Chapter 3: One to a household!

Patti said the long monsoon season was over. Patti also said rain fell each day, however, and such was the case when they rode on Tu Do Boulevard late in the afternoon through the west end of Saigon City; And how they came to be in the west end when traveling down a north/south boulevard was an Oriental mystery, Patti said. The tires on the little truck made a high-pitched whine on drenched pavement. The canvas top was left 'down' on the vehicle and fist-sized drops were denting the hood and probably made mincemeat out of Jimmy's straw hat. The deluge had no discernible effect on the driver.

"Like I said, Jimmy, it still rains every day!" Mind you he had the sense to prevent himself from drowning by hollering out the side of his mouth. "Try to imagine the rainy season if you will!" Jimmy did it by picturing himself lost at sea. "That Horsey is some cookie!" Patti yelled. "I had no idea he had it in him!" Jimmy's grizzled friend wanted to talk about U.S. envoy William W. 'Horsey' Outerpier who moments earlier deployed US Marines this afternoon at the working-Embassy compound. Jimmy decided to stay silent in the face of this unwonted whipping.

Patti drove slow when they left the asphalt and the blast of the engine blended with a sucking sound of rubber churning into mud. There would not be a peep out of Jimmy. The sight of US Marines buzzing heads of foreign flocks was nothing new and both men had seen enough of it. The U.S. envoy's diplomatic coup at the working-Embassy was another example of Horsey Outerpier's desperate need to steal the headlines.

Jimmy wondered if it would add to the confusion surrounding Haiphong Harbor explosions mentioned in that suddenly appearing American language newspaper. The two Americans had had the recurrent breath-taking experience. Now his aggravating host wanted to reminisce about US Marine firepower sucking windows from the working-Embassy into the courtyard. No shit his face was stinging. The
torrent whipping his face and dissolving his hat made serious inroads on the only suit Jimmy had left.

"I still say it's a good thing those rubber legs brought a big boat!" Patti said, "You don't get seasick, do'ya?"

Was Archimedes Patti completely estranged? If not, why did he surrender to an alien impulse to feel at home here? How could anyone feel at home someplace that for all intents and purposes doesn't even exist? Nobody had heard of South East Asia. So even if Patti had lost the desire for the American way of life, could he seriously oppose Americans taking over somebody else's badly run wars?

The grizzled air leg vet said his view of the world changed after a real-life vision of a stupefying cauliflower cloud rising from where a city had been a'sitting. Patti had some kind of horrifying epiphany from an occlusion of his own creation. It ascended from the (under construction) city of Hiroshima, for Patti had been involved in the delivery of the atom bomb.

Jimmy finally broke, and hollered, "Hey Archie! Even if god forbid this truck had pontoons and a propellor, couldn't you put up the fucking roof?" Patti stomped on the brake, which actually did nothing to stop the vehicle, but sent this little truck sliding dozens of feet in all directions until it spinned to a stop. You didn't need to hang on but Jimmy did anyway in dramatic fashion.

"All right you whiney little shit! You would need to be shown," Patti growled, "even though I told ya," and rolled out, and wrestled with metal tubes. Jimmy heard him fumble with ties and rattle the tubes wrapped in canvas. It took no time before he climbed back onboard with muddy boots. "Now you will see."

Jimmy listened to the grinding gears of the jeep and they spun away. In that instant the rain stopped falling. About half a second later heat squeezed Jimmy like a tight fist.

"Now you can sweat your balls off." His entire body drained from a sudden effusion of sweat. He snapped, "Fine!" and hung his right arm out to catch some wind and withdrew it from the furnace forthwith. Jimmy croaked, "Sounds like a proper way to lose 'em," searching for the will to live. Much as at anything Jimmy marveled at what a climate like this could do to destroy unsuspecting bystanders. Certainly it was another reason to overlook the dump. He thanked democracy for air conditioners.

[The Embassy Lounge provided Jimmy with a respite of cool, stinky air. No doubt the snarly fellow's slip of memory about the weather caused him pain. The stroll toward the working-Embassy along Tu Do Boulevard appeared to be less than delight. Archie said, "What's going on there?"

"No, nothing. Just my underwear," Jimmy replied. He was straightening a pair of unruly briefs and using every second dig at his ass for an excuse to glance back at the inevitably useless music hall.

Archie pointed ahead, "Not your underwear, asshole. I don't think they're demonstrating over a Long Nose stupid enough to wear them in Cochin."

"I forgot how hot it is."

"So you told me, unfortunately, more than once."]

Unfortunate how true it was; riding barefaced in the rain was refreshing compared to the suffocating and sweating all this blood. The discomfort mounted which was not entirely Patti's fault, so Jimmy loosed his tongue. "Something is afoot in Washington D.C.!"

"Always is."

Jimmy continued, "Guess what!" this will get his attention, "Betty's barrel's spent !"

Patti jerked the wheel to slide past a pothole. Jimmy was astonished to see the road drying before his eyes. "He's getting on," he snapped, "but he isn't finished. You know fucking well he's Dictator for life."

"Have it your way! Betty won't be done till he's dead! The game has changed. Allen Dulles controls Eisenhower with Nixon and nothing goes through Betty any more. The Admiral is being retired while the US Navy runs with the tide of a new generation called Intelligence."

"Sure, asshole."

Any thoughts of further conversation became derailed by chaos when a tree-sized branch crashed onto the road, and Patti stopped (assisted in fact by the sudden obstruction). Jimmy's shoulder and the dashboard proved to help impede his forward progress.

Patti cussed and put the little truck in reverse. They popped out of the tangle and he climbed out and walked over to the obstruction. He managed to do this in his condition, another of those Oriental mysteries, or was his ability instincts run amok?

Patti waved Jimmy into the labour pool and he climbed out to slide in the mud. He grunted, "Betty runs a couple of meaningless committees, one of which includes our business in this shithole of a place," and wheezed, at lifting a tree trunk, one end of which had been sawed off.

"Great hat, Jimmy. I'm sure he does." They moved the huge branch just enough and he turned back to the molten heat of the truck, listening to Patti muttering, "Thanks for bringing it up. To hear you yacking I'm always thinking about old Betty."

The grizzled air leg vet floored it sort of leaping clear of the obstruction, "I don't think about no such things anymore!"

Jimmy squinted ahead to the left and saw a group of muttonheads standing off the road amid the boring green background (like it was the only fucking colour on earth). Jimmy thought a wood-saw passed amongst the ragged circle. It was concealed by the time the two Americans sped past.

Patti smiled and waved at the sulky, bored faces. The neighborly gesture made Jimmy laugh to himself, "You're proof that a mindless existence can be fruitful!" (one thinks). Jimmy assumed Patti had also seen the saw.

He was going to teach Patti something important here, "Intelligence makes all the strategic decisions in
D.C.! Most are veterans of World War II like yourself, except they were on the winning side, US Navy to a man. The central focus of the agenda, you'll be interested to hear, good friend, is anti-Communist!"

There, he said it.

"Anti-Communist?" said Patti, "I'm not up on the lingo, Jimmy. What can you tell me about Communists?"

"Boy! You are out to lunch!"

"Whatever you say! Only, quit shouting!"

"Communists are the lowest form of life on the planet!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Jimmy, but isn't the Soviet Union top commies in Europe? And don't they split the bill with China nowadays, to see who can create a better workers paradise? And weren't these both best friends of ours in World War II? Otherwise we'd all be speaking German or Japanese, or so I was told!"

This disoriented man was far more detached than Jimmy previously realized. Jimmy wished he could ignore the ghosts of steam exhuming from putrid smelling greenery. He gazed into blurry shades of green, everywhere green.

"Gee, it depends on how you define friends, Archie! When the Ruskies and now the Red Chinese spread that Communist crap they want to steal a worker's paradise from your ass, so it's you footing the bill, pal. All I can say is the Intelligence will take care of it! Those stinking commie bastards don't stand a chance around here."

For the first time Jimmy appreciated the scenery when he saw a bunch of craters blown out of the earth. Because of the clearing he could see the Saigon River snaking from the rolling hills. He knew those hills led to a jungle and a place they used to call Annam. The Annamite Cordillera was a place Jimmy had never seen and never wanted to see. If he wanted a dead tiger he'd buy one. At the foot of those hills lay Patti's factory.

"There are no communists here, Jimmy. Your friend the cop was not a communist, and they're the guys in control."

"So, bright light of the dark dis-Orient, who bombed Hai-phong?"

"No one will ever know because no one besides you will ever ask."

"Defacto leader Ho Chi Minh is a self-declared Commie, which means he intends to turn this place Communist before anybody can find it!"

"No rush. Again, Jimmy, nobody's looking. The French aren't gonna tell anybody where it was."

"I smell something else besides a constant rotten stink."

"There is nothing new to smell. Jesus you are a dick head, Jimmy!"

Patti got angry at this line of query, "The Viet Minh called it a Nationalist movement and the game depended on the French. No one ever knew the rules. Apparently the Viet Mince won. The last big parade had French heads on sticks. There are no more parades. It is game over and communists had nothing to do with it."

"You're full of shit. Amory said Cao Dai hold parades on Saturday nights throughout Tay Ninh province. And those were definitely communists at the working-Embassy. The north is communist. Isn't that kind of around here?"

[Archie harbored no great expectation of anything happening in the working-Embassy compound this afternoon. The dreary prospect before them happened to be whatever the insipid Robert Amory scrabbled together. Jimmy was over the moon in love with hearing the working-U.S. Embassy occupied the 'stately' (former) Bank of Indochine. The bank had expired in a cloud of dust to the dismay of those mail-room clerks who used to arrive mysteriously and instantly get rich quick and leave. The French Colons had sacked two treasuries (one real, one fake) and scattered like rich weeds to sow misfortunes in more hospitable dirt. Where the lion's share went was anybody's guess. At various stages of the French incursion windfalls proved unbelievable and the only shame lurked in the slippery values behind the currencies -- nowhere running railroads and a remarkable zeal for annihilating the local yokels.

New landlord President Ngo Dinh Diem had recently turned over the sumptuous bank facility to the Americans for an unbeatable low price, these two of which passed through the crowd of locals and arrived at the gate. The appearance of long noses outside the gate surprised the US Marine at his post. He naturally assumed they belonged inside the high fence. After strolling halfway across the wide courtyard Jimmy turned to inspect the crowd. More than the workers up the street showed up, from which he might have inferred the French Desautels had friends. No sir, the French could not be behind such gathering, since he wasn't even allowed to speak his own language anymore.

Archie yanked Jimmy's elbow, and insisted, "Come on! We'll see what your pal Amory is screwing up."

