Saigon (7 page)

It took several minutes for Joseph to recover his composure and only then was he able to see by the light of the fires that the rear of the communal hut was divided up into tiny stall-like compartments for the pholy’s wives and daughters. They were all empty, but rows of Moi females were seated along the other walls, banging the gongs and drums. All were naked to the waist, and their bodies quivered and trembled rhythmically to the beat of their instruments. The pholy passed the rice alcohol again, and this time Joseph gritted his teeth as the spirit burned a fiery track into his stomach. His eyes watered so fiercely that tears ran down his cheeks, but he fought down the choking sensation and his self- esteem soared. 

They continued drinking from the jar in turn, but gradually the effects of the smoke, the alcohol and the clamor of the gongs made his senses swim. Only dimly, when the jar began to return to him more rapidly, did he realize he had been left alone with the mute pholy, and by then the women had begun striking their gongs and drums in a faster rhythm. One of them, her naked upper body glowing like bronze in the flickering firelight, advanced and leaned down beside him to replenish the alcohol jar. Her bare flesh came close enough to his face for him to inhale its pungent female odor and he peered around desperately into the gloom for some sign of his French companion. He thought he heard him chuckle from the shadows once, but his eyes could not penetrate the gloom. 

When the woman standing over him returned to her place, Joseph rose to his feet and made hi-s way unsteadily towards the back of the hut, calling Paul by name. But no response came from the darkness, and after swaying precariously back and forth for a minute or two, his feet slipped on the twisting bamboo rods and he fell to his knees. He felt unseen hands help him into one of the partitioned stalls and there he stretched out and closed his stinging eyes. His head was swimming and he began to drift into a drunken doze but the sense of a new presence in the stall made him open his eyes again. In the reflected light of the lire he saw the silhouette of an entirely naked Moi female kneeling at his side, and as he watched, her hands began working rhythmically at some unseen task. Was she, he wondered, trying to make another fire in the fashion of the ancients? He heard the tin bracelets jangling on her wrists and from time to time she bent her head close over her lists as though blowing on reluctant embers; but it was some time before he realized that he, too, was naked, and that the hands of the Moi girl were stroking and chafing his own body. 

He followed all her movements with dreamlike detachment; an all engulfing numbness seemed to have removed every trace of feeling from him. All the time her face remained in shadow, the attitude of her head intent and concentrated; no eyes ever sought his face. Only gradually did he become conscious of a commotion in the darkness beside him. Then to his astonishment he heard the voice of the French boy, grunting like an animal in distress. A moment later he heard his laugh, a low guttural sound released from deep in the throat. 

“Ça Va, Joseph, heh? Ça marche bien?” The words spoken softly close to the American boy’s ear made him start. He heard what sounded like a stifled cry of pain from a shriller voice; then the commotion beside him resumed once more. 

Joseph tried to rise, but the female crouching over him leaned closer and shifted her body clumsily onto his. It was then that he sensed her extreme youth; the twin globes of her dark breasts with their sharp, neat points were hard and solid, her skin, a deep indigo in the near-blackness, was velvet-smooth, entirely without hair. To the feral reek of buffalo, horse and fowl and the sour remains of human nourishment was added suddenly a smoky, faintly ammoniac odor of female flesh, entirely new to him. The bracelets on her ankles and wrists danced arid rattled again more urgently and her pungent breath began blowing softly against his face as she spread her thighs and forced her smooth dark belly downward again his own. 

The sublime memory of that first descent into the moist, mossy darkness of the jungle earlier in the day blazed again suddenly in his mind’s eye for a moment, but then his numbness left him in a furious rush and a piercing surge of purity and sweetness flashed through the rank darkness of the hut. He cried aloud in agitation and tried to twist free, but the sturdy thighs of the anonymous Moi girl held him fast. Only when his struggling became more violent did she fall from him, and then with frantic hands he untangled himself from her and rose to crouch against the wall, his eyes closed, his breath rasping in his throat. 

From the darkness beside him came a sudden wild shout of laughter. It rose and fell in time with the drums and gongs which continued to fill the hut with their relentless clamor. After a moment, Joseph Sherman, his fifteen-year-old heart pumping with a sudden new elation, began laughing uproariously too. 

