Chapter 3 Chapter two

1 When Pyle came to the square in front of the Continental Hotel that morning, I had seen enough of my fellow American journalists.The guys were big, rowdy, boyish in middle age, with a biting sarcasm when it came to the French.In fact, in the end, the war was fought by the French.Every once in a while, when a battle is successfully concluded and casualties are removed from the battlefield, these American journalists are invited to Hanoi, where they take a nearly four-hour flight to listen to a speech from the French commander. Speech, then put up overnight in a press camp (they often boasted that the bartenders in the press camp were the best in Indochina), and then flew to the battlefield where the war had just been fought, at 3,000 ft. (heavy machine guns can't hit 3,000 ft.), and back to the Continental Hotel in Saigon, safe and rambunctious, like a school excursion.

Pyle was so quiet and seemed unassuming that I sometimes had to lean forward the day we first met to hear what he was saying.And he's always serious.Several times, he seemed to become taciturn when he heard the noise of the American journalists in the balcony—everyone thought it was safer to be attacked by grenades in the balcony.But he didn't criticize anyone. "Have you ever read York Harding?" he asked. "No. No, probably not. What did he write?" He stared at a milk house across the street and said dreamily, "That shop is really like a soda cooler." I thought to myself, in such a strange place, he chose this one to observe uniquely, I don't know How much he missed his hometown in his heart.But when I first came here, I was walking on the Rue Catina, and I noticed the shop displaying Gailland perfume first, thinking that after all, Europe is only a thirty-hour flight away from here. comfort myself?He looked reluctantly away from the dairy, and said, "York has written a book called 'The Progress of Red China'. It's a brilliant book."

"I haven't read the book. Do you know him?" He nodded seriously, then fell silent.After a while he spoke again to correct the impression he had made on me. "I don't know him well," he said. "I've only met him maybe twice." I like the way he's doing it—thinking he knows the guy—what's his name? —York Harding—that was a bit of a boast, I later learned that he had great respect for what he called serious writers, and what he called serious writers did not include novelists who did not write on what he called contemporary themes , poet and dramatist.Even so, we are better off reading straightforward stuff, like those written by Yorke.

I said, "You know, if you live in a place for a long time, you stop reading about that place." "Of course, I always like to know what the people here have to say," he replied cautiously. "And then check it with what York's book says?" "Yes." Perhaps he sensed my sarcasm, for he resumed with his usual politeness, "if you had the time to give me an overview of what's going on here, I'd love it. You know, York was here more than two years ago." I like his devotion to Harding — whoever Harding is.Pyle's attitude was very different from that of journalists who like to belittle others and make half-baked sarcasm.I said, "One more beer, and I'll give you an overview of what's going on here."

He looked at me intently, like a good student who has won an award.I first explained to him the situation in the north.In the area around Tokyo, the French were holding the Red River Delta, which included Hanoi and the only port in the north, Haiphong.That area is the area that produces most of the rice, and every year when the harvest season comes, the battle for rice begins. "This is the case in the North," I said. "The French, those poor fellows, might hold out in that area if the Chinese don't help the Vietminh. A war of jungles, mountains, and swamps, you walk through rice fields, and the water is up to your shoulders , the enemy simply couldn't see, they buried their weapons and changed into peasant clothes. But in the humidity of Hanoi, you can rot comfortably. They don't drop bombs there. God knows this Why. You could call it a regular war."

"And what about the south side?" "The French control the arteries until seven o'clock in the evening: after seven they only control the watchtowers and the city--and only a part of it. That's not to say you're safe, or the Grand Hotel There is no need to install iron bars in front of the door." All of this, I don't know how many times I have explained it before.I was like a record that was played constantly for newcomers - visiting British MPs, new British ministers, etc.Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I say, "Take the case of the Gaotai Sect." Or the Hoa Hao Sect or the Hirakawa Sect, these are all private armies that work for whoever pays, or For whom to avenge.The Stranger finds the gang lively and amusing, but there is nothing lively and amusing about intrigue.

