The Quiet American (22 page)

“I wouldn’t know how to translate that into Vietnamese.” I was suddenly very tired. I wanted him to go away quickly and die. Then I could start life again-at the point before he came in.

“You’ll never take me seriously, will you, Thomas?” he complained, with that schoolboy gaiety which he seemed to have kept up his sleeve for this night of all nights. “I tell you what-Phuong’s at the cinema-what about you and me spending the whole evening together? I’ve nothing to do now.” It was as though someone from outside were directing him how to choose his words in order to rob me of any possible excuse. He went on, “Why don’t we go to the Chalet? I haven’t been there since that night. The food is just as good as the Vieux Moulin, and there’s music.”’

I said, “I’d rather not remember that night.” “I’m sorry. I’m a dumb fool sometimes, Thomas. What about a Chinese dinner in Cholon?”

“To get a good one you have to order in advance. Are you scared of the Vieux Moulin. Pyle? It’s well wired and there are always police on the bridge. And you wouldn’t be such a fool, would you, as to drive through Dakow?”

“It wasn’t that. I just thought it would be fun tonight to make a long evening of it.”

He made a movement and upset his glass, which smashed upon the floor. “Good luck,” he said mechanically. “I’m sorry, Thomas.” I began to pick up the pieces and pack them into the ash-tray. “What about it, Thomas?” The smashed glass reminded me of the bottles in the Pavilion. bar dripping their contents. “I warned Phuong I might be out with you.” How badly chosen was the word ‘warn’. I picked up the last piece of glass. “I have got an engagement at the Majestic,” I said, “and I can’t manage before nine.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to go back to the office. Only I’m always afraid of getting caught.”

There was no harm in giving him that one chance. “Don’t mind being late,” I said. “If you do get caught, look in here later. I’ll come back at ten, if you can’t make dinner, and wait for you.” “I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t bother. Just come to the Vieux Moulin-or meet me here.” I handed back the decision to that somebody in whom I didn’t believe: you can intervene if you want to: a telegram on his desk: a message from the Minister. You cannot exist unless you have the power to alter the future. “Go away now, Pyle. There are things I have to do.” I felt a strange exhaustion, hearing him go away and the pad of his dog’s paws.

There were no trishaw-drivers nearer than the Rue d’Ormay when I went out. I walked down to the Majestic and stood awhile watching the unloading of the American bombers. The sun had gone and they worked by the light of arc-lamps. I had no idea of creating an alibi, but I had told Pyle I was going to the Majestic and I felt an unreasoning dislike of telling more lies than were needed. “Evening, Fowlair.” It was Wilkins. “Evening.” “How’s the leg?” “No trouble now.” “Got a good story filed?” “I left it to Dominguez.” “Oh, they told me you were there.”

“Yes, I was. But space is tight these days. They won’t want much.”

“The spice has gone out of the dish, hasn’t it?” Wilkins said. “We ought to have lived in the days of Russell and the old Times. Dispatches by balloon. Why, he’d even have made a column out of this. The luxury hotel, the bombers, night falling. Night never falls nowadays, does it, at so many piastres a word.” From far up in the sky you could faintly hear the noise of laughter: somebody broke a glass as Pyle had done. The sound fell on us like icicles. “The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men,” Wilkins malevolently quoted. “Doing anything tonight, Fowlair? Care for a spot of dinner?”

“I’m dining as it is. At the Vieux Moulin.” “I wish you joy. Granger will be there. They ought to advertise special Granger nights. For those who like background noise.”

I said good-night to him and went into the cinema next door-Errol Flynn or it may have been Tyrone Power (I don’t know how to distinguish them in tights), swung on ropes and leapt from balconies and rode bareback into technicolor dawns. He rescued a girl and killed his enemy and led a charmed life. It was what they call a film for boys, but the sight of Oedipus emerging with his bleeding eyeballs from the palace at Thebes would surely give a better training for life today. No life is charmed. Luck had been with Pyle at Phat Diem and on the road from Tanyin, but luck doesn’t last, and they had two hours to see that no charm worked. A French soldier sat beside me with his hand in a girl’s lap, and I envied the simplicity of his happiness or his misery, whichever it might be. I left before the film was over and took a trishaw to the Vieux Moulin.

