American Romantic (11 page)

At dawn Harry woke with a start, uncertain where he was. He had used his arm for a pillow and now the arm was asleep and tingling. He heard the cry of a bird and a rustle somewhere in the bush. His joints creaked as he rose, trying to ignore his thirst and ravaged feet. He moved off staggering and an hour later paused for rest. But no sleep came and he went on, the trail twisting, filled with butterflies, unless they too were an illusion. And then he saw that the trail branched. He had no idea what lay beyond. The trails were without markings of any kind. Harry knelt and saw right away the tire tracks bearing right. So the decision was made for him and he turned left. He had to believe that luck was with him. Scant evidence of that so far except that he was still on his feet. He knew he didn't have much left. He had been walking since daybreak and for all he knew he had been going in circles, but now the trail branched and he actually had a choice to make. He had been lucky so far, although he had made many mistakes. He had made every mistake in the book, beginning with leaving his sandals behind. Oh, Christ, and the rucksack also, with the envelope with one thousand U.S. and the ambassador's gold compass. His wristwatch was gone and he couldn't recollect if they had taken it or he had lost it or simply left it behind. And where was Conrad? No doubt in the comrade captain's pocket and the question now was whether he would find Conrad logical and correct or counterfeit coin, one more Polish aristocrat playing at politics, the usual colonialist propaganda . . . Harry wanted to think he was one up on the comrade captain because otherwise his own incompetence was breathtaking. Again and again he turned a word over in his mind. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. He looked around him, the jungle bushes closing in on the trail. His surroundings now seemed to him more than feral. They were malicious. But even so he moved on, remembering a story Tolstoy told in one of his novels. A holy man charged with the duty to lay his hand on a woman in order to cure her was instructed to place his other hand in fire and keep it there until his fingers were cinders. That was to ward off temptation. The holy man said, I would rather ruin my fingers than ruin my soul. Harry examined the story this way and that, believing it had some strange relevance to his own situation, a story of blind faith after all. But where was his own temptation, unless it was the mission itself? In the past temptation had been his friend, more or less. Now, instead of cindered fingers he had ruined feet. In any case, the mission was kaput. Idiot.

All this time, since his unanswered Hello? at dawn the day before, he had not spoken aloud, as if this perilous land were an open-air monastery. The silence around him was churchly, just a rustle now and then and the creak of wood. The morning sun filtered through the trees and seemed to break into pieces, falling light through a clerestory window. He had the idea that silent religious were watching him from the shadows, their heads bent in prayer. Harry had once or twice been tempted to go on retreat, some remote place where speech was forbidden except during services, and that speech was in the form of song. The first obligation was to pray. The second was to study. The most devout Trappists forbade even study, preferring mortification. Harry and his college roommates had worried the matter, concluding finally that none of them would be good at self-denial or mortification. They were in the world whether they wanted to be or not. Well, they wanted to be, and for the present Columbia and the city were the world. Temptation was everywhere and easily yielded to, especially when the girl was willing. When she was not willing, which was too often the case—well, you packed up your sorrows and went home. This jungle offered no temptation. It was a temptation-free zone and also a milieu that discouraged prayer. God had nothing to do with this place, ruled as it was by incoherence. A prayer was at some level an insult. But Harry said a few words anyway. Talk was cheap. And no one was listening.

His reverie feathered away, shoved aside by the memory of Sieglinde in the silk-string hammock. Where was she now? How was she doing? He had no firm idea of the ship's route home or its speed. Could be she was in the vicinity of Ceylon. He imagined Sieglinde at the stern rail watching the ship's wake or on the lookout for large fish, fish the size of a Steinway. Certainly she was far away and gaining distance each day. She had the entire world to disappear into. Harry stared at the trail and thought about Sieglinde and how she was doing and whether she regretted leaving him. Maybe she was practicing her scales in order to play Chopin for the crew while the vessel sailed on. She had no more idea where he was than he had where she was. They had each disappeared from the other's sight. He did hope she wasn't standing barefoot and lost in a godforsaken jungle, no help at hand. A lurid jungle nightmare would serve her right. Nothing in Hamburg or the vicinity of Hamburg would have prepared her for this. Unlike the Connecticut woods, he thought, with its vicious squirrels and ominous robins. Where was Mr. McDonald now that he was needed? Come to think of it, where was Siegfried, son of Sieglinde in the Wagnerian scheme of things. Did all Wagnerian heroes come to a bad end, impaled or consumed by fire? Harry pondered that, to no settled conclusion. He touched his stomach. He was ravenously hungry, his stomach as empty as his operatic reverie. Just then he heard the trill of a bird and then an abrupt silence, the song broken even as the trill's echo continued.

