The Headmaster's Wager (37 page)

The path led to a little plaza at the far end of the zoo, a shady area ringed by monkey cages and enclosures for the big cats. The plaza was fragrant with jacarandas. As they reached it, Laing Jai was startled by the sudden spitting clamour of the monkeys and ducked in close to his mother. A cluster of monks had gathered. An older one seemed to be in quiet, serious discussion with a clump of American men. Some of the Americans smoked cigarettes, and almost all had cameras in their hands or hung from their necks. Neither the monks nor the Americans appeared interested in the zoo animals. Instead, they watched each other.

The fluidly pacing tiger always fascinated Laing Jai. He carefully approached the bars. Boy and cat assessed one another. In nearby cages, monkeys shrieked. The tiger's tongue flicked out, his teeth bared. Just once, for show, and then he relaxed.

“You are not scared, son?” Percival said.

“No, these are steel bars,
baba
. If there were no bars, and the tiger was hungry, then I would be scared.”

“Come farther away, son,” said Jacqueline.

“
Baba
, the animals need to be in cages so that they don't hurt us, isn't that right?” The tiger stalked back and forth.

“That's right,” said Percival. “These are wild creatures.”

“Different animals have different cages,” said Laing Jai. “The tigers live with other tigers. But they don't mix monkeys and the tigers, because the tigers would eat the monkeys.”

“Perhaps,” said Percival. “On the other hand, the monkey is clever and quick.”

The muscular cat raised a paw and flicked his pink tongue. Reflexively, Percival pulled Laing Jai back a little.

Around them, the crowd was growing thick, monks congregating from all the corners of the zoo. Americans fiddled with cameras. Some checked their watches. The one-eyed monk from La Place de la Libération hurried past. He did not give any indication that he recognized Percival. Like many of his brothers, he clutched a string of prayer beads.

From beneath one of the monk's robes emerged a large red plastic container. A little open space began to clear around him.

Jacqueline said, “I think we should go.”

“But
ma
, I am looking at the tiger,” said Laing Jai.

“Let's go,” she said softly, firmly.

A megaphone appeared from beneath a second monk's robe, and he, too, stood in the small open area. He began to read a statement in formal Vietnamese from a piece of paper. The megaphone squawked, and it was hard for Percival to understand.

“What is going on?” said Percival to no one in particular.

The colour drained from Jacqueline's face. “They say their brother wishes to make a sacrifice. Let's leave now!”

Someone dashed past, bumped into Percival, almost knocked him over without apology. Percival looked around and couldn't tell if it had been an American or a monk. He caught a few of the megaphone-distorted phrases, “… as his personal plea for peace … that the foreign occupiers leave.” They were now in the press of a crowd, people milling tightly together—cameras in hands, sandalled feet rushing here and there. A third monk stood in the cleared space between the one who held the red plastic container and the one with the megaphone. “… A fraudulent peace process, the deceit of colonialists …” The third monk closed his eyes and began to chant. His lone voice was plaintive. His brothers were a circle of flame-coloured robes around him. Jacqueline pulled Laing Jai's hand, searched for a way out, but all the brothers were pushing in towards the centre. The third monk sat in the lotus position. The one with the container set it down and bowed to his seated brother. The monk with the megaphone continued to read the prepared statement, and the nearest circles of monks fell to their knees around these three.

Cameras clicked, and somewhere a police siren wailed.

Percival picked up Laing Jai, jostled to get out, but the crowd of monks was so thick around them that it was hard to move at all. Percival could see more monks running urgently down the zoo's pathways towards the plaza, pressing in ever more. As the sirens grew louder, strong young novices began to form cordons between
the animal cages. It was impossible to get out. The Americans with cameras checked their watches. Had they been given a time? They fiddled with their cameras, adjusted the dials. Monkeys leaped from bar to bar, reaching out to snatch at billows of saffron robes. Jacqueline cried, “We have to get out of here!” All around them, lines of monks linked arms, chanted, eyes half-closed.

Laing Jai asked, “
Baba
, why are all the monks at the zoo? This isn't a temple.”

“Come … hold on,” said Percival. He tried again to push his way out, to cleave an opening in the robed bodies. There was no hostility, but there was no way through. Around the three monks in the open centre, kneeling monks formed concentric circles. The one with the megaphone now yelled into it, the words too crackled for Percival to make most of them out. In their cages, the tigers paced on edge, as if they were about to be fed. The middle monk sat, his chanting completed, his eyes closed. His brother raised the red plastic container and twisted the cap open. Percival smelled gasoline.

