Chapter 11 Chapter nine

1 Pyle was dead for nearly two weeks before I saw Vigot again.I was walking down the Boulevard Chanel when I heard his voice calling me from the Club Hotel.This was the favorite restaurant of the Security Service guys in those days.As a gesture of contempt for those who hated them, they always ate and drank downstairs, allowing the general public to eat and drink upstairs, where they would not be attacked by guerrilla grenades.I went in and sat with him and he ordered me a black vermouth cocktail. "How about a few games?" "As long as you like," I pulled out the dice I carried with me to play the regular game of "four one two-one."

How these numbers and the scene of the dice remind me of those war years in Indochina.No matter where in the world, whenever I see two people throwing dice, I always feel as if I am back in the streets of Hanoi or Saigon, or among the houses destroyed by bombardment in Phat Diem, and I see those people who are covered in blood. Paratroopers patrolling the canal, protected by strange caterpillar-like signs, heard mortar fire approaching, and perhaps saw a dead child. "Sansvasdlne," Vigot said.One side rolled a four one two point.He pushed the last match in front of me.People in the Security Bureau usually like to say this kind of lingo between the sexes when they play "412". Maybe it was Vigot who came up with it and taught it to his junior officers.But they did not imitate him in reading Pascal.

"Sons-lieutenant," playing "four-one-two," and every time you lose a round, you get a level up—you play until someone gets promoted to captain or commander.He won the second game again.While counting matches, he said, "We found Pyle's dog." "yes?" "I guess it didn't want to leave the body. They slit its throat anyway. It was lying in the mud fifty yards away, too, and probably struggled to get over it by itself." "Are you still interested?" "The American envoy has been pestering us. If a Frenchman gets killed, we don't have that trouble, thank God. That's not unusual, though."

We rolled the dice and divided the matches before we got down to serious play.It was surprising how quickly Vigot rolled a four one two-one. "Nanette," Vigot said, and pushed me two more matches.After he got rid of the last match, he said "Ca Pitaine," and I called the waiter to bring the wine. "Has anyone ever beat you?" I asked. "Not often. Do you want revenge?" "Come back next time. You're such a good gambler, Vigot. Do you play any other games of chance?" He smiled wryly.For some reason I was reminded of his fair-haired wife who, they said, was messing around with his junior officers behind his back.

"Blind, yes," said he, "there's always the greatest gamble." "biggest?" "Let's weigh the pros and cons," he quoted again, "take a bet on whether there is a God, and let's estimate the two chances. If you win, you win everything, and if you lose, you lose everything." Nothing is lost." I also quoted Pascal's article in reply to him--this is the only passage I remember. "The people who pick the head and the tail are all equally wrong. They're all wrong. The right thing to do is not to gamble at all." "Yes, but you have to gamble. It's not optional. You're on board. You don't live by your principles, Fowler. You're as involved as the rest of us."

"Not religiously." "I'm not talking about religion. In fact," he said, "I'm thinking about Pyle's dog." "Oh" "Do you remember what you said to me - looking for clues in the dog's paw, analyzing the dirt on the dog's paw, etc?" "But you said you were neither Maigret nor Lecoq." "At the end of the day, I'm not doing too badly," he said. "Pyle always takes that dog with him when he goes out, doesn't he?" "I think so." "That dog is too valuable to be left alone, is it?"

"That's not safe. In this country, they eat dog, don't they?" He started pocketing the dice. "It's my dice, Vigot." "Oh, sorry. I was thinking..." "Why do you say I'm actively involved?" "When was the last time you saw Pyle's dog, Fowler?" "God knows. I don't have a date book with dogs." "When should you go home?" "I can't tell yet." I've never been happy to give information to the police authorities.This saves them some trouble. "I'd like to--tonight--to see you. Ten o'clock, will you? If you were home alone then."

"I'll let Feng'er go to the movies." "Is everything all right again—I mean you and her?" "good" "Strange. I had the impression earlier that you were - hi - unhappy." "Of course, there could be many reasons for this, Vigot." I added bluntly, "You should know." "me?" "You're not a very happy person yourself." "Oh, I can't complain. A ruined house isn't distressing." "What is this nonsense?" "Pascal's famous line again. It's an excuse for the complacency of distress. Trees are not distressed."

