Homecoming (15 page)

He allows time for more discussion, then waits until the room is quiet again. ‘We will end this session with a few minutes of chanting.’

Martin is still while they chant. There are different ways of approaching problems, he concedes. But unfamiliarity makes it difficult to seek what has not been tried.
Work from within yourself
The words are not entirely disconcerting. But how? Where is the beginning? Is there an established process that can be followed?
Figure it out for yourself You learn during the journey, not before or after it,
Benson might say. And what could be his response?
But I was brought up in a tradition in which we were told. Persuasively guided.
Martin recalls his childhood days in church with the family. There was hierarchy a set of practices, a communal identity. The chaplain led the way. The sermons gave directions. The biblical stories were intended to be inspirational and exemplary. Martin’s mode of thinking and responding to life’s circumstances had been moulded by the pattern of these rituals. Despite the changes in his personality and a gradual shift away from the church, it was still a tradition that continued to impact on his system of values. If forced into a definition of his identity, Martin would still say that he was a Christian.

Nevertheless, he accepts the invitation to stay for lunch. The food is too spicy for him. Rice, dhal and vegetable curries. He stands in a corner of the dining area, eating spoonfuls of boiled rice with a small quantity of lentils. The other participants eat in small groups, speaking about the morning’s activities and ideas. Jeffrey Benson moves easily among them, talking affably, answering questions, laughing and being sociable. The weight of spirituality is not a burden for him, Martin thinks enviously.

The session after lunch will be on meditation. Martin thinks of Colin again—he was taught by a Buddhist monk
how to meditate, as a way of alleviating stress during the war. ‘Those meetings with the monk were among my most meaningful experiences while I was there,’ Colin told Martin years later. When he was diagnosed with liver cancer, Colin had doubled the time he spent meditating. Martin knew that an irregular habit had now become a part of Colin’s daily life. Morning and evening he spent lengthy periods in silent contemplation, sitting on a chair in the spare room. ‘It feels as if I’m in the presence of a sympathetic companion, someone who calms you down when you need to be consoled.’

Colin said that meditation had helped him cope with his illness, by leading him into an acceptance of the transience of everything. ‘Seeing impermanence prevents me from indulging in self-pity, Martin. I don’t feel that life has cheated me, that I’m being deprived.’ Colin could tell that Martin was genuinely struggling to overcome his scepticism. ‘I don’t feel lonely any more. There’s a sense of oneness with life. I don’t resist its natural flow. Structurally, life can be looked upon very simply if you think about it. A beginning, a middle and an end—the recognisable building blocks of a story. We have no difficulty with the notions of a beginning and middle, but the ending—well, that’s a different matter. But I’ve just stopped viewing death with dread, because it’s a logical inevitability without which the story would be incomplete. So, my ending will be earlier than yours, but that’s not necessarily less satisfying. It’s like saying that a short novel can’t be as pleasing as one that is longer.’

‘Hi! I haven’t met you.’ Jeffrey Benson smiles warmly.

‘Martin Godwin.’

They shake hands. There is the mandatory exchange of
personal information. What Martin really wants to know, though, is how Benson could have so changed his life. And why? Martin is unable to contain himself even though this could be misconstrued as a rude question.

‘Well…ultimately you have to decide on what your needs are, and who you want to be. Whether it’s extremely foolish or very brave, I can’t say. Members of my family have divided opinions! But I do know that I’m content with life and what I do now—despite brief spasms of longing for what I once had.’ He pauses. ‘There is never a perfect outcome to anything that is contentious.’

‘Somehow I don’t seem to be able to reinvent myself,’ Martin says sadly.

‘As what?’ The American looks carefully at him. ‘You have to brace yourself for losses, regardless of what you choose to become. Perhaps you’re trying too hard. It must come naturally, Martin. When you’re being honest with yourself

Martin considers this. ‘I’m not entirely convinced that this kind of honesty is devoid of selfishness.’

