The Headmaster's Wager (28 page)

Dai Jai's letters had become more sporadic. At first, Percival had waited anxiously for them, and now he did not expect to see a note more than once a month, which when they arrived were on thin, dirty-looking paper.

Percival wrote to him inquiring whether he was eating enough, and whether he was able to buy coal. Better to stock up before the
change in weather, he wrote. Shanghai would soon be cold. Dai Jai did not answer these questions. Instead, in a letter that arrived seven months after his departure, Dai Jai wrote that his new Red Guard teachers were teaching excellent lessons, much better than the previous bourgeois lackeys of the foreign devils who had been employed in the colleges. The writing was stiff, formal. Percival was shocked—how could they have replaced the teachers? Who had replaced them, were these guards qualified educators? The letter read as if Dai Jai had copied it, or it had been dictated. Previously, even when he wrote about mundane matters, such as the changing weather or his daily problems, there was nuance and description in his phrases. Now, the words were stark rhetoric.

“A little odd? In the latest, he wrote to me that Saigon is the whore of America, that the imperialists are subjugating the masses, that the people must rise up and crush their oppressors in order to be free.”

“Yes, same wording in mine. Headstrong youth. In that letter, my son writes that I teach the language of capitalist dogs.”

The waiter brought the drinks, and Percival took a long swallow. Cecilia raised her glass. “Congratulations, by the way, on your new American certification. Everyone says you have been given a licence to print money.”

In the same cramped page, Dai Jai had written that he was thankful for the revolution of Chinese workers, that previously he was imprisoned by lazy bourgeois colonialists. “It is disrespectful, but what can I do?” said Percival. “It's shameful that my son writes to me in this way.”

“I don't care if he insults you. I do it myself, haven't you noticed?”

“He writes that I am a profiteer who drinks the lifeblood of the working people. I am the comprador of the warmongering Americans. But you know, it must be the Red Guards telling them to write such things. The boy writes about politics, but it doesn't even read like his own words. I am afraid of the Saigon censors seeing his letters, though.”

“Never mind the censors. What is happening to him? This is our son. The boy loves American comic books. Something is wrong.”

“Young boys can be easily influenced.”

“I want you to bring him home,” she said. “Haven't you heard that things are turning in China? ”

“How can you trust the news? Everything is fake.”

It seemed that it was well under way, before the radio broadcasts had given it a name, the Cultural Revolution. It was hotly though quietly debated everywhere in Cholon, whether it was good or bad for China, whether it would throw off the influence of the foreigners for good or whether it was merely pandering to Russia. Some said Marx would free China, and others declared this impossible of a foreign devil, even a dead one. Percival had asked Mak what he thought, and Mak had spoken cryptically about the evolution of society. Some in Cholon were sending money to support this new revolution, and others had applied for Taiwanese citizenships.

“I don't follow the news,” said Percival to Cecilia.

“Bring him home,” said Cecilia again. She spoke in a vulnerable tone, rare for her. “My connections are American. They can't help.”

“And they couldn't, before.”

“Mak got him to China. Ask Mak to bring him back. Please. He's my son, and there's something wrong.”

“What, bring him back here to be drafted by the South Vietnamese Army and shot? The way things are going with the war, he might even be shot by the enemy rather than his own comrades. They say the fighting has become more deadly than ever.”

Cecilia gripped the table. “Then have a snakehead smuggle him out to Hong Kong. I will pay half the cost.”

Percival stood. “With the gold I've just returned? And I suppose you would make me repay that to you afterwards? I saved him from prison. I saved him from the South Vietnamese Army. Now, you are bothered because he writes strange letters.”