"Now," I said, "there is another Thai general. He was the chief of staff of the Cao Dai army, but he has taken his troops up the mountain to fight against two sides, the French, the Communists..." "York," said Pyle, "writes that what the East needs is a third force." Maybe I should have seen that look of wild excitement, that quick response to a word, and the accuracy of those numbers. Magical voices: "Fifth Column", "Third Force", "Seventh Day".I might have saved us all a lot of trouble, maybe even saved Pyle, had I known then what that indomitable young man was thinking.But I didn't stay any longer, and leaving him to ponder the dry substance of the background of the situation, I went on my daily walk along the Rue Catina.Pyle had to learn for himself the real background that was as inescapable as a particular smell: the golden color in the rice fields in the setting sun: the fisherman's frail egret flying over the field like a mosquito, the old monk's cup on his altar A cup of tea, his bed and his advertising calendar, his bucket and broken cups, his worn out clothes that he wore all his life, hanging by his chair after washing, the female workers who came to repair the road after the mine exploded on the road Wearing a clamshell hat, you can see the golden yellow and green and bright clothes everywhere in the south, while the north is full of earthy yellow and black clothes, as well as the hostile mountains and the drone of the planes around.When I first came here, I was always counting the days of my business trip, like a student counting how many days off I have left. I think I still couldn't forget London, Bloomsbury Square and taking the No. 73 bus. Pass the promenade of Euston Street, and don't forget the spring scenery on Torrington Square seen on the bus.Now, the orchids in the square garden should already be in bloom, but I don't think it matters.As long as I have the first news reports every day, it may be a car tire blown out, or it may be a grenade explosion, as long as I see those women in silk trousers walking gracefully in the sultry noon, I want Feng'er, my The family has moved 8,000 miles and is no longer in England.

I turned the corner at the French High Commission, where soldiers from the "Foreign Legion" in white caps and bright red epaulettes stood guard.I walked past the cathedral door and walked back along the wall of the Vietnamese Security Bureau.That wall is so gloomy that it seems to make you smell urine and think about injustice.But it's also part of home, like those dark hallways in tall buildings you didn't dare go up as a child.New pornography was out again on the bookstalls near the pier—Taboo and Visions, sailors drinking beer on the pavement, good targets for improvised bombs.I thought of Feng Er, who was haggling with the fish seller on the third street on the left at this time, and then went to the dairy to buy milk and biscuits (I always knew her whereabouts in those days).By this time, of course, Pyle was no longer on my mind.I didn't even mention him to Feng Er when we sat down to lunch in our room in Rue Catina.Fenger wore her most beautiful flowered silk cheongsam that day, because it was the second anniversary of our first meeting at Embankment World

2 When we woke up the next morning, none of us had mentioned him.Before I woke up, Feng'er had already got up and arranged tea.One does not envy the dead.It seemed easy to me this morning to resume our old cohabitation. "Are you staying here tonight?" I asked Fenger as casually as I could over breakfast croissants. "I have to get my suitcase." "The police might be over there," I said. "Better let me go with you." Those were the closest we got to mentioning Pyle in our conversation that day. Pyle had a room in a new villa near Durand Strand, not far from a high street.The French like to subdivide those avenues to commemorate their generals - so the Rue de Gaulle becomes the Rue Leclerc after the third side street, and sooner or later it may suddenly become the Rue de la Terre .Someone must be flying in from Europe, because every twenty yards along the road leading to the High Commissioner's house a policeman stands guard facing the pavement.

On the gravel drive to Pyle's apartment, several motorcycles were parked.A Vietnamese policeman checked my press credentials.He wouldn't let Feng'er into the house, so I went in, trying to negotiate with a French officer.In Pyle's bathroom, Vigot was washing his hands with Pyle's soap and drying his hands on Pyle's towel.There was a smear of oil on the sleeve of the tropical uniform he was wearing—Pyle's oil, perhaps?I think. "Any news?" I asked. "We found his car parked in the garage. Out of gas. He must have been out in a tricycle last night—or else in someone else's car. Maybe the gas was drained."