‘I wanted
success,’
says Benson. ‘I’m sure it was to compensate for failures. I was a lousy kid. Terrible things happened because I lived on the belief that I was better in every way than everyone. When that fallacy became horribly apparent, I found it difficult. So, one type of arrogance was replaced by another—I dedicated myself entirely to the pursuit of money and reputation. I also married and had two children, but they were side issues in my hunt for success. Then my wife left me. Suddenly the house and the apartment, the cars, stocks and shares, the parties became burdens. It was time to scrape off the mask.’

During the afternoon session Martin pays little attention to what is said. Sitting in a corner, he is able to be pensive. He tussles with issues that have confronted him before. But now he does not panic about residual flaws and repercussions.
There is never a perfect outcome to anything that is contentious.
Silently he repeats the words, drawing strength from the blemishes they imply. He hears drums and chanting. Finally, the resonance of a single drawn-out sound echoes around the room. It reverberates with a sombre note of completion, rising and then fading away, but even more than that it strongly suggests a cleansing.

‘Om…Om…Om, Shanti…Shanti…’

MARTIN IS RELIEVED
that the reception area is deserted. He puts thirty dollars in a money jar on the counter and slips away without having to farewell anyone. The fading light tells him that hours have slipped by.

He drives through the forest, not knowing what to make of the interlude. He had started out cautious and vaguely uncomfortable, but then he’d been shown a mesh of self-evaluation that was ultimately calming and fulfilling.

With mild regrets about not having spent more time at the ashram, he waits at the turnoff that leads to the highway. It is as if he has left behind him an intriguing mystery, unsolved but dotted with clues. A string of vehicles drive past him. He switches on the headlights and turns. The long stretch of highway will lead him back into the city some time after darkness falls.

‘
Om
…’ Martin articulates the sound without inhibition. He
tries to follow Jeffrey Benson’s instruction about breathing slowly and consciously. ‘
Om
…’ This time it is louder and prolonged. There is a resonance somewhere within him, a faint awareness of the beginnings of an alignment in his personality.

He is unfazed by the prospect of the silent house that awaits his return.

In the city he stops at a supermarket for bread, milk, cheese and vegetables. Force of habit makes him wander over to the meat section. The cuts of beef and lamb look fresh and appetising. He scans the choices and then turns the trolley in the opposite direction. He tries to recall the ingredients Maria had used for vegetable noodles. He fumbles in his wallet to find the piece of crumpled paper on which he had hastily jotted down a recipe. He has to venture to unfamiliar sections of the supermarket. It takes a long time to find everything.

It begins to rain when he reaches home. Martin unloads the ute, storing the tools in the shed, before collecting the mail and going inside. There are plenty of work messages on the answering machine. Then he hears a crackling noise and a faint voice in the background, whispering a prompt.

‘Mar—tin? This is…’ He stiffens. ‘What shall I say?’ The other voice whispers again. ‘This is Nora.’ She has to be spoken to again. ‘Can you come and see me? ‘There is a pause. ‘Please.’ Before Martin can react, the call breaks off. There is another click and a heavy-sounding voice makes him recoil.

‘Ah, Ken Davis here, Martin. I was wondering if we could meet for lunch or dinner. Any day would suit me. During the day my number is 95—’ Martin puts down the receiver and switches off the answering machine.

The best choice will be to contact Ken and tell him bluntly that there is no chance of meeting. Martin will have to be firm and sound resolute, even a little angry, otherwise Ken is likely to see the call as a sign of weakness and persist in phoning him. Martin does not now intend to discuss the Vietnam episode, which is evidently bothering Ken. He is deeply suspicious that his complicity in the lie of silence might deepen, no matter how much Ken wants to bury that part of his past, to build a political career on a false image of himself.

He switches to the more important message. Nora. His irritation and surprise at hearing her on the phone have changed to concern. She had sounded frail and vulnerable. It is unlike her to phone him.

