American Romantic (12 page)

Left foot on the left log, right foot on the right log. He said to himself that he was good with balance, superb really. Balance was his long suit, it always had been. He had always thought of himself as a balanced personality and others agreed. Reliable Harry. His fatigue was temporary. Danger was temporary. He need only summon this one last effort, having come so far, needing only a little more balance. The log was slippery and he found it easier to walk sideways, both feet on the right-hand log, the one that looked sturdier. He moved ahead by inches, looking into the jungle wall, wondering at the wildlife concealed there. When his right foot touched a knot he teetered and managed to lower himself to a sitting position. He rested, gathering strength. Harry eased himself over the knot and continued on in that way, a few inches at a time. Before long he lost sight of his starting place. He supposed he had traveled twenty feet or so and had no idea how many more feet there were or if the bridge simply petered out, decayed from disuse. Here and there the wood was rotten. He wondered who used it other than the comrade captain and his command. Perhaps there were aborigines in the swamp, Stone Age people with highly developed survival skills. A thick vine touched his forehead and he brushed it roughly aside and watched it fall, turning in the air, mouth agape, striking the water and slithering away, leaving a miniature wake. His heart stopped cold. He thought he would faint from fright. He sat without moving, his hands trembling, his vision blurred. He believed he had witnessed a miracle. When Harry looked at the black water he saw a congregation of tiny flies of many colors landing on the water and rising from it as the dusky light continued to fail. In a moment the flies disappeared.

And then his hand touched dry land. Harry rolled off the log and lay there, breathing hard. When he got his breath under control he listened for a minute or more, hearing nothing but the usual jungle rustle. He rose awkwardly to his feet and continued along the path, stumbling over roots and branches and the heavy palms that obscured the ground. He reckoned he had ten minutes of light. He must quickly find a bivouac, some safe place to rest for the night. He thought of climbing a tree but gave up the idea. Trees were not safe. There was no safe place here. Nothing was peaceable. The jungle ruled with surly indifference. Even the animals were not safe from one another. Harry looked up and not ten feet away he saw a Burmese parrot perched on a vine, its blue helmet and tail, its lime-green wings and yellow breast, its eye markings that suggested a dowager's pince-nez. The creature was identical to the parrot kept by the ambassador's valet, brought out for special occasions and urged to speak, which it refused to do. The Burmese parrot was said to be long-lived, friendly when it felt like it. When friendly the parrot would perch on the valet's shoulder while he served canapés. At the moment the parrot was watching a butterfly, Harry thought, with evil intent. He clapped his hands but neither the butterfly nor the parrot paid any attention.

A good omen, Harry thought, two harmless creatures keeping their distance. They were colorful, too. Defiance was vainglorious, and in that spirit he fished around in his pockets and discovered under a Kleenex a single Chesterfield. He lit it with a flourish, blowing one smoke ring and another and watching them collapse in air that seemed heavy with its own sweat. The odor of tobacco was suddenly all around him as if he were in a cocktail lounge or the bleachers at the ballpark. Harry thought it was a good idea to make his own rules for a change, so he sent up the flare. It would make no difference because he had definitely used up his own luck and the jungle was now in charge, despite the parrot. Probably the jungle had been in charge all along. At such a time there was no reason not to subvert the natural order, collect a reward for perseverance, let them know he was still alive and on his feet. Harry whistled an old tune as he continued to stagger along the path, widening now. He dropped the cigarette and raised his foot to stamp on it and remembered that he was barefoot. He left the cigarette butt to smolder, a souvenir for anyone who happened by, and that would be the end of his willfulness—call it hubris. Nothing here was familiar to him, but that was the normal way of things, utter unfamiliarity. He did believe he had come athwart an actual road, one lane, deeply rutted. He felt pinpoint drizzle and sat, the better to await what came next. In the middle distance he could see twin moons. Their light was brilliant, blinding almost, as if the moons were close enough to touch. He could clearly see his bare feet and his legs, welts on his knees and shins. He was filthy. Rain was in his face and he made a visor of his hands and the lights before him seemed to dip. He realized he was twenty feet from a truck. He heard the rattle of the truck's engine and then it, too, fell silent. Harry was alone in the drizzle and exposed in a bath of electric light.