"What made you a cop, Vigot?" "There are several factors to it. A need to make a living, a curiosity about people, and—yes, even a love of Gaborio." "Perhaps you should become a priest." "It's a pity I didn't read about that from the right writers—in those days." "You still suspect that I have anything to do with it, do you?" He stood up and drank what was left of the vermouth black tea cocktail in his glass. "I'd love to talk to you, that's all." After he turned away, it occurred to me that he had looked at me with pity, as he would look at a criminal he was responsible for capturing and serving a life sentence.

2 I have actually been punished.It was as if Pyle had judged me to suffer so many weeks of uneasiness when he left my place.Every time I go home, I am terrified, for fear that some catastrophe may be imminent.Sometimes, Feng'er was not at home, and I couldn't make up my mind to do anything before she came back, because I was always worried about whether she would never come back.I kept asking where she had been (trying not to sound uneasy and suspicious in my voice).Sometimes she replied that she had gone to the market or the store, and produced a piece of evidence (at that time, it seemed unnatural even for her to be able to produce evidence at once to confirm her statement).Sometimes she went to the movies, and she had movie ticket stubs to prove it, and sometimes she went to her sister's—which is where I think she met Pyle.In those days, I made love to her savagely, like I hated her, but it was the future I hated.Loneliness lies on my bed, and I hold loneliness in my arms every night.She has not changed her mind: she cooks for me, burns opium for me, and lies down softly and lovingly for my pleasure (but that is no longer pleasure).As earlier I wanted her mind, so now I want to see her mind, but her mind is hidden in a language I don't speak.I don't want to question her.I don't want to force her to lie (as long as she hasn't lied openly, I can pretend that we are the same as before), but suddenly, my anxiety can't be overcome, and I can ask for me: "What did you say last time?" When did you meet Pyle?"

She hesitated—maybe she was really thinking about it? "That's when we came to the door together," she said. I started—almost unconsciously—to disparage everything in America.My speech was full of the poverty of American literature, the scandals of American politics, and the brute brutality of American children, as if she was going to be given to a country rather than to a man.Nothing America can do is right.Even my French friends, who are as disgusted with America as I am, are annoyed when I bring up the subject of America, as if I have been betrayed, but one cannot Betrayed by the enemy. Just then, the bicycle bomb incident happened.On my return from the Empire Bar that day, when there was no one in the house (did she go to a movie, or was she with her sister?), I noticed someone had slipped a note under the door.It was written by Dominguez.He apologized for being unwell, and asked me to come out of the big shop on the Avenue Chanel at about half-past ten the next morning.It was Mr. Zhou who asked him to write to me, but I guess it is closer to the truth to say that Mr. Hang invited me to go there. The whole thing was, in the end, only worth a telegram, and a humorous one at that.It has nothing to do with the fierce and sad war in the north, with the canals in Phat Diem filled with gray, days-dead bodies, with the mortar bombardment, with the white blinding whiteness of napalm. Flash is all right. I waited at a flower stand for about a quarter of an hour before a large truck full of police came from the General Security Office on Catina Street and stopped suddenly with a creak. It was there to crush a mob, but there was no mob there - just a row of bicycles parked in a row. Every building in Saigon has a line of bicycles parked outside it—nowhere in any university town in the West does this have as many cyclists.Before I had time to get the camera right, the ludicrous and inexplicable maneuver had already succeeded.The police rushed into the long line of bicycles, lifted three bicycles aloft, carried them up the street, and threw them into the ornamental fountain.I was about to stop a policeman for questioning, and they were all back in the truck, driving down the Rue de Bonnard. "Bicycle battle," said a voice.It turned out to be Mr. Hang. "What's going on here?" I asked. "A drill? What's the purpose?" "Wait a little longer," Mr. Hang said. A few idlers began to approach the fountain, a