The Headmaster's Wager (3 page)

Surprised, Percival took the receipt and the pen. Did Mak have nothing else to say? Mak nodded. Percival did as his friend advised, then put the paper on the table and flourished a smug grin at the quiet police, as if he had won. The younger one grabbed the receipt, the older one took a handful of fruit, and they left.

Percival was quiet for a few moments, and then snapped, “Dai Jai, where are your manners?” He tipped his head towards Mak.

“Good morning, honourable Teacher Mak,” Dai Jai said. He did not have his father's natural way of hiding his displeasure.

Mak nodded in reply.

Dai Jai stood. “Please, teacher, sit.”

Mak took the seat, giving no indication he had noticed Dai Jai's truculence.

“I had to take Vietnamese citizenship a few years ago, for the sake of my school licence. Now, I am told to teach Vietnamese,” said Percival. “What will these Annamese want next? Will they force me to eat
nuoc nam
?”

“
Hou jeung
, things are touchy in Saigon,” said Mak. “There have been more arrests and assassinations than usual. Prime Minister Ky and the American one, Johnson, have announced that they want South Vietnam to be pacified.” He snorted, “They went on a holiday together in Hawaii, like sweethearts, and issued a memo in Honolulu.”

“So everyone is clamping down.”

“On whatever they can find. Showing patriotism, vigour.”

“Hoping to avoid being squeezed themselves.”

“Don't worry. We will hire a Vietnamese teacher, and satisfy the authorities,” said Mak. “I can teach a few classes.” Though he was of Teochow Chinese descent, Mak was born in central Vietnam and spoke the language fluently. Percival only spoke well enough to direct household servants and restaurant waiters, to dissemble with Saigon officials, and to bed local prostitutes.

“Vietnamese is easy,” said Dai Jai.

“Did anyone ask you?” Percival turned to his son. “You are Chinese, remember? For fifteen hundred years, this was a Chinese province. The Imperial Palace in Hue is a shoddy imitation of the Summer Palace
in Beijing. Until the French came, they wrote in Chinese characters.”

“I know,
ba
, I know.” Dai Jai recited, “Before being conquered by the Han, this was a land of illiterates in mud huts. Without the culture of China, the Vietnamese are nothing but barbarians.”

“That is very old history,” said Mak, glancing around at the other buildings within earshot. “Anyhow, let's talk about this inside, where it's cooler.” The sun was already high, and the balcony radiated white heat.

“I will say what I want in my own home. Look, this school is called the Percival Chen
English
Academy. Students expect to learn English. Why teach Vietnamese here? Why should we Chinese be forced to learn that language?”

From below came the clang of the school bell.

“What are you waiting for?” Percival said. “Don't you have class? Or are you too busy chasing Annamese skirts?” Dai Jai hurried away, and it was hard for Percival to tell whether the boy's anger or his relief at being excused caused him to rush down the stairs so quickly.

Mak sighed, “I have to go down to teach.”

“Thank you for telling me about the girl. He must marry a Chinese.”

“I was mostly concerned about the school; your son with a student, the issue of appearances.”

“That too. Get someone else to take your second-period class this morning. We will go to Saigon to address this problem, this new directive.”

“Leave it.”

“No.”

“Why don't you think about it first, Headmaster?”

“I have decided.” Mak was right, of course. It was easy to hire a Vietnamese teacher—but now Percival felt the imperative of his stubbornness, and the elation of exercising his position.

“I'll call Mr. Tu. He is discreet. But Chen Pie Sou, remember it is our friends in Saigon who allow us to exist.” Mak used Percival's Chinese name when he was being most serious.

“And we make it possible for them to drink their cognac, and take foreign holidays. Come on, our
gwan hai
is worth something, isn't it?”
If the connections were worth their considerable expense, why not use them? Mak shrugged, and slipped out.