He rings the hostel. According to the new attendant who answers, there has been only one unusual incident. The previous day Nora snatched a doll from a little girl who was visiting her grandmother and refused to return it. In the brief seconds of silence Martin is able to imagine the drama that must have quickly unfurled. Timidly he asks if Nora has gone to bed. The attendant volunteers to check. Nora is prone to dozing, sitting on her chair with the television blaring. Martin detects a note of reluctance in the attendant’s voice and changes his mind. Instead he leaves a message, telling Nora that he will be visiting the next day.

As he hangs up Martin remembers Nora’s fondness for children and the times she would stop to talk to them, throw a frisbee or kick a ball during their afternoon walks. And how he had never uttered a word whenever she spoke wistfully about a family life.

He decides against preparing the noodles just for himself. He settles for toasted cheese sandwiches, glumly concluding that the hot wok with the sizzling oil and the pungent smell of frying garlic, the steaming noodles, the crisp vegetables and the sauces belong in a kitchen where there are people eager to interact and share. His purpose in feeding himself is without joy, purely utilitarian.

Suddenly Martin has an impression of Nora standing on the edge of the trees at the property near Trentham as he plants summer vegetables. The image startles him for its sheer recklessness.

On a scrap of paper, he dares to write down a six-figure sum of money he might receive for his house. He is amazed by his audacity. Twice he asked Matthew Close about the price of the Trentham property. He had been certain the estate agent had misquoted the figure the first time. It seemed ridiculously cheap. Martin’s incredulity was evidently misinterpreted and the price was reluctantly brought down by another five thousand dollars. He had savoured that moment. He would brag to Ron about the triumph of it.

So…there will be a significant difference in the valuation of the two places. Even after paying off his debts, he’ll be able to bank a substantial amount of cash. But somehow this prospect doesn’t ease his disquiet.

Martin thinks about the two men whose friendship he has enjoyed, and often taken for granted. Ron is likely to be bitter and will have his say, until Martin reminds him about his own idea of moving somewhere near Canberra. That will quieten him. Then they’ll probably share a few beers, talk
about adjustments. Ron’s self-sufficiency means he’ll be okay. But Colin—with him there’ll be a slower and more subtle reaction. He’ll probably mask his disappointment and wish Martin well. But the conversation will be strained and after Martin leaves, there will be long intense brooding. What depresses Martin is his inability to envisage anything different for his friend, other than a life indoors sustained on ideas, memories and printed words.

Whatever the gains, the losses will be substantial. Martin crumples up the piece of paper and throws it in the bin. Nora may take the news calmly, talk about her life with Sebastian or burst into a string of accusations.

He recalls the last time he saw My-Kim. He had promised he would visit her again after a few weeks. They had even fixed the date and time. She would have waited patiently in the market in front of the watermelon stall until the sun became too hot. He wonders how old her children are now, the kids he had never seen.

The telephone rings. Martin checks his watch. It is late.

‘Martin Godwin.’

‘I called you a couple of days ago and left a message.’

A surge of anger. But Martin does not raise his voice. The picture comes to him though, every detail of the afternoon when Ken and the other three men raped and shot the young Vietnamese girl.

‘I’ve been reading about the Myth of the Cave.’ Colin holds up a copy of the
Republic.
‘Fascinating stuff

The greater the problem, the more Colin seems to adopt a cheerful facade and hide behind abstract ideas. Martin’s eyes are riveted to the electric wheelchair gleaming in its newness, all chrome, leather and rubber. ‘You must come and see my new toy,’ Colin had chuckled over the phone. ‘It’s added a new dimension to my life.’

Martin has no doubt about the seriousness of Colin’s condition now, despite the exaggerated attempt to engage him in a discussion of Plato. ‘You’ve been to the hospital again.’ It isn’t so much a speculation as a statement of fact.

‘It can reverse, turn around sharp corners and move forward at different speeds. This is the deluxe model.’ Colin pats the armrests. ‘Almost as good as having wings.’

