The Best of Lucius Shepard (39 page)

“Why?”
I asked.

“We
want your help in conducting an experiment.”

I
waited for him to continue.

“Did
you notice,” he said, “that after Stoner identified you, his image grew
sharper?”

I
nodded.

“We’re
interested in observing the two of you in close proximity. His reaction to you
was unique.”

“You
mean go in there?” I pointed to the village. “You said it was dangerous.”

“Other
subjects have entered the fields and shown no ill effects. But Stoner was not
as intrigued by them as he was with you.” Tuu brushed a lock of hair back from
his forehead. “We have no idea of Stoner’s capabilities, Mr. Puleo. It
is
a
risk. But since you served in the Army, I assume you are accustomed to risk.”

I
let him try to persuade me—the longer I held out, the stronger my bargaining
position—but I had already decided to accept the offer. Though I wasn’t eager
to feel that emptiness again, I had convinced myself that it had been a product
of nerves and an overactive imagination; now that I had confronted Stoner, I
believed I would be able to control my reactions. Tim said that he would have
the others driven back to Saigon, but I balked at that. I was not sufficiently
secure to savor the prospect of being alone among the gooks, and I told Tuu I
wanted Fierman and Witcover to stay. Why Witcover? At the time I might have
said it was because he and Fierman were the only two of my colleagues whom I
knew; but in retrospect, I think I may have anticipated the need for a whipping
boy.

*
* * *

We were quartered in a house at
the eastern edge of the village, one that the fields did not enclose. Three
cots were set up inside, along with a table and chairs; the yellow walls were
brocaded with mildew, and weeds grew sideways from chinks in the concrete
blocks. Light was provided by an oil lamp that—as darkness fell—sent an
inconstant glow lapping over the walls, making it appear that the room was
filled with dirty orange water.

After
dinner Fierman produced a bottle of whiskey—his briefcase contained three
more—and a deck of cards, and we sat down to while away the evening. The one
game we all knew was Hearts, and we each played according to the dictates of
our personalities. Fierman became quickly drunk and attempted to Shoot the Moon
on every hand, no matter how bad his cards; he seemed to be asking fate to pity
a fool. I paid little attention to the game, my ears tuned to the night sounds,
half expecting to hear the sputter of small-arms fire, the rumor of some
ghostly engagement; it was by dint of luck alone that I maintained second
place. Witcover played conservatively, building his score through our mistakes,
and though we were only betting a nickel a point, to watch him sweat out every
trick you would have thought a fortune hung in the balance; he chortled over
our pitiful fuckups, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in delight, and
whistled as he totaled up his winnings. The self-importance he derived from
winning fouled the atmosphere, and the room acquired the stateness of a cell
where we had been incarcerated for years. Finally, after a particularly
childish display of glee, I pushed back my chair and stood.

“Where
you going?” asked Witcover. “Let’s play.”

“No,
thanks,” I said.

“Christ!”
He picked up the discards and muttered something about sore losers.

“It’s
not that,” I told him. “I’m worried if you win another hand, you’re gonna come
all over the fuckin’ table. I don’t wanna watch.”

Fierman
snorted laughter.

Witcover
shot me an aggrieved look. “What’s with you, man? You been on my case ever
since the hotel.”

I
shrugged and headed for the door.

“Asshole,”
he said half under his breath.

“What?”
An angry flush numbed my face as I turned back.

He
tried to project an expression of manly belligerence, but his eyes darted from
side to side.

“Asshole?”
I said. “Is that right?” I took a step toward him.

Fierman
scrambled up, knocking over his chair, and began pushing me away. “C’mon,” he
said. “It’s not worth it. Chill out.” His boozy sincerity acted to diminish my
anger, and I let him urge me out the door.

The
night was moonless, with a few stars showing low on the horizon; the spiky
crowns of the palms ringing the village were silhouettes pinned onto a lesser
blackness. It was so humid, it felt like you could spoon in the air. I crossed
the dirt road, found a patch of grass near the tin-roofed building, and sat
down. The door to the building was cracked, spilling a diagonal of white
radiance onto the ground, and I had the notion that there was no machine
inside, only a mystic boil of whiteness emanating from Tuu’s silky hair. A
couple of soldiers walked past and nodded to me; they paused a few feet farther
along to light cigarettes, which proceeded to brighten and fade with the
regularity of tiny beacons.

Crickets
sawed, frogs chirred, and listening to them, smelling the odor of sweet rot
from the jungle, I thought about a similar night when I’d been stationed at
Phnoc Vinh, about a party we’d had with a company of artillery. There had been
a barbecue pit and iced beer and our CO had given special permission for whores
to come on the base. It had been a great party; in fact, those days at Phnoc
Vinh had been the best time of the war for me. The artillery company had had
this terrific cook, and on movie nights he’d make doughnuts. Jesus, I’d loved
those doughnuts! They’d tasted like home, like peace. I’d kick back and munch a
doughnut and watch the bullshit movie, and it was almost like being in my own
living room, watching the tube. Trouble was, Phnoc Vinh had softened me up, and
after three weeks, when we’d been airlifted to Quan Loi, which was constantly
under mortar and rocket fire, I’d nearly gotten my ass blown off.