wheel protruding from the water like a buoy, as if to warn passing ships that there was a sunken ship under the water and had to avoid it: a policeman walked across the street, yelling and waving. "Let's go and have a look," I said. "Better not go," said Mr Hang, and looked at his watch again.It was four past eleven. "Your watch is fast." I said. "It's always fast." Just then, the fountain on the other side of the sidewalk exploded.A small piece of ornamental wall was crushed against one of the windows, and shards of glass fell like a crystal rain.No one was injured.We shake the water and glass shards off the clothes.A bicycle wheel hummed like a top in the street, wobbled, and fell. "It must be exactly eleven o'clock," said Mr Hang. "What is this...?" "I thought you'd be interested," Mr Hang said. "I hope you're interested too." "How about a drink?" "No, I'm sorry. I have to go back to Mr. Zhou, but first let me show you something." He led me to the place where the bicycle was parked, and unlocked his own bicycle, "Look carefully Look." "It's a Raleigh," I said. "No, look at the pump. Does it remind you of anything?" He smiled triumphantly at my bewilderment, got on his bike and left.He turned his head and waved to me, then rode towards the embankment and the scrap iron warehouse.I went to the Security Bureau to inquire about the news.It wasn't until I got there that I understood what he meant.The mold I'd seen in his warehouse was shaped like half a bicycle pump.That day, in the whole city of Sai Kung, bombs were hidden in all the good bicycle pumps, and they exploded at the same time at eleven o'clock. Only a few places where the police took precautions based on the information obtained in advance did not cause any accidents.I suspect they got the information from Mr. Hang.These are small things - ten explosions, six people injured, God knows how many bikes.My colleagues—except for the reporter of the "Far Eastern Daily", who said that this was an "outrage"—all knew that only by making fun of it would the dispatched telegram be published in the newspaper. "Bicycle Bomb" would make a great headline. All of them condemned the Communists.I was the only one who wrote: The bombs were a demonstration by General Tay, but my story was changed in the newspaper.General Tay is no longer news.You can't waste space saying he did it.I asked Dominguez to forward a letter to Mr. Ji expressing regret - saying that I had done my best.Mr. Hang asked someone to bring a very polite message.At this point, it seemed to me that he—or his Viet Minh committee—was being overly sensitive, and no one seriously thought it was the Communists.Seriously, if anyone could say that the Communists did it, he'd have a reputation for having a good sense of humour. "Next time, what will they come up with?" people say in social situations.The symbol of the whole absurdity seemed to me like the bicycle wheel spinning merrily like a top in the middle of the street.I never even mentioned to Pyle what I had heard about his secret contact with General Tay.Let him play with plastic molds, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone: that might keep him from thinking about Feng'er.However, one evening, because I happened to be staying nearby, and because I had nothing else to do, I went to Mr. Fan's garage to have a look. It was a dirty little place, like a scrap warehouse, on the Boulevard Somme.A car was jacked up in the middle of the garage, the hood open and gaping, like some taxidermy in some out-of-town museum that no one visits.I don't believe anyone remembers that car being there.There are scrap iron and old boxes littering the ground - Vietnamese people don't like to throw things away, just like a Chinese chef who divides a duck into seven dishes and refuses to throw away even a duck foot .I don't know why anyone would be so careless about things, throwing those empty tin drums and broken molds like that - maybe a guy stole them and wanted to sell some piastres, maybe someone gave them The resourceful Mr. Hang bought it off. There seemed to be no one around, so I walked in.I thought, maybe they all hid away for a while, afraid that the police would come to the door.It is likely that Mr. Hang has some connections in the Security Bureau, but even so, it is unlikely that the police will take action.From their point of view, it is better to make people think that these bombs are the work of the Communists. There was nothing to see but the car and the scrap metal strewn across the concrete floor.It's hard to imagine that those bombs