Chapter 8 Chapter Seven (1)

1 At least once a year, Cao Dai believers will hold a meeting in the holy city of Xinyuan to celebrate the year of liberation or conquest, or even celebrate a Buddhist, Confucian or Christian festival.The holy city of Xinyuan is 80 kilometers northwest of Saigon. Cao Dai has always been my favorite chapter when I introduce Vietnam to my guests.Cao Dai was invented by a Cochin civil servant and is a synthesis of three religions.The holy city is in Xinyuan.There is a priest, and some archbishops. They use Fushi for divination and prophecy.Their saint was Victor Hugo.Christ and Buddha, the figures look down from the cathedral roof at a Walt Disney-esque oriental fantasy world, with dragons and snakes painted in bright colours.People who are new to Vietnam always like this description of me.The Cao Dai Sect has a private army of 25,000 people equipped with mortars made from old car exhaust pipes. It claims to be an ally of the French army and declares its neutrality at critical moments.How can you explain this tedious set of tricks?Holding such a celebration can help to quiet the peasants for a while, and the leader always invites government officials (if the Cao Dai believers are high-ranking officials in the government at that time, government officials will attend), diplomatic envoys (they always send a few second wait for the secretary to bring their wives or girlfriends) and the commander in chief of the French army to attend.The commander-in-chief will send a two-star general from the headquarters to represent him.

At this time, the road to Xinyuan was full of military and political personnel and cars from embassies of various countries. In the more exposed parts of the road, soldiers from the Foreign Legion spread out in the rice fields for cover.Such a date, which always worried the French High Command, might have been a promising one for the Cao Dai, who had to emphasize their own loyalty by having a few important guests shot to death outside their district. , what could be more effortless than this? Every one kilometer, there is a small mud watchtower standing on the flat rice field, like an exclamation mark.Every ten kilometers, there is another larger bunker, stationed with a row of mercenaries from the foreign legion: Moroccans or Senegalese.It's like driving into New York City, where all the cars are going at the same speed -- and like driving into New York City, you feel an uncontrollable restlessness.You look at a car in front of you, and you look in the mirror at a car behind you.Everyone wanted to drive to Xinyuan as soon as possible, to get back after seeing the show: the curfew started at seven o'clock.

The car drove out of the rice fields under the control of the French army, and then entered the rice fields of the Hoa Hao Sect, and then passed the rice fields of the Cao Dai Sect (the Cao Tai Sect often fought with the Ho Ho Sect): only the flags on the watchtowers were changed.Naked boys and children sit on the backs of buffaloes, and the buffalo's buttocks soak in the paddy fields and walk around. The golden grains are ripe, and the peasants wear shell-like hats and sieve the grains into a small curved bamboo dustpan.Cars speeding past, that belonged to another world. At this time, the Cao Dai church in every village will attract the attention of strangers, with its light blue and pink stucco, and a large God's eye on the door.There are more and more banners: a column of peasants marching along the road: we are approaching the "Holy City".In the distance, the holy mountain towered over Xinyuan City like a green bowler hat—that was where General Tai stood firm.The dissident chief of staff recently announced his intention to fight both the French and the Viet Minh.The Cao Dai believers did not plan to arrest him, although he kidnapped an archbishop, but it is said that he did so with the acquiescence of the leader.

Sinyeon always seemed to be hotter than anywhere else in the Southern Delta.Maybe it's because of the lack of water, maybe it's because people feel sweaty from the endless rituals: sweating for the troops who stand at attention and listen to long speeches in a language they don't understand , for the leader of the religion, he wore a Chinese-style thick boa robe.Only the archbishops in white silk trousers chatting with the monks in hard-shell sun hats gave one a sense of shade from the scorching sun.You can't believe it's seven o'clock in the afternoon, you can still drink cocktails on the roof of the Majestic Hotel, and there is a breeze blowing from the Saigon River every now and then.