Footsteps
behind me. Startled, I turned and saw what looked to be a disembodied white
shirt floating toward me. I came to one knee, convinced for the moment that
some other ghost had been lured to the machine; but a second later a complete
figure emerged from the dark: Tuu. Without a word, he sat cross-legged beside
me. He was smoking a cigarette.. .or so I thought until I caught a whiff of
marijuana. He took a deep drag, the coal illuminating his placid features, and
offered me the joint. I hesitated, not wanting to be pals; but tempted by the
smell, I accepted it, biting back a smartass remark about Marxist
permissiveness. It was good shit. I could feel the smoke twisting through me,
finding out all my hollow places. I handed it back, but he made a gesture of
warding it off, and after a brief silence he said, “What do you think about all
this, Mr. Puleo?”

“About
Stoner?”

“Yes.”

“I
think”—I jetted smoke from my nostrils—”it’s crap that you’ve got him penned up
in that astral tiger cage.”

“Had
this discovery been made in the United States,” he said, “the circumstances
would be no different. Humane considerations—if, indeed, they apply—would have
low priority.”

“Maybe,”
I said. “It’s still crap.”

“Why?
Do you believe Stoner is unhappy?”

“Don’t
you?” I had another hit. It was very good shit. The ground seemed to have a
pulse. “Ghosts are by nature unhappy.”

“Then
you know what a ghost is?”

“Not
hardly. But I figure unhappy’s part of it.” The roach was getting too hot; I
took a final hit and flipped it away. “How ‘bout you? You believe that garbage
you preached this mornin’?”

His
laugh was soft and cultivated. “That was a press release. However, my actual
opinion is neither less absurd-sounding nor more verifiable.”

“And
what’s that?”

He
plucked a blade of grass, twiddled it. “I believe a ghost is a quality that
dies in a man long before he experiences physical death. Something that has
grown acclimated to death and thus survives the body. It might be love or an
ambition. An element of character.... Anything.” He regarded me with his lips
pursed. “I have such a ghost within me. As do you, Mr. Puleo. My ghost senses
yours.”

The
theory was as harebrained as his others, but I wasn’t able to deny it. I knew
he was partly right, that a moral filament had snapped inside me during the war
and since that time I had lacked the ingredient necessary to the development of
a generous soul. Now it seemed that I could feel that lack as a restless
presence straining against my flesh. The sawing of the crickets intensified,
and I had a rush of paranoia, wondering if Tuu was fucking with my head. Then,
moods shifting at the chemical mercies of the dope, my paranoia eroded and Tuu
snapped into focus for me...or at least his ghost did. He had, I recalled,
written poetry prior to the war, and I thought I saw the features of that lost
poet melting up from his face: a dreamy fellow given to watching petals fall
and contemplating the moon’s reflection. I closed my eyes, trying to get a
grip. This was the best dope I’d ever smoked. Commie Pink, pure buds of the
revolution.

“Are
you worried about tomorrow?” Tuu asked.

“Should
I be?”

“I
can only tell you what I did before—no one has been harmed.”

“What
happened during those other experiments?” I asked.

“Very
little, really. Stoner approached each subject, spoke to them. Then he lost
interest and wandered off.”

“Spoke
to them? Could they hear him?”

“Faintly.
However, considering his reaction to you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you could
hear him quite well.”

I
wasn’t thrilled by that prospect. Having to look at Stoner was bad enough. I
thought about the eerie shit he might say: admonitory pronouncements, sad
questions, windy vowels gusting from his strange depths. Tuu said something and
had to repeat it to snap me out of my reverie. He asked how it felt to be back
in Vietnam, and without forethought, I said it wasn’t a problem.

“And
the first time you were here,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Was that a
problem?”

“What
are you gettin’ at?”

“I
noticed in your records that you were awarded a Silver Star.”

“Yeah?”

“You
must have been a good soldier. I wondered if you might not have found a calling
in war.”

“If
you’re askin’ what I think about the war,” I said, getting pissed, “I don’t make
judgments about it. It was a torment for me, nothing more. Its geopolitical
consequences, cultural effects, they’re irrelevant to me... maybe they’re
ultimately irrelevant. Though I doubt you’d agree.”

“We
may agree more than you suspect.” He sighed pensively. “For both of us,
apparently, the war was a passion. In your case, an agonizing one. In mine,
while there was also agony, it was essentially a love affair with revolution,
with the idea of revolution. And as with all great passions, what was most
alluring was not the object of passion but the new depth of my own feelings.
Thus I was blind to the realities underlying it. Now”—he waved at the sky, the
trees—”now I inhabit those realities and I am not as much in love as once I
was. Yet no matter how extreme my disillusionment, the passion continues. I
want it to continue. I need the significance with which it imbues my past
actions.” He studied me. “Isn’t that how it is for you? You say war was a
torment, but don’t you find those days empowering?”

Just
as when he had offered me the joint, I realized that I didn’t want this sort of
peaceful intimacy with him; I preferred him to be my inscrutable enemy. Maybe
he was right, maybe—like him—I needed this passion to continue in order to give
significance to my past. Whatever, I felt vulnerable to him, to my perception
of his humanity. “Good night,” I said, getting to my feet. My ass was numb from
sitting and soaked with dew.

He
gazed up at me, unreadable, and fingered something from his shirt pocket. Another
joint. He lit up, exhaling a billow of smoke. “Good night,” he said coldly.