That afternoon, after his siesta, Percival smelled something foul. He followed his nose, and found that it came from Dai Jai's room. Could the ghost of Chen Kai have returned to his old room? Did ghosts carry an odour? He summoned the courage to open the door, but the room was undisturbed. The odour was strong—something like
nuoc nam
. Had someone played a trick on him by spilling Vietnamese fish
sauce, knowing that he hated it? Percival followed it to the doors to his son's balcony, where he saw the dry tanks, fouled by rotting fish. The glass was coated with algae. He had forgotten them as soon as Dai Jai had left. Had they lived until recently? It looked like it, that they had survived on the downpours of the rainy season, but over the last few weeks it had been dry. They could be replaced, should Dai Jai ever return home. No, he was at home, Percival corrected himself. Dai Jai had returned to China. Percival checked his watch and realized that if he left now, he could get to Jacqueline's place before dinner. He told the servants to clean the tanks, and found Han Bai to drive him to Saigon.

ON THE EVE OF TET IN
1968, Percival sat on the edge of the bathtub. With his cupped hands, he scooped water over Jacqueline's shoulders, and watched as the rivulets traced her body. From the street below, the staccato explosions of firecrackers chased away bad ghosts of the old year and prepared the way for the Year of the Monkey. He lifted the heavy sheet of her hair with one hand, rinsed away the soap. There was singing from the streets, the revelry of soldiers who had come home to Saigon for the Tet ceasefire.

She said, “Some rich women have a maid to help them bathe. I have you, which is much better.”

A year earlier, Percival could not have imagined that he would now be in this quiet apartment in Saigon, bathing this brown-haired beauty—pregnant with his child.

“You are not angry about the Tet banquet?” Percival asked.

“No, of course not. I understand, about discretion.”

Percival wished that she could be at his side, but it was not possible under the circumstances. The banquet was to be a celebration of Mak's achievements at the school, for Percival still hoped to win the warmth of Mak's friendship back. Percival had decided to say nothing to his friend about this special honour until the night itself. He had hired Sheng Hing, the most expensive chef in Cholon, and told him to make the best of everything, ignoring cost. He had bought Mak a gold Rolex, to present to him at the meal.

If only Dai Jai could be there. He recalled a previous Tet. Two years ago, Dai Jai had helped him arrange a simple meal of a broth fondue and rice wine for the school staff. The whole meal had cost less than one of the courses he had ordered for this year's feast, but he felt wistful for it. The Ministry of Education had not yet issued its memorandum concerning Vietnamese language instruction, and Dai Jai had not yet made his foolish gesture at the Teochow school. One year ago, Dai Jai had just been rescued and Percival barely noticed Tet. In the letter just arrived, Dai Jai had said nothing about the New Year, only rambled that his district cadres were rooting out the landlords and other class enemies who had oppressed the people for generations. Despite the tone of his letters, Percival hoped that Dai Jai was preparing a celebration with his classmates.

“I'm sorry you will be alone,” said Percival. “We'll have a Tet dinner together.” He put his hands on Jacqueline's belly. He felt a movement as subtle as a shift in the light. Then a sudden urgent kick, followed by the entire belly convulsing as the child squirmed within.

“He is clever and quick, our little monkey,” said Jacqueline.

“Are you so sure it's a boy?”

“I hope so. It's very hard to be a woman.”

On Tet morning, Percival returned to Cholon. He had Han Bai drive him to the Teochow temple. Great pyramids of pomelos and tangerines lined the tables along with baskets of holiday sweets. The carved murals were freshly painted. Before them, people kowtowed, prayed, and burned joss sticks. Percival presented fifty thousand piastres to the donations secretary, who kowtowed and called a boy to paint an extra-large red banner to announce this generous gift. The names of the donors fluttered on the walls.

Percival always consulted Mr. Tai, the fortune teller at the Teochow temple, on the first day of the New Year. When Percival first arrived in Indochina, many people were still in this habit, and he would wait a long time to see Mr. Tai for just a few moments. Now, he did not need to wait, for few people kept up this tradition. In the difficult early years, Percival had paid close attention to each word Mr. Tai uttered. In recent years, he found that he attended more out of routine, and
yet he would not wish to risk the displeasure of the ancestors' spirits by skipping the visit or the special New Year's donation to the temple. Had he actually followed Mr. Tai's advice over the past year? Visiting Mr. Tai was the one Tet habit he had kept last year. He realized that he could not remember what had been recommended to him, but now he found that he entered the soothsayer's chamber attentively, perhaps even with anxiety.