“Okay, gentlemen, today we hunt buffalo!” Senator Nathaniel Sherman stood in the middle of the camp clearing, his booted feet astride, clutching a hand-crafted Purdey .450 double-barreled rifle in one fist. He had jammed a solar topee squarely on his head and a broad confident grin creased his face. “This beauty here or its .375 twin will be firing hard-nosed bullets at any Annamese buffalo who comes within sniffing range of the Sherman family.” He slapped his rifle butt against his leather boot and nodded to Chuck Sherman, who held a similar rifle easily in the crook of his arm. “And in the rare event that I should miss, young Mister Deadeye here will be raring to let fly with a deadly Holland and Holland cannon of the same caliber. Right, Chuck?” 

His elder son grinned easily back at him. “Sure thing, Dad.” 

“In the unlikely event of us both firing wide — and that’s about a million-to-one chance, I’d say — young Joseph here with his Winchester peashooter will be a big favorite to pick off the stragglers. Right, young Joey?” 

Joseph looked up with a start and nodded vigorously although he hadn’t heard a word his father had said. He was standing on the edge of the group that included Flavia Sherman, Jacques and Paul Devraux and half-a-dozen Moi trackers, but his mind was only half on the hunt to come. Since waking that morning his thoughts had returned constantly to the encounter with the unknown Moi girl, and every time he recalled what had happened he felt a surge of exhilaration course through him. The fetid stench of the darkened hut, the mind-dizzying rice alcohol, even Paul’s mocking laughter had all fused into a delicious composite memory now. He had really done it! How many young fellows of fifteen in Charles County, Virginia, could say that? Whenever he thought of that first blind delicious sensation, as he had a hundred times that morning, he had to close his eyes. It had hardly seemed possible before: but now he knew for sure. He’d done it. And he could do it again! 

is, if he’s got over his ‘ternum’ sickness.” 

The ripple of laughter that greeted his father’s jocular reference to the previous night’s adventure broke into his train of thought. He looked up guiltily to find his mother, his brother and Paul smiling broadly at him. There had been plenty of leg-pulling already about his return to the camp the previous evening slightly the worse for wear from the ternum. Paul had laughingly explained that they had taken one small pull only at the bamboo rod, purely out of courtesy to the Moi chief, but it had gone straight to Joseph’s head. He had distracted attention from the incident by crediting Joseph with the killing of the fawn and therefore the capture of the expedition’s first prize, since the senator had decided they should collect a group of muntjac. Joseph himself had attracted more laughter by excusing himself before dinner and going directly to His cot; there he had fallen immediately into a deep, peaceful sleep that lasted until the dawn cries of the jungle birds roused him, and when he rose he had felt clear-headed and exultant. 

Jacques Devraux had ridden out to the road before it was light with a spare horse to meet the car that brought Flavia Sherman from Saigon. They had arrived back at camp before breakfast and when he greeted his mother, Joseph had wondered with a sudden stab of alarm if she could tell. He had blushed at the thought and turned quickly away, but as time passed he found that he desperately wanted to share his secret with her; until then he’d always confided in her unhesitatingly and it seemed strange that something should now make him hold back. But perhaps, he thought to himself, adults could detect such things without being told. Just by looking maybe they could pick out those who had, or hadn’t. He noticed in himself a definite tendency to swagger as he walked around the camp that morning and he had tried consciously to suppress it. But at least if his mother could tell, he reflected, she had not made any sign. 

In fact Flavia Sherman had paid less attention than usual to her two sons since her arrival at the camp. The dawn ride alone with Jacques Devraux through the breathtaking natural beauty of the tropical forest had first heightened the pleasurable feeling of pent-up excitement that had been growing within her in recent days, then eventually left her feeling tense and on edge. Since the evening of the reception at the governor’s palais when she had turned her head to find him looking at her, the memory of the naked desire she had seen in Jacques Devraux’s eyes had smoldered in her mind. Because she knew he would be meeting her at the road alone, she had risen very early and bathed and scented herself with special care in her suite at the Continental Palace that morning. She had dressed her hair with a dark, crocheted net beneath her sun helmet and put on new, snug-fitting breeches and a tailored bush shirt that flattered her slender, shapely figure. 

