer doesn't care that I'm defending his freedom by burning down his hut. You have kids, Percival?”

“A son.”

“And you want the best for your son? You want an education for him, right? A future? What is he doing?”

Mak interjected, “He has finished at the headmaster's excellent school and is studying abroad.”

“Right, smart move,” said Peters. “The American dream. An education, a profitable business, the free world. That's what we're trying to bring to this country! I'm going to speak frankly. Up until now, this war has been one great big frigging miscommunication of the American spirit. We try to show a village democracy, they betray us to the Cong. Platoon leader stabbed in his cot. We send a good-hearted
soldier out to a firebase, he loses his mind after a month, frags a bunch of kids playing soccer yelling they're gooks. Goes home to momma in a straitjacket. Terrible press, again and again. Makes me sick. So, I got a chance to come back without a gun. Farm assistance, village schools, rural clinics, a little military liaison. Not too much, they promised me. My job is to win the hearts and minds of those people out there who this damned war hasn't yet killed. All this bullshit about destroying villages to save them … look where that's got us.” Peters was nearly done his beer.

“Very wise,” said Percival. He nodded seriously. “And honourable.” He articulated each syllable of the last word.

Peters enjoyed the last swallow of his beer. “I love the place, you can probably tell.”

“A true friend of our people,” said Mak, gesturing to Peters as though he were an auction item.

Jacqueline didn't even sip the beer in front of her, both hands clenched tightly around the glass. Peters explained that he had been seconded to USAID, which was expanding its programs in the central highlands as well as the Mekong delta. They were opening new offices and would need translators both in Saigon and the field stations. Partnerships in South Vietnam would deprive the Viet Cong of their village support. The American explained, “We need as many good English-speakers as you can graduate. The salaries will be good, and we can swing draft exemptions for the boys we hire. Mak suggested that. But they have to be good. No bullshit English translators who say, ‘Hello, how are you, give money.' There's too many of those around. Your graduates have a good reputation. They'll need to live up to it.”

Mak nodded. Percival smiled genuinely, and wondered if he should increase the tuition by fifty percent at first or just double it immediately. They ordered lunch and a bottle of Chablis. The clouds pressed down, darker and fast moving. Mak seemed relieved to see that Percival and Peters had begun to speak easily, laughing at each other's jokes. Jacqueline barely touched her food and remained silent. Perhaps her presence was not such a big deal, thought Percival, topping up the
wine glasses. As they finished eating, Mak said cautiously, “Then, when shall we certify the Percival Chen English Academy?”

“I'll visit your school, sit in on some classes, talk to some kids. If it looks good, we'll make it happen. I'll set that up with your secretary?” Peters eyed Jacqueline.