 

I am unarmed, he said, his voice a kind of frog's croak. He heard a door open and close and then a hand was at his elbow. The driver was a full head shorter than he was, wearing the blue trousers and homespun shirt of a workingman. He said something unintelligible. His eyes were wide with—not fright, perhaps confusion. He looked Harry up and down, offering his hand, guiding him in the direction of the truck, a strange contraption, more caravan than truck. Harry wondered if he was dreaming once again. The parrot had been a kind of dream; he thought at first it was a hallucination; the butterfly, too. Now he was looking at an ancient Datsun pickup. In the rear where the truck's bed should have been was a windowless wooden cabin entered by a door displaying a brightly colored drawing of a dragon, a blue and red dragon with slit eyes and a coiled tail, a raptor's curved talons. The driver tapped on the door and opened it. He said something in a warm voice, most polite. Harry placed his hand on the driver's shoulder, steadying himself, and climbed inside. The interior was sparsely furnished, lit by candles. A Chinese was seated on a miniature throne. A boy stood beside him. The throne was crafted from ebony and gleamed in the candlelight. The Chinese—elderly, clean-shaven, hands invisible in the sleeves of his ceremonial robe—nodded warmly in an apparently sincere gesture of welcome. Harry responded with a
Merci beaucoup
but the Chinese did not respond. There were many Chinese in the country, mostly merchants and bankers, along with other, less savory entrepreneurs trafficking in opium, gambling, girls. Desultory efforts by the Americans to involve them in the struggle with the revolution were unsuccessful. The Chinese played little part in the war; business and banking and opium and girls would continue no matter who won. Harry could not imagine where this Chinese had come from, with his grandfatherly appearance and air of civility and hospitality, sitting regally on his tiny throne. Now he indicated a pallet of plump cushions beside the door, inviting Harry to sit. Harry smiled and moved his hands in thanks. It was only then that he noticed the pungent incense in the air and his own foul odor. He felt a tug, the engine coughed, and the truck began to move.

The Chinese said something Harry did not understand. Then he repeated the word.

Harry said, Yes, American.

The Chinese did not respond to that, but if he was alarmed he gave no sign. Then he said something to the boy, who reached behind him and offered Harry a flask of water. He drank all of it in greedy drafts and thanked the boy. The water was deliciously cool. A single draft of water had never meant so much, and then he asked for another.

The Chinese again indicated the cushions beside the door and Harry sat, easing himself onto the fat cushions, making a pillow of the smallest. Every joint ached and he bled from a dozen cuts on his arms and legs. He was sick with fatigue and felt nausea coming on. He wondered what the Chinese made of him, or if he made anything, an American blundering out of the swamp in the darkness announcing that he was not armed—not the normal thing in that part of the world. The language barrier was complete, with the additional barriers of nationality and age. Neither man would ever know anything of the other, except for appearances. The Chinese was surely a mandarin venerable of some kind, a merchant or banker or trader of exotic materials. He had beautiful manners. They might as well have been ghosts, each to the other, except that the Chinese had saved Harry's life.

The boy refilled the flask from a jug and handed it to Harry, who drank half. The boy was wide-eyed and careful not to approach too closely. No good could come of familiarity with a stranger. The Chinese said something more to the boy, who dipped a cloth into the jug and handed it, dripping, to Harry. He slowly washed his hands and face and when he was finished sat dumbly while the Chinese stared into the middle distance, expressionless. The boy curled up and went to sleep at the old man's feet. Rain continued to fall in a steady tattoo against the roof. The truck moved cautiously, no more than ten or fifteen miles an hour, pausing often to slide in and out of ruts, the engine laboring. Harry thought the heading was north but it was impossible for him to know for sure. He was beyond caring. The swamp was forever behind him. The slow-motion roll of the truck made him drowsy and he lay back against the cushions and despite his best efforts fell asleep, the sort of heavy dreamless sleep that, when he awoke hours later, seemed itself a dream, something not real, a dream of no-dream. It took him a moment to reconcile where he was and who he was and how he had got there, wherever he was, with the Chinese and the boy. He shuddered, remembering his passage across the log bridge, the vine snake, the spider in its web.