After the parade, I visited the priest's assistant.I didn't expect to get any news from him at all. Sure enough, as I expected, such visits were routine for both of us.I asked him about General Tay. "A reckless fellow," he said, leaving the subject behind.He began his scheduled speech, forgetting that I had listened to him two years earlier: his speech reminded me of my own phonograph recordings for newcomers.Cao Dai is a religious complex...the best of all religions...has sent missionaries to Los Angeles...has all the secrets of the Great Pyramid....He wore a long white surplice, smoked cigarette after cigarette, and was rather cunning and wicked: the word "love" came out of his mouth every now and then.

I'm sure he knew we were all there to laugh at his activities, and our deference was as wicked as his posturing grand elder, though not as cunning.We got nothing for our prudence—not even a single reliable ally, and they got weapons, supplies, and even cash for our pretense. "Thank you, Your Excellency," I said, getting up to leave.He walked me to the door of the room, scattering some cigarette ashes along the way. "May God bless your work," he said glib. "Remember that God loves the truth." "Which kind of truth?" I asked. "According to the belief of Cao Dai, all truths are in harmony, and truth is fraternity."

He wears a big ring on his finger.When he held out his hand, I really thought he was expecting me to kiss his hand, but I'm not a diplomat. In the hot sun, I saw Pyle trying to start his Buick in the sunlight.Somehow, for the last fortnight I have been running into Pyle in the bar of the Hotel Continental, in the only good bookstore on Rue de Catena.The friendship he had imposed on me from the beginning was stronger now than ever. His sad eyes would earnestly inquire about Feng Er's recent situation, while his lips expressed his strong affection and admiration for me even more earnestly——My God!

A Cao Dai commander stood beside the car, talking quickly.When I walked over, he stopped talking.I knew him—this man was one of General Tay's assistants until he went up the mountain. "Hello, Commander," I said, "How is the General?" "Which general?" he asked with an embarrassed grin. "Of course, according to the Cao Dai religion," I said, "all the generals are reconciled." "I can't drive this car, Thomas," Pyle said. "I'll get a mechanic," said the commander, and walked away. "I'm bothering you."

"Oh, nothing," Pyle said. "He wants to know how much it costs to buy a Buick. These people are very friendly, as long as you treat them well. The French don't seem to know what to do with them." "The French don't trust them." Pyle said solemnly, "A man can be trusted as long as you trust his word." It sounded a lot like a Cao Dai adage.I'm starting to feel that Shin Yeon's moral atmosphere is so thick I can hardly breathe. "Have a drink," Pyle said. "That would be great." "I brought a thermos of lime juice," he said, leaning back, busy looking in a basket in the backseat of the car.

"Is there gin?" "No, I'm terribly sorry. You know," he said encouragingly, "lime juice is very good for you in this climate. It has—I don't know which vitamins." He offered a glass come to me.I drank it down. "It's good for the tongue anyway," I said. "Would you like to have a sandwich? These are really good. There's a new sandwich spread called VitaGen. It's from America from my mother." "Don't eat, thank you, I'm not hungry right now." "This dressing tastes a bit like Russian salad—just a bit dry."