Jimmy seemed to be feeling energetic because he stayed stride-for-stride with Archie up the steep bank of twenty-two steps to a set of large, heavy, bomb-proof doors. Jimmy let him do the lifting as usual. Archie and Jimmy stood inside the ornate (in a French way) edifice looking at the high ceiling with tons of weird shit on it, inside looking much like outside facade.

Robert Amory came in a group headed down a wide marble staircase. The U.S. envoy, a stout and garrulous moving figure, barreled toward the polished marble floor of the entrance hall accompanied by Amory and two US Navy officers. Outerpier became agitated when he spotted Archie and Jimmy near the door inside the room. He stopped his gang and shuffled in front of them, "Who let the prick in here?"

Two 'rubber legs', an inverted intelligence officer, and the horseman called Death stood in a tight circle at the bottom of the stairs 150 feet away. In the course of his continuous and unrepentant pursuit of alcohol and drug induced blackouts Archie must have alienated the U.S. envoy. It didn't take long, less than an hour, once or twice at the Embassy Lounge.

"You run up a long distance phone bill?"

Archie replied, "Distance is not something long or short in Indo China. No phones. They took the whole system when they left."

"I thought it might help to have somebody who was familiar with local customs," Amory dithered, appearing of much less stature than Horsey Outerpier, who was something of a Great White Shark swimming in a small tank.

"You get that from him?" said Horsey, "I get confused and gutless drunk."

Archie hated these rubber legs enough to kill one before the rest took him out, for they always hunt in packs, and have a ridiculous number of teeth.

"Let in those suckers from the boulevard if you want local customs," said Horsey.

Archie saw a skinny, rundown looking US Marine sitting at a table in a corner cackle at a radio. Korea might be the real deal. "Show me where I got to deliver this spiel," commanded the pirate to the parrot. The muddled intelligence officer directed everybody toward the front door, right past Archie and his background friend. Nothing good could come of this, he figured, as Jimmy and he tagged along.

Archie stood inconspicuously at the back of the group that watched a horde of locals pouring into the compound, filling the place quickly to the base of the steps with a festive chattering crowd. "Amory you are a useless shit! I said reporters!"

A demonstration was being directed below, "Hmm, says," Jimmy said, "'Beady-Eyes bombed Haiphong, Beady-Eyes stay home, Beady-Eyes,'" reading the waving signs that included a few messages for the U.S. envoy, "don't bomb Hai-phong, Vietnam welcomes Beady-Eyes,' what the fuck is that?"

"Uh, there is the new, uh" Amory stammered, "Dragon Monitor in Saigon City, sir, but Mister Diem is still working on a broadcasting system for South Vietnam. I believe he would settle for megaphones." Amory's exaggerated peepers peered out over the crowd, squinting, sort of, "Claude Desautels is probably out there somewhere. I told him about it."

"I wish," Horsey muttered, and examined the compound, and returned to tongue-lashing the hapless press attache/intelligence officer, while Archie traded whispers with Jimmy behind the U.S. envoy's outsized back.
"Look at the crowd, Archie," Jimmy said. "Looks like a few Communists showed up to stake an interest in local affairs."

Archie replied, "Those signs don't say anything."

"You gotta do something about that reading problem. They say several things."

Archie replied, "Jimmy, I heard you muttering. These are restlessly, frightfully, hopelessly bored people. There ain't a Communist in the bunch." Maybe one or two. "Those signs don't say a thing for anybody. Somebody hands 'em a stick with paper on it, promises great entertainment, maybe even fireworks. They're here because they have nothing to do; That is the only reason for their appearence."

"Half look like Communists and half look like they are trying to be democratic," said Jimmy. "You should
learn to love this. It is a political paradigm that comes to pass a lot these days to separate wealth from
poverty on a nation-wide scale."

"You should obsess about bigger things, Jimmy. Did I tell you about Africa?"

"Huh?" For Jimmy there could be nothing bigger stopping a worker's paradise from stealing parts of the world that Americans never heard of, so vital to Americans.

The U.S. envoy took a rest when he finished haranguing Amory and yanked his collar with a fat finger. He caught the attention of the ranking Rubber Leg while another Rubber Leg stood back of the superior and the omnipotent. The stiffer Rubber Leg leaned out to the noisy crowd and discharged a piercing whistle through his teeth, the sharpness of which caused Amory to flinch. The Rubber Leg caught the attention of the throng.

Before the silence was complete, however a Vietnamese, possibly an educated Annamite, jumped at the front of the crowd at the foot of the stairs. The young man appeared to be of college-age and stood in white shirt and dark slacks and had a voice as piercing as the US Marine's whistle. This Annamite leader announced that he spoke for everyone, "in thanking the U.S. envoy Outerbridge Horsey for inviting us into your beautiful garden!" The US Navy entourage fell enthralled momentarily while Archie was nonplussed, "We humble citizens of Saigon City have never been invited into a garden of a long nose before." Okay, that would be true.

"You won't be staying long," replied the U.S. envoy, "even if you did get the name right!" He hollered down the slope of granite steps, "and one step on the flowers and you're all dead meat!" All true.

The Annamite blinked up into the three blow holes pointing in his direction, two gigantic nostrils and a mouth, probably an awful scary sight from there, enough to make a World War II veteran turn and run, that's for sure. These fucking Vietnamese were incredibly brave (or stupid)people.

"You have taken us by surprise!" the man continued. "We thought we would be hurling insults from the street."

One of the words, probably 'surprise', set off a flurry of loose paper floating over outstretched arms. Hundreds of locals reached for the sky with a thousand frenzied arms, snatching pages from the barest breeze. Archie muttered, "There's your entertainment."

"I wonder what that's all about," said Jimmy.

Archie surmised, "I think they're looking at dirty pictures."

A few workmen in the crowd may have once or twice glimpsed a naked French woman. Archie heard about an odd quirk of fate a few years ago when one or two Viets might have undulated on top of a French woman.

The locals, hostages (more or less), managed to put the French in a compromising position for an avenging spell a couple of times during World War II. These were very brief interludes, almost forgettable (except for a baby boom of Eurasians), and was an amazing sleight of hand that occurred when World War II involved everybody, including Annamites, in inexplicable ways. The French Colons received evidence that their 'special galoshes' were slipping and sinking in the mud. None had seen a French whore, however, to match the pictures of long nose American nymphs and a restive lull settled over the demonstration while folks stared at the pictures.

The stillness broke below the U.S. envoy's polished left shoe. One of the paper dervishes began to chant, "Frere Jacque, Frere Jacque! D'or mais vous!" following which another crowd handler wearing black horn rimmed glasses cried below Horsey's polished right shoe: "Frere Jacque, Frere Jacque!" And the first dervish cried, and they became choir-masters in one of these staggered French sing-a-longs the Colons obviously used to teach them.

All the Americans atop the staircase stood amazed by this display. "Would you listen to that?" said Jimmy. "Not if I didn't have to, thanks."

"It's as if they can demonstrate in any language they want."

"Jimmy, it's the fourth or fifth language going around Cochin in this century alone. These people pick up languages like Indians pick up disease."

"Yeah, they don't have the usual problem rolling the r's, do they?" he said rhetorically. The U.S. envoy flapped his jowls and the choir fell silent. "(Blah blah blah) for crying out loud! We've got perfectly good beaches in America, uh huh, and we intend to defend them. You betcha!"

What the fuck is he talking about? "Oh no! Don't tell me the Americans are typical long noses that sneeze at the truth?" said the ringleader.

"Why not put your daughter on the market! Make it short and sweet!" came another caller adding more incitement.
The U.S. envoy sniggered at the provocateur with the ranking Rubber Leg. The US Marine shrugged like he'd heard it all before, and the U.S. envoy sneered down the staircase.

"Who bombed Hai-phong?" the Annamite ringleader shifted his argument to another topic. "We did!" replied the illustrious Horsey, "We sure as hell did it! We're looking for something else to blow up around here! Hey, it might as well be you!" That sounds encouraging.

"Not before we will run you over," the ringleader replied, "with our Marxist-Leninist dialectal tendencies," he said, in impeccable American, "and that eis our plan for this place!"

Horsey Outerpier seemed to be on the verge of exploding, and he yelled, "Is he some kind of Communist?"

"Oh yes, you got it right, Outerpier Horsey! The Viets have turned Communist, Mister Outerpier Horse's Ass U.S. envoy never-be-Ambassador. Don't open your eyes and look. Buy an umbrella and hide your head! Get up before noon! How's that for Marxist-Leninism?"

Fabulous. "I thought the view inside the garden would be beautiful! But what do I see? A forest of hair waving in your nose!" This guy sounded more like a messenger from the Vatican. "If I didn't need you to take a message to General Vo Gap New-yen," replied the U.S envoy, "you would already be pushing up daisies instead of stepping all over them. What did I tell you about the fucking flowers?"

Antagonisms went back and forth about to explode, turning instantly into typical US Navy style diplomacy. The U.S. envoy cackled an order to withdraw into the working-Embassy and Archie held the door. When egress occurred a US Navy Officer with 'Oswald' on the nametag signaled a company of US Marines on the rooftop.]

A few kilometres from the city Patti steered off the road, and they practically disappeared in the unrestrained growth of grass. They bumped down a rutted road, trail in fact, parallel to the Saigon River. Patti situated his fireworks factory at the end of the trail, on a bump of land beside the river. "--and machines to wash dishes, one to a household."

"Why have kids?"

"Oh yeah! A pill to prevent that!"

"Fabulous, Jimmy."

"No kidding, it's something new from Switzerland. I guess it's a good thing for science that those Krauts didn't get all the Jews, right?"

Patti drove onto a muddy clearing and turned right toward the largest of several open-sided huts. The first time Jimmy visited the place it had consisted of one hut and maybe half-a-dozen workers. Today the primitive operation was considerably larger with many more workers on the job. With his arrival Patti stirred the crowd of busybodies to increase activity, which was a damned good imitation of ass-kissing, he figured. Patti parked in front of the large hut and reached to untie the roof. He got out and threw it back, to the immediate relief of the guest passenger, and walked to a wooden sidewalk. It skirted the buildings and branched to the river. A ratty-looking fellow in shorts and bare feet scampered from the right side down the walk-way and stopped in front of the truck to greet the boss. Jimmy watched the bedraggled Viet bob toe-to-toe on the creaking planks.

Patti greeted the fellow, "How you today, Don?" patting the short man's head. It seemed to stop the frantic leaping about, whereupon the foreman stood, and replied, "Fine, tank you, Mistah," Jimmy thought he heard "Organgrinder."

"Pham Van Don tells me he's learned to speak American," said Patti, "so I gave him the foreman's job," The Viet glanced at Jimmy, "but he can't seem to get my name right."

