The Headmaster's Wager (33 page)

“I see,” said Percival. “But now that we have spoken, you see that everyone here is deeply involved in the war effort. You could point out a number of other explanations to your boss, for surely they exist.” Percival pulled out the drawer of his desk so that the cash he
kept there for this purpose could be easily seen. “Here's what you can take to your boss: everyone in Cholon knows that we've recently been given a special certification by the Americans—our students are exempt from their English proficiency tests. We are a natural target of the communists. The good side of this is that we have a lot of money. Do you want a snack now? I will go out and get my cook to make whatever you want.”

The police officer glanced at the tidy sheaf of piastres in the desk drawer. “Maybe I will have a snack after all. Perhaps I will bring a bite to my superior, who may be hungry.”

“Of course,” said Percival, standing, and leaving the drawer open. How wise of Mak, he thought. Mak must have his ways of profiting from the connections he maintained for the school, but staying in the shadows meant that the assassination squad did not look for him. Still, Percival could not fault Mak—he had understood the risk of that night and guarded his brother until he was safe. Besides, it was Mak's arrangements that made it possible for Percival to sacrifice a drawer full of piastres to some nosy police.

WHEN JACQUELINE WAS NOT LISTENING TO
radio reports of the heavy fighting in central Vietnam or immersed in the latest newspaper account of the battles on the Laotian border, she made every effort to bring light into the house. She would say that the fish that Foong Jie brought from market was the most beautiful tasting fish that she had ever eaten, and that the fragrance of the cook's meals was enough to summon the kitchen god. She would urge the sweeper to take a rest, saying that he must surely be exhausted after cleaning the house so well. Cecilia had stormed about and complained with such relentlessness that it never occurred to Percival that a lady of the house could act with Jacqueline's kindness.

Jacqueline seemed anxious to maintain Percival's favour, too. Nightly, after Laing Jai fell asleep, she crept into Percival's bed. If she came to him when he was half asleep and he suggested they might just lie together, she seemed worried. So he allowed her hands and mouth to explore his body and was soon glad that he did. In their
quiet dark space of two, he often wished that she was not a former student. Even more so that she were Chinese. If she were, would he marry her? he allowed himself to wonder. The obvious answer came with an unfamiliar pain, for Percival was not accustomed to ignoring his own desires. Better not to think about it. After all, how could he explain to Dai Jai that he had married a
métisse
when he had forbidden Dai Jai's own infatuation with a Vietnamese girl? How many times had he told Dai Jai the cautionary tale of Ba Hai? It was as if he could hear his own voice echoing in his ears—it was one thing to take a lover of another race, but a Chinese man should not marry a woman who was not Chinese.

What about the assassination list? If he had been on a list of targets, he must still be on it. When he stopped to consider this, Percival was forced to conclude that it might be safer for Jacqueline to remain at a little distance. What if the quiet police made a habit of visiting, and if one day a bribe was not enough? There was her apartment in Saigon. Might Saigon be better for their son as he grew older? After all, there were more mixed children in Saigon—Laing Jai would not be so unusual there. Jacqueline enjoyed the shopping on Tu Do, and the afternoon cinema. She could hire a servant who would treat her with respect. But Percival said nothing, for even as he mulled these thoughts, he knew that he wanted her to stay near him.

A WEEK AFTER THE VISIT BY
the quiet police, Percival was in the school office, reviewing a new teacher's lesson plans, when Jacqueline burst in and blurted out, “I miss my apartment in Saigon.” He could see that she had been crying. “I need to go back.”

“You're right. We should go spend the day in Saigon. We could have lunch at the club.”

“No, I should return there. That is where I belong.” She stood in front of the desk, as if she were a student who had been caught misbehaving and sent to the headmaster. “I just can't stay here anymore,” she said softly, tears running down her cheeks. “Can we go right now? I've packed my things.”

