The Headmaster's Wager (29 page)

The first course was squabs stuffed with cave swallows' nests. Glasses of champagne were raised with loud proclamations congratulating Percival on all he had done to make the school a success, and lengthy rambling about the privilege of working at the best English school in Vietnam. With the doubling of tuition, Percival had recently increased their salaries twenty-five percent. In response to teacher's toasts, Percival praised the quality of their English instruction. There was no sign of Mak or Han Bai.

Next came scallops in a cognac reduction, alongside braised and truffled lobsters. Another round of toasts began, with the teachers praising Peters and the headmaster on their fine example of cooperation between yellow and white in the service of freedom and democracy. “Hear hear!” yelled Cecilia's naval officer. New bottles of champagne were popped, poured, and drained. Police Chief Mei gorged himself, as usual. By the time they were finished the dainty courses of shark's fin soup and braised goose, almost everyone at the gathering was slurring their words.

There would be another six dishes to follow, plus rice and noodles, enough time for Han Bai to find Mak before the last course. Percival had the Rolex in a gift box under a napkin before him. The servers brought giant abalones with fragrant mushrooms and freshly picked jasmine flowers. The household staff and the teachers began to shower each other in accolades, glasses hoisted unsteadily, clinked,
refilled. The popping of champagne corks mingled with the explosion of fireworks outside in the square.

When the champagne was done, the servers opened cognac. Peters proclaimed drunkenly, “Sun
neen fai lok!
” Happy New Year, and Percival grinned broadly, slapped him on the back, and looked around for Mak. The
maître d'hotel
ensured that the American's snifter was never empty as Percival had asked. Noticing the direction of the young man's gaze, the
maître d'hotel
waved the
métisse
waitress over to sit and chat. She did not protest as Peters pulled her onto his lap.

One of the locally hired junior teachers stood, tilted slightly to one side, then caught a chair in his hand and managed to remain upright. “I would like to say thank you to the American army,” he said in English. “You have come to do brave battle against small yellow people, and to make the English language a success. Therefore, you help us become rich! Thank you, America! ”

Percival winced, but the foreign teachers roared with laughter and Peters was preoccupied making use of his laborious Vietnamese with the waitress who giggled on his lap. She swatted his hand away from her thigh, but accepted the cognac glass that he pressed into her hand.

The same drunk teacher raised another toast, “To young love!” At first, Percival thought to wave him down, assuming he was toasting Peters. The American must not be humiliated, thought Percival, suddenly annoyed. Then he realized the teacher was toasting the
hou jeung
. “To the headmaster, whose heart and love is young!” The other teachers pulled the drunk one down into his seat, and yelled the standard toasts to the headmaster—great fortune, every success, gratitude for his leadership. Reflexively, Percival stood, raised his glass, spread out his best smile, and said, “Everyone, bottoms up!” Even if his relationship with Jacqueline had become known, he must ignore such an inappropriate toast. Thankfully Peters, toying with the wrist of the girl on his lap, had not taken notice.

Where was Mak? Percival poured cognac into his teacup, emptied it in a single swallow, and reached for the bottle again to douse his frustration. Had his old friend bowed out tonight to avoid Percival's
efforts to mend their friendship? The cognac bottle was empty, and Percival signalled for another. The alcohol hollowed him out, but offered no relief.

It was past midnight by the time they had eaten the giant chilled crabs, the raw fish salad, and the
kuay teow terng
soup of egg noodles containing eight meats and seafoods. The servers were bringing poached groupers each as long as a forearm, steaming in sauce, to each table when Sheng Hing came to the headmaster and said, “
Hou jeung
, fighting has broken out. I must send my staff home.”

“Come on, there's no need for such stories. I'm sorry we've kept you so late. I know they want to go home to celebrate with their families. I'll pay for the staff's trouble, but let me save face and finish the banquet.”

“No, I'm sorry,
hou jeung
, there really is fighting. Listen to the noise.” The chef swam before Percival's cognac eyes. Outside, there was a burst of explosions.

“Haven't you ever heard firecrackers? You know I give a good tip,” said Percival. “Have you seen Mak?”