Patti turned back to the foreman, "Did you take the morning off?"

The Viet started to mince and wood planks under his feet creaked and his face contorted and dark sunken eyes squinted at the passenger in the truck again. He was reading the visiting American-sized Long Nose, and Jimmy took a quick inventory of his own, and hollered, "Holiday! You take one of those looong skinny pipes and go for trip. Puff, puff!"

"Aw shit, Jimmy, they hardly smoke the stuff since French taxed the shit out of it. They all dropped the habit years ago." Why did Patti find it so important to lie on behalf of these muttonheads. Pham waved a disabled nipper under Patti's considerable length of nose, "Ha' goo' tri' sout' to see flamry."

"Uh,huh, that's nice," Patti clapped his hands: "Keep working hard! Hard!" Jimmy slapped a giant mosquito and watched ]activity increase in the shelters. Patti and his man Pham Van Don strolled up the sidewalk to the doorway. They conversed in something else, probably Vietnamese. The American spun and walked back to the weather-beaten vehicle moments later and climbed aboard. "American consumers don't wait for no fucked up lad's half day off!" He yelled for Jimmy's benefit. Jimmy was amused till he had to stiffen his neck against the jolt of the vehicle. He kept an eye on Pham Van Don scampering on gnarled legs around at the entrance of the large hut. He was happy the roof was down again.
End Chapter 3

Chapter Four: A shortage of good hands

The uphill slope was still wet and too slippery for the little truck (otherwise Patti ran out of gas). (Either
way) the truck stalled and Patti climbed off to hike to the house at the top of the hill, "Now aren't you
glad you lost your luggage?" said the recalcitrant host. Jimmy was afforded a moment to think over the
strangers in his path today.

He trudged behind Archie and raced his mind back and forth across the trail starting with a recollection
of the policeman with the golden mouth and bulging envelope (as yet unopened); Then the sartorially
sour doorman who stole the moth-eaten suits and luggage; He had two encounters with the frazzled
Robert Amory neatly disguised as either press attache or intelligence officer.

What could you say about the busted Frog newspaper magnate filled with bitterness and cadging for
vengence that he will never get? Jimmy recalled a beggar who bummed a smoke, "Ah! Vespy-Anne!

Vespy-Anne!" outside the Embassy Lounge. That guy strolled away smoking a free one of the free
world's cigarettes and fanning his brow with Jimmy's copy of the Dragon Monitor.

The U.S. envoy had a band of US Marines at the working-embassy led by a menacing looking guy named Neitze and his shrimpy pal Oswald. The most difficult to understand would be those courtyard Communists, mixed with the local Cao Dai mob. The penetrating tenor of ringleader's voice and the catchy number they sang, what was that all about?
Perhaps the U.S. envoy was right and it was America's beaches, and the US Navy is foresworn to defend and secure those footholds where the youth bedazzled each other and the world in daring new bathing suits that closely resembled birthday suits; he sighed thinking of the attempted murder by those ricksha drivers standing aside the wet road in the steaming countryside; Thought turned last but not least to Pham Van Don, and this guy Jimmy had to discuss with Patti.

He looked up at another fifty yards, and called out, "Are we there yet?" The air leg vet guffawed, and stopped, and turned sideways on the steep grade, presenting the opening to Jimmy.

"Archie, which way is the world turning around here?"

Patti lit a smoke, exhaled, and tobacco aroma made Jimmy's nostrils flare and knees buckle, "These people are nothing like I've ever seen. That guy in the courtyard begged the U.S. envoy to start shooting."

"It's more interesting that you could find it twice."

Jimmy went on the offensive, "So you hired a Communist to run your factory. Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?"

"Man, I need a drink."

He climbed until he bumped Patti with a heaving belly, "Oh, he didn't tell you. What a surprise. I saw
the muttonhead at the working-Embassy, Archie." He stood, hunched over, catching his breath, feeling the jacket drying across his back, and announced, "His mangled hand on the gate was the first thing I saw when we waited for the US Marine to come over," (gasp) "the same one he waved under your nose, and I looked at his face, too. I remember both very well. G'me one of those."

Patti leaned at Jimmy staring with bleary, bloodshot (and otherwise dead) blue-eyes, blowing smoke in his face, and handing him a cigarette and lighting it with his zippo, "What's one mangled hand next to another? How did he make it back before us?"

"Poor guy, don't tell me you blacked out back there?"

"I hope I'm still in one."

"We stopped at the Embassy for another snort, remember?"

"I remember we were there for half a minute."

"Does he have a scooter?"

"Jimmy, the man doesn't have shoes."

"He took a company skiff."

"Not half fast enough. Why you picking on old Don? You don't think he could be useful to the Viet Mince." Patti took a drag and threw the butt in the mud and averted his stony gaze to a line of fresh tire tracks that led up to the nest of logs he called home. "They're supposed to be such tough shits. Haven't you heard of Dien Bien Phu?" he said, absently, "Let's go."

Patti walked in a sudden hurry and it had to do with the tracks. It wouldn't be the light drizzle getting underway. They continued up the hill through a soggy mist, Jimmy talking up his points they went. "Your man Pham is more durable than he looks. We're seeing the wear and tear of hanging around the Annamite Cordillera for half-a-century. That's got to be a shit kicking to hear French tell it."

"It's not just the French, and so what if he survived? Everybody's got a history, Jimmy. He promised to put his behind him, when he actually told me that without a doubt he is no more a part of the Viet Mince. He has a new future and a new career and only I hope he minds my business good as he said he would. He claims to be an absolute expert with fireworks. I kind of doubt it, but I need one of those."

Jimmy wanted to win an argument for a change, "The situation is nothing new here," beginning another one with this prick, "First the Pope found a way over the top to China sooner than he expected and Rome fell in love with China. Soon monasteries were overflowing with silk and apparently silk carried the plague, and a few priests carrying silk developed immunities."

He continued, "These were called Jesuits, from whom somehow a lot of learning occurred about inflicting disease and such, but not a lot was said, then came exploration of the New World. Missionaries were educated to seek further knowledge in the darkness and out they went."

"They never listened to Jesuits here," Patti muttered.

"Listening is no sine qua non to receiving civilization's message."

"Civilization was called subversion," Patti said, "contrary to the Emperor and Confucian masters. Don't forget they had fancier buildings to start with."

Jimmy said, "Jesuits allowed Viets to worship ancestors and animals and what not and offered no alternative to running people into the ground."

"You have an imperious sense of smell."

Jimmy snorted, "I am imperious to everything, and my nose looks good on me. Naturally the French of today are thin on gunpowder and guts but in those days nobody could argue with the message of the mission civilistrice, which was usually simply: Bonjour! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

"Whatever you say, Yimmy."

He enjoyed the smoke of the cigarette and pointed to the wide green landscape, and suggested to the grizzled listener, "The problem with this place was finding it."

"Partly a problem of the fog," Patti showed on an agreeable aside, "but another problem is wanting to find it, and nobody but you would do that," then hid it again.

Jimmy agreed, "And you; finding a use for it, that is problem."

"Naturally the problem remains," said Patti, "Is it enough to grow fat on rice or wade to and fro around
the country in rubber boots? On the other hand, Jimmy, there seems to be nothing to do, but grow poppies and marjuana and smoke opium, a dig for few incendiary chemicals. You know there absoultely nothing to do and a lot of locals to do it, which explains the huge pits and other mass graves filled by people suffering untimely deaths. Those French, subtle people, never explaining why they were here, but going around stealing rice and giving it to the Chinese."

Jimmy knew it, "They made a surplus."

"Surplus. Right."

Jimmy wondered if any rubber balls floated in Tongking Gulf (and who would he ask?), then rejoined the conversation, and said, "Jesuits are incomprehensible or else nobody listened because nobody took to Christianity around here. The place remains 95 percent Buddhist 400 years after the start of the glorious Mission Civilistrice."

Patti stopped and turned to Jimmy, his face dripping, a surprise gesture, as if willing to listen, so, Jimmy continued, "Salvation was in how much you flattered those priests. Civilization followed the trail of Jesuits so it is hard to trace their steps."

"Where do you get your information? They didn't step, Jimmy."

"So what? Isn't slithering a perfectly legitimate way to travel, depending on your situation and how you're equipped? You're a retired Leg. They know to slither from time to time. The Jesuits needed a large contingient of very belligerent French to migrate to this place and round up surpluses and fuck up everything they touch -- until they were run off last year."

Jimmy added, "I assume the round-up of rice continues in the southern half except everything comes under threat of these Communist hordes zeroing in." Empty Saigon City streets belied rumors but Jimmy knew the city was an exclusive French bastion anyway. Patti said a few locals gradually came to think about moving into houses but everybody still stepped lightly through backalleys, and, he said, lived mainly in les apartementes, pour la rente etcetera. South Vietnams realities were false fronts and ghostly promises, stretched rumors, deflated currencies,
people on alert, in hiding, and ducking from spontaneous carnage that was an insitu touchstone of the local social mire. It was either: not a lot to work with; or a fairytale dream come true. Everything seemed to be a matter of distorted perspectives based on indistinct perceptions of South East Asia.

Patti strolled ahead nodding, the blond hair would spring up once it was dry. A loghouse came into view. Jimmy glanced at the valley where the sun was low on the horizon and burning the mist that clung to his face and clothes, obviously magnified with burning effect, and somehow the sky's usual blue somehow reflected green. For a moment he was seriously nauseous, and found solace gazing off at the Saigon River wending on the valley floor. It looked bronze for a moment instead of brown as bean soup, which came close to a nice change of colour.

"I don't want KRV," said Patti, "to hear one word of this complete fucking bullshit about communists. Did you hear me?" very forcefully. So fucking what. Jimmy protested, "The point is the Jesuits worked in the dark after choir practice." He strolled behind Patti and first time in the day felt comfortable with the weather, the drying suit, the slope of the hill.

He rubbed his chin and whiskers. Maybe he ought to grow a beard. It might be useful to soak up the continuous sweat running down his cheeks. He added, "Experts theorize that revolutionaries on that Politburo owe a great deal to the Jesuit mission civilistrice."

"Revolutionaries?"

"It's a Politburo," he said, and fingered the tattered straw hat, "I can throw this away," and did, "Anyway, Archie, the mission civilastrice advanced at night when Jesuits left the city in groups of three. They crept across the countryside in the darkness somehow immune to endless danger," supported by ever-increasing deployment of cannonizing firepower, "and entered hamlets to consume their passion. They settled for fingers in some cases, heads in others."

Jimmy was informed (by Intelligence) that Annamite Jesuits never spoke of noctural undertakings as it was like all business in Indo China, non-existent, except Jesuit-owned East India Company became the most prized possession in all of France's colonies. Somehow it had to be protected by running through the night chopping off heads, Gatling gunning hamlets, scorching regions in napalm, artillery, and pattern bombing.