Percival looked at her, his throat tight, his hand poised but empty, for his pen had clattered to the desk. He knew it was his part to say that he wanted her to remain in Cholon, to confess that he did not care that she was not Chinese, to say that she meant more to him than whatever people might whisper in Cholon, and more than Foong Jie or Mak's sour opinions. Had one of them somehow interfered? Jacqueline stood waiting for him to respond. It was his part to take her in his arms, to murmur that he had found his home in her, and the child they had together brought into the world, to admit that he had never expected this love to come from an encounter at the Sun Wah, but that although it terrified him, he was ready to give himself to it.

Percival picked up the pen. He fixed his eyes on it. He heard his voice saying, “I will take you back to Saigon. Today.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, as soon as possible.”

At the apartment in Saigon, Percival told the taxi to wait for him. When they got to the front door, he mumbled something about it being fortunate that she was in such a modern building. It had an elevator. The bath was lovely. She began to cry. He shoved a large wad of money at her and fled. He hurried back to the taxi and dared not look back. There was no other way he could go through with it except like that—abruptly, cruelly.

When he got back to the school, Percival signed off on the lesson plan without reading the rest of it. There was a knock. After he entered, Mak closed the door. He stood with his hand on the knob. “The police from Saigon came to question you, didn't they? About the disappearance of the car?”

Percival gestured that Mak should sit. He did this out of habit, for he wished that Mak would leave him alone. He said, “You have heard about it. Of course you have. You hear everything.”

“They were curious about that assassination list. Anyone with ties to the Americans was put on those lists,” said Mak.

“That's what I assumed.” Percival did not move. Mak's connections in Saigon had not deserted him, thought Percival, even if the quiet police were asking questions about him.

“Yesterday the police came to my home. They threatened to arrest me. They had questions about the car. It was used as a bomb, they said.”

“They asked me who had keys to the car.”

Mak nodded slightly. “Yes, a friend obtained a copy of the police report. It states that I did not have a key, as per Headmaster Chen. Thank you,
hou jeung
, that saved me.” Mak adjusted his position in the chair uneasily. “They are looking for hidden communists in Cholon and Saigon. They have been interviewing everyone in the square.” Mak looked at Percival. “They will lose their jobs if they can't produce a few, don't you think?”

“I don't think about it.”

“Of course not,” said Mak. “It's not your problem, but it could have been. After they spoke to you, it seems they decided to clear your name. However, later that same day, they interviewed Police Chief Mei. He's an idiot. He said that he saw the assassins come down from your room, and that he chased them out of the school and shot them dead. Once they heard that, they suspected you once again. After all, how had you escaped death? ”

“Thanks to you, and to the birth of Laing Jai.”

“Well, they seemed to think I could explain, as Chief Mei said I was with you. They must have made him chief in Cholon precisely because he's so inept. So, the quiet police came to me, hoping I would incriminate you. Just as they had pressed you, hoping you would incriminate me.” Mak shrugged. “They need to find people to blame. That's their job. Anyhow, I don't think Mei was trying to betray you. He's trying to get himself out of the mess he created when he claimed he had shot those men. It would have been better for him to have stuck to the truth, that he took off his uniform for as long as there was fighting.”

“You explained it to the quiet police, didn't you? The assassins saw that Jacqueline was about to give birth. They took pity and did not kill me. My beautiful boy, Laing Jai, saved my life.”

“You think they would believe that? They are merciless killers. They have murdered pregnant women in the National Police Headquarters.
They could never believe that you were spared out of compassion.” Mak sat back.

“Then are we still in danger?” asked Percival.

“No. I have fixed the problem.” Mak folded his hands together. “I told them that you took a country girl as a mistress almost a year ago. I explained that at Tet, when the Viet Cong came to kill you, she pleaded for your life. She was an enemy spy but she fell in love with you, and became pregnant with your child. At Tet, we realized she had been a Viet Cong agent when she was able to convince her comrades to spare you. Even the quiet police believe in the soft-heartedness of women.”

Percival recognized Mak's look. It was the same when he was offering a clever deal or a bribe to an official in Saigon. He didn't show any nervousness, but was very attentive, alert to the moment. Percival said, “What are you talking about?”