Behind him a twig snapped. In the heavy jungle silence the sound seemed as loud as a pistol shot. He froze, and all around him was a fresh scent, sour and alien. He tried to concentrate but his mind did a swoon, a fear-swoon, an icy wave of a swoon, fear of the known and the unknown. His left leg began to twitch and his feet hurt so badly that he believed that if he moved he would lose his balance. He had come so far with such care and now that was finished. His thoughts were disorganized. The sour and alien smell came close enough to touch. Harry told himself that he had to turn and face the intruder but still he did not move. He knew that not moving was a signal of surrender and so he turned slowly, it seemed to him a bone at a time. He found himself staring at a long-haired boy, an unpleasant-looking boy standing five feet away with a carbine in his hands. He wondered if this boy was one of those taken from Village Number Four, a country boy, inexperienced. But the look in his eyes did not signal inexperience. His sneer was the sneer of any street-corner thug accustomed to getting his own way. And so they faced each other, Harry a full head taller but bent so that they were almost at eye level. With an effort, he straightened himself, his arms at his sides. The boy wore a ragged khaki shirt and shorts and rubber sandals. Harry noticed that whereas his own limbs were scratched and bleeding, the boy looked as if he had only now stepped from his own front door. He was clean-shaven, even the sneer. Still, the boy said nothing. The carbine was secure in his hands and now Harry heard the familiar click-click, the irritating on-off of the safety catch. He looked the boy in the eye and knew for a certainty that the next move was his and that he must summon every ounce of what remained. His head was clear and his heart like ice. Harry erased his mind of all doubt—and flung himself at the boy, arms wide, butting him in the head like an animal, the boy falling, his head striking a tree root. He was dazed, his eyes closing, his hands reaching. He said something unintelligible. Harry seized the carbine and shot him dead.

The noise was tremendous, an explosion that sounded and resounded like the clap of a bell in an empty church. Harry stood over the boy, the carbine still in his hands. A second shot was unnecessary. His eyes wide open now, the boy stared at him with a look of—not malevolence but the utmost astonishment, his eyes already blurring over. When he died his eyes did not close. His mouth relaxed and in a moment the astonishment was gone, replaced by the bland and innocent look of any youngster at rest. The color of his eyes went from black to gray. Harry watched all this with horror and disgust. He sat down heavily and put the carbine aside.

My God, he said aloud.

He looked away but that didn't help. Harry noticed a spot of blood between his toes and wiped it off with his thumb. Then he wiped the thumb on his shirt. He had no idea whose blood it was, his own or the boy's. He sat very still, listening for any alien sounds. But all he heard was the usual jungle rustle behind the buzz in his ears.

The boy's shirt was bunched up around his chest, a result of the fall. Harry looked closely and saw a small hole, bruising around it. There was no blood. The wound had cauterized. Harry stood with difficulty, still looking at the bloodless wound. He heard the trill of a bird and covered his eyes with his hands, in his own way trying to turn the clock back. But the clock did not turn and when he looked once again the boy was still there, his eyes open. Harry noticed now that his fingernails were neatly trimmed, his slender hands smooth, as if he were a boy from the city. Probably he was. He had a biography like anyone else but Harry would never know its details. He had a name but Harry would never know that either. He remembered the girls who had passed by many minutes before. He was trying to find a justification for what he had done but none came to mind in any coherent way. The boy and his carbine had come along at the wrong time and Harry did what anyone would do in a war, kill the enemy before he killed you. That had coherence but it did not help.

My God, he said again, in a growl that surprised him.

He picked up the carbine and flung it into the jungle and knew at once that he had made another mistake. Who knows when another murderous teenager might appear on the trail and require execution? He found it difficult to move. When he walked he felt as if he were walking on razor blades. But there was more to do. Averting his eyes, Harry took the boy's feet and moved him into the bush. His sandals fell away and Harry picked one up, looking at it this way and that, measuring it against his own foot; but they were much too small for his own use. Christ, he had killed a child and now he wanted the child's sandals. Next move would be to rifle his pockets for any cash on hand. He had a wristwatch too. Well, that was stupid. He had had no choice in the matter, none at all. The matter had been his life or the boy's life, and if things had worked out differently it would be him on the ground. The boy carried a weapon and from the look of him—his sullen face, his stance, his purchase on the carbine, his stealth—knew how to use it. That much was certain. It was Harry who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the boy had paid the price.