Jimmy explained, "They went north to the border of China and stopped at the foot of the Ching. By that time millions of people in thousands of hamlets had lost heads and fingers in what Jesuits called a fertility rite."

"Oh shit, Jimmy."

"One hundred and fifty years black-hooded Bogeymen ran through those hills with snippers and machetes and it appears they caught your man Pham Van with his hands full more than once."

"Yeah but for fertilizer?"

"Did I say fertilizer?" Jimmy wondered, feeling his head bare for just a moment, "I meant fertility. They only stopped because of a shortage of good hands to build those nowhere running railroads."

"Shows what I know," said Patti. "I thought he mangled that hand working with fireworks."

Jimmy had to shake his head, ". . . . . Whatever. . . The works of one or two apostate French, nothing in translation, are reported to say tactics of Viet Mince were supposed to mimic the Jesuit trios and their mantic preaching about fertilizer. . . ."

"Fertility."

"Sure. They say these Viet Mince favor sneaking in the dark in groups of threes, use silent weapons and techniques, and the only difference comes in the parts they snip."

"Everybody's sneaking in the dark, Jimmy, even in the daytime. Aren't you getting thirsty? How about hungry?"
It had been a full day for both men and it must be getting 'real' dark soon. Jimmy added, "That would make your man Pham Van Dong --"

"Don."

"-- one of their last victims."

"If that's what happened to old Don, in the name of fertility, can you blame him for being a Viet Cong?"

Jimmy heard it, "A what? I don't know, Patti. I know the sailors in D.C. are going to love hearing Communists are running through the trees."

"Those are brigands, not sailors," said Patti, "I have my senses despite a lot of effort and never once did I hear of Communists in Cochin China, Jimmy. Of course there is no shortage of trees or people to run through them."

Patti built a non-descript low-lying loghouse on top of the hill that was a green hump mostly flat on top. Endless vegetation lay low and the house overlooked a broad hazy vista below through which poured the soupy Saigon River. The loghouse was a sturdy structure to say the least, and the enlarged bunker was familiar to Jimmy as they approached the narrow veranda on this side of the great front window. He recalled that aside from enormous buzzing pests and scorching sun or torrential rain the confusion of South East Asia seemed far away from this place. They crossed a porch and went through the door, and removed soiled shoes and boots at the landing. The door was closed once they stood inside, and he sniffed and was pleased to smell only slight foot odor, which the plush carpet around the corner would absorb. They rounded the corner to the living room that Jimmy recollected having a great view.

He was right, for she sat in the most comfortable area of the house when Patti entered and stopped abruptly, with Jimmy on his heels, on the carpet in the middle of the room. Jimmy bounced off his back, and peered around, "Is that him?" he heard Patti growl.

Huh? Who?

Katanya Rae Velvet presented the world with one veritable reason for being on the subcontinent. She sat her diminutive self on a plush cushioned stool giving help or succor or something to some poor guy on the sofa on a drop sheet, and did not turn to look at them.

"It is my only brother," she said, softly, of a man apparently wounded and bleeding in several places, possibly dying.

"He definitely should have stayed up river," Patti said.
Jimmy watched the intensely desirable woman, a beautiful doe-eyed wisp of a woman with enough soft flesh on her bones, a full bosom, and so many other attributes it was hard to count, no, easy to count, and she dressed conservatively as usual while sopping up the excess blood that was pouring from the holes.

"Berty Vet remained up the river until this morning," she explained, ever softly, "when he floated down the river."

Jimmy listened close and recollected that Katanya Rae Velvet tended to speak softly, "Your man Don took Berty Vet to Saigon City in order to find you," but she was somehow still audible, and he hung on every word.

He exclaimed, "Ah!" to the hairs, "Hah!" on the back of Patti's sweaty neck. "My only brother came to this house and told me it was urgent he speak to you, and Mister Don took him to Saigon City," she said, "I told them to look at the Embassy first. Then they were invited to the American working-embassy compound and became separated, and beady-eyes began to shoot without discrimination."

Jimmy was deeply enchanted by her voice (which contained a slight French accent but only slight), "Uh, excuse me, but it was exactly the kind of discrimination that will save this place," he said, and sidled around to face Patti. "They obviously found a few targets," he added, and hissed at him, "What do you have to say?"

"Shaddup."

"You knew he was there."

Katanya Rae Velvet turned to see Jimmy and stopped bandaging the only brother guy, the accidental target. "I'll say it again, shut the fuck up." Jimmy would interrogate Patti later. She stood and Jimmy's anger dissolved in the face of the woman. As she approached he could see she wore her hair fanned out to the shoulders and beauty flowed from there. She wore a contoured rose coloured silk dress that covered everything almost to the floor but there was a long slit in one side, revealing nothing more than promises, or suggestions of where you might be interested in . . . . She gracefully approached Jimmy to offer a hug that he gratefully received, and she kissed his cheek with dry lips.

It made for a refreshing change in this part of the world. She smelled fantastic and he was glad to be here to encounter this soft and lovely, radiant and divine and two slices of life, French and Vietnamese warmth, which stood out amid the dreadful, bloody stinking heat.

"Goodness you are wet," she cried. Wet is a relative term in South East Asia. Ask if he felt drier than at any time today. "Archie did not put up the roof?" He accepted her sympathy and enjoyed the attention despite knowing his lesson, "He needs a waterproof hat," and laughed when this cozy beauty scolded her recalcitrant mate.

"So does he," said Patti. "Lucky for him he came to a place where they know how to make waterproof hats."

She stayed near Jimmy and a warmth continued to flow over the visitor and somehow through the visitor drowning other ideas for the time being. Her sweet breath filled his belly. Her dark, hooded eyes contained sparkles like stars in a country sky, and she had a delicate, perfect slight caucasian bulb for a nose surrounded by rich brown radiance, and impressive eyebrows.

She was preoccupied with the brother over on the couch, of course, and gave Jimmy an urgent smile after mentioning dinner, eating, and, seeing him later. "Don didn't go to the Hopital Generale. He said he didn't know there was one," she explained to Archie, "He is new to Saigon City."

Jimmy felt snarly and glanced at Patti, "You knew about this." He shook his hatless head, which suddenly felt uncovered even though he remained confident about the amount of hair upstairs and knew he was balding but the hairline was holding its own and he assumed it would always be there in some semblance. Didn't matter because he wore it short.

She hugged his midriff with one arm and let go and moved back to Patti and they went over to look closer at the guy she was talking about on the sofa, the only brother, Berty.

Bent over, "They used the big truck," she said, past a wisp of hair. Jimmy had already made plans for a swift return to the Embassy and just moved them up a few hours.
"Berty Vet said Don drove straight to the working-Embassy instead."

Jimmy glanced past Katanya Rae Velvet, and regaled the injured brother, "Hey, Berty! That was some afternoon, for you too, right?"

The thinning eurasian fellow gamely raised a bandaged arm off a bandaged chest to wave. (Was she going overboard with the bandages?) The whole mess was the work of Don, and there was more to come, and who would stop him? Berty gasped, and groaned, and moaned to the familiar visiting
American.

Patti stood close to Katanya Rae Velvet and spoke almost where her ear (he imagined for a moment one of them big pointy nymph ears) was incidently concealed by a nimbus of radiance, "How bad is he?"

"He may live but he has a lot of pain. You must be of some help with that."

"Yeah, well, sure," Patti sighed, "give him what he needs. You can work it off if you get well, okay, Berty?"

The guy on the couch showed how miffed he was by turning away, while the boss added another monkey to his back; the kid was better off dead.

"Your man Don," she said, "has first-aid experience and that is how Berty Vet was returned to this house in this condition."

Jimmy said, "Surprise! A Communist field soldier knows how to dress a wound."

"What did I tell you, Jimmy?"

"It will take more than a pill to control this movement."

"Jimmy has a new enemy," Patti said, speaking in his thirsty, gravelly voice, "and swears to protect the world as an Intelligent round-eye American Communist-stalker. And Viets have to be saved from the Viets that have turned Communist. This important task belongs to Jimmy due his impressive list of credentials. Can I name one? Yes. He is friends with Robert Amory."

She acted happy to see him (leading him on with her eyes) amazing under what might seem indeed grievous circumstances and the lovely wench still managed another brief smile. She bore a perfect mix of the races and lit up in a way that made Jimmy want to buy the place. He was sure he could afford it at current rates. He better not tell too many people around here or anywhere until he found out what, if anything, was here.

"You must tell me about it," she enthused. The only brother would survive.

"I will."

In all the commotion she probably forgot Jimmy was coming and reached out to run her hand down his arm, "I'm so happy to see you," for she was, because Jimmy was lovable. There will be a few decent homecooked meals in this deal. Jimmy relished the freedom of bachelor life but there were serious demerits.

"You men are probably starving. I will cook an excellent supper."

"That sounds wonderful," said Patti, and Jimmy nodded and smiled at her.

"First leave me with my brother."

Jimmy understood, and agreed, "No hurry, I'm sure we can go on drinking a'while. I know I can. How about you, Archie?"

"I will put him away with your stash," she said to Patti.
She turned back to the squirming guy on the couch and continued aid, to the only brother guy. Jimmy felt an unusual ache hammering below the core of his soul. It was her beauty as she stood between them and the grand window. She made Jimmy forget the lousy lack of contrast in the view out there. She glanced back and caught his eye and shared a hint of smile.

"You know where it is, KRV. Come and see us after you get him fixed up."

Both men tore themselves from the vision and jointly glanced at the mangled fellow on the couch. One might suppose he had some kind of story to tell, you know, something urgent from up the river.

Archie marched down the hallway thinking how nice it would be if this place was the usual escape at the far end of the house. He entered his favourite part of the house, a wood-paneled bar-room.

"Any light in this bunker? Oh yeah, you prefer drinking in the dark," the indefatigible complainer exaggerated. The bar-room featured a structurally sound wooden bar and four sturdy stools.

Archie sneered, "I could take a break from your face, to be honest, Jimmy."

The windows were small, but he flipped a couple of switches and the room brightened with four light bulbs of forty watts each. He rounded the bar, gave it a loud slap, and told Jimmy to get to work. He said, "Do the honours for a change," pointing to the fridge, as he backed through another door.

He enjoyed this retreat more than the one out there. He found the wall-switch and lit up the radio room. Archie raised his voice, "Pour us a belt. I'll get her warmed up and we will tune into some interesting radio from China."

He plunked into the only chair. Archie's progress with the languages might be confusing to the guest who would need to be placated. More whisky will do it. He hollered, "Make them a couple of doubles. Ice is in the freezer. Every night I listen to the China Report which does a lot to explain the Orient."