Perhaps it could be christened Sebastian, Martin thinks. He examines the contraption closely. As ever, Colin looks
frail, but sitting in the wheelchair makes him appear even more vulnerable and lonely.

‘Are you all right?’ How ironic that Colin should be asking the question. ‘Has something happened to disturb you?’

‘Tell me about the Cave,’ Martin says abruptly. It is a reluctant deviation from what he has envisaged. Daylesford, Ken, all that. He has no inkling how to get back on track. But it’s more necessary to please Colin first.

Colin beams. ‘Well,’ he draws a deep breath, ‘it makes a lot of sense to me. Have you ever wondered why Vietnam continues to be so real for us, and yet most people can’t understand why we don’t get over it? Even my own sister! “An obsession, bordering on the paranoid,” Brenda accused me of once. We feel disconnected from the world we live in. Plato talks about a dark cave with a very long passage connecting it to the outside world. The tunnel is so long that no exterior light is able to get inside. A row of imprisoned men stand facing the cave’s wall with their backs to the tunnel. They are chained in a way that makes them totally immobile. They can see only the wall in front of them. Separating the men from a bright fire behind them is a rampart, built so that it projects the shadows of people carrying loads on their heads. The shadows are the only movement that the prisoners can see on the wall. At the same time the voices of these people, at the back, bounce off the wall and echo in the prisoners’ ears.’ Colin draws breath again. ‘So, Plato contends that the only reality for the prisoners is these shadows and echoes. Should a prisoner be able to free himself and turn around, he’d be totally confused and would probably want to turn back to face the shadows
again. And if he were to be taken to the outside world and then returned to the cave again, his experiences would not be intelligible to the other prisoners, who can only relate to the shadows and echoes…Can you see the point?’

‘Not really,’ Martin says bluntly. He’s thinking that the expression on Ron’s face now would be priceless, and his comments afterwards would probably be equally precious.

‘You and I and others like us are similar to the prisoner exposed to the outside world. What we have known is not possible for the rest of the community to understand. It’s a
mistake
to think that people are indifferent to us. They simply
cannot comprehend
what we went through.’

‘You don’t have to read Plato to know that,’ Martin says dryly.

‘No,’ Colin snaps, ‘but the allegory makes it understandable and consoling.’

‘Maybe we could send out copies of a newsletter to all Vietnam veterans urging them to read Plato.’

‘Now you are being insufferably facetious,’ Colin retorts. ‘Ah well, we all have our limitations.’

Silently Martin offers Colin the volume of Hart Crane’s poetry.

‘What’s this?’

‘I picked it up in a secondhand bookshop. You’ve never mentioned his poetry.’

Eagerly Colin flips to the title page and reads the inscription scrawled in Martin’s handwriting.
We have to learn to accept what we are.
He closes the book and leans back on the wheelchair, runs a hand gently over the frayed front cover. ‘Now will you tell me what’s bothering you?’

THEY MOVED SWIFTLY
through the jungle, keeping distance in mind and the time it would take to return to base. There were several hours of daylight left, but experience had taught them that tropical afternoons sank swiftly into darkness. At night the countryside belonged to the jungles and the Vietcong.

Torching the huts in the village they had just left behind had been a hollow triumph, an act of frustration. They hadn’t caught those who’d attacked their camp. And the confrontation with the old woman had shaken them more than they cared to admit. She hadn’t been intimidated by their bullying and threats. Instead, she made them feel helpless and foolish with her laughter—as though she was amused by a silly boys’ game.

The company of men was making rapid progress, running and walking quickly. They spotted a clearing ahead of them. Ken Davis motioned them all to slow down. In single file they reached the shrubs on the edge of the jungle.

There were hand signals and whispered instructions.

Two small groups of soldiers would flank the village, reconnoitring. Ken, Graham, Chris, Ross and Martin were to move into the village.