An American near them gestured at Laing Jai and said to Percival, “Hey, you better get that boy out of here. This ain't fit for kids to see.” They were hemmed in, no exit possible. On the other side of the high fence that stood behind the monks, there was a commotion. On the sidewalk, uniformed Saigon police shouted at the monks to disperse. It occurred to Percival that gasoline smelled like some kind of musky, overripe flower. He pressed Laing Jai to him, whispered not to look, the boy's back to the sight of one monk pouring gasoline over his brother.

The chanting of the prayers rose and overwhelmed the voices of the police. One policeman tried to hoist another up by his feet, but the fence was too high. Several officers dashed away. They must be running to reach the gates of the zoo, thought Percival. The first monk carefully tipped the gasoline container and its contents gurgled out of the spout as delicately as good wine. The seated man's robe darkened, a streaky, spreading shadow. He sat upright now, quiet, his smooth shaved head glistening as the flow of gasoline was directed over it. The process was thorough and methodical. He did not move. Was he
breathing? The monks chanted in rhythm and rocked back and forth in place. The gasoline canister was empty, and was placed delicately aside. Percival could not look away.

Jacqueline clutched Percival's arm, her mouth open, her eyes closed. The seated man took a deep breath. Around the plaza, police had reached the cordon. They shouted at the novice monks to give way, and when this was ignored, they began to club them with batons and pistol butts. The speech from the megaphone continued, now read quickly. The words condemned the oppression of the corrupt Saigon government, and the false peace talks. The megaphone voice hurried to finish, “… and so we cannot ignore the imperialist henchman, and in particular our beloved brother Thich Tri Huang … prefers to hasten his arrival in Nirvana,” and put down his megaphone.

Percival pressed Laing Jai's head into his neck and shoulder. The seated monk moved his lips without sound. Those close to him rocked back and forth, caressed their beads, prayed insensible to the shouting police who beat their young brothers. The first monk handed a packet of matches to the seated monk, who fumbled to open it, hands shaking, but determined. He selected a match. He looked at this small item for a moment, closed it in the striking surface of the packet, pulled, and then erupted with the noise of a small explosion, the air sucked in. He did not cry out at first, but only hunched forward, the contours of his body and robe all softened by the violent caress of undulating fire. Flame danced as if part of the saffron garment, and the seated man's mouth was a black hole within his melting face. Somewhere within, the throat shrieked, gave agonized testimony. The colour of the fire and the fabric were one, until the fabric darkened to char. The voice was silenced and then there was only the sound of fire like water, like lapping waves.

As the police swung their batons and fists, more monks got to their feet and calmly waded in to the melee to strengthen the barricade. Percival clutched Jacqueline and Laing Jai to him. A few other hapless zoo visitors, caught like the three of them, stumbled this way and that to avoid the fighting.

Oily black smoke mingled with the smell of burning flesh. One of the tigers pressed itself against the cage paws out, clawed the air, indignant that it was not receiving its portion. Percival held Laing Jai to him, covered his face, struggled to keep from being knocked over as monks and police fought. The immolated monk's charred torso fell forward—a burned effigy. Several of the Americans stalked the remains like hyenas, crouching and circling with cameras to snatch images of the burned face, the shining dome of skull hung at a strange angle. In Percival's mind, the hysterical screams of death continued.

Someone tugged at Percival's sleeve. It was the one-eyed monk. In his other hand he had Jacqueline's wrist. All around them, the police clubbed the Buddhists. Now, both monks and novices struggled with the men in uniform. Sandals were strewn about, and prayer beads scattered, released from their strings. Calmly, quickly, the one-eyed monk began to walk, and Percival followed. He went a little to the right, and then plunged quickly left. He waited for a moment, and then hurried forward, in this way spiriting Percival, Jacqueline, and Laing Jai through the crowd. Somehow, he knew how to get through. The American journalists fumbled frantically to change film, to capture the police beating the monks, kicking them after they were cuffed, lying prostrate. Already, they had lost interest in the immolated remains. With Percival, Jacqueline, and Laing Jai in tow, the one-eyed monk moved through the melee like a spirit. His brothers parted for him, and he skirted past the fights, somehow flowing through. On the other side of it, he let go of their wrists and bowed.