Had Percival been too harsh on Dai Jai? Boys had their adventures. But a boy could not understand the heart's dangers, and Dai Jai was at the age when he might lose himself in love. A good Chinese father must protect his son, spare him the pain of a bad marriage to some Annamese. The same had destroyed Chen Kai, even though she was a second wife. Now, the Vietnamese language threatened to creep into Chen Hap Sing. Looking out over the square, watching the soldiers clean their rifles with slow boredom, he saw it. The events had come together like a pair of omens, this new language directive and Mak's mention of Dai Jai's infatuation. Under no circumstance could he allow Vietnamese to be taught in his school. He must be a good example to his son, of being Chinese. Percival went downstairs and found Han Bai, his driver, eating in the kitchen. He told him to buy the usual gifts needed for a visit to Saigon, and to prepare the Peugeot to go to a meeting.

AS THE SECOND PERIOD BEGAN, PERCIVAL
and Mak climbed into the back of the white sedan and sat on the cool, freshly starched seat covers. Han Bai opened the rolling doors of the front room where the car was kept, eased it out of Chen Hap Sing, and set off for Saigon. By the time they crossed the square, the car was sweltering. When Percival had first come to this place, when it was still called Indochina, he had enjoyed this drive from Cholon to Saigon. It wound over a muddy, red earth path alongside market garden plots of greens and herbs, and sometimes flanked the waters of the Arroyo Chinois. It had reminded Percival of Shantou, except for the colour of the soil. Now, they drove on a busy asphalt road, which each year grew more dense and ugly with cinder-block buildings on weedy dirt lots.

Percival said, “I've heard that Mr. Tu wants to send his son to France before he is old enough for the draft. He must need money. I'm sure we can avoid this new regulation.” He fingered the wrapped paper package which Han Bai had put on the back seat.

Mak shrugged. “Even if this is possible, it will be a very expensive red packet. It would be cheaper and simpler to hire a Vietnamese teacher. You won't have to pay nearly what you pay your English teachers.”

“Let's see what price he names.” Percival looked out the window as they sped past a lonely patch of aubergines. Since the Americans had come, the main things sprouting on this road were laundries and
go-go bars. It was a short drive now, the six kilometres covered in half the time it had once taken.

Mr. Tu's office was in a back hallway of the Ministry of Education. In black letters on a frosted glass insert, the door was stencilled,
SECOND ADJUNCT CHIEF ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICER OF THE DEPARTMENT OF LANGUAGE INSTITUTES
.

Percival knocked on the door. “Two humble teachers from Cholon have come to pay their respects,” he said, in a tone that could have been self-mocking.

Mr. Tu answered the door and shook their hands vigorously in the American manner. He made a show of calling Percival “headmaster,”
hou jeung
, and held the door. Mr. Tu was the type of Saigon bureaucrat who had a very long title for a position whose function could not be discerned from the title alone. He regularly helped people to sort out “paper issues.” He guided his guests to the chairs in front of his desk, and beamed. Yes, Percival concluded, Mr. Tu was clearly in need of funds. Behind him was a framed photo of an official, looking out at Mak and Percival, his mouth set with determination against the glass of the frame.

“Isn't that the new minister of …?” said Percival, as if he might remember the name. “He is the brother of …”

Mr. Tu laughed, saying, “
Hou jeung
, I could say it was our new president, and you would believe me.”

“You're right. But I take an interest when I have an interest.” Percival grinned, and settled into the worn green vinyl upholstery, which had endured in this office through countless changes of the portrait on the wall. Percival told Mr. Tu of the breakfast visit at his school. He said nothing of his personal wish to avoid teaching Vietnamese. Despite being a practical man, Mr. Tu might be patriotic. Instead, in plodding Vietnamese, Percival explained his reluctance to add another teacher to the payroll. “It's just one salary, but once you employ a man, he must be paid forever. He expects a bonus at Tet, and a gift when he has a child. If his parents become ill, he'll need money for the hospital. So I wonder … if this new regulation might exempt an English academy, say, with a generously minded
headmaster. You know I don't mind spending a little if it helps me in the long run.”

Mr. Tu cleared his throat. He slowly spread his fingers as if they had been stuck together for a long time. Had there been the twitch of a frown, though quickly erased by the expected smile? He said, “I sympathize. Deeply. Absolutely. It is so unfortunate that an unimportant person like myself can do nothing about this issue.”