When she stepped from the car he had greeted her with careful formality and his manner had remained stiff and impersonal as they began the ride; but she sensed a tension in him too and knew intuitively that it was not a lack of interest that kept his gaze averted from her. Inside her she had felt a little sense of triumph begin to grow as they rode side by side through the cool bright jungle glades; sometimes she had allowed her horse to drift towards his on the narrow trail, perhaps hoping he might give voice to the passion his expression had seemed to promise at the palais. But as they made their way towards the camp he had spoken only to point Out signs of bird and animal life that bethought might interest her; in the mud at the riverside, he showed her the pug mark of a tiger that had drunk there the previous evening and at another point on the trail he drew her attention to torn-up grasses and leafless trees that marked the passing of a herd of elephant. Her eyes sparkled afresh at each new revelation and she hung on his every word, but his lean face remained expressionless, his eyes unchangingly distant. 

“My sons told me you lost your wife in a swimming accident four years ago, Monsieur Devraux,” she had said at last, speaking quietly in French. “I was very sorry to hear that.” 

She had chosen her words with calculation in an attempt to break the impersonal barrier the Frenchman seemed determined to keep between them. But if her words had any effect on him, he hadn’t revealed it; instead he had continued to avoid her glance, riding at her side with his features frozen in the same expressionless mask. 

“Do you still feel her absence keenly?” she had asked, determined to extract a response of some kind. 

“I’ve chosen to keep myself to myself!” 

The vehemence of his reply had taken her aback, and suddenly she heard the throb of her own heartbeat loud in her ears. A flush of embarrassment rose to her cheeks at her own uncharacteristic forwardness and she lapsed into an unhappy silence, which to her surprise the Frenchman broke a minute later. 

“My work fills all my time. Colonial life is very predictable. French colons love only to gossip. I prefer to hunt — and keep myself apart.” He had spoken his words with his habitual grim- faced detachment and still didn’t turn to look at her. 

“When I first saw you at the governor’s reception. I thought you seemed.. unhappy.” 

He had abruptly spurred ahead of her then without replying, and they had ridden without speaking further for a long while. The coldness of his manner had convinced her they wouldn’t speak again, but in the middle of a clearing he had reined in his horse and turned to wait for her. He had looked directly into her face for the first time, and she saw his dark eyes blaze with a mixture of anger and pain. “We took our car on a river ferry during a monsoon storm. My wife was reluctant to go, but I had crossed often before in bad weather. The ferry sank, I dived many times. Once I felt my hand touch her sleeve on the river bottom — but I couldn’t find her.” The muscles in his face had flexed tight as he spoke and his breathing had become uneven. “Now perhaps you will be kind enough, Madame Sherman, to ask me no more questions.” 

He had ridden on ahead again, ignoring her apology, and remained in front until they reached the camp. Around the huts he had avoided all contact with her and although they stood side by side listening to her husband, he did nothing to acknowledge her existence. 

On the question of conduct, who does what, who goes where in the jungle,” the senator was saying, “the word of Monsieur Jacques Devraux will be law. He knows the terrain and the animals. But I don’t need to remind you that we’re here to collect for display groups in the Sherman Museum. So it will be me who decides who shoots what, and when.” The senator smiled broadly at all of them and lifted his hand towards the Frenchman, gesturing for him to lead the way. “If that’s clearly understood, let’s make a start, Monsieur Devraux.” 

They followed him out of the camp in single file and headed along the riverbank, making for watering places where buffalo liked to wallow in the heat of the day. Although they moved stealthily on Devraux’s instructions, great flocks of black parrots rose from the tops of the trees as they passed below, darkening the sky and filling the air with the sustained applause of their flapping wings. Armies of monkeys marching through the jungle roof on swinging arms took fright, too, when they saw the little file of humans and they fled chattering through the upper branches almost as speedily as the birds. Every few minutes Jacques Devraux sent his trackers up the taller trees to scan the plain on the other side of the river, but each time they descended shaking their heads. None of the watering places they visited showed any signs of fresh tracks, and no animals were sighted in the first. hour. 