The restaurant was wired in against grenades and two armed policemen were on duty at the end of the bridge. The patron, who had grown fat on his own rich Burgundian cooking, let me through the wire himself. The place smelt of capons and melting butter in the heavy evening heat.

“Are you joining the party of M. Granjair?” he asked me. “No.”

“A table for one?” It was then for the first time that I thought of the future and the questions I might have to answer. “For one,” I said, and it was almost as though I had said aloud that Pyle was dead.

There was only one room and Granger’s party occupied a large table at the back; the patron gave me a small one closest to the wire. There were no window-panes, for fear of splintered glass. I recognised a few of the people Granger was entertaining, and I bowed to them before I sat down: Granger himself looked away. I hadn’t seen him for months-only once since the night Pyle fell in love. Perhaps some offensive remark I bad made that evening had . penetrated the alcoholic fog, for he sat scowling at the head of the table while Mme. Desprez, the wife of a public-relations officer, and Captain Duparc of the Press Liaison Service nodded and becked. There was a big man who I think was a hotelier from Pnom Penh and a French girl I’d never seen before and two or three other faces that I had only observed in bars. It seemed for once to be a quiet party.

I ordered a pastis because I wanted to give Pyle time to come-plans go awry and so long as I did not begin to eat my dinner it was as though I still had time to hope. And then I wondered what I hoped for. Good luck to the O.S.S. or whatever his gang were called? Long life to plastic bombs and General The? Or did I-I of all people-hope for some kind of miracle: a method of discussion arranged by Mr. Heng which wasn’t simply death? How much easier it would have been if we had both been killed on the road from Tanyin. I sat for twenty minutes over my pastis and then I ordered dinner. It would soon be half past nine: he wouldn’t come now.

Against my will I listened: for what? a scream? A shot? Some movement by the police outside? But in any case I would probably hear nothing, for Granger’s party was warming up. The hotelier, who had a pleasant untrained voice, began to sing and as a new champagne cork popped others joined in, but not Granger. He sat there with raw eyes glaring across the room at me. I wondered if there would be a fight: I was no match for Granger.

They were singing a sentimental song, and as I sat hungerless over my apology for a Chapon due Charles I thought, for the first time since I had known that she was safe, of Phuong. I remembered how Pyle, sitting on the floor waiting for the Viets, had said, “She seems fresh like a flower,” and I had flippantly replied, “Poor flower.” She would never see New England now or learn the secrets of Canasta. Perhaps she would never know security: what right had I to value her less than the dead bodies in the square? Suffering is not increased by numbers: one body can contain all the suffering the world can feel. I had judged like a journalist in terms of quantity and I had betrayed my own principle; I had become as engage as Pyle, and it seemed to me that no decision would ever be simple again. I looked at my watch and it was nearly a quarter to ten. Perhaps, after all, he had been caught; perhaps that ‘someone” in whom he believed had acted on his behalf and he sat now in his Legation room fretting at a telegram to decode, and soon he would come stamping up the stairs to my room in the rue Catinat. I thought. If he does I shall tell him everything.’

Granger suddenly got up from his table and came at me. He didn’t even see the chair in his way and he stumbled and laid his hand on the edge of my table. “Fowlair,” he said, “come outside.” I laid enough notes down and followed him. I was in no mood to fight with him, but at that moment I would not have minded if he had beaten me unconscious. We have so few ways in which to assuage the sense of guilt.

He leant on the parapet of the bridge and the two policemen watched him from a distance. He said, “I’ve got to talk to you. Fowlair.”

I came within striking distance and waited. He didn’t move. He was like an emblematic statue of all I thought I hated in America-as ill-designed as the Statue of Liberty and as meaningless. He said without moving, “You think I’m pissed. You’re wrong.” “What’s up, Granger?”