were made here at Mr. Fan's place.I still don't quite understand how the white powder I saw in the iron drum was made into plastic, but the process must be too complicated to do here, even the two gasoline pumps in the street. It also seems to be ignored.I stood at the door of the garage, looking out into the street.Under the trees in the middle of the boulevard, the barbers were busy at work: a small mirror hung from the trunk of the tree reflected the glimmering sunlight.A girl walked quickly by, wearing a bonnet, with two baskets slung from her shoulders.The fortune-teller who sat against the wall of Simon Frears' shop had found a client: an old man with a small Ho Chi Minh beard who watched him calmly as he washed the Ancient playing cards.What good prospects did he have for a piastre?On the Boulevard Somme, you live in the open: everyone here knows Mr. Pham Van Mau, but the police have no way of gaining their confidence.This level of life is where everything is on the outside, but you just can't step into this level of life, just like you can step into the street.I thought of the old women who chatted by the communal toilet on our landing: they heard everything, too, though I don't know what they knew. I went back into the garage, into a small office in the back, and there was the usual Chinese advertising calendar, a messy desk—a price list, a bottle of glue, a computer, some paper clips, a Take the teapot, three teacups, and many unsharp pencils.For some reason, there is also an unused picture postcard of the Eiffel Tower in Paris.York Harding may have used some vivid abstractions to describe the third force, but in the end, it turned out to be these things-this is the third force.There was another door in the back wall, which was locked, but the key was on the desk, among the pencils.I opened the door and walked in. I got to a little hut.The shed was about the size of a garage.Here lies a machine which at first glance appears to be a cage of iron rods and wires, with innumerable perches for some large wingless bird—it gives the impression, as if It was bound with many shabby rags, but those rags were probably used to wipe off the dust, and while they were doing it, Mr. Fan and his assistants were called away.I found the trade name of a manufacturer—someone in Lyon, and a patent number—what kind of patent is it?I switched on the current, and the ancient machine came alive: it turned out that those iron rods also had their uses—the mechanical device seemed to be an old man mustering up his last vitality, constantly beating down with his fists, Whacking... this thing is still a press machine though it must be an old-timer in this type of machine, contemporaneous with jukeboxes, though, I guess, in this country people never waste One thing, everything can be counted on to come here for the rest of my life (I remember that I used to watch that old movie "The Great Train Robbery" on a small street in Nan Dinh, beating intermittently on the screen for people Appreciate), so this squeezer can still be used. I examined the press more closely, and it bore the remnants of a white powder.It's Dioracton, I thought, something like powdered milk.There was no sign of iron drums or moulds.I walked back to the office and back into the garage.I really want to pat the fender of that car with my hands: it may have to wait here for a long time, but one day it will... Mr. Fan Wenmao and his assistants are probably on their way in the rice fields at this time, Go up to the holy mountain where General Shangtai's headquarters is located.Finally, when I raised my voice and yelled "Mr. Fan!", I could imagine that I had left the garage, the avenue and those barbers, and went back to where I once was on the road leading to Xinyuan. I went to those rice fields where I hid. "Mr. Fan!" I seem to be able to see a person turning his head among those straws. I walked home and went upstairs to the landing.The old women were still there chattering and talking, and I heard it as incomprehensibly as I heard a bird singing in a hedge.Feng'er was not at home—only a note was left saying that she had gone to her sister's.I lay down on the bed—I still get tired easily—and fell asleep.When I woke up, I saw twenty-five past one on the luminous face of the alarm clock.I turned my head, expecting to find Feng'er sleeping next to me.But still no one slept on the pillow.She must have changed the sheets that day—the pillowcase still had the cool feeling of being freshly laundered.I got up and opened the drawer where she kept her scarf.Those