“Who?”

“My friend. The one who runs this school,” he said with the relief of truth-telling that came with drink. “This banquet is to honour him. It cannot end until we toast him.”

“I'm serious, no stories. There has been an attack by the Viet Cong.”

“Silly—there is a ceasefire. The Viet Cong are celebrating the New Year.”

“Yes, I heard about that on the radio. But they have violated the ceasefire, they have attacked.”

Percival focused on the noise from outside. It was remarkable, he thought, that a string of fireworks could sound so much like a machine gun.

Percival struggled to his feet, the effort reminding him of his inebriation. “The evening cannot end until I toast Mak.”

“Then toast him now,
hou jeung
. This night has become dangerous.”

“He is on his way. My driver has gone to fetch him. He will be here shortly.”

“
Hou jeung
, he will not come on a night like this.” There were several louder explosions outside. “Everyone should go home. Can't you hear? ”

Percival laughed. “Can I hear those fireworks? Those big sounds must be the colourful ones.” He wavered, steadied himself on the table. He had drunk enough that he should plan before moving.

“No,
hou jeung
,” said the chef. There was a single, tremendous blast that shook the room, and the the room's attention shifted, guests looking around, tense questions amidst the laughter. Some were too drunk to notice. The waitress slapped Peters, but playfully, as his hand slid between her knees.

Percival said, “Sheng Hing, master chef, you are so serious. You need a drink.” He poured another glass, put his arm over the chef's shoulders and sighed. “You know this country. Blood falls in predictable torrents like the monsoon rains. Again and again it drowns everything, and then is swallowed by the earth. You are a chef. Tell me, the food that is grown here is so tasty—do you think it is the blood that makes the earth so full of flavour?” But before Sheng Hing could answer, a rocket-propelled grenade whined somewhere nearby, followed by the crack of the explosion. Close, that one. A waitress screamed. Cecilia stood, regally, and pulled her scarf around herself in leisurely preparation to go. She seemed to have forgotten her naval officer, who sat ashen, gripping the table. Still, many guests continued to laugh and drink.

Percival slowly, deliberately, hoisted his glass and proclaimed a toast. “To Mr. Peters and to Mr. Mak, who will be arriving soon,” he exclaimed.

The room shouted in answer to his toast. He gestured to the waiters, who rushed to splash cognac into snifters, and called out, “Bottoms up!”

Sheng Hing stood behind Percival, whispering that his staff were panicking and wanted to leave. Still to come were the fried rice and braised noodles, Percival pointed out to the chef. Didn't he want to be paid in full? As Percival moved through his slow, simple, alcoholic thoughts, one word after another placed itself before him. “Well. You
must feed the guests. Do you think I can send people out hungry? If they are to be killed? What kind of host would have guests die with empty stomachs?”

At a flustered word from Sheng Hing, the servers scurried around with bowls and serving dishes. Cecilia sat down. She would not be less brave than a bunch of waiters. Even drunk, Percival knew her.

For the last courses, which were usually very plain, Percival had arranged that they be made more special with the addition of fresh, sweet prawns, which were brought live and wriggling in bowls to be cooked at the side of the table. They had just been scooped from the water. Dai Jai's fish tanks had served as the temporary holding tanks that afternoon.

Now the servers wheeled in the carts, upon which perched bowls of the quivering translucent creatures and burners with their pots of oil and broth. As each guest preferred, the shrimp were either deep-fried or dunked into boiling water. The hissing and popping of the dying shrimp competed with the sound of gunfire from outside. Glasses clinked, and again Percival called out a toast, another bottoms-up. He was feeling good, now that he had finally passed through the dark place of drink and reached the warm, floating place. Words and sounds drifted selectively, he ignored the fearful voices, pulled up the silk sheet of laughter.

But it was during this last course that one of the houseboys rushed over to Percival, saying, “
Hou jeung
, your friend is here, at the kitchen entrance.”

“Send him in!” Percival turned to Peters. “Mr. Peters,” he said, “our good friend Mak is here.”