“Many such agents infiltrated Cholon and Saigon, to provide surveillance, strategy, and targets. The one who was here has fled. All the teachers and servants have agreed to endorse my story.” Mak put his hands on the desk, gestured as if there were a map there. “It's perfect. Little did you know that in the weeks leading up to Tet your country mistress had been prowling around Cholon gathering information, helping to plan the offensive. Little did her superiors know, she was about to bear your child. They hadn't seen her for months. Her commanders wrote the hit list, and put you on it. But she had grown fond of you, and convinced the assassins to spare you.” Mak was now slightly on edge.

Percival spoke slowly. “And so, if the quiet police inquire, Jacqueline is not here.”

“After their visit, she fled. It removes you completely from suspicion,
hou jeung
. There are many in the square who noticed a pretty country girl with a baby coming and going from Chen Hap Sing after Tet. Often buying newspapers, magazines. Suspicious, for a country girl, yes? They will agree that she has disappeared. Of course, as your mistress, she could have easily taken a key to your car and given it to her fellow Viet Cong on the night of the attack. You are clean.”

“As are you.” Percival thought of Jacqueline, crying with Laing Jai in her arms when he left her in Saigon. The walls of the school office seemed unsteady. He said, “Mak, what have you done?”

“The quiet police believe it! My friend is sending me their reports. They have put out a watch for a country girl in Cholon. If they need to, they may arrest some poor innocent waif, and you will deny she was your lover. Meanwhile, case closed.”

Percival started to stand, unsure what he would do. Mak pushed his chair back a little. The room floated, and Percival sat again. Mak said, “As long as you say nothing different—your reputation with the Americans as a loyal supporter is stronger than ever. Jacqueline understood all of this, and agreed to return to Saigon.”

“What choice did she have, once you did this?”

“She and the boy are perfectly safe. She will not ever need to tell the story,” said Mak. “No one looks for Viet Cong by the pool at the Cercle. For her part, it is enough that she has returned to Saigon.”

Percival closed his eyes and imagined the room closing in towards him, compressing his anger into a tight ball. It was done. What use was there in fighting it now? Mak would have calculated this, of course. Percival stood, forced himself to open his eyes. It could not be undone. The Viet Cong mistress had already vanished into the countryside. He put his hands on his desk. The wood was worn, slightly cool under the pads of his fingers. Jacqueline had agreed to this? Perhaps she saw the wisdom of it, or perhaps she did not feel as strongly for him as he did for her. Percival moved towards Mak, who continued to talk. “I did it for your good. Believe me, old friend, I think of your best interests. You go to Saigon for your fun. It is better for you.” They stood facing one another, Percival's hands shaking, then clenched into fists. He could not be sure whether it was out of loyalty to Mak or weakness in his love for Jacqueline, but now that this path was laid, what could he do except follow it? Percival nodded, and asked Mak to leave him alone for a little while.

JACQUELINE HAD CRIED ON THE FIRST
day that Percival brought her back to Saigon. After that, whenever Percival went to visit her, she smiled. She wore just a hint of lipstick—he later noticed the traces on his body. The apartment was always tidy, as perfect as a stage. Percival bought a cream-coloured Mercedes 280 SE coupe from a friend who had decided, after what Percival had taken to calling the “Tet commotion,” to move to France. The coupe was suitable, for Percival drove the car. He preferred to move around alone rather than with someone who could gossip about his whereabouts.

Two months after Tet, the work on Chen Hap Sing was completed. Delicately patterned ironwork had graced the windows since Chen Kai had built the house, to keep thieves out. Now, workers had welded solid bars and steel mesh on top of that, intended to keep grenades out. It would not hold against rockets, but one could only do so much. Percival went through the house minutely, checking the new reinforcements, pulling on the bars. With metal screens over all the windows, Chen Hap Sing had been blinded. The doors were reinforced with metal plates and bolts. Short concrete posts stood at regular intervals in front of the school. These were strong enough to slow a car if it were aimed at the school so that it wouldn't breach the walls. Meanwhile, the construction of brick pillboxes by the South Vietnamese Army had turned their checkpoints in La Place de la Libération into permanent posts. The old post office was deemed
beyond repair, and its damaged remains were bulldozed. That handsome reminder of the French was now a memory, an empty lot.