hoods were all gone.I went to the bookshelf again, and the picture book of royal life was gone.She took all her makeup with her. When people are shocked, they don't feel much pain. The pain starts around three o'clock in the morning.At that time, I began to plan for my life: I must somehow still live, I will still remember the past, and how to gradually eliminate those memories.The happy memories are the worst, so I try to think about the unpleasant ones.Be very experienced in this area.I've been through this kind of thing before.I know I can do what needs to be done, but I'm much older now - I don't feel like I have much energy left to rebuild my life. 3 I went to the American Legation to find Pyle.At the door you need to fill out a visitor form and give it to a gendarme. "You didn't give a reason for your visit," he said. "He'll know," I said. "So you made an appointment?" "You can write it that way, if you like." "It's kind of boring to you, I guess, but we have to be careful. Some weird people come in here a lot." "I've heard that before." He switched the gum in his mouth to the other side and entered the elevator.I wait. I haven't figured out what to say to Pyle yet.It's a play I've never played before.The gendarme came down. He said reluctantly, "I think you can go up. Room 12A on the second floor." I went into that room and found that Pyle wasn't there.Joe sits behind the desk: the economic commissioner: I still can't remember his last name.Feng'er's sister was watching me from behind a typing desk.Is it victory what I see in those greedy brown eyes? "Come in, come in, Tom," cried Jo. "Nice to meet you. How's your leg? It's rare that you come to our little institution. Pull up a chair and sit down. Tell me how you think this new offensive is going. I Saw Granger at the Continental Hotel. He's headed north again. That lad is up for it. Wherever there's news, there's Granger. Get a cigarette. Take it yourself. Do you know Miss Hsu? I know those last names. Can't remember--for an old chap like me, those last names are hard to remember. I'll just call her Hi, the one over there!--she likes that too. Not at all serious Colonial manners. What's the gossip in the market, Tom? You fellows are very shrewd indeed. I'm sorry to hear you've had a problem with your leg. Alden told me . . . " "Where's Pyle?" "Oh, Alden isn't in the office this morning, I guess he's at home. He does a lot of things at home." "I know what he does at home." "That lad is very active. What did you say?" "I know at least one thing he does at home." "I don't understand what you say, Tom. Dumb Joe—that's me. Always been so dull. Always so slow. " "He's sleeping with my girl—your typist's sister." "I don't quite understand what you're saying." "Ask her. She arranged. Pyle took my girl." "Look, Fowler, I thought you were here on business. We can't have a rowdy row in the office, you know." "I came up here for Pyle, and I think he's hiding." "Blind, you are the last person to say such a thing. Isn't Alden doing enough for you!" "Yeah, yeah, sure. He saved my life, didn't he? But I never asked him to." "Besides, he's at great risk himself. That boy has a lot of guts." "I don't give a damn about his guts. It's better to say he has some other parts." "Well, there's a lady in the room, Fowler, and we mustn't talk like that." "The lady and I know each other very well. She didn't get what she wanted out of me. Now she wants it out of Pyle. Well. I know I'm in a bad mood right now. I That's what it is. In this situation, no one's attitude will be good." "We still have a lot of work to do. There is a report on rubber production..." "Don't worry, I'll be off now. But if Pyle calls, tell him I've been to him. He'll probably think it's polite to call back." I added to Miner's sister, "I hope you have reached a property agreement, with notaries, the US Consul and the Christian Science Church as witnesses." I go down the aisle.On the opposite side there is a door that says "MEN'S ROOM".I went in, locked the door, sat down with my head against the cold wall, and cried.Up to this point, I have not cried.Their restrooms are even air-conditioned.After a while, the conditioned air dries up my tears the way it dries up your lips and the semen in your body. 4 I left everything to Dominguez and went north by myself.In Haiphong, I had some friends in the Gascon Air Squadron.I was always hanging out in the airport bar for hours, or playing bocce on the gravel road outside.To put it bluntly, I'm at the front: I'm just as entitled as Granger to being motivated, but