"He might even be walking," I said. "You know the American way." "Your car burned down, didn't it?" he went on thoughtfully. "Haven't you bought a new car yet?" "No." "It doesn't matter at all." "Size." "What do you think?" he asked. "That's too much," I said. "please tell me." "Oh, he was probably killed by the Viet Minh. They assassinated many people in Saigon. His body was found in the river next to the bridge to Dakota - after your police withdraw at night, the area It became the Viet Minh area. Maybe he was killed by the Vietnam Security Bureau - they kill casually, who doesn't know. Maybe they didn't like some of the friends he made. Maybe he was killed by the Cao Dai soldiers, Because he knew General Tay." "Does he know him?" "They said he knew each other. Maybe he was killed by General Tai, because he had contacts with the Cao Dai sect. Maybe he was killed by the He Hao sect, because he seduced their general's concubine. Maybe it was just someone's conspiracy. Money kills." "Maybe it was a simple case of jealousy," Vigot said. "Or maybe it was the French Security Service," I went on, "because they don't like the people he's associated with. Are you really looking for the man who killed him?" "No," Vigot said. "I'm just making a report, that's all. As long as it's an act of war—well, thousands and thousands of people are killed every year." "You could leave me out," I said. "I'm not involved. Not involved," I said again.This has long been one of my creeds.That's the way it is in the world, let them fight, let them love, let them kill, and I'm not in it.Those of my fellow journalists call themselves correspondents, a title I prefer to call journalists.I only write what I see: I never act - even expressing an opinion is an action. "What are you doing here?" "I'm here to get Feng'er's things. Your police won't let her in." "Okay, let's find out." "Thank you, Vigot." Pyle has two rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom.We go into the bedroom.I knew where Fenger would keep her box—under the bed.Together we dragged out the box in which were her picture books.I took out her change of clothes from the closet, her two beautiful cheongsams and her pair of trousers You get the feeling that the clothes just hang there for a few hours and don't belong there.They flew into the room like a butterfly, passing by only momentarily.In one drawer, I found a few pairs of her little briefs and a number of head scarves from her collection.There really isn't much to put in a suitcase, less than a guest in England would take for a weekend away. In the sitting room, there is a photo of her with Pyle, taken next to the big stone dragon in the botanical garden She was holding Pyle's dog by the hand, a black Chinese dog with a black tongue.This dog is just too dark.I put that photo in her box. "How is the dog?" I asked. "Not here. He may have been out with the dog." "Maybe it will come back, you can analyze the dirt on its paws." "I'm not Lecock, not even Maigret, and it's a day of war." I went to the bookshelf and took a closer look at the two rows of books—this was Pyle's collection. "The Progress of Red China", "The Challenge to Democracy", "The Mission of the West" - these, I guess, are all the works of York Harding.There are also quite a few "U.S. Congressional Gazettes", a dictionary of Vietnamese idioms, a history of the Philippine War, and a modern edition of "Shakespeare's Plays".What did he do for entertainment?I found his lighter books on another shelf: a pocket edition of Thomas Wolfe's novels, a mysterious anthology called Life's Triumph, and an anthology of American poetry.There is another book on chess problems.After a day's work, these books may not seem like much entertainment, but in the end, he still has Feng Er to accompany him.Tucked away in the back of that anthology was a paperback book called The Physiology of Marriage.Perhaps, he was studying sexual issues, just as he was studying Eastern issues, on paper.The key word is married.Pyle believed in being involved. There was nothing on his desk. "You guys cleaned up really well," I said. "Oh," Vigot said, "I have to keep these things on behalf of the American Legation. You know, how fast rumors spread. Maybe someone will come and take things. I sealed all his papers." He was very serious when he said these few words, and he didn't even smile. "Find anything destructive?" "If something happens to our allies, we can't afford it," Vigot said. "You don't object if I take a book from him as a souvenir?" "I just pretended I didn't see it." I chose York Harding's "Mission in the West" and put it in a box with Feng'er's clothes. "You are my friend," Vigot said, "Is there anything you can tell me privately? My report is all written. Said he was killed by the Communists. Perhaps, this is an anti-American aid The beginning of the movement. But between you and me—look, this talk is boring. How about a black vermouth and a cocktail on the corner?" "It's too early." "Didn't he reveal any secret to you the last