"Explain how you knew the foul fucker was there," Jimmy hollered back. Archie waited for Jimmy to enter with two glasses slopping with whisky and ice. Archie continued, "The important thing to understand is that quality control is not a sinister strong suit." He hit another switch in his self-generated world of power.

"I don't get it."

There came a deafening quiet while a splash of red and white lights and dials began to glow. In a few seconds the tubes would be hot, he would spin a dial, and Jimmy's head would explode. He waved over his drink, "Gimme that."

"Yes, sir--," Jimmy placed a drink at left elbow of his friend, "--this roomful of shit is obsolete," he said,
with great deliberation, "Compares to its operator."

Archie said, "I am even more impressed with his qualifications, in case you're angry about Don."

According to Jimmy television was going to drive radio to extinction. He put on the flimsy pair of headphones and took a swig of his drink, "You dopey pirate, radio still has a few years left," and sat ignoring his pal while searching for a particular broadcast station, "Coming in good tonight," he said to himself.

Archie flipped a switch and a Chinese newscaster's rapid-fire dialogue peeded off the speaker. Jimmy turned toward the door, "Nobody has that much to say." Archie wondered if Jimmy knew this from hearing himself talk.

"So, Archie, how many words they got for rice?" Archie lowered the volume on the speaker dropping the headphones around his neck and raising his voice. "One word, lots of numbers. Guess what, Jimmy," he tempted, "the Chinese language is so important in the Orient you almost have to learn some to live here. I know this doesn't mean much to
you. In fact, why would it? You're leaving or dying in place, while I'm studying Chinese. I already know
Vietnamese. And KRV has been a terrific inspiration. She speaks Chinese, and Vietnamese, and French, and American. She is fluent in them all. Guess what, me too. I could tell you to shut up in all four."

"Doing anything about that reading problem, Lord Archie." Jimmy Doyle smoked about the Don affair. Tough shit. He turned back to the radio. But he heard this dumpy friend snarling, "It's a Cow Die miracle you found an inspiration. And speaking of finding, have you seen any Viet Congs about? What do you call them? Isn't there's a probable former- whatch-m'call-it running your munitions dump? What're you going to do about that?"

Archie sucked in a breath and removed his headset and gazed at a corner, "Kill him I presume," where the walls and ceiling met, and sighed, "Once again I find myself explaining the obvious as if to a kind of dolt. Robert must be your brother. Lately it's been easy to see my way clear of local affairs. There's none to see. There's nothing that passes for anything around here, Jimmy. Never was. You say he is a Viet Minhs. I say he's a wizard with fireworks. Can't you go along with that? Or do you have to leave already?"

"I wonder if that's worth noting that he's such a wizard and a leader. I didn't call him Viet Mince, I said he is a Communist, Archie. It is far too early in history to stop dissembling about what goes on here."

"An absolute fucking wizard with fireworks, as if born to it, Jimmy."

The importer-exporter snorted and went to fetch something. When he re-entered the room with a smoke in his face Jimmy held Ngo Dinh Diem's letter. He examined it and asked for a light. "Mind if I open this?" asked this surly guest, loudly, at the side of Archie's head.

Archie glimpsed it, and replied, "I guess if it ain't blown yet." He heard the envelope timorously tear in the background. It did not blow off this dumpy friend's face (true Cao Dai miracle stuff). Obviously Ngo Dinh Diem wanted something, since he didn't have an insurance policy on Jimmy Doyle yet. Archie reached back and lit the smoke. Jimmy examined the contents while Archie turned back to the radio in search of a particular Chinese channel.

Jimmy said it contained an invitation. Archie turned up the volume on the headphones. Jimmy said he had to pay a visit to Enjoy Garden Estate for an excellent dinner. No doubt a pleasant surprise for the importer-exporter, considering how much he loved to pick up a tab. It might even appear as good news in light of the rest of his day so far. Jimmy never met the Pope of Saigon Bizarre and Novelty Company Archie was sure. During the American's previous junket Diem had been somewhere else, in fact, was never heard of before, and certainly not heard of around this end.

Diem was true Annamite, south-central Mandarin family.
Not that Archie cared; Diem might be one important fella in Saigon City. There might be another one. Between them they might be responsible for circulating rumors of consequence. If titles meant anything in the region he was supposed to be more important, more than he was now. The problem in recognition was the worthless nature of his propaganda, the piaster. So Archie sensed this dumpy friend's buzz at the invitation. He noticed the lovely woman slip into the tiny room. He removed the headset and increased the volume to the speaker. Jimmy Doyle might have to contain his bristle at the noise. He'd have to live with the dancing hairs on his neck. "Must you?"

"Screw you," Archie lightly sniffed the air for her delicate scent of skin. The tall dark length of her stood
wrapped in a snug fitting peach-coloured silk dress next to this dumpy friend.

"What are they saying?"

"Just wait." He looked at her and smiled. She looked back and smiled. KRV stood like half-a-head taller than Jimmy. She was product of Annamite mother and French father. She was past her mid-twenties in age but at this moment he felt grizzled and matured beyond ripe compared to her, and everything else. KRV evolved into an beautiful well-educated eurasian woman. This had not been easy for her to do. The Confuscian wisdom mixed with missionary intelligence created a curious and dangerous woman. She somehow embodied benign revenge. To begin with, anything 'rental' was just that to a French. Behold the impossibility of such a difficult childhood. She and the rest of the locals grew out of the slavery, crawled from beneath the torrential bloodshed. This accident along with her brother of impurity (were) sent away to a village in Annam. Even there no doubt they made her feel part of somebody else's paradise. Over the course of time the Fates rescued her. Due to KRV's blossoming will to Oriental beauty and French subtlety her Cofuscian educators and foster parents (for her mother's mother had a line of local nobility) kept information flowing to the mother in Saigon City. Eventually the mother convinced a Nguyen husband to adopt the kids; and KRV and Berty Vet landed back in Saigon City. Jimmy Doyle often expressed an opinion that she had been deceived into this "log hut" by an array of modern conveniences, like he knew anything about deception. "Jimmy got an invitation, KRV."

"Oh he did?"

"He'll need you to press his pants. He's going to pay a visit to Ngo Dinh Diem."

KRV blushed and Jimmy would guess she was embarrassed, except KRV told Archie how the French blocked the elevator to the vault for Diem's personal use in the waning days. After that he could buy everything in Saigon City, including the Embassy Lounge, which her adoptive father had owned; and Diem sacked everybody except the swarthy Tom when he took over.

She burned over the family's fall though she was active in the manufacture of fireworks. She said it happened because her Nguyen stepfather was too Cao Dai, not Catholic enough to ride the elevator with Diem. "I had other clothes," Jimmy apologized anyway, "but they got pinched at the Embassy. Are you gonna tell me what they're saying?"

"Sure. The price of rice is climbing around the Orient. It's because the rice-dumping long nose French are out of the picture. The Chinese are pissed off. They loved South East Asia rice, especially how cheap it came."

"Where?" asked KRV.

"Oh, KRV, it's another new name. South East Asia. Anyway we Chinese loved the way it arrived always packaged nice by idiot wall-eyes who kept sending it up here gratis." Archie continued to translate the Red Chinese news broadcast, "Tell those Jesuit motherfuckers to send more rice and do it fucking now, tonnes and tonnes of it, the free stuff, in the same generous boat-loads as usual, and we don't give a fuck who delivers. Do it. Do it now. We have some angry people here and you do not want to piss them off by making them hungry. Remember Korea, and do not, do not fuck with us. Remember this, there are plenty more human waves where they came from. Tell that to cuckling fucker McArthur who eats his own shit. Tell him to shut his barking gob and keep his sorry fucking ass outta Japan or we'll come over there and kick him in the balls. We have nuclear weapons and more in the works. Real ones. Uh, that was it from Red China, that's how they sign off every segment, and now, here comes Ho Chi Minh. And he's talking about Hai-phong."

"Hoe Cheemen, hmm," Jimmy marveled, "Hoe Cheemen has a nice ring to it. A galloping all the way kind of ring to it."

"You might have to check the colour of that horse. Tell me if it looks pale to you, friend."

"I'm colour blind. You can make them turn anyway you want on this side of the cannon, Archie."

He tossed off his whisky, "Tell me about it, Jimmy," wishing he wouldn't, knowing he would anyway, fighting a depression about it, and not really giving a fuck. But these oriental languages were the perfect antidote, and it was curious how insensible Jimmy sounded compared to the Chinese news broadcaster. Sure the news was bad, but not indiscernible. Of course the Chinese were bossy. Everybody with the slightest authority makes a point to exercise it now and again.

"For one thing, remember the US Marines."

"Fuc -- uh, excuse me -- shut up."

Certain words required no translation. American and long-nose and beady-eye, and the Chinese broadcaster even used "wasp infestation" and "exterminator", which spewed off the speaker. But the rest required Archie to begin to make sense of it and he further recited the contents in
translation. "A Blameless defacto leader in a small principality in South East Asia has many problems to
surmount, he says. Too many to detail in one short sentence. He has one thing to discuss. The beadyeyed
long nose Americans, the free world's most exaggerated long nose, whose business would be nothing without, you know, uh, the ultimate debt collector, you know what I mean," he muttered, "You know."

"We know!" they cried, unsympathetically, "Come on!"

Archie could not ever, ever, bring himself to say it. "Did he really say that?" Jimmy asked, and KRV sighed, and rubbed her high brow with the back of a
soft and shapely hand.

"Listen to this -- " Jimmy would have to marvel and KRV was beaming, because it was truly amazing how well Archie understood the rapid-fire radio dialogue: "He declares the beady-eye American President's mistress is a fat-abdomined cow-wasp. He says she wears Legionnaires boots. The giant pest and vicious insect form of human life plunders the world rapaciously, those beady eye long noses with their constant threat. The world sees so much plundering by these demagogues even their sleazy mistresses are supplied with high quality marching boots."

"That must have been his brother in the courtyard."

"He says, these women should be marched in their expensive boots down a complex matrix of trails in
the Central Highlands. We will make your American whore daughters stop only to refresh themselves on the swinging dicks of our incredible Politburo Communist road builders."

"Provocateur!"

"Defacto leader. These Politburo Communist cadre, says he, are found in ever-growing numbers on these trails, by the way. You find the place on the south end of what we used to call Annam. Get off the boat at Tourane, where the Monsignor arrived in 1666, and take a sharp right. Then a sharp left. Ask the laundry guy for directions.
"Beady eyes send a bunch of US Marines to the edge of the jungle, and, wait there; my assistant Pham Van Dong is going to supply everybody with a map."