that's as useless to my paper as my last long trip to Fa Diem.However, one's pride in covering war demands that one occasionally share in the danger. It was not easy to share the danger, even for the most limited period, since Hanoi had ordered me only to participate in air raids on the ground—as safe as traveling by bus in this war, Since we were flying above the range of the heavy machine guns, unless the pilot made a mistake, or the engine failed, we were perfectly safe.We set off on a schedule and came back on a schedule: bombs slanted down, plumes of smoke rose from road crossings or bridges, and we cruised around and flew back in time for a drink An aperitif and a game of boccia on the gravel. One morning, while I was drinking brandy-soda with a young officer in the military mess hall downtown, the order to do the mission came. "Would you like to go together?" I said yes.The officer was eager to see the South Pier.And as far as I'm concerned, even plane raids are a way to pass the time and distract the mind."It was a dive strike," he said, as he drove to the airport. "I thought I wasn't allowed to..." "As long as you don't write a word. Going out this time will allow you to see a place close to the Chinese border. You have never seen it before.Near Laizhou. " "I thought it was quiet down there—and in French hands?" "It used to be. They took this place two days ago. Our paratroopers were only a few hours' flight away. We wanted to keep the Viet Minh down until we got the stronghold back. That meant flying low and diving with Machine-gun fire. We've only got two planes out there--one's attacking right now. Ever dive-bombed before?" "No." "It's a bit uncomfortable when you're not used to it." The Air Force Squadron of Gascogne had only a few B26 small bombers—the French called whores, because they had such a short wingspan that they could not support themselves at first glance.I huddle on a small metal bolster the size of a bike seat, my knees pressed against the navigator's back.We flew up the Red River, climbing slowly. The Red River was indeed dark red then, as if we had traveled back in time to see it through the eyes of the geographer who first gave it its name.He may have seen it at this moment when the setting sun illuminated both sides of the bank.Then we turned around at nine thousand feet and headed for the Blackwater River.The river was really dark, with black shadows everywhere, and no sunlight at all.The majestic vista of canyons, cliffs, and jungles swirled and stood upright beneath us.You could drop a team of paratroopers down into the green and gray fields and see nothing, like throwing a few pennies into a rice paddy at harvest time.Far ahead of us, a small plane moved like a bug.We're here to take over now. We circled twice over the tower and the surrounding green villages, then spiraled up into the dazzling sky.The driver—his name was Thrune—looked back at me and blinked.On his steering wheel were the buttons for the machine gun and the bomb bay.As we flew into the dive position, I actually had the unceasing sensation that we tend to experience with any new experience—first dance, first party, first love, etc. Feel.At that time, I thought back to the amazing car that entered the Wembley Expo.When it reaches the top of the plateau - there is no way to get out: you are trapped by your own experience.When we rushed down, I only had time to see from the dial that we were at an altitude of 3,000 meters. Now it's all about feeling and seeing nothing.I was pushed forward against the navigator's back: it was as if something very heavy was pressing on my chest.I don't know when the bomb was dropped, and then there was the rattling of machine guns, and the smell of smokeless gunpowder filled the cab.As we ascended, the weight on my chest eased, my stomach tilted downward, and I spun suicidally toward the ground we had just left.For forty seconds there was no Pyle: not even loneliness.From a side window I saw black smoke rushing toward me as we climbed in a great arc.Before the second dive, I felt fear—fear of shame, fear of throwing up on the navigator's back, fear that my aging lungs would not be able to handle the pressure.After the tenth dive, I felt nothing but restlessness—it's been too long, it's time to go back.Once again we charged straight up, out of range of the ground machine guns, and turned to drive away. The smoke was coming at us again.The village is surrounded by mountains.We have to go through the same gap every time, and approach the goal by the same route.There is no