“No, it is not Teacher Mak. It is a student,” said the houseboy.

“Not now,” said Percival, irritated that it was not Mak. What student would have the gall to interrupt the teachers' banquet? He delicately manipulated a shrimp, turned it with chopsticks to peel the creature with his teeth, then spat the empty shell onto the tablecloth.

“But
hou jeung
, she is going to have a baby.”

Percival stood up too quickly, wavered at the side of the table. The birth shouldn't be for another month. Why was Jacqueline here?

“She asked me to fetch you,” said the boy. “She says that she is going to push out the baby tonight.”

“What do you know?” Percival began to weave his way across the room, concentrated on putting one foot before the other. He was both worried for Jacqueline and afraid she would make an appearance at his banquet. He had to steady himself against the wall, moving slowly. “Take her up to Dai Jai's room. Tell her I will come soon.”

“Also,
hou jeung
,” said the boy, “the war has arrived. It is outside in the square.”

The boy dashed away.

There was the forlorn cry of a soldier in agony, and then an ear-splitting explosion. The voice was silenced. Peters caught up with Percival halfway across the room, and said, his words slurred, “Do you Chinese have fireworks that sound like artillery? Sounds like a barrage out there. Can we get a look at what's happening outside?”

“Let's go see,” said Percival as if it was the first mention that had been made of the fighting. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and made his way to the staircase.

Percival climbed up the stairs, aware of Peters behind him. In his intoxicated haze, everything seemed to be of equal yet mild interest—the banquet, the fighting in the square, Mak's absence, and his pregnant lover. Where should he go? He needed some fresh air, a moment of night's clarity, he thought. He crept past Dai Jai's room, where a thin blade of light sliced under the bottom of the door. Jacqueline must be waiting for him.

He would show Peters up, breathe a little of the fresh evening air, and then go to her. They went up to the third floor and out onto the balcony. At that moment, the square had fallen quiet. Glowing moonlight was caught in a column of grey smoke that exhaled from the post office windows. Within those windows, a soft lick of flame. The silhouetted spire of St. Francis Xavier loomed, surveying the square. Framed by the soft edges of inebriation, the scene seemed almost pretty to Percival. Then there was the solo clatter of an engine. A South Vietnamese Jeep sped into view, the clatter rising as its soldiers fired at the post office from a mounted gun, and the Jeep slid to a halt
where it was shielded by the corner of the cafe next to the post office. A soldier climbed out of the Jeep, shouldered a grenade launcher, crept to the corner, peered around with the long tube of his weapon, and set off a thin hissing sound like a string torn in half. Then the grenade reverberated within its target, and the corner of the post office crumbled. The Viet Cong must be in there, thought Percival, if the government soldiers were attacking the building.

The sudden shock of an explosion, this one very near, so that he felt the impact in his skin and his ears rang with pain. As the smoke cleared, he saw that a hole had been ripped into the street very near Chen Hap Sing. The Viet Cong's reply had wildly overshot the government soldiers, almost reaching the school. His guests must have felt this. He wondered if they had finished their prawns. He was fortunate to be drunk, he thought, for this gave him a sense of calm.

A flare shot into the sky and hung there for a moment before falling in a harsh, phosphorescent arc. In the spitting, yellow light Percival saw something he recognized. It was his Peugeot. It rolled through the night into the square, without headlights. As if driven by a ghost. The car slowed at the end of Chong Hang Boulevard, stopped at the far side of the square. The doors opened, and two people got out, crept along near buildings, within moonlight's shadows. Mak and Han Bai. There was a distant explosion, farther, perhaps on the next block. Percival heard the door swing behind him, someone on the stairs, and then Peters came out on the balcony. Percival hadn't noticed that he had slipped away for a moment. Peters said, “I put on your radio.” He considered the column of silver smoke, the soldiers huddling for cover, and the burning post office, as if whatever he had just heard on the radio explained the meaning of what was happening before them. Without the girl, he seemed to have returned to his official self, though his words still bled into one another. He said to Percival, “Percy, they're playing ‘Jingle Bells' on the radio.”