He looked around him, collecting the scene, storing it for reflection later, including the unsettling detail that the boy had not bled. No blood on him, no blood on the trail except the blood from Harry's feet. Everything about this day had been excessive and he wondered if the country had some special capacity for suffering, a magnet that drew unwelcome visitors. The visitors were charmed by the capital's French colonial architecture, and the sandy beaches to the east and north, the raw mountains of the center where people went to escape the heat and hoped to come upon an elephant or a tiger. The Chinese, the French, and now the Americans. The people themselves were not much noticed. They were said to be belligerent, holding within them a fierce pride and stamina. In a certain sense they were unlucky, not that they would ever admit it. They kept to themselves. Their culture was incomplete, no literature to speak of, no painting or sculpture, no music of their own. Of course that was the visitor's opinion, often with a caveat. Conceivably much was hidden, and in any case there was little interest in the thoughts of the visitors. Harry remembered the boy's look of astonishment at the moment he was hit. He dropped the carbine at once, as if it were on fire or simply too heavy to hold. And Harry himself thinking, as the boy died before his eyes, What in God's name am I doing here? Something about his situation—and he could not think what that something was until he came upon a simple word. The word was immodesty.

 

Harry turned and started down the trail, widening now, room for two men abreast. He picked his way along, limping badly, his footprints stained with blood. The ground softened and before long he was ankle-deep in water, black water filled with dirt and twigs, small leaves, boiling with insects. The place was a greenhouse for the nurture of tropical diseases, yet people lived there, got along from day to day, the war something like an afterthought. His thirst was homicidal and he scooped up a handful of tepid water and swished it around his mouth, then spit it out. The water was tasteless and he supposed that was a good sign. Also, his fingers had not turned to ashes or dust. He was pleased with himself, showing discipline when he spit out the water. Then he decided discipline was a luxury and scooped up another handful of black water and drank it down. He felt his stomach turn but the water tasted sweet. He was taking a chance, though. He wished he knew the boy's name and where he came from, which village. Otherwise his death was anonymous, an event lost to history. Well, it had happened all right. There was a dead boy in the bush. Of course at some point he would be found. The carbine, too. It wouldn't take much guesswork to identify the killer. The killer was the Joe from the American embassy, the ambitious one who thought that a negotiated settlement would end the war, a modern Congress of Vienna or Treaty of Westphalia. The negotiators would wear swallowtail coats, champagne all around after the signing. Harry was the one who did understand, at last and about time, that the war would not end until the Americans got out of the way. And there was a death to be reckoned with, one among so many. All right, Harry said to himself, that was enough. What was done was done. Yes, but it was terrible. Necessary, yes, but that didn't make it any less terrible. Disgusting, really. But old news. There was a task at hand.

He stumbled on. The light continued to fail. In a few moments he came to a dry clearing, and beyond the clearing deeper water, black water covering the roots of the trees and bushes. Spanning it was a makeshift bridge, two thick logs lashed together, no railing. Branches with strings of vines hung over the bridge and he could not see the end of it. After a few yards the bridge disappeared into jungle darkness. Harry stood at the bridge and did not know if he could manage it even if it could bear his weight. He thought not. Balance was required to make a successful crossing and he did not believe he had balance. Balance was out of the question. His thoughts were scattered every which way. He did not trust his judgment. He was bent over with fatigue and sorrow and his feet hurt terribly. He refused to look at them now, turning his face away. He explored the soles of his feet with his fingers, deep ridges, cuts, blood, loose flesh. A toenail was missing on each foot. Well, he was alive at least. Retreat was unthinkable. He had come so far and now there was this last thing. He bent his head and said a little prayer, the Lord's Prayer and Newman's prayer.
Lead Thou me on!
He asked for safekeeping and a pleasant afterlife for the boy. Harry stood at the bridge knowing he had this one chance. There was no other. The bridge was a kind of gift, perhaps an omen. It had arrived from nowhere. He decided to count himself lucky and so he took the first step.