way to change our attack line.By the time we made our fourteenth dive, I had shaken off the fear of shame and thought, "They'll just have to put a machine gun in place down there." But we went up again. Head, fly back to safe space - probably, they don't even have a machine gun.Those forty minutes of patrolling seemed endless, but I was finally free from personal thoughts.The sun was setting when we turned around and flew back to base.The geographer's moment is over: the Blackwater River is no longer black, and the Red River is only golden. Then we flew down again, out of the gnarled and twisted forest, down toward the river, flying flat over the barren rice fields, aiming like a bullet at a small sampan on the yellow stream. The aircraft's guns fired a volley of tracer rounds.The sampan was blown apart in a flash of sparks: we didn't even wait to see the victims struggle to escape, but climbed up and back to base.As I had thought when I saw the dead child in Fa Diem, I thought again: "I hate war." It's amazing that we had chosen a victim so suddenly and by chance—we just happened to Flying over, just firing a cannon is enough, and when no one comes to fight back, we fly again, thus adding our small share to the death toll in the world. I put on my earphones so Captain Truhn could speak to me.He said, "We've got to do a little detour. The sunset is so beautiful on the limestone rocks. You don't want to miss this chance." He added kindly, like a host pointing out the beautiful scenery of his estate. .We flew a hundred miles into the sunset over Aaron Bay.Captain Trune's helmeted, war-god's face looked out pensively to the golden jungle between the mountains and arched peaks below.By now, the wounds of the murder had stopped bleeding. 5 That night Captain Truhn insisted on taking me to the opium den, though he himself did not smoke.He likes the smell, he said, he likes the sense of tranquility after a long day at work, but in his profession, relaxation can only go so far.Some of the officers smoked, too, but they were in the Army—he had to get a good night's sleep.We lay in one of a long row of small rooms that looked like a school dormitory, and the Chinese boss burned the cigarettes for me.Cheng hasn't smoked since Feng'er left me.Across the aisle a mulatto woman, with very lovely long legs, was lying curled up after smoking a cigarette, reading a glossy women's newspaper.In the small room next to her, two middle-aged Chinese were discussing business, sipping tea and putting their pipes aside. I said, "That sampan—this evening—has it done you any harm?" "Who knew? We were ordered to shoot everything we saw in that part of the river," said Trune. 我抽完了第一袋烟，尽力不去想在家里抽的那一袋袋烟。特鲁恩说道，"今儿的事——就一个我这样的人来说，还不是最糟的。在那个村庄上空，他们本可以把咱们击落下去。咱们所冒的危险跟他们的一样大。我最憎恶的，是投凝固汽油弹。 从三千英尺高空投下去，自己十分安全。 "他做了一个没有办法的姿势。"你瞧见那些森林起火。天知道你从地面上会看到一幅什么景象。那些可怜的人儿给活生生地烧死，火焰像水一样喷湿了他们的全身。他们浑身上下都是火。 "他对全世界愤怒地说出这几句话，愤恨他们不理解实情。"我不是在打一场殖民地战争。你以为我干这些事是为了那些红土种植园主吗？我倒情愿受军法审判。我们是在替你们打仗，但是你们却把罪行归到我们身上。 " "那条舢板，"我说。 "不错，那条舢板也是。"在我伸手去接第二袋烟时，他注视着我。"我很羡慕你的逃避方法。" "你并不知道我要逃避什么。我并不是逃避战争。那不关我的事。我可没有卷进去。" "你们全会卷进去的。总有那么一天。" "我可不会。" "你走路还一瘸一拐。" "他们有权开枪射击我，但是他们连那个也不干。他们那会儿是要轰垮一座岗楼。爆破小组来了，你总得避开。就连在皮卡迪利大街，你也得避开。" "总有一天会发生什么事的。你会偏袒一边的。" "不会，我就要回英国去啦。" "你有一次给我看过的那张照片……" "哦，那一张我已经撕掉了。她离开了我。" "很抱歉。" "世界上的事情就是这样。你丢下了别人，接着人家又丢下了你。这几乎使我相信正义的惩罚了。" "我倒是相信。我第一次投凝固汽油弹时就想到，这是我诞生在里面的那个村庄，那就是我爸爸的老朋友杜布瓦住的地方。那个面包师傅——我小时候很喜欢那个面包师傅——这时候正在下面那火焰，就是我扔下去的火焰里逃跑。当年维希政府的人并不轰炸他们自己的国家。我感到比他们还要糟。" "但是你还在继续干下去。" "那种苦闷只是一时的。只在我投凝固汽油弹时才有。其余的时候，我想到我是在保卫欧洲。而且你知道，那些别人——他们也干了一些骇人听闻的坏事。当他们在一九四六年给赶出河内时，他们在自己人——他们认为曾经帮助过他们的人——当中留下些可怕的遗体。停尸房内有一个姑娘——他们不但割去了她的乳房，还肢解了她情人的尸体，吃了他的……" "这就是我不愿意卷进去的缘故。" "这不是理智或正义的问题。我们只要一时感情冲动，全都会卷进去，接着就脱身不得。战争和爱情——人们常常拿这两件事来比较。"他伤感地望过"宿舍"那边，到那个混血女人暂时十分平静地蜷伏着的地方。他说，"我也不愿意这情形换个样。那边那个女人才是给父母卷进来的——等这个海港陷落了，她的前景又怎么样呢？法国只是她的一半家乡……" "这个海港会陷落吗？" "你是新闻记者。你比我更清楚，这场战争我们是打不赢的。你知道，通往河内的公路每天夜晚都被切断，埋上地雷。你知道，我们每年损失一整班圣西尔军官学校的毕业生。我们在五零年就差点儿给打垮了。德拉特尔不过让我们多拖了两年——就是这么回事。但是我们是职业军人：我们不得不继续打下去，要等那些政客们叫我们停，我们才好停。很可能他们会在一起开个会，同意和平停战，其实那样的和平我们当初就可以取得，那么一来，这许多年的仗就全都白打了。"他那张丑恶的脸在俯冲轰炸前曾经对我眨眨眼，这时候却露出一种职业性的凶横，活像圣诞节孩子们戴的一只纸面具，两只眼睛从那些纸洞眼里往外凝视那样。"你是不会明白那多少年白打了的意义的，福勒。你不是我们中的一员。" "一个人的生活中还有些其他的事情也是白白浪费了多少年的岁月、毫无意义的。" 他把一只手放在我的膝上，做出一个奇怪的保护我的动作，仿佛他比我年纪大似的。"把她带回国去，"他说。"那比抽一袋烟好。" "你怎么知道她会跟我去？" "我自己跟她睡过觉，佩兰中尉也跟她睡过。五百皮阿斯特。" "太贵啦。" "我想三百皮阿斯特她也会干的，不过在这种情况下，谁也不在意讨价还价。" 他的意见结果并不很正确。一个人的身体是受它所能做的动作限制的，而我的身体已经给记忆冻僵了。那天晚上，我的手抚摸到的，可能比我以往所习惯的更美妙，但是我们并不只迷恋于美色。她用的香水跟凤儿用的一样，可是到了紧要时刻，我所失去的人儿的身影突然显得比躺在一旁、听凭我摆布的肉体更强有力。我把身子移开，躺了下来，欲念一下全消失了。 "很对不住，"我说，接着又撒谎道，"我不知道自己是怎么一回事。" 她完全误解了我的意思，温柔体贴地说道，"别急。常常会这样的。是鸦片烟在作怪。" "是的，"我说，"是鸦片烟。"但愿真是鸦片烟在作怪。