As the sun rose higher in the pale sky the temperature climbed steeply and patches of perspiration began to appear on the backs of the men’s shirts. The jungle birds fell silent in the growing heat, and Jacques Devraux eventually called a halt and distributed flasks of cold tea that had been carried in satchels by the Moi bearers. 

“I will go quickly ahead on my own to search for new tracks, senator,” he said brusquely. “The animals don’t seem to be heading for their usual haunts today.” 

A few minutes after they started again a movement out on the plain caught Nathaniel Sherman’s eye. He motioned his family and Paul to halt and pointed silently across the river to a herd of muntjac grazing in the long grass. “Okay, Joseph, here’s your big chance,” he said in a hushed whisper. “Since we’re not being led to any buffalo, take one of those muntjac does. Then that little fawn you shot last night won’t feel lonely in the museum.” 

Joseph hesitated for a moment then sank to his knees. Pulling his rifle to his shoulder he squinted along the barrel, aiming at the broadest part of the deer’s neck. He tightened his finger on the trigger but again the fragile, defenseless beauty of the deer prevented him from firing and he lowered his rifle immediately. “I can’t shoot it, Daddy — even for our museum. It looks too helpless.” He stood up and let his rifle butt slip to the ground. “And you might as well know that it was Paul who shot the fawn last night too, not me.” 

His father looked at him with a disappointed expression, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Okay, Chuck,” he said at last in a resigned voice, “show Momma’s boy here how to shoot muntjac!” 

Chuck fired from a standing position, and the deer sprang into the air then fell and lay still. 

“Nice going, son,” said the senator quietly and sent one of the Moi trackers across the river to retrieve the fallen doe. 

Joseph hung back walking slowly as the others moved on again, and his mother, noticing his discomfited expression, waited for him at the side of the track. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Joseph, in not wanting to kill a beautiful animal,” she said softly. “I’m really rather proud of you.” 

He smiled back at his mother in gratitude, but when she made to put a consoling arm around his shoulders he moved aside. “We’d better catch up with the others, hadn’t we?” he said quickly, gesturing along the track. Inside his head he could still hear his father’s slighting reference to a “Momma’s boy” and because this rankled more than his inability to shoot the doe, he hurried on ahead of her in case his father should turn and see them close together. 

As Joseph caught up with the senator and Chuck, Jacques Devraux appeared on the track ahead, walking quickly back towards them. “What was that shot?” he asked in a sharp tone of reproof. 

“Since we weren’t being shown any buffalo,” replied the senator, smiling easily, “we bagged a muntjac that I spotted on the plain — for one of our smaller groups.” 

“Your shot will make sure we see no big game for at least another hour,” countered the Frenchman tersely. “It’s better not to shoot smaller animals until you have the bigger prizes you seek. We’ll have to cross to the other side of the plain now to find anything.” 

He led them to a dugout canoe half a mile downstream, and they poled slowly across to the other bank. There the grass was almost chest-high, and by the time they reached the far side of the plain the clothes of all of them were drenched in perspiration. While they rested, Devraux again sent his trackers to climb lookout trees. 

Joseph found he couldn’t sit still and he rose to pace back and forth at a distance from the others. The incident with the muntjac doe had distracted him for a while but gradually the sense of exultation in his deeds of the previous evening returned and blotted everything else from his mind. While crossing the grassy plain, the intoxicating heat of the sun had made him a little light-headed, and intense feelings of tenderness for the unknown Moi girl had begun to sweep through him. He realized with a stab of regret he had never once seen her face clearly, and if he went back to seek her out he wouldn’t know her for sure among the many daughters of the chief. While watching the Moi trackers scurrying up the trees, he began to daydream of how he would return alone to compete with all the youths of her village in feats of strength and athleticism. There would be running races, mock duels with spears and shields, tree-climbing contests. . . . He would win them all, and by demonstrating his great prowess he would force the anonymous Moi princess to step forward and offer him her hand....