"Hey!"

"Dong. Not Don."

"Oh."

"Meanwhile, he told the US Navy to keep breeding the American whores. We need lots of long nose American whores in boots. Ask the pope how to do it."

"The Pope? Why bring his name into this? What is his name?"

"Forget it."

"Exactly what would we do for whores back home? You want to know something? I think 'you-knowwhat' might have application right here," Jimmy growled, "just to shut the guy up."

Jimmy bounced on the balls of his feet,jauntily, "So Communists aren't so bad, ay, Archie?" he snarled, in front of the woman, "Can't find any Communists here anyway?"

Archie looked at KRV, to basically confirm the accuracy of his translation, and she blinked, and solemnly nodded.

"That's it then. Does she wear 'em?"

"How should I know? I said I don't hang around the White House. Nobody does. What does it matter? It's no business of a Communist what she wears, if anything. No Communist has any respect for boots like those. I hear communists are happy to wear cardboard boxes on their feet." Jimmy oyle was plenty incensed.

There was more from defacto leader Ho Chi Minh. He announced the Politburo and other South East Asias were curious, "How do you attract attention of a whore-crazed beady-eyed long nose American? Does a flashing sign work? Come and see Ho Chi Minh!" Archie hit the switch to put an end to the noisesome rant.He felt depressed and needed another drink. Make it a bottle. He swiveled to face the pair. He gazed at her and up into KRV's thoughtful eyes. They were moist after considering the northernoriented Nguyen's remarks. She must be asking when the belligerence would ever cease? He would try to assure her that the answer was, uh, never. The best thing to do is pick a high spot where disappearing is legitimate social behavior (and look the other way a lot when down low).

"Come an'hoe-chee-men? What the fuck is he saying?"

"He finally settled on a name. You never heard of propaganda?"

"I'm one of the guys who can afford to buy it."

"The President won't buy it from Ho Chi Minh, because the President loves the sound of his own words. Something funny in the way it translated easily, though, but then I recall old Quoc speaks perfect American."

Archie knew it from personal experience. It was during a transition in life and he preferred to forget about his failed diplomatic mission back in 1945. State's low man on the totem pole (of the mollusk class) at the end of World War II, Dean Rusk, asked Archie to supply the perverse Viet leader with at least Office of Strategic Services contact, "Since you're going to hide out there anyway, aren't you? You could still be of use to us, Archie."

"I'm not OSS and I'm not a spy." He wasn't, but his files were stolen anyway by Rubberlegs of the Office of Naval Intelligence, since spies were important long before Jimmy ever met one. Shortly after the theft Truman established the Central Intelligence Agency to run guns for the Rubberleg cabal. Admiral Ernest King and Admiral 'Betty' Stark dragooned General Walter Bedell Smith into the CIA founding director's chair. Allen Dulles, an old Treasury Department (Navy controlled and operated department of the fed) hack, figuratively ran the intelligence show, and literally since 1951. Allen's brother was appointed Secretary of State. Nobody had to hold a gun to Ike's head. Rusk handed Eisenhower the golf clubs and keys to a thing called Air Force One. Ike had disappeared by all reports.

KRV nodded, and frowned, so, Archie said, "If the President hears about these Viets stealing copyrights,
or blaming and messing up the blame for bombing, there is no telling what he will do," he said, and genuflected toward KRV's lustrus beauty for a moment, then concluded, "fortunately he will never hear about it, because news of Indo China never goes anywhere," he said,looking right into her eyes, "Just ask Claude Desautels."

The historical fact was so sensible it appeared to provide succor to KRV, an assurance that almost for
sure most of the hostility would die before it started, and maybe remain, uh, somewhere, else, for a
while. "One guy going be pissed off is the U.S. envoy."

"Defacto leader Ho Chi Minh," barked Jimmy, "didn't
mention the massacre at the working-Embassy. I wonder if he knows about it?"

Archie replied, "Gee, Jimmy, that's a good question." He flipped a couple of last switches and a flood of
lights disappeared. He promptly forgot the question.
He stood and walked over to embrace the woman he loved.
He marched out to embrace the bottle he loved.

They followed him to the bar and watched him pour himself a stiff belt. He looked right at the glass and
thoroughly sucked down the contents. He smacked his burning lips an' 'ardly blinked.

It did absolutely nothing except slightly buckle his knees: "So what's up, KRV? Any dope left? Get that
democratic brother of your's sorted out?"

"Berty Vet refuses to rest till he has spoken to you, Lee. He exaggerates his fear that he will not make it
through the night." Archie winked at Jimmy, "I'll tell him I started looking for a replacement. Tell him
Jimmy is stuck here and wants to go up the river. You'll see, Berty Vet will be up and around in no time."

This dumpy friend grinned behind the woman's back. Or was he leering? She said, "I don't feel like joking."

"I wish I did."

Archie saw Jimmy Doyle check a snigger before it escaped his lips. Not good form to laugh at a developing spat even in the most welcome guests. A spat, however, did not develop, so Jimmy was off the hook. "He went to Saigon City to tell you something."

"I knew that."

"You must come and hear."

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Just come."

She led the way to the tree of life she was pruning in the living room. KRV hovered over her brother, Berty Vet, and checked moist spots on his bandages and took his pulse. It occurred to Archie that this might be as close as he gets to KRV for a spell. She was satisfied that the pulse seemed strong enough. The hit of opium probably provided relief. She too therefore was relieved. And she said so.

"Looks like he's bleeding," Jimmy psuedo- whispered, "Isn't that a good sign?"

"Well. Blood's pumping."

KRV interrupted, softly, "It has nearly stopped. He cannot speak much. Or loud. You must lean close. My only brother will tell you about today's events in our village. I will go and make you something to eat." The Americans bent close. Jimmy needed a shower already after the rain. Berty Vet coughed a story that came in a melange of Vietnamese, Chinese, French and American.
Ed Chapter Four

Chapter Five: Sharing the Buddhal

Bertrand Vet ran a division of Patti's fireworks 'works' up a river flowing from the mountains northwest of Saigon. It was a no-name river pour la raison d'etre qu'il n'y'rien absolutement going on here. A few villagers occupied a tiny enclave and ran a sulphur mine and kiln to burn softwood lumber. This obscure community was part of Berty Vet's youth for a few years when he and sister Rae came to grow up at the south end of the Annamite Cordillera.

These are not mountain tribesfolk who Berty Vet believed too sentient to choose to live here. The people stuck here at the dawn of time were his relations, Annamites. It was worse than ritual sacrifice that a clutch of nobles caved long ago and became nothing but backwoods villagers huddled around a hole in the jungle. They held court in front of scarce resources and Berty Vet had no respect for them. He visited this junction for the incandescent yellow rock they owned a few hundred metres up a narrow trail.

They received in exchange, of late, pots, pans, kettles, beads, and hefty bags of rice. Yes, he joked about 'beads,' but Berty Vet knew from personal experience and the fog of time that one way or another an agent of somebody came looking for an emulsifier-solvent found in 'their backyards'(?); "Whose 'terre' is it then, cochon?" was the inevitable argument. He decided it might as well be Berty Vet delivering an array of innovative products, light bulbs, power generators, and rubber rafts, stuff that had not improved nor changed, yet, not taken away their lot.

They were unimaginative short noses, little losers hiding in jungle with long forgot memories of granduer, too scared to leave and deploring Berty Vet's French Colon lineage to his de Mohrenschildt face and noble Annamite Viet lineage behind his Vei Vet back. Berty Vet once felt golden to escape and knew it was ironic he returned; it made him sulfuric to think about it except he was co-owner. The persuasive beady-eye Americain had been forthcoming about business, which had to do with his drop-dead gorgeous sister Rae.

The unnamed river churned past (or under) the village and sulphur and charcoal were loaded onto one of the work vessels, a motorized flat-bottomed skiff, and Berty Vet floated the cargo inconspicuously downstream to Patti's factory. The village maintained a tiny bulwark against jungle's relentless claims. Childhood myths gave warnings to stay outta there and stay offa that and don't touch that and smoke this and stay put. Don't touch that bug and watch for all the bugs, and shut up while everybody wanders on terrifying jungle missions (to escape 'civilizing') that later turn into haunting nightmares.

Houses were constructed on stilts and people lived like airborne prisoners suspended in cages less free than shrieking monkeys when a swollen river alters the landscape and Berty Vet could no longer stand it and left the region. They said monsoon seasons felt safer, which villagers appreciate as a nice change of pace, however, one set of natural horrors precluded another; water-borne giant bugs (and giant snakes that chew on gigantic bugs) floated around offering more reasons to leave.

Berty Vet was aware, constantly reminded, in fact, that Annamite relations landed at this site he facetiously called Up Shit Creek because, until, uh, yesterday, an appearance downstream would result in a few fatalities, namely, everybodies. And they never failed to remind him that it was Berty Vet's "bignosed" relations doing the shooting.

An enterprising adult, Berty Vet lived most of the monsoon in Saigon City. Possibly it was muleish to be constantly intolerant of this place; up here the huts barely stood out from jungle, but not for lack of trying. South China Sea's tide would be easier to stop than carving cutting hacking and tying down a place in this persistently and overtly territorial jungle.

Berty Vet would try to explain to anybody here that far more people lived on tiny boats on downstream rivers than in airborne huts near the Annamite Cordillera. Up Shit Creek mocked the impossibility of intrusion on nature's plans. He concluded it was no escape to a swinging bachelor lifestyle, to which, they replied, "Tell it to the monkeys, and keep it in your pants," another reminder of the bleak outlook.

The river receded and ground began to dry in this miniscule corner of elevated forest. On dry ground the villagers walked in a peculiar way that produced an unusual gait; thus Berty Vet's walleyed teachers identified his Annamite relations as 'le vrai Viet Mince d'Indo Chine." Not too many longnoses knew, however, where they were, because most Viets didn't know. Nobody cared either despite their paranoia, to be honest, and he regretted a drunken night at the Embassy bringing it up with the beady-eyed Americain Archie Patti.

Evening fell and the usual jungle eeriness descended on Up Shit Creek. A few women hung out windows taking thunderous whacks at treasured cookware. The haunting clamour penetrated the forest wall to reverberate into it and warn everything behind it to stay clear while 'hunters' were awake.

A corral was built next to the jungle wall on a plane farthest from the river, about 75 metres from Berty Vet who was halfway across the common. These Confuscians could care less if a "flesh and blood" bovine ever stood near the Annamite Cordillera. These accidental vegetarians flinched at the portenteous bellow of an imaginary sacred cow (and would barbeque a real one).