The five men waited until the others had disappeared. Ken crouched low and moved forward a few paces. He scanned the territory in front of him with a pair of binoculars. There were peasants working in a paddy field. On a slightly elevated patch of land a farmer guided a bull yoked to a wooden plough. Beyond the straight lines of the rice field there was a village. A dozen huts and animal sheds scattered among jackfruit and mango trees.

Martin was hot and dizzy. His shoulders and lower back ached under the weight of nearly thirty kilos of gear. Besides rations and water bottles, he carried eight loaded magazines in his pouches for the Ml6 rifle, in addition to two bandoliers of ammunition. He was also equipped with M26 hand grenades, smoke grenades, a claymore mine, a can of detonators, a large slab of plastic explosive, ten metres of safety fuse, detonating cord and a box of matches. Martin felt sluggish and vulnerable. He could not prevent himself from imagining an accidental hit striking an ammunition pouch and the chain reaction of explosions disintegrating his body.

He drank greedily from a water bottle and sprinkled his face to soothe the burning sensation. He had been reluctant to move further inland. Even now he could suggest that the chase might be futile…But Ken beckoned them forward to a position behind some shrubs.

‘You wouldn’t think there was a fucking war on,’ Ken sneered. ‘Stay close together. We’ll check every hut. Be careful! The geeks have a habit of springing out of nowhere.’

The peasants ignored the soldiers as they sloshed through the waterlogged field. All villagers were accustomed to foreign men invading their homes. They had been coming for years, speaking in different languages, often angry, occasionally friendly, depending on the information they received. The locals had learned to offer harmless intelligence, appear innocent and give the impression of being cooperative. Entrances to any network of underground tunnels here had remained undetected.

Except for a gaggle of geese and a few emaciated cows roaming the dirt tracks, the village itself appeared deserted.

Martin burst into a hut, pointing his rifle at the dark corners, kicking and poking sacks of rice, breaking clay pots and scattering meagre belongings. Then he stood panting in the middle of the earthen floor, unable to understand the momentary calm.

Tension increased as the search continued.

Angrily Ross Knight kicked a wall of a hut and smashed the butt of his machine gun against it. The entire structure shuddered and then collapsed in a crescendo of noise, scattering geese and briefly attracting the attention of the workers in the fields. They intensified their labour, keeping their heads down, pretending that the violence had no relevance to them.

Ransacking the other huts proved equally useless.

‘What do we have here? Look what I found!’ The note of glee in Chris Simmons’ voice brought the others running.

Behind a cow shed, Chris stood over a young Vietnamese girl. She squatted on her haunches and looked up at him. Next to her lay a bamboo basket laden with vegetables.

‘I think we should head back now,’ Martin said innocently. ‘We don’t want to be in the jungle in the fading light.’ He didn’t acknowledge the leer on Ken’s face or the looks that passed among the men.

Despite the heat, he shivered.

The girl smiled and held up a bunch of spinach as a friendly offering. Graham spat on the ground. Chris grinned.

Ken was scrutinising Martin.

‘We really should be going,’ Martin insisted. ‘There’s nothing here.’

‘Martin, can you keep an eye on
them
—Ken pointed
towards the field—‘while we search behind the other sheds and huts. Thanks, mate.’ He gave Martin a friendly push. ‘We won’t be long.’

Graham and Chris grabbed the girl. They dragged her behind the nearest hut. The look on her face—bewilderment and fear.

No. Let her go. Now!

That was what he should have said.

He should have pointed his gun at Ken. Fired shots in the air—to distract them, and bring the other soldiers running.

Instead he turned and ran.

He stumbled and fell in the muddy wetness of the paddy field. He struggled to his feet and trudged to the sanctuary of the jungle.

Behind a tree, he dropped his gear and slid to the damp earth. ‘It has nothing to do with me,’ he mumbled repeatedly to himself. But he knew even as he uttered the words that this did not hide his cowardice.

He covered his ears and screamed. Then, eyes closed, he lowered his head between raised knees.

