The Quiet American (7 page)

I went upstairs to my bare room and the dripping cold-water tap (there was no hot water in Hanoi) and sat on the edge of my bed with the bundle of the mosquito-net like a swollen cloud overhead. I was to be the new foreign editor, arriving every afternoon at half past three, at that grim Victorian building near Blackfriars station with a plaque of Lord Salisbury by the lift. They had sent the good news on from Saigon, and I wondered whether it had already reached Phuong’s ears. I was to be a reporter no longer: I was to have opinions, and in return for that empty privilege I was- deprived of my last hope in the contest with Pyle. I had experience to match his virginity, age was as good a card to play in the sexual game as youth, but now I hadn’t even the limited future of twelve more months to offer, and a future was trumps. I envied the most homesick officer condemned to the chance of death. I would have liked to weep, but the ducts were as dry as the hot-water pipes. Oh, they could have home-I only wanted my room in the rue Catinat.

It was cold after dark in Hanoi and the lights were lower than those of Saigon, more suited to the darker clothes of the women and the fact of war. I walked up the rue Gambetta to the Paix Bar-I didn’t want to drink in the Metropole with the senior French officers, their wives and their girls, and as I reached the bar I was aware of the distant drumming of the guns out towards Hoa Binh. In the day they were drowned in traffic-noises, but everything was quiet now except for the tring of ‘bicycle-bells where the trishaw-drivers plied for hire. Pietri sat in his usual place. He had an odd elongated skull which sat on his shoulders like a pear on a dish; he was a Surete officer and was married to a pretty Tonkinese who owned the Paix Bar. He was another man who had no particular desire to go home. He was a Corsican, but he preferred Marseilles, and to Marseilles he preferred any day his seat on the pavement in the rue Gambetta. I wondered whether he already knew the contents of my telegram. “Quatre Vingt-et-un?” he asked. “Why not?”

We began to throw and it seemed impossible to me that I could ever have a life again, away from the rue Gambetta and the rue Catinat, the flat taste of vermouth cassis, the homely click of dice, and the gunfire travelling like a clock-hand around the horizon. I said, “I’m going back.”

“Home?” Pietri asked, throwing a four-two-one. “No. England.”

Pyle had invited himself for what he called a drink, but siftoew very well he didn’t really drink. After the passage of weeks that fantastic meeting in Phat Diem seemed hardly believable: even the details of the conversation were less clear. They were like the missing letters on a Roman tomb and I the archaeologist filling in the gaps according to the bias of my scholarship. It even occurred to me that he had been pulling my leg, and that the conversation had been an elalaborate and humorous disguise for his real purpose, for it .was already the gossip of Saigon that he was engaged in one of those services so ineptly called secret. Perhaps he was arranging American arms for a Third Force-the Bishop’s brass band, all that was left of his young scared unpaid levies. The telegram that had awaited me in Hanoi I kept in my pocket. There was no point in telling Phuong, for that would be to poison the few months we had left with tears and quarrels. I wouldn’t even go for my exit-permit till the last moment in case she had a relation in the immigration-office. I told her, “Pyle’s coming at six.”

“I will go and see lay sister,” she said. “I expect he’d like to see you.”

“He does not like me or my family. When you were away he did not come once to my sister, although she had invited him. She was very hurt.” “You needn’t go out.”

“If he wanted to see me, he would have asked us to the Majestic. He wants to talk to you privately-about business.” “What is his business?”

“People say he imports a great many things.” “What things?” “Drugs, medicines...”

“Those are for the trachoma teams in the north.” “Perhaps. The Customs must not open them. They are diplomatic parcels. But once there was a mistake-the man was discharged. The First Secretary threatened to stop all imports.” “What was in the case?” “Plastic.”

I said idly, “What did they want plastic for?” When Phuong had gone, I wrote home. A man from Renter’s was leaving for Hong Kong in a few days and he could mail my letter from there. I knew my appeal was hopeless, but I was not going to reproach myself later for not taking every possible measure. I wrote to the Managing Editor that this was the wrong moment to change their correspondent. General de Lattre was dying in Paris: the French were about to withdraw altogether from Hoa Binh: the north had never been in greater danger. I wasn’t suitable, I told him, for a foreign editor-I was a reporter, I had no real opinions about anything. On the last page I even appealed to him on personal grounds, although it was unlikely that any human sympathy could survive under the strip light, among the green eye-shades and the stereotyped phrases- “the good of the paper,” “the situation demands...”

I wrote: “For private reasons I am very unhappy at being moved from Vietnam. I don’t think I can do my best work in England, where there will be not only financial but family strains. Indeed, if I could afford it I would resign rather than return to the U. K. I only mention this as showing the strength of my objection. I don’t think you have found me a bad correspondent, and this is the first favour I have ever asked of you.” Then I looked over my article on the battle of Phat Diem, so that I could send it out to be posted under a Hong Kong date-line. The French would not seriously object now-the siege had been raised: a defeat could be played as a victory. Then I tore up the last page of my letter to the editor: it was no use-the ‘private reasons’ would become only the subject of sly jokes. Every correspondent, it was assumed, had his local girl. The editor would joke to the night-editor, who would take the envious thought back to his semi-detached villa at Streatham and climb into bed with it beside the faithful wife he had carried with him years back from Glasgow. I could see so well the of house that has no mercy-a broken tricycle stood in the hall and somebody had broken his favourite pipe; and there was a child’s shirt in the living-room waiting for a button to be sewn on. ‘Private reasons’: drinking in the Press Club I wouldn’t want to be reminded by their jokes of Phuong.