The less-than-bucolic icon of Hindu worship was strictly in spirit and occupied a corral of Berty Vet's creation, strictly to confound local politics. The imaginary cow (at least) was safe from floating belly-up down Up Shit Creek during one of those spontaneous foaming floods. It was part of Berty Vet's Cao Dai heritage (actually more inheritance than heritage as such because Cao Dai appeared in Cochin circa 1928) to produce polemic situations adding beaucoup confusion to prevailing beliefs.

Acting Cao Dai involved a complicated formula usually resulting in bloodshed. Berty Vet walked past the corral on a higher and drier plane while a sulky Buddhist Monk sat on the fence down in the mud. Ty Dee Wikl was a recent arrival to the village who said he lost his way elsewhere and was stuck here. Berty Vet assigned the pastoral trespasser a fatuous chore to make any and all necessary repairs to the non-existent cow's confines; he was protesting by doing nothing but entertain a pack of dogs.

The primarily slimy, choking, virtually verdant jungle encroached on all sides (but could not usurp the river). The constricting confines contained virulent and dangerous life that would happily devour a cow and everything else. Tigers, wild boars, tiny and giant snakes, tiny and giant ants, tiny and giant centipedes, same for the spiders; deadly flora and fauna of infinite variety; Plants that look like animals and vice versa. Nothing to sneeze at were those dreadful surprise encounters with big flying chunks of jungle, 850 metres per second in some cases.

He stuck to high ground and wished a stressful ache in his neck and shoulders would go away but instead the pain was an ominous hint that an imminent alter-calamity was closing in this evening. A pit in his gut and what felt like a bug gnawing at a cavity at the top of his skull told Berty Vet that something over and above the usual horror lurked nearer than normal. He hustled on the incongruous common in front several Up Shit Creek huts.

The villagers were aloft avoiding run-ins with jungle by smoking stuff and burning incense, creating sharp odours to mingle with stagnant air and dense evening jungle stench. Berty Vet's hut was largest and last in the collection, then were a few industrial workshops standing beyond his domicile. He arrived at the bottom of the steep stairs and walked up to the wide deck built on the front of the hut.

He stopped on the veranda to observe and then engage a couple of berobed old men. They sat to Berty Vet's right on the wide deck, cross-legged on pillows on a thick mat, chain-smoking under a cloud of mosquitoes. They were often found hunched over a game of whatnot. As well they burned incense in a brass bowl set beside the wall under a window. It would permeate inside with reams of smoke. It was 'final' protection against being eaten alive around here. Survival depended on smoking out everything.

Uncle Lee Vet, a relative who knew blood runs less thick than the Mekong River, sat with his back to Berty Vet. Uncle had a sudden fit hop scotching around the board to capture pieces. Uncle Lee Vet bumped the board and scattered chips off the low slung slab of marble. The gentlemen played various board games, backgammon, chess, (and longnose checkers when they were inebriated).

The companion was an old Trinh with family from Dalat that collaborated earlier than most in the south. It was no noble bending to pick up pieces and pretending to curse Guatma Siddhartha under his breath (some kind of foolish bid to confuse Berty Vet who profoundly hated the old man, even while at a loss to explain why, except for the continuous undercutting of authority from an unwelcome, unwanted, uninvited, and impeachable source).

Uncle Lee Vet was fussing at the left side of another 'final' protection against voracious pests (his thick robe), especially mosquitoes, but also other creeping buzzing or flying creeping and buzzing things. He swatted at one or two. Old Dok descended from a line of Trinh collaborators and arrived up here a few years ago at the height of recent hostilities. He had a suitcase or two full of currencies of various kinds. He was older than Berty Vet's uncle but infinitely better off. The new richest elder in the village was loved (for his ancient wisdom? 'Stay outta d'trees!') because lately it was Old Dok keeping Uncle Lee Vet out of everybody's hair.

"Are you panicking with a sense of impending doom, honorable second cousin?" Uncle Lee Vet dissembled, disputing Berty Vet's lineage and, therefore ownership claims to sulphur (with the Trinh's blessing no doubt), "Imagine the danger is a portable contraption careening through the jungle toward our village." The old men cackled loudly at some kind of obscure reference made in sarcastic jest about his longnose half.

Berty Vet bristled at the reminder of de Mohrenschildt, his father, a colon (and all of them dismissed communal devices operating in the name of indivisible herds). Berty Vet was lastly a product of Cao Dai (est. circa 1928) after his mother remarried a southern Nguyen. His noble Annamite mother's Confuscian Mandarin logic demanded prejudicial bureaucratic observance of the Viet calendar, and his French colon duplicity demanded overemphasis of fake privilege and denial to 'natives' (his mother's folks) of anything resembling progress, no matter how apparent it may be in a French context. (His mother was refused the right to ride in automobiles by Berty Vet's French colon father.)

Berty Vet watched beady eyed Americain Archie Patti fall into a trance during a discussion of Cao Dai policies. Berty Vet started to explain this creed, and Patti said if Cao Dai was an excuse to behave atrociously then it seemed to be working, and left it at that, but continued to learn the language. Buddhists in the ninety-five percent range of Vietnam's population denied anything like hostility existed in this paradise, while Dinh and other Annam and Tay Ninh-based landowner Catholics started behaving hostile. Berty Vet had decided quietly agreed that now was time to go Up Shit Creek.

Folks in other Catholic-funded organizations like nearby Hoa Hao, more distant Dan Xa, and smaller sects in the outer provinces fell in debt up to their necks when French administration departed; this southern Viet-speaking land was cobbled together under a fake emperor Bao Dai, a southern mandarin landowner making one deal: guns and ammo for staying out of his face; everything revolved around control over inland rivers.

Binh Xuyen native army of about 15,000 went around threatening Saigon but was fading to Vung Tau's maze of swampy canals at entrance from the sea. They escaped better-armed Cao Dai taking over Saigon: Annamite Catholics, southern Cao Dai, and a few coddled Buddhists buying into Cao Dai for strictly financial purposes. Cao Dai was Catholic Labour Union with guns controlling roads, businesses, and government jobs, and any land not nailed down by generational bureaucratic ownership (emperor rule), except Cao Dai lacked sufficient numbers to rule.

Binh Xuyen was a native army that would never accept Cao Dai ownership of Saigon and favoured returning to their first love, the swamps, to act as pirates raiding ships at the treacherous gateway to the pearl of the Orient. Berty Vet wondered how much to worry when nobody collected rice and taxes west of Saigon, and currency suffered an identity crisis, and rumours swirled about a 'moving' (?) "contraption,"; "Try proving something like that exists, and for what?"

The beady-eyed American Archie Patti almost perked up at mention of what they were yucking about on the veranda. Berty Vet refused to discuss it. The old men pretended to muse over the board while the old Trinh fiddled with a pipe.

"Old Dok mentioned it," Uncle Lee Vet said, not turning.

"Did he?"

"He heard a silence descend over the jungle a while ago."

"Such exaggeration."

Old Dok faced Berty Vet and glanced into his eyes, while nodding, "Your great oncle refers to a group of restive spirits," the old Trinh argued, "carving a path to this village." The true ghostmaster was replacing chips when Berty Vet pointed at his uncle's sagging liver pushing out side of the robe, "How much has he been drinking?"

"Ten rice wine. No more," Old Dok replied.

Berty Vet decided if the old junky might be telling the truth. It would be a surprisingly big change in behaviour. "If my ancient friend tells you spirits are coming," Uncle Lee Vet muttered, "it must be so. Men with his age and wisdom are seldom wrong. Mostly age. But he knows about spirits. Cheers."

The nephew stuck here in the pits of hell, with Uncle Lee Vet and the rest, replied, "I was not listening to this silence, knowing there is no such thing," and he scoffed, "We are in the Annamite Cordillera," the suggestion, idiotic, "If one thing stops shrieking it starts the others. How about those spirits in your gut? Are they craving a release? Perhaps they would like to depart and guide in your visitors. Trinh can trap them for you to consume. It would be cheaper for me."

"No Trinhs here, please," said Old Dok, "Old men who drink rice wine must make room for spirits. I confess I forgot those matters of kilos of the flesh. Why, you are more walleyed than anybody here, Berty Vet, nevertheless, these impending spirits will not be ready to bottle. Not yet."

The Trinh found agreement on his first point when Uncle Lee Vet drank, from the bottle. It left Berty Vet to grumble under his breath about the price of rice wine, and the second point, as he went through the door and walked over to the wall, instincts reinforced by the preceding exchange, and unlocked a cabinet. He removed an American M-1 rifle. Then his actions must have been matched across the unnamed river.

Ha Van Lau led three Viet "Cong" comrades out of the forest and into the river to the waist, facing the current and locking arms. Van held a machete in his right hand and the chain of four waded into a strong current stepping lightly across the waist deep river. They climbed a solid ladder on the sturdy little dock and walked down wood planks to the shore in sloshing wet boots.

Van followed Clad of Dien Bien Phu past a pile of yellow ore sitting on the packed earth. He ordered Clad of DBP to call up to the first domicile in the village, "Is the Cao Dai BarbAsian around?"

"Longnose lackey in his hut. He remains every bit a longnose himself, belligerent," she warned.

"We know," said the spokesman.

"Nice to see you again," the lady of the hut replied.

"Back at ya." He turned to Van. This North Vietnamese Communist still had his tongue.

Van led the way deeper into the village, directed by Clad of DBP. The machete felt like a wand in either hand. The silent, damp quartet of alien Viet Congs strutted toward the biggest hut at the back of the darkening village. None of the dogs approached. They arrived at the stairs to the BarbAsian puppet's fancy capitalist hut. Sure it looked like the rest.

He knocked the machete on a board and started to climb. He ceased the ascent halfway up the stairs, not because the two old farts played checkers. He found himself staring up the barrel of a American M-1 rifle. Van knew the weapon because the body count from Europe died with a few in hand at the seige of Dien Bien Phu. This one would of course be loaded.

The BarbAsian Colon seemed satisfied to stop the visitor's stair climb. He did not pull the trigger and rifle dropped to left hip, barrel pointed at Van. The BarbAsian Colon kept finger on trigger, and recognised one of the other Communists. The familiar Viet "Cong" was that of Clad of DBP who put in several days at this estranged village a few weeks ago. The BarbAsian Colon had argued with his master to no avail, even left the village to go see the detached beady-eye American in Saigon. He saw nothing wrong with having a (then) "whatcha-ma'call-it" hiding out in a remote site and helping out for free. In a predictably short time the cadre proved a good fit within the village.

Clad of DBP was northwestern Viet who instantly discerned southern Viet dialects and worked hard in the sulfur mine to put a roof over his head. He volunteered to help women haul fresh water and big bails of laundry for his food. Later each evening he would have told instructive stories to both children and adults to impart useful lessons about h-h-h-how to avoid certain d-d-d-death in the d-d-d-dark f-f-f-forest. "If it moves, don't touch it, and if it doesn't move, don't touch it."