“Chen Pie Sou,” said Mr. Tai, “do you have any debts or obligations?” It was best to resolve loans and problems before Tet, but if they could not be discharged, the fortune teller would give advice about them.

He said to Mr. Tai triumphantly, “I have no debts. In fact, this year I have paid off the biggest debts I have ever faced.”

“Good, good, the ancestors' spirits are on your side, then. You should have no worries.”

“But I am worried about my son, Dai Jai, whom I sent to China.”

Mr. Tai sighed and shook his head sympathetically. “Many who have sent their children home have the same worry, these days. As long as I can remember, and I am an old man, China has been in upheaval. And yet it is China. It is your son's home, and it is where he should be.” He took the box with the ivory fortune-telling sticks, shut the lid and began to rattle it. The old man handed it to Percival. Percival shook the box and thought hard of the future as the ivory clicked and chattered within the wood container. He imagined Dai Jai eating dumplings and bean cakes. When the end of a stick protruded from the hole in the lid, Percival drew it out and gave it to Mr. Tai. After two more had emerged, Mr. Tai laid them out in front of him and considered their carved symbols. He rolled them slightly in his hands. “The sticks indicate that just as those of us Chinese far away have questions, Dai Jai's feelings are not unique to him in China.”

Percival stared at the old man. What sort of useless comment was that? His own annoyance made him see how desperate he was for prediction and advice regarding Dai Jai. So, he had donated fifty thousand piastres, only to be told the obvious. Percival said, “Thank you, Mr. Tai,
kung hay fat choy
.” Good fortune in the New Year. He remained
silent, aware that the ancestors would be aghast at any frustration directed at the fortune teller. He could not risk their displeasure. He put his hands together and kowtowed to the old man.

Percival returned to Chen Hap Sing late in the afternoon. The large kitchen was crowded with both Sheng Hing's staff and Chen Hap Sing's cooks, all washing, chopping, and preparing for the evening meal. Under the direction of Sheng Hing's
maître d'hotel
, the servers were decorating one of the larger classrooms, transforming it into a banquet room.

As Percival discussed final details of the banquet with the chef, Han Bai came and found Percival. “Headmaster, Mak asked me to pass you a message. He will not be able to attend the banquet.”

“What? Where is he?”

“I don't know where he was heading, but he seemed to be in a rush, Headmaster, and he sends regrets.”

The square was raucous with firecrackers and excited celebrations. Percival made his way through the crowd and walked to Mak's apartment a few blocks away. He knocked on the door, and there was no answer. He called out, thinking that Mak might be inside avoiding him. Still no reply. He banged the door with his fists. Was it possible, this insult? Was Mak trying to show the depth of his displeasure, having somehow learned that the banquet was meant to be in his honour?

He called into the door, “Mak, don't be so proud! Just once, I couldn't take your advice. I'll make it up to you. Tell me how.” She was no longer a student. It must have to do with Jacqueline's mother.

A neighbour yelled, “Be quiet! People live here,” and then appeared on the landing.

“Oh, it is you,
hou jeung
,” she said, red-faced when she saw Percival. “Sorry for yelling. Happy New Year.”

“Have you seen Mak?”

“I don't think he's been home today. Over the past few weeks he has been in and out at all hours, with many visitors coming and going. I thought you were one of his strange guests making a commotion.”

Percival returned to the school and told Han Bai to go looking for Mak.

“But where should I look?”

“I don't know, but Mak
must
be at the banquet tonight.”

Soon after, the guests began to arrive. Neither Han Bai nor Mak had yet returned. The room was crowded with the school's teachers, important parents, and Percival's gambling friends. Cecilia, who always attended such events, showed off the naval officer whom she had brought with her. At the sight of the captain's uniform, one of Percival's best teachers, an awkward young American who claimed he had been discharged, but whom Percival suspected was a deserter, slipped out and did not reappear. Percival seated Peters next to himself at a place of honour and saw that the American noticed one of the waitresses, an outgoing
métisse
girl.