There was a knock on the door. I opened it to Pyle and his black dog walked in ahead of him. Pyle looked over my shoulder and found the room empty. “I’m alone,” I said. “Phuong is with her sister.” He blushed. I noticed that he was wearing a Hawaii shirt, even though it was comparatively restrained in colour and design. I was surprised: had he been accused of un-American activities? He said. “I hope I haven’t interrupted. . .” “Of course not. Have a drink?” “Thanks. Beer?”

“Sorry. We haven’t a fridge, we send out for ice. What about a Scotch?”

“A small one, if you don’t mind. I’m not very keen on hard liquor.”

“On the rocks?”

“Plenty of soda-if you aren’t short.” I said, “I haven’t seen you since Phat Diem.” “You got my note, Thomas?”

When he used my Christian name, it was like a declaration that he hadn’t been humorous, that he hadn’t been covering up, that he was here to get Phuong. I noticed that his crew-cut had recently been trimmed; was even the Hawaii shirt serving the function of male plumage?

“I got your note,” I said. “I suppose I ought to knock you down.”

“Of course,” he said, “you’ve every right, Thomas. But I did boxing at college-and I’m so much younger.” “No, it wouldn’t be a good move for me, would it?” “You know, Thomas (I’m sure you feel the same), I don’t like discussing Phuong behind her back. I thought she would be here.”

“Well, what shall we discuss-plastic?” I hadn’t meant to surprise him. He said, “You know about that?” “Phuong told me.” “How could she. . .?”

“You can be sure it’s all over the town. What’s important about it? Are you going into the toy business?”

“We don’t like the details of our aid to get around. You know what ‘Congress is like-and then one has visiting Senators. We had a lot of trouble about our trachoma teams because they were using one drug instead of another.” “I still don’t understand the plastic.” His black dog sat on the floor taking up too much room, panting its tongue looked like a burnt pancake. Pyle said vaguely, “Oh, you know, we want to get some of these local industries on their feet, and we have to be careful of the French. They want everything bought in France.” “I don’t blame them. A war needs money.” “Do you like dogs?” “No.”

“I thought the British were great dog lovers.” “We think Americans love dollars, but there must be exceptions.”

“I don’t know how I’d get along without Duke. You know, sometimes I feel so darned lonely. . . .” “You’ve got a great many companions in your branch.”

“The first dog I ever had was called Prince. I called him after the Black Prince. You know, the fellow who.. .” “Massacred all the women and children in Limoges.”

“I don’t remember that.” “The history books gloss it over.”

I was to see many times that look of pain and disappointment touch his eyes and mouth, when reality didn’t match the romantic ideas he cherished, or when someone he loved or admired dropped below the impossible standard he had set. Once, I remember, I caught York Harding out in a gross error of fact, and I had to comfort him: “It’s human to make mistakes.” He had laughed nervously and said, “You must think me a fool, but-well, I almost thought him infallible.” He added, “My father, took to him a lot the only time they met, and my father’s darned difficult to please.” The big black dog called Duke, having panted long enough to establish a kind of right to the air, began to poke about the room. “Could you ask your dog to be still?” I said.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Duke. Duke. Sit down, Duke.” Duke sat down and began noisily to lick his private parts. I filled our glasses and managed in passing to disturb Duke’s toilet. The quiet lasted a very short time; he began to scratch himself.

“Duke’s awfully intelligent,” said Pyle. “What happened to Prince?”

“We were down on the farm in Connecticut and he got run over.” “Were you upset?”

“Oh, I minded a lot. He meant a great deal to me, but one has to be sensible. Nothing could bring him back.” “And if you lose Phuong, will you be sensible?” “Oh yes, I hope so. And you?”

“I doubt it. I might even run amok. Have you thought about that, Pyle?” “I wish you’d call me Alden, Thomas.” “I’d rather not. Pyle has got-associations. Have you thought about it?”

“Of course I haven’t. You’re the straightest guy I’ve ever known. When I remember how you behaved when I barged in...”

“I remember thinking before I went to sleep how convenient it would be if there were an attack and you were killed. A hero’s death. For Democracy.”

“Don’t laugh at me, Thomas.” He shifted his long limbs uneasily. “I must seem a bit dumb to you, but I know when you’re kidding.” “I’m not.”

“I know if you come clean you want what’s best for her.” It was then I heard Phuong’s step. I had hoped against hope that he would have gone before she returned- He heard it too and recognised it. He said, “There she is,” although he had had only one evening to learn her footfall. Even the dog got up and stood by the door, which I had left open for coolness, almost as though he accepted her as one of Pyle’s family. I was an intruder.

Phuong said, “My sister was not in,” and looked guardedly at Pyle.

I wondered whether she were telling the truth or whether her sister had ordered her to hurry back. “You remember M. Pyle?” I said. “Enchantee.” She was on her best behaviour. “I’m so pleased to see you again,” he said, blushing. “Comment?”
 
“Her English is not very good,” I said. “I’m afraid my French is awful. I’m taking lessons though. And l can understand—if Miss Phuong will speak slowly.”

“I’ll act as interpreter,” I said. “The local accent takes some getting used to. Now what do you want to say? Sit down, Phuong. M. Pyle has come specially to see you. Are you sure,” I added to Pyle, “that you wouldn’t like me to leave you two alone?”

“I want you to hear everything I have to say. I wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”
 
“Well fire away.”

He said solemnly, as though this part he had learned by heart, that he had a great love and respect for Phuong. He had felt it ever since the night he had danced with her. I was reminded a little of a butler showing a party of tourists over a “great house”. The great house was his heart, and of the private apartments where the family lived we were given only a rapid and surreptitious glimpse. I translated for him with meticulous care-it sounded worse that way, and Phuong sat quiet with her hands in her lap as though she were listening to a movie. “Has she understood that?” he asked. “As far as I can tell. You don’t want me to add a little fire to it, do you?”

“Oh no,” he said, “just ‘translate. I don’t want to sway her emotionally.” “I see.”