"I won't eat it." "You wouldn't be surprised if I ate it?" "No, no, of course not." He took a big bite, the sandwich crunching and snapping in his mouth.In the distance, engraved in white and pink stone, is a picture of the Buddha riding a horse, with his retinue—another stone statue—running behind him in pursuit.The female archbishops are returning to their homes, and the eyes of God on the cathedral door are watching us. "They serve lunch here, you know?" I said. "I don't want to risk it. That kind of meat - in this heat, you have to be careful." "You're pretty safe. They're vegetarian." "I guess that's fine—but I like knowing what I'm eating." He took another big bite of his VitaGen. "Do you think they have any reliable mechanics?" "They know how to turn your exhaust pipe into a mortar. I believe a Buick makes the best mortar." The commander came back, gave us a handsome salute, and said he had sent for a mechanic in the barracks.Pyle offered him a Vita Gin sandwich, which he politely declined."We have a lot of etiquette around here," he said, with a worldly air. (He spoke English very well.) "Very stupid. But you know what a religious capital is like. I Guess it might be the case in Rome—or Canterbury, too," he bowed to me neatly, added the word "Canterbury," and fell silent.Neither he nor Pyle said anything.It was then that I became acutely aware that I was not expected to be there.I couldn't help teasing Pyle -- after all, teasing is a weak weapon, and I'm weak.I have no youth, no seriousness, no spine, no future.I said, "Maybe, I'm going to eat a sandwich after all." "Oh, of course," Pyle said, "of course." He paused before turning to get it from the back seat basket. "No, no," I said. "I was only joking. You two want to have a few words alone." "Nothing like that," Pyle said.He's the worst liar I've ever known—it's an art he's clearly never practiced.He explained to the commander, "This Thomas is my best friend." "I know Mr. Fowler," said the commander. "I'll come back to you before I go, Pyle." With that, I headed for the cathedral.In the cathedral, I can get a little shade. A statue of Saint Victor Hugo, dressed as a member of the Académie de France, with a three-cornered hat surrounded by a halo, points to some sublime utterance Sun Yat-sen is inscribing on a stele.Going further, I reached the nave of the cathedral.There is nowhere to sit but the lord's throne, around which a stucco cobra coils, and the marble floor glistens like water, and there are no glass in the windows—I think we build cages with holes for ventilation, and artificial religions The cage is like that—leave the doubts exposed to the wind and rain, and the creeds exposed to a thousand interpretations.My old wife has found her riddled cage, and sometimes I envy her.Between the sun and the air, there is a conflict: I live too much in the sun. I walked the long, empty nave—this was not my favorite Indochina.Dragons with lions' heads coiled up the pulpit: on the roof, Christ bared his bloody heart.Buddha sat, as Buddha always sat, with empty knees.Confucius' beards drooped sparsely, like a waterfall in the dry season.This is acting: the big earth above the altar represents ambition; the basket with a movable lid used by the leader to practice spells and divinations is a trick.If this cathedral has existed for five hundred years, not just twenty years, then it bears the footprints of people and the traces of rain and sun, wouldn't it be somewhat convincing?Would a man as easy to believe as my old wife find in this church a faith she could not find on earth?If I really needed faith, would I find it in her Norman church?But I never wanted to believe.A journalist's job is to expose and document.Never in my life have I found anything inexplicable.The leader of the Cao Dai sect made his prophecies with a pencil under the movable cover, and people believed him.In any vision somewhere, you'll find this kind of auspicious divination thing.As far as I can remember, I have never seen any visions or miracles. I flip through my memories at will, like flipping through photos in a photo album: In Orpington, I once saw a fox emerge from the yellow-brown land of the barren countryside with the flash of an enemy flare nest in a bird-infested area: the body of a Malay, bayoneted to death, is transported by a Gurkha patrol on the back of a wagon to a tin mine in Pahang , some Chinese coolies stood aside, giggling nervously, and another Malay compatriot put a pillow under the dead man's head: In a hotel bedroom, a pigeon was on the mantelpiece, ready to fly: My wife's face was looking out the window when I came home and said goodbye to her for the last time.My thoughts begin with her and end with her.She must have had my letter more than a week ago, and the telegram, which I had expected not to come, did not arrive.But, they say, if the jury doesn't come in for a long time, there's hope for the prisoner.In another week, if there is no reply, can I begin to have a little hope?All around me at this moment, I could hear the revving engines of the cars of soldiers and diplomats: the event was over again this year, the mass withdrawal to Saigon began, and a curfew was imposed.I went out to find Pyle. He was standing in a shady place with the commander, and no one was repairing the car for him.Whatever they talked about, the conversation seemed to be over.They stood there in silence, being polite to each other so that neither moved away first.I go up to them. "Oh," I said, "I think I'm leaving. You'd better go too, if you want to get back before curfew." "The mechanic hasn't come yet." "He's coming soon," said the commander. "He was in a parade earlier." "You can stay here for one night," I said. "There's a special mass tonight--you'll find it well worth seeing. It's going to last three hours straight." "I should hurry back." "You won't be able to make it back unless you start right away," I added grudgingly. "If you like, you can take my car back. Commander can have your car taken to Saigon tomorrow." go." "In the Cao Dai area, you don't have to worry about the curfew," said the commander complacently. "But once it's out of bounds, then... I'll definitely send someone to bring your car tomorrow." "The exhaust pipes on the car are in good condition," I said, and he smiled brightly, sharply, bluntly—a terse military smile. 