time he saw you?" "No." "When was that?" "Yesterday morning. After that big bang." He paused and made me think -- my answer, not him.He asked directly, "Weren't you home when he came to see you last night?" "Last night? I must have been away. It didn't occur to me..." "You might need an exit visa someday. You know, we can hold off on it indefinitely." "Do you really think," I said, "that I want to go home?" Vigot stared out the window at the broad, cloudless day."Most people want to go home," he said sadly. "I love it here. At home - there are a lot of problems." "Fuck," Vigot said, "the U.S. economic commissioner is coming." He repeated sarcastically, "economic commissioner." "I'd better go away. He's going to try to lock me up too." Vigot said in a dispirited voice, "Good luck. He's going to tell me all about it." When I came out, the U.S. economic attache was standing next to his Becard, struggling to explain something to his driver.He was a solidly built middle-aged man with a huge hip and a face as bald as he never needed a razor.He yelled at me, "Fowler. Can you explain to this smug driver...?" I explained it for him. "That's what I told him, but he always pretended he didn't understand French," he said. "Maybe it's the accent." "I've been in Paris for three years. I can speak French with a bad accent, and a vietnamese guy like that can understand it." "Voice of Democracy," I said. "What did you say?" "I think it's a book by York Harding." "I don't understand what you mean." He looked a little suspiciously at the suitcase I was carrying. "What do you keep in this box?" he asked. "Two pairs of white silk trousers, two silk cheongsams, some women's drawers—I think there were three. All local. Not American aid." "Have you ever been in this house?" he asked. "Been there." "Have you heard the news?" "I heard." "It's a dreadful thing," he said. "It's a dreadful thing." "I think the envoy must be very disturbed." "That's not true. He's with the French High Commissioner and he's asked to see the President once." He took my arm and walked away from the car. "You know Pyle well, don't you? I can't figure out what happened to him. I knew his father. Professor Harold Pyle—you must have heard of him?" "No." "He's a world-renowned authority on underwater erosion. Didn't you see his picture on the cover of Time magazine a few months ago?" "Oh, I remembered. A crumbling rock in the background and gold-rimmed glasses in the foreground." "Yes, that's him. I had to draw up a telegram to inform his family. It's a terrible business. I like the lad as much as my son." "That puts you on a deep bond with his father." He turned his moist brown eyes to me, and said, "What's the matter with you? Such a nice young man... how do you say that..." "Sorry," I said. "When people die, everyone reacts differently." Maybe he really loves Pyle. "What did you say in the telegram?" I asked. He recited the telegram to me in a serious manner: "My son died like a soldier for the cause of democracy. I would like to inform you and express my deep condolences. This telegram was signed by the Minister." "Sacrifice like a soldier," I said. "Isn't that a bit confusing? I mean, to people in the country. The Economic Aid Mission doesn't sound like the military. Do you get the Purple Star, too?" He said in a low voice, vaguely nervous, "He's on a special mission." "Oh, yes, we all guessed it all." "He didn't say that, did he?" "Oh, no," I said, recalling Vigot's words, "he's a quiet American." "Have you any premonition," he asked, "what did they kill him for? Who did it?" I got angry all of a sudden, and I hated them guys and their coca-cola hoards and their mobile hospitals and their oversized cars and their not-so-modern guns.I said, "I have a hunch They killed him because he was too naive to let him live.He was young, ignorant, stupid, and involved.He is as ignorant of the big picture as any of you.You give him money, give him York Harding's book on the Orient, and tell him, let it go.Win over the East for democracy.He never saw anything that he hadn't heard in the classroom.He was fooled by the authors of the books he read and the speakers he listened to.When he saw a dead body, he couldn't even find a wound anywhere.A red menace, a democratic soldier. " "I thought you were his friend," he said reproachfully. "I'm his friend. I'd rather see him stay in the country, read the Sunday supplement, and follow the baseball news. I'd rather see him safe and sound with a typical American girl who's a bookworm." Club members." He cleared his throat in embarrassment. "Of course," he said, "I forgot about the misadventure. I'm on your side, Fowler. He had a bad time. To tell you the truth, I'm with you for that woman." He had a long talk. You see, I have this advantage because I know Professor and Mrs. Pyle." I said, "Vigot is waiting for you," and walked away.At this time, he saw Feng'er for the first time.When I looked back at him, he was still staring at me in pain and bewilderment: a compatriot who never understood.