The general glanced over at the major and said, “So there’ll be ten more villages like that?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. This one was a model. If the plans are successfully implemented, we have an agreement with AID to set up phoenix hamlets at three hundred sites.”
The general nodded, then gave a subtle warning. “Show continued attention to the An Diem village, but no need to hurry things.”
“Yes, sir. It is the model, I understand.”
A continuous sound of gunfire came from somewhere. It seemed the guard patrol had discovered enemy troops down the bank of the Thu Bon. The gunships were cruising at a low altitude and looking down upon the jungle. Pham Quyen’s mind was busy at work. Until the other phoenix hamlets were fully settled, they’d have to post to An Diem a defense contingent at least the size of a battalion.
12
The light flickered. A moth, having wandered in unawares, kept batting against the covered light fixture in the milky white bathroom, its wings shuddering. Hae Jong was in the bathtub, her legs crossed and propped up straight along the tiled wall. Steam was wafting out through the open window. The mosquito net was torn; the moth must have come in through the hole. The huge shadow of the moth moved across the wall then stopped, looking like the root of a giant tree. The water was lukewarm.
Hae Jong looked down disinterestedly at her legs and pubis. Her breasts rose and fell slowly with the rhythm of her breathing, breaking the calm surface of the water. The sound of music on the radio came in through the cracked door to the next room. A swaying, soulful Supremes song gave way to the music of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Hae Jong understood their loneliness.
How to imagine the American Dream without suffering its melancholy? They sing of a corner booth in an all-night bar, headlights whizzing over the horizon, a cattle car of a freight train rolling endlessly over red dirt, the drunkard in a back alley at dawn, old folks sitting on a park bench in a small town, a young boy lounging in front of a juke box, a city park enveloped in smog, a rainy November highway, all this in their song of loneliness. The Americans are still kids. Kids who belong in Sunday school. There they learn of the whites, of power, of rules and responsibilities.
Lennon sings: “All the lonely people, where do they all come from?”
McCartney sings: “All the lonely people, where do they all come from?”
Hae Jong scooped up some water and poured it over her breasts. She leaned her head back into the tub, dipping her wet hair into the water. Jerry, Thomas, and James. . she visualized each of their faces. Jerry was a professional soldier, sweet, short and stout with a very red face. Thomas was tall, with a long chin, dark hair and a dark beard, a real joker.
Then, there was James. . Hae Jong remembered their child. They were separated right after the adoption agency placed it with foster parents, so by now it must be growing up as the youngest of some family somewhere in America. James, first lieutenant in the US Army, high school history teacher, Anglo-Saxon, typically middle class, yellow roses on green lawns, low fences painted in bright colors, little brothers in checked shirts, girlfriend named Eileen, tears running through hairy fingers, Uijeongbu, the same US officer’s trench coat she had seen in Waterloo Bridge, the cheap rented house near the base, the harsh cold drafts of February slithering in through the cracks in the window frame. .
Hae Jong scooped up some more water and ran her fingers over her face. The light was still flickering. The white paint on the plywood ceiling was peeling off around the edges. A lizard the size of a man’s palm was crawling across it upside down. It stuck tenaciously to the ceiling, gripping with its skinny toes. A long forked tongue flicked in and out from time to time, unwinding to nearly half the length of its body. It stopped for a moment, then scurried toward the light fixture and froze once more.
The telephone was ringing, but Hae Jong did not even lift her head from the rim of the tub. The lizard crouched, then suddenly extended its neck and its long tongue shot out to whip around the moth. The insect fluttered futilely to try to escape, but was pulled back to the lizard’s mouth where the jaws locked down on its thorax. The telephone kept on ringing, but Hae Jong did not remove her eyes from the lizard. Its throat was distended as if swollen, and in a moment the moth’s wings disappeared into its mouth. The white eyelids of the lizard opened and closed like a chicken’s.
The telephone stopped ringing. Only then did Hae Jong look over into the other room. On the radio an announcer was crisply enunciating the results of a northern assault. Hae Jong slid her way up out of the tub. Though it was out of her reach, the movement sent the lizard scrambling across the ceiling and after some quick darting leaps it vanished into a crack in the plywood. How well do cold-blooded reptiles adapt to the dark? It would sleep in there a long time, digesting the moth.
Hae Jong stood before the mirror. A few curly hairs lay in the sink. Her body was firm, still free of any excess fat. The nipples were somewhat dark but upright, and her belly was smooth and flat. As fat Jerry had once said, her skin was “a lighter shade of ivory than a white woman’s.” That high nose and those large, deep-set eyes, for which her Korean classmates in high school had teased her as mixed-blood, were peering back at her from the looking glass. Standing out prominently was the mole she had come to despise. It was a dark blue color. She did not like those eyes, either. Shadows had settled in around them and they had lost the brightness they once had. Of all her features those eyes were what revealed the passage of time. Was it James and the baby that had taken away the gleam in her eyes? Or could it have been the long stretches of sleeping since coming to this place?
After towel-drying her wet hair, Hae Jong went into the other room. Noticing that the band of sunrays no longer shone in between the shutters, she told herself the sun must have gone down. The bed was still unmade, with the sheets half pulled off and a pillow dangling from the headboard ledge. A radio sitting on the same ledge was now belting out American country songs.
The apartment was divided into two parts. One was the bedroom with attached bath and the other was the outer space used for a living room and a kitchen, though the latter was no more than a small sink basin and a kerosene stove. Against the wall was an old couch and there was also a mahogany table with four rickety wicker chairs. An old Westinghouse fan hung from the ceiling. Out through the front door was a broad terrace. A platanus tree had grown right up next to the window, dropping leaves over the curb into Doc Lap Boulevard.
In the old days Hotel Thanh Thanh had been a luxurious residence for French colonial officials, but these days it was owned by a Chinese and had been turned into a high-class hotel and apartment building. On occasion a foreign prostitute would move in, paying rent in advance for a few months, make money, and then leave. Sometimes employees of Philco or Vinelli roomed there in groups of twos or threes. Half of the place lived up to the name of “hotel” and received visiting guests. Vietnamese hookers were also allowed in if accompanied by a registered guest, most of whom were American officers on business from Saigon, or Vietnamese government officials. The monthly rent was thirty thousand piasters.
Hae Jong finished drying herself and put on a pair of silk pants, the kind Vietnamese women liked; they were smooth to the touch and did not cling. Then she put on a cotton T-shirt. If she had been planning to go out, she would have selected an outfit from the closet, but the telephone call meant that he would be coming. She splashed some perfume behind her ears and on her neck, then applied a little make-up, some light foundation and lipstick. She made up the bed and switched on the lamp.