“Let's go! Let's go!” shouted Jacqueline. Percival pressed Laing Jai close and ran, with Jacqueline alongside. They ran away from the monks and the journalists, the police and the caged animals. They ran past the elephant and the peacocks. Percival kept on going, past the cotton candy vendor, his lungs burning and his chest pounding, towards the exit and through the gates. As they left the zoo, military police cars arrived and uniformed soldiers dashed into the zoo, slammed the gates behind them. Percival linked his arms beneath the weight of the boy while he and Jacqueline ran down the street, kept on going for blocks, although now all around them people
walked—calmly enjoying a beautiful afternoon. His legs and knees cried out with pain as Percival ran past the American School, towards their apartment, through the lobby, and into the elevator. His lungs were fires. He set the boy down, felt the elevator lift them up from the ground.

PERCIVAL THOUGHT OF A BETTER OUTING
than the zoo—a picnic in Vung Tau. He loaded the trunk of the Mercedes with the cooler, towels, beach clothing, and it swallowed more even when he thought it full. Jacqueline was in a fine mood, and wore green-tinted sunglasses with tortoiseshell frames. Percival scooped Laing Jai into the car. They stopped at the market, where Percival went from stall to stall, and found baguettes, Vietnamese smoked ham, foie gras, bottles of beer, custard apples, mangos, chilled Sauternes, and ice. Still, it all disappeared into the trunk.

As they drove past the National Police Headquarters, Percival whistled a little tune. They continued out of the city. At a junction not far beyond the city, two soldiers in ragged uniforms waved the car down. They wore giant mirrored sunglasses, carried American assault rifles and wore bandoliers of grenades. A glowing French sign pointed the way to Cap St. Jacques. It was neon, lit even in day. Where did the electricity come from? Percival wondered.

The soldiers thumped on the car and waved. Percival looked at them, but did not understand. The leaves shimmered, and then began to fall. There was something wrong with the forest. The soldiers thumped again. They wanted him to get out. He did. The silence—there were no cicadas. The soldiers seized Percival by the arms, one on each side, and pulled him away from the car. Percival asked, “Brothers, what is wrong with the forest?”

The soldier on the right barked, “Poison. Kills trees. Easy for us to kill communist scum.”

“Thank you for protecting us, brothers,” said Percival, and tried to step back towards the car.

But they grabbed him again. One held him, and the other selected a grenade. The soldier pulled the pin and let it fall. His mouth smiled blankly beneath silver-sheathed eyes. The soldier tossed the grenade casually like a crumpled newspaper into the driver's window of the Mercedes. Percival saw Jacqueline's face, surprised, taking a moment to decipher this black object. The vehicle ignited, an angry fireball. He tried to get to the car, Laing Jai was screaming but it was too late. He heard a voice yelling. His limbs were paralyzed, and the screams were his own.

JACQUELINE CROUCHED BY THE BED, AT
his side. Sounds from the street—the syncopated horns of Vespas and Hondas, the shouting hawkers—penetrated his dreams. It was a new, fresh day, cool with the respite of early morning.

“Where is Laing Jai?”

“He is asleep. Were you having a nightmare?” She stroked Percival's forehead.

From beneath the balcony came a soft rustle of leaves. He lied, “I don't know. It's vanished.”

“You have a visitor.”

“So early? Say that I'm not feeling well.”

“It is Cecilia,” said Jacqueline.

“Why is she here?”

“I was wondering that, myself.”

Percival put on his slippers and pulled a robe around himself. He went out into the living room, where Cecilia perched on the very edge of the sofa. He sat down opposite her in a chair and braced himself for an attack. Instead, she looked up and gazed at her former husband. This quiet was so rare and precious from her, frightening to him. The edges of her makeup were smeared by tears. Somewhere deep and hidden, though still reachable, Percival knew the feeling of being a
boy from Shantou in Hong Kong, loving someone whom he could not understand, in a world that confused him. Did he understand more now? About Cecilia, women, or anything else? He should, and yet he wasn't sure. In an argument, he knew the twitches of Cecilia's eyes, the tensions in the corners of her mouth, well enough to anticipate what type of barb would be thrown. But he did not know what made her so openly sorrowful today.