He probably flirted with most of the younger women. Part of his job was to inform elders with the latest news and entertain them with longnose jokes. "How do you make a long nose blow?" "We don't know." "Rub it in Dien Bien Phu," peals of laughter deflected off jungle walls.

Clam of DBP would say much more, more than a BarbAsian would ever permit from a popular handyman who befriended all, save one. He stood on the soggy ground behind Van, returned with one bunch of Vietnam's newest communists. Two had lost tongues over an inability to think fast. Not so the recent trespasser to this shithole who perpetually stoned himself to permit thought before speaking.

Van stood on the stairs and sighed at a pleasant evening. The air was warmer and stiller at this altitude. Two old men sniggered over something that could be of no consequence to their board game. Van initiated formalities, "Bonjour, mon ami!" he said, "Is that a longnose you have there on your face? My name is Ha Van Lau of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. We are stopping by with the latest rumours. Ever heard of communist North Vietnam?"

"Non. Never heard of it," the BarbAsian replied, brusquely, as predicted, "but thanks for stopping by."

"Walleyed longnoses of your past called it Tong King and made subservient slaves of the entire population of 30 million people, those they didn't behead and drag through neighbouring hamlets, which is not worth repeating since they no longer collect taxes and hide salt in plain view behind barbed wire fences. Surely you have heard of a change. Was that your father doing those things to my family, longnose?"

"Nope. My family is southern. Unimportant news never reaches this bend of Mekong River."

"Is it the Mekong now?"

"Don't know. Tonight is the exception."

Van winked at the antenna, "Perhaps you should wind up the radio and ask somebody where the fuck you are." The tower rose above the highest hut.

"It wouldn't make Viet Minhs rumours worth any more," the BarbAsian Colon replied.

Van protested, "No, you are wrong. These are entirely new rumours with nothing to do with the past, which I am not even at liberty to discuss. See those guys on the ground there," he pointed at the two long faces on the ground, "they lost their tongues to the past."

"This is the second try to rumour-monger here," said the BarbAsian, "Can't you guys change your minds somewhere else?"

Van recalled a report he received over tea saying the BarbAsian rushed back to evict Clad of DBP. It occurred one wet morning, that the BarbAsian colon said, "These people aren't into nationalist movements. They already belong to a nation, and make fireworks to celebrate it."

Clad of DBP had replied on his way out, "Right, fireworks owned by beadyeyed longnose American."

Van said, "Fuck you," shaking his downcast head, and smiling, "My rumour is about a road through this shit."

The BarbAsian was soon holding his stomach from laughing in raucous barbarian fashion often foreshadowing bodies leaking fatal quantities of sanguineity. "A road."

Van agreed, "I know."

The BarbAsian with brown hair and fatty eyelids pointed the rifle at Clad of DBP, "He knows we're Cao Dai and it is the trend in the south. Who needs nationalism in a country that isn't going anywhere?"

Van replied, "Good question, except I'm not dicussing nationalism for South Vietnam, longnose. The folks will be only to happy to find a road out, and it's a happy trail for us."

"There is no road," the BarbAsian argued, "no road," no doubt soundly, in fact, "and never will be. There aren't any trails. You have a machete. Where you are standing was a metre deep in water a few weeks ago. I'm up here because I am king of the castle. You're down there because you're the dirty rascal. Oh, and look here, I have a gun. Are you hard of hearing after the explosions at Haiphong? Or do you have mud in your ears?"

"No news," right, they heard the 'rumoured Haiphong explosions.' Half-wet Van persisted, "I like mud, and a rumour like this cannot be ignored." Van said, "This rumour takes in the whole of South East Asia. I think a longnose loser like you could use some good news. Besides, I have rumors to spread, mon ami," he shrugged, "that's my job. In my spare time I dragoon people into major infrastructure projects under the auspices of the DRV Politburo Planning Council. You ever heard of Ho Chi Minh?"

"No. Who?"

"Ho."

"No."

"Sorry, we were having an intelligent conversation." Was Van too apologetic? Who would tell? Was anybody going to live through this besides Clad who would think twice before talking. Van knew these people would make way for the contraption, imminently.

Rededicated North Vietnamese Communists persisted, "The villagers slaved hard all day for your worthless currency. Doubtless they gained nothing from the new world and continue hiding from those walleyed relations of yours. Listen to what I have to say, for it will not take long."

Van had already stood around way longer than he had planned. The BarbAsian kept thrusting the point of his gun from the high, uh, ground (?), but Van figured the BarbAsian acted terribly threatened. Sure it was reasonable to fear them for surviving this long. Why didn't he take the soggy fuckers now?

They heard the snap of chips on the table. Van looked up into the unblinking eyes of the BarbAsian. He insisted, "There is a new way to share the boodle."

"You won't get him with that shit," an elderly voice interjected.

Van replied, witha query, "What?"

"It's true most folks share the Buddha on the Annamite Cordillera," the elder voice continued, "but these people are strictly Confuscian, real stubborn old school, suddenly told to keep it Hindu. Nobody knows what Hindu is. Our mixed breed polemic is Catholic."

Van could see the top of his grey head it was the man on the right doing the talking. "He tries to trick the locals with this crazy Cao Dai fad," he explained, while the two elders pretended to go on playing. Van stepped once more up the stairs while the BarbAsian seemed unconcerned. Van looked the elder in the eye and pondered a second, and asked, to the unforseen source of wisdom, "What's he doing here?" nodding at the distant corral.

The dark light of day fast disappeared but a blazing robe still remained visible in the distance. The elder waved at the corral, "Do not be fooled by that." The elder closest to the BarbAsian seemed to continue playing out moves on the board. The other talkative elder puffed a cigarette, "That Buddhist monk is sitting on the fence out there," and continued, casually and directly addressing Van, looking at him, "trying to convert the cow. The villagers don't listen."

Van realized this place was a United Nations of religion with 100 people. "He's pastoral," the talkative elder continued to ramble, "He said he found us by mistake but was prophesyzing you guys would arrive. He convinced villagers to share the Buddha by giving him a roof over his head until he's brave enough to travel again."

Yeah, well, he's not coming with this gang. Throughout the conversation the BarbAsian Colon watched, apparently lying-in-wait at top of stairs.

"Did you say Ho Chi Minh?"

"Yes I did."

"I was at a school with the guy. He changes his name a lot."

Van was astonished, "You're kidding."

"Could I give you some advice?"

Van balked, and relented, "Sure, old man, go ahead." This was going to be bad.

"If it is the same guy who is always changing his name, I taught school with him. Don't leave your kids alone in a room with Nguyen Ai Quoc. They will not come out the same. That is all I'm going to say."

Okay, it was enough. Van was informed about a rich Trinh hanging around, making up horrible stories and smoking his fucking brains out, "Look, old man, I need you to behave, maybe help us to convene a meeting. We are going to clear out this village."

The non-speaking elder sitting with his back to the BarbAsian made some kind of game-breaking move; was he playing himself? The talkative elder leaned back, "Told you so," he sighed, and raised a pipe, and waved it. He looked down from his squat position, "Does your man DBP have any fresh stuff like he did last time?"

Clad of DBP nodded at the old guy and looked to Van, and Clad of DBP's eyes hinted that this old guy was the Trinh. The old man waved when Clad of DBP moved cautiously past his leader up the staircase. Clad of DBP knew the BarbAsian, they had a rapport, obviously. Nobody was shot, yet.

The elder struggled to his feet to shuffle past the BarbAsian colon and remark to the boards at his feet on the way, "The supply has been polluted with Cao Dai shit, which is not the best. Besides, nobody hardly remembers where we hide anymore, with the walleyes gone. It was quite a surprise to hear you boys were coming." Clad of DBP handed over a generous chunk of opium for the old intervenor. He stood there to the right of the BarbAsian and the suddenly mollified elder returned to his cushion.

"Hey! What's going on around here?" a high whine from the gloomy flats, as the Buddhist Monk entered a growing fracas until he marched up beside the tongueless Viet Cong. "You realize how much this disturbs the sacred cow?" he announced and gazed up at the veranda.

Van said, "Relax, and forget the cow, these fellows have a commercial grade stink patch in the works."

"What?" the BarbAsian asked, surprised, as if he had no warning.

The Buddhist monk muttered somnething under his breath, and backed away from the collection, and the rising barrel of the gun. Van jumped left and departed the staircase by air while the BarbAsian unlocked the safety and cranked off several rounds at the Buddhist monk and both northern Viets who all fell dead.

Van was on the soggy ground and looking up at the BarbAsian colon who remained at the top of the staircase in a stoic posture during his campaign, having interrupted Clad of DBP and the old man from gleefully preparing a pipe. Carnage was priority one for the Viet Cong (and everybody else in South East Asia). So surprise was a rare reaction to spontaneous eruptions, which in this case ended quickly.

Villagers climbed out of their huts and at least sixty souls spilled onto the common and came to investigate or instigate a commotion. The sound of fireworks was attractive to Annamites as the smell of feet was to the ants. "We don't need your help old man!" Van smirked, "The BarbAsian convened a communist meeting for us."

"No, communists, Cao Dai," said the BarbAsian."Everything is Cao Dai." Shooting put everybody in a festive mood and the buzz in the village set people to marching toward the BarbAsian colon's hut.

"You have no stake in the stink here," the BarbAsian snarled at Van and waved his gun at the corpses, "because as you can see it is already a worker's paradise. Mine." Some of the villagers chattered loudly about the body count in the common that made it a "community plantation" and many jumped out of grotesque looking walleyed-made rubber galoshes, mud flying everywhere, crying in ecstasy about striking it rich in this shithole of all places.

Clad of DBP jumped off the veranda and landed beside Van and they looked at each other. The two Viet Cong watched the BarbAsian descending the stairs raking the ground with fire to settle people down. Van and Clad of DBP reached the edge of forest by darting under his hut to the nearest backdrop of pure black. Van yelled, "We shall return and bury the rest and it will all be communist!"

The BarbAsian replied with a sparkling burst from the American M-1 rifle. Van stood with Clad of DBP in front of the black canvas and watched while the Trinh elder delivered a sack to the pier. The half-baked Colon pushed off for the voyage to Saigon, a wisp of Clad of DBP's opium drifting above the wake.

Van and Clad of DBP stepped out to supervise digging of a useable pit and plant a stinky seedling on the 222 KG plot. It was the first one he had done for the Communist Party in the southern end of the Annamite Cordillera. The BarbAsian could dispute all he wants, but those bodies came from somewhere, and count for something, else.

End Chapter Five

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