“I got to talk to you. Fowlair. I don’t want to sit there with those Frogs tonight. I don’t like you. Fowlair, but you talk English. A kind of English.” He leant there, bulky and shapeless in the half-light, an unexplored continent. “What do you want Granger?”

“I don’t like Limies,” Granger said. “I don’t know why Pyle stomachs you. Maybe it’s because he’s Boston. I’m Pittsburgh and proud of it.” “Why not?”

“There you are again.” He made a feeble attempt to mock my accent. “You all talk like poufs. You’re so damned superior. You think you know everything.” “Good-night, Granger. I’ve got an appointment.” “Don’t go, Fowlair. Haven’t you got a heart? I can’t talk to those Froggies.” “You’re drunk.”

“I’ve had two glasses of champagne, that’s all, and wouldn’t you be drunk in my place? I’ve got to go north.” “What’s wrong in that?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? I keep on thinking everyone knows. I got a cable this morning from my wife.” “Yes?”

“My son’s got polio. He’s bad.” “I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be. It’s not your kid.” “Can’t you fly home?”

“I can’t. They want a story about some damned mopping-up operations near Hanoi and Connolly’s sick.” (Connolly was his assistant.) “I’m sorry. Granger. I wish I could help.” “It’s his birthday tonight. He’s eight at half past ten our time. That’s why I laid on a party with champagne before I knew. I had to tell someone, Fowlair, and I can’t tell these Froggies.”

“They can do a lot for polio nowadays.” “I don’t mind if he’s crippled, Fowlair. Not if he lives. Me, I’d be no good crippled, but he’s got brains. Do you know what I’ve been doing in there while that bastard was singing? I was praying. I thought maybe if God wanted a life he could take mine,” “Do you believe in a God, then?”

“I wish I did,” Granger said. He passed his whole hand across his face as though his head ached, but the motion was meant to disguise the fact that he was wiping tears away.

“I’d get drunk if I were you,” I said. “Oh no, I’ve got to stay sober. I don’t want to think afterwards I was stinking drunk the night my boy died. My wife can’t drink, can she?” “Can’t you tell your paper. . .?”

“Connolly’s not really sick. He’s off after a bit of tail in Singapore. I’ve got to cover for him. He’d be sacked if they knew.” He gathered his shapeless body together. “Sorry I kept you, Fowlair. I just had to tell someone. Got to go in now and start the toasts. Funny it happened to be you, and hate my guts.”

“I’d do your story for you. I could pretend it was Connolly.”

“You wouldn’t get the accent right.” “I don’t dislike you, Granger. I’ve been blind to a lot of things...”

“Oh, you and me, we’re cat: and dog. But thanks for the sympathy.”

Was I so different from Pyle, I wondered? Must I too have my foot thrust in the mess of life before I saw the pain? Granger went inside and I could hear the voices rising to greet him. I found a trishaw and was pedalled home. There was nobody there, and I sat and waited till midnight. Then I went down into the street without hope and found Phuong there.

“Has M. Vigot been to see you?” Phuong asked. “Yes. He left a quarter of an hour ago. Was the film good?” She had already laid out the tray in the bedroom and now she was lighting the lamp. “It was very sad,” she said, “but the colours were lovely.

What did M. Vigot want?” “He wanted to ask me some questions.” “What about?”

“This and that. I don’t think he will bother me again.” “I like films with happy endings best,” Phuong said.

“Are you ready to smoke?”

“Yes.” I lay down on the bed and Phuong set to work with her needle. She said, “They cut off the girl’s head.” “What a strange thing to do.” “It was in the French Revolution.” “Oh. Historical. I see.” “It was very sad all the same.” “I can’t worry much about people in history.” “And her lover-he went back to his garret-and he was miserable and he wrote a song-you see, he was a poet, and soon all people who had cut off the head of his girl were singing his song. It was the Marseillaise.” “It doesn’t sound very historical,” I said. “He stood there at the edge of the crowd while they were singing, and he looked very bitter and when he smiled you knew he was even more bitter and that he was thinking of her. I cried a lot and so did my sister.” “Your sister? I can’t believe it.”