The truck came abruptly to a halt and he heard conversation outside, inches from his head, an argument of some kind. The driver was arguing with someone and then Harry heard taps at the door. He looked with alarm at the Chinese, whose features were impassive. But then the Chinese shook his head and put a finger to his lips. The argument went on for some time, and eventually, with a sigh, the Chinese rose and stepped to the door and rapped sharply, twice, a signal of impatience. The argument, if that was what it was, ended and in a moment the truck's engine came to life and they drove off. The Chinese returned to his throne and sat, his hands again concealed in the sleeves of his ceremonial robe. The boy continued to sleep. Outside, the rain ceased.

Soon they were driving on pavement, at most twenty miles an hour. Now and then the driver honked and Harry imagined bicyclists making way. He could hear other cars, trucks, and motorbikes going in the opposite direction. He had no idea if the time was morning or evening or somewhere in between. He had no idea how much time had lapsed since he stumbled from the jungle swamp and saw headlights. When the truck stopped Harry heard voices all around them, shouting and some laughter. The voices were rough and he feared he had arrived at the base camp after all, delivered to the headquarters of the comrade captain. But that was unlikely. Impossible, really. Perverse. All but inconceivable.

The Chinese muttered something.

I beg your pardon? I don't understand.

The Chinese nodded.

Harry shrugged and gave what he hoped was a smile.

Bonne chance,
the Chinese said pleasantly as the rear door opened, admitting a blade of sharp morning sunlight into the cabin. The driver stood at attention beside the door. Beyond him was a street filled with carts and automobiles, cyclos, people going about their everyday business, uniformed schoolgirls walking in single file. Dogs in the street, a portable kitchen selling soup, a sidewalk café awaiting the lunch trade. Harry hesitated before easing himself to the pavement. He felt lightheaded, so much noise and movement, frightening in its ordinariness. He was disoriented. Bare yellow sunlight hurt his eyes and dust rose in little clouds all around him. Across the street was a cream-colored villa with an American flag hanging limply from a second-floor window. This was USAID House, two guards dozing in wicker chairs at the entrance gate. They looked scarcely older than boys except for the carbines they carried. Harry looked back inside the truck. To the Chinese he made the Buddhist gesture, his hands together, bowing deeply.

He said, I thank you.

The Chinese spoke a few words of acknowledgment.

I wish you good health.
Bonne chance,
Harry said.

The Chinese nodded. He was impatient to go.

And good fortune, Harry added. He realized he did not want to leave the protection of the Chinese, the safety of his cabin. It was a miracle they encountered one another; a few minutes either way and they would have passed in the night. Harry had found a safe harbor, a providential event, and he had never believed in providence. His days in the jungle were still more real than the turmoil of the street in front of his eyes. The jungle was a green wall of silence except for the rustle. He had adapted to it as prisoners were said to adapt to their captors. Starlight at night was a reminder of the past, and the brutal heat of the day promised a perilous future. The jungle, like the high seas, did not seem to be a place where people belonged. Human beings were outsiders. Youth was essential. Old men would never survive such surroundings. The heat was killing, then as now. This little town where boys carried carbines was even more perilous. The clamor of the street was painful to hear.

The driver nudged Harry aside in order to shut and lock the door. And then he was gone and a moment later the Datsun pulled away and was lost in the midday traffic. Harry stood in the sunlight, already beginning to sweat. Traffic was forced to detour around him, people staring as if he were an apparition. Americans naturally carried authority, and Harry had no authority, with his stubbled face and wounded legs, his derelict's clothing. His eyes were haunted. When he approached USAID House the guards leapt to their feet at once, carbines unslung. They told him to leave, and leave quickly. He was not wanted at USAID House, property of the American government. Probably he was drunk or befuddled by some hallucinogen, so popular among the American neocolonials. In that way they resembled the colonials of decades past. That was how they got on from day to day, hallucinogens and whiskey.