Invariably, Mr. Tu's first response to any request was to profess his simultaneous desire and inability to help. Percival placed the wrapped paper package on Mr. Tu's desk. He said, “It may be that language institutes such as the Percival Chen English Academy fall outside the parameters of this new regulation. There may have been a simple administrative mistake. If so, I wonder about an administrative solution. After all, I run an English academy. It's not a regular school.”

Mr. Tu opened the package, and thanked Percival for the carton of Marlboros and the bottle of Hine cognac. “The issue of Vietnamese instruction in the Chinese quarter—in Cholon—is … how can I say … important to some,” he said. “It may be difficult to make exceptions.” This type of response was also typical, in order to justify a price. But Mr. Tu looked genuinely uncomfortable, which was unusual.

“Please understand,” interjected Mak. “The headmaster thinks only of the pressing need to educate English-speakers who will help us help the Americans.”

“Surely, the Ministry of Education would not wish to diminish English instruction time when all of our students already speak Vietnamese,” said Percival. Of course, many of the students at the Percival Chen English Academy were in fact of Chinese descent and spoke only basic Vietnamese, like their headmaster.

“We have the utmost of patriotic motivations,” said Mak. “The American officers whom I know often tell me that they need—”

“No doubt,” said Mr. Tu. “What is your tuition now?”

“I would have to check,” Percival countered, anticipating price negotiations.

Mr. Tu rubbed the amber bottle with his palm, and placed it, along with the cigarettes, in his desk drawer. From his bookshelf, he plucked a bottle of Otard, and poured three glasses. Lifting his glass to his lips, Percival smelled and then tasted a cheap local liquor rather than the promised cognac. Mr. Tu said with a casual shrug, “I will make inquiries. Further conversations might be required, with my chief, and possibly above him.” Mr. Tu looked down. “So you should ask yourself, are such conversations worthwhile? This is not an easy matter.”

“But what would make it easy?” said Percival, undeterred, preparing already to balk at a price and counter with half.

“Hard to say.”

“Roughly.”

“I don't know the price,” said Mr. Tu.

“Your best guess.” It was better to get a number to start the discussion rather than leave empty-handed.

“Or even if it is possible,” said Mr. Tu, and stood. “I am a humble
fonctionnaire
. It may be beyond me. As men of learning, you know that some answers are more complex than others.”

“I see,” said Percival. This did not seem like mere negotiation of price.

“That is our new ministerial advisor,” said Mr. Tu, indicating the new photo. “Thuc is below the minister in theory, and above him in reality. He is very patriotic. Prime Minister Ky chose him personally to oversee education.” He tapped the arms of the chair and looked from Percival to Mak.

Mak stood, smiled graciously, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Tu, for your time.” He leaned towards the desk and said, “If there is no solution to be found, there is no need to remember that we asked.”

Mr. Tu nodded. “Don't worry. It would serve no one.”

Percival stood, and they left, closing the door themselves as they went into the hallway.

As Han Bai drove them back along the road to Cholon, which was now quiet near midday, Percival said to Mak, “You had nothing else to push him with? Some favour he owes us?”

Mak turned to face Percival. “To what end? Mr. Tu spoke clearly—this policy is a patriotic and political issue. You know that some in Saigon dislike the Chinese-run English schools in Cholon.”

“Because our graduates get the American jobs.”

“That ministerial advisor is
Colonel
Thuc. He was just transferred from the Ministry of Security and Intelligence.”

“I suppose that was why those quiet police were delivering educational directives.”

“It may prove unwise to attract attention over this issue,
hou jeung
.”

For the rest of the trip home, they sat in thick silence. What else could Percival say, when Mak's judgment was always sound? He always knew what had become important of late in Saigon.

By the time they returned to Chen Hap Sing, the morning students were gone, and the afternoon students had begun their lessons. Dai Jai had left for his Chinese classes at the Teochow Clan School. Percival went to his ground-floor office, cooler than the family quarters at this time of day. On his chair, Foong Jie had hung a fresh shirt for the afternoon. On the desk, she had put out a lunch of cold rice paper rolls and mango salad. He shut the door, ate, removed his crumpled shirt, tossed it on the seat of the chair, and laid himself down for his siesta on the canvas cot next to his desk.