Mechanically he recited lines from poems that he remembered.

He could not tell how long he sat reciting on the mat of leaves. ‘Any form of art is ultimately a pain reliever,’ Colin had told him only days earlier. ‘But sometimes we forget that it is a product of life and not its substitute.’

The sting of an insect’s bite startled him. He grabbed the rifle. Headed towards the village.

The crack of a single gunshot stopped him mid-stride. As if the bullet had struck him.

He sank to his knees and raised his rifle, pointed to the sky. One…two…He kept firing until the magazine was empty.

Chris prised the rifle from his hands. They were kind to him, gentle in what they said. Again, suddenly, they were rational men, talking to a fellow soldier unhinged by the stress of war. There was no thought of abandoning him. They were a unit, bonded. There were times when things got out of hand. A war could never be planned in every detail of its execution. Some things were best left unsaid, unexplored.

Other soldiers came running. Ken Davis took them aside. He spoke to them briefly—a villager, he said, had drawn a rifle from a sack of rice. It was self-defence. Graham and Ross spoke up, agreeing. Chris nodded. The bulk of the soldiers broke into a run when ordered to return to base. Now the enemy was the approaching darkness.

The four men lingered behind with Martin. Their mood changed. They encircled him and grabbed his shoulders. ‘Nothing unusual happened today, right?’ Ken whispered fiercely. ‘Mates don’t dob each other in.’

‘You didn’t see anything!’ Graham hissed. ‘You ran away.’

They limped back to camp in the haze of dusk, not together in a group, but spaced out, almost hiding from each other as scattered parts of an entity never to be whole again.

Martin did not sleep that night. He sat on a drum outside the tent, thinking about loss. Everything important had deserted him at a time when he needed his humanity—love, generosity…compassion. All that remained were the pulse and the heartbeat, the throbbing of a mass of life and a primitive desire to be alive.

By morning he had resolved to write a detailed report to the battalion commander, with a view to initiating a disciplinary process.

That day he was conscious of Graham, Ross and Chris hovering at a distance wherever he went. As Martin showered, Ken barged in, fully armed. He was fingering the trigger of his rifle. ‘What you didn’t see can’t be remembered. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? You do want to go home and quickly forget about all this shit.
Everything
here is a mistake. One big fuck-up.’ Just as abruptly he left. Martin trembled under the stream of water.

He found a dozen bottles of beer under his bed. He determined to hand the commander his report personally. Then he imagined the conversation.

How much of it did you see?

They dragged the girl behind a hut.

Did you follow them? See what happened?

No, sir.

Then how can you tell that the men attacked her?

They all went behind the hut.

That is not proof that she was raped.

Later there was a gunshot.

So?

They killed her!

Did you actually see someone shooting her?

No, sir.

Did you see the body?

No, sir.

Did you make an effort to prevent this so-called attack?

The four men would be summoned for their version. A simple story. They would have ironed out all possibilities of contradiction. Martin would figure prominently. The heat had affected him. He was delirious, mumbling incoherently. Foolish. They had suggested that he rest in the jungle. They held no grudges against Martin. He had not been well.

Later, retribution would begin in subtle ways.

‘
ALL THESE YEARS
.’ Colin stares at him, enraged. ‘All this time I had no inkling that you were involved in something like that. It was naïve of me to think that the sordidness of war wouldn’t affect you. But why now? Why tell me about it after so many years? What good can it do?’

‘I didn’t know who to turn to.’ Martin is shamed. ‘I thought of Andrew Gribble, but he isn’t a therapist for the soul. I thought you might understand. You’ve told me often enough about the “cathartic effect of narrating life’s stories”. Well, this was mine! It’s created a whirlwind inside me. I’ve been asking myself questions ever since. They’re stale and exhausted, Colin, and I’m no closer to answering them than I was thirty years ago. It’s time to clean up the mess and begin again. Haven’t I earned the right to find peace?’