2 By the time we set off, the long line of cars was well ahead of us.I speeded up, trying to overtake the car in front, but after we left the Gaotaijiao area and entered the Hehaojiao area, we couldn't even see the dust from the cars ahead.In this evening, the world is flat and empty. It wasn't the kind of countryside that conjures up images of ambushes, but just a few yards away on either side of the road, one could hide in the rice fields with only their heads out of the water. Pyle cleared his throat.It was a signal that he was about to strike up a friendly conversation again. "I hope Feng'er is doing well," he said. "I've never seen her sick." One watchtower passed, and another loomed, like weights on a scale. "Yesterday, I saw her sister go shopping." "I guess she's asking you to stop by again," I said. "In fact, she did invite me." "She doesn't give up hope easily." "hope?" "I hope you can marry Feng'er." "She told me you were leaving soon." "The legend spread in no time." Pyle said, "You'll be frank with me, won't you, Thomas?" "frank?" "I've applied for a transfer," he said. "I don't want her to be taken down alone, without you and without me." "I thought you were going to wait until your term was up." Without self-pity, he said, "I don't think I can take this day." "How soon are you leaving?" "I don't know. They think it can be arranged in six months." "Can you stand six months?" "I have to." "What reason do you give them?" "I told the Commissioner of Economics more or less the truth—you met him—and it was Joe." "I guess he thinks I'm such a son of a bitch for not letting you take my girl away." "No, he's more partial to you." My car crackled—it had probably been going on for a while before I noticed, because I kept thinking about Pyle's simple question: "Will you be frank with me?" Questioning belongs to a very pure psychological world, where you talk about democracy and Honor without the u, as spelled on ancient tombstones, and when you talk about such words, you mean exactly the same as your father .I said: We are exhausted. "Gasoline?" "Plenty of it before. I drove out with a full tank of gas. Those sons of a bitches in Xinyue sucked the oil out of my car with a straw. I should have known. It's the way they do it. Get us some gas so we can drive out of their area." "What shall we do now?" "We only have enough to drive to the next watchtower. Hope they have some gas." But we are out of luck.Thirty yards from the watchtower the car stopped moving at all.We went down to the foot of the watchtower.I shouted in French to the guard upstairs that we were friends and that we were going upstairs.I don't want to give a Vietnamese sentry a shot.There was no answer from the building: no one put their heads out to look.I said to Pyle, "Do you have a gun with you?" "I never carry a gun." "Neither do I." The last rays of the setting sun still flecked the edge of the flat world, green and golden, like the corn in the field: against the gray, dull sky, the watchtowers looked as black as printed.It must be about the time the curfew is about to start.I yelled again, but no one answered. "Do you know how many watchtowers we have passed since the last big bunker?" "I wasn't paying attention." "I didn't pay attention either." The next big bunker was probably at least six kilometers away—an hour's walk. The third time I cried out, there was still silence, as if silence were the answer. I said, "There seems to be no one in the watchtower: I'd better climb up and have a look." A yellow flag, the red strip had faded to orange.This shows that we have already passed the boundary of Hehaojiao and reached the boundary of the Vietnamese army. Pyle said, "Do you think we might get a car if we wait here?" "The cars may come, but they may come first." "Should I walk back and turn on the lights as a signal." "My God, no. Just let it go." It was dark now, looking for the ladder, almost tripping. Something crackled under my feet, and I could imagine it was going through the paddy fields, who was listening?The outline of Pyle was no longer visible, and it became a blurred mass on the side of the road.Once the darkness falls, it is like a stone falling.I said, "Stay there until I call you." I wondered if the sentry would have dragged the ladder up, but the ladder stood there—although the enemy might climb it, it was theirs The only way of escape.I started to climb. I often read in books that people think about in times of fear: thinking of God, or family, or thinking of a woman.I admire those people's control.I didn't think about anything at the moment, not even about the trapdoor above my head: for a few seconds, I ceased to exist: I was utterly intimidated.At the top of the ladder, I banged my head because fear was impossible to count the steps of the ladder, to hear and to see.Then, my head protruded from the earth floor of the watchtower. No one shot me, and the fear gradually disappeared.