the talk back
to Orris Lantern. “He frightened you, that first time? What did he
Want of you?”
“To talk, to see if I
could help him. He Wanted to contact the Americans here, ‘to arrange a
safe-conduct for himself. Durell, he Wants to go home.”
“He was lying,” Durell
said harshly. “His home was a poor mountain shack, and he was kicked around
from the day he was born to the day he defected. Maybe, in his mind, he had
good reasons; I don’t know. But he had nothing to go home to. So he was lying.”
“Could he not simply
have wanted to be with Americans again? How can you judge loneliness for your
countrymen?”
“We think he’s killed a
few with his own hands.”
“Please. Please. I don’t
know how I know it, but Orris is a good man. I know it! And I love
him. And you must not kill him. You can have what you want, you can have me—“
“Anna-Marie—”
He Wanted to ask her
What else Major Muong had said when he interrupted her phone call
from her father. Maybe it was a lie, or a fevered nightmare. Deirdre
had known nothing about it. Maybe it was all talk, to get him in here so she
could buy him, as she hoped, with a few moments of what might pass for love.
She stood on tiptoe to
kiss him. Her mouth was vulnerable. That was when Deirdre opened the connecting
door between their rooms. Durell pushed Anna-Marie’s hands from him and tried
to hold her away. Deidre’s voice was as cool as a Vermont mountain stream.
“You do enjoy your
work,” she murmured. “Don’t you, darling?”
14
MAJOR T.M.K. MUONG sat
in the lotus position and watched the eastern sky over the river fill with a
lime-green glow that pulsed with a secret, universal life. Herons flew up from
the mangroves and thong trees along the riverbanks that slid
by. Mist clung to the bushy tops of the trees. In the night, the river steamer
had passed a few lighted villages, but not many. They had been delayed at Don Thap,
and again at the fork in the river, where the Guan Trac came down
from the Cardamomes. The day and the night had been filled with the
whining of insects, the screech of monkeys, the occasional cough of a leopard
stalking along the riverbank. Civilization, as Muong knew it, was
left behind within minutes after they pushed upstream from the coast. Yet he
did not feel alien to the hot, steamy land, the lazy, warm-eyed buffalo, the
peasant women in black pajamas with bare breasts, the fishing shacks on stilts,
the lush, overpowering green of the river and the jungle.
“Lao,” he said quietly.
The young Chinese
appeared at his side. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you think they are
all dead up there?”
“We will find out
tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow may be too
late.”
“It is as it is, Major.”
“Lao?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You truly meant to kill
Dagan, did you not?”
“Yes. You said—”
“Very well. I know what
I said.”
Muong wore
a plain white robe around his spare frame. His face, partly Thai and only a
little Chinese, was as impassive as the jasper Buddha in the corner of his
little steamer compartment. But his eyes were filmed with a sorrow that had
been with him, it seemed, ever since his youth. One lived with it, and grieved,
and regretted. Perhaps, if one had not gone into the Western world, one could
better accept the way the world was. He felt contaminated by worthless
emotions. But hatred nourished him and kept him strong. It was unworthy, but he
could not live without it. He felt suspended between these two worlds, having
lost the serenity of his father’s faith, and having failed to learn the
pragmatism of a man like Durell.
The river steamer slowed
and the side paddles checked the vessel against the wide sweep of the current.
The deck vibrated. Through the window, he saw the driftwood that had made the
pilot cautious. The logs rolled slowly over and over on their way to the sea,
far behind them now.
to Orris Lantern. “He frightened you, that first time? What did he
Want of you?”
“To talk, to see if I
could help him. He Wanted to contact the Americans here, ‘to arrange a
safe-conduct for himself. Durell, he Wants to go home.”
“He was lying,” Durell
said harshly. “His home was a poor mountain shack, and he was kicked around
from the day he was born to the day he defected. Maybe, in his mind, he had
good reasons; I don’t know. But he had nothing to go home to. So he was lying.”
“Could he not simply
have wanted to be with Americans again? How can you judge loneliness for your
countrymen?”
“We think he’s killed a
few with his own hands.”
“Please. Please. I don’t
know how I know it, but Orris is a good man. I know it! And I love
him. And you must not kill him. You can have what you want, you can have me—“
“Anna-Marie—”
He Wanted to ask her
What else Major Muong had said when he interrupted her phone call
from her father. Maybe it was a lie, or a fevered nightmare. Deirdre
had known nothing about it. Maybe it was all talk, to get him in here so she
could buy him, as she hoped, with a few moments of what might pass for love.
She stood on tiptoe to
kiss him. Her mouth was vulnerable. That was when Deirdre opened the connecting
door between their rooms. Durell pushed Anna-Marie’s hands from him and tried
to hold her away. Deidre’s voice was as cool as a Vermont mountain stream.
“You do enjoy your
work,” she murmured. “Don’t you, darling?”
14
MAJOR T.M.K. MUONG sat
in the lotus position and watched the eastern sky over the river fill with a
lime-green glow that pulsed with a secret, universal life. Herons flew up from
the mangroves and thong trees along the riverbanks that slid
by. Mist clung to the bushy tops of the trees. In the night, the river steamer
had passed a few lighted villages, but not many. They had been delayed at Don Thap,
and again at the fork in the river, where the Guan Trac came down
from the Cardamomes. The day and the night had been filled with the
whining of insects, the screech of monkeys, the occasional cough of a leopard
stalking along the riverbank. Civilization, as Muong knew it, was
left behind within minutes after they pushed upstream from the coast. Yet he
did not feel alien to the hot, steamy land, the lazy, warm-eyed buffalo, the
peasant women in black pajamas with bare breasts, the fishing shacks on stilts,
the lush, overpowering green of the river and the jungle.
“Lao,” he said quietly.
The young Chinese
appeared at his side. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you think they are
all dead up there?”
“We will find out
tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow may be too
late.”
“It is as it is, Major.”
“Lao?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You truly meant to kill
Dagan, did you not?”
“Yes. You said—”
“Very well. I know what
I said.”
Muong wore
a plain white robe around his spare frame. His face, partly Thai and only a
little Chinese, was as impassive as the jasper Buddha in the corner of his
little steamer compartment. But his eyes were filmed with a sorrow that had
been with him, it seemed, ever since his youth. One lived with it, and grieved,
and regretted. Perhaps, if one had not gone into the Western world, one could
better accept the way the world was. He felt contaminated by worthless
emotions. But hatred nourished him and kept him strong. It was unworthy, but he
could not live without it. He felt suspended between these two worlds, having
lost the serenity of his father’s faith, and having failed to learn the
pragmatism of a man like Durell.
The river steamer slowed
and the side paddles checked the vessel against the wide sweep of the current.
The deck vibrated. Through the window, he saw the driftwood that had made the
pilot cautious. The logs rolled slowly over and over on their way to the sea,
far behind them now.
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