The Headmaster's Wager (51 page)

Percival also sat. “I can explain.”

“And that many of your students went to work for the Americans. Don't you know that English is an imperialist language? Don't you care about the history of the foreigners in this country, or even in your own land—China? You ignored this and collaborated with the white oppressors?” The
can bo
stubbed out his cigarette on Percival's desk. “There is a two-week amnesty for confessions from police, army, and collaborators with the old foreign enemy. If you confess fully to your bourgeois crimes, you will be treated leniently. If we find after the amnesty that you hid anything, things will be more … uncomfortable for you,” said the
can bo
breathlessly.

The door behind Percival opened. He recognized the footsteps. The
can bo
looked over at the boy in the doorway. Laing Jai slipped over to Percival and stood behind his chair, one hand gripping Percival's shoulder. He said, “
Baba
, there are strange soldiers all over the house, I'm scared.”

“Shh.”

“Who is this?” said the
can bo
with disdain, craning his neck to see the boy. “Houseboy?” He spat on the floor. “Saigon is full of these half-breeds—we'll fix that.”

Laing Jai's breath was quick as he buried his face in Percival's neck. Percival said in a quavering voice, “I am a patriot, sir. I have been for years. I have been known as Deep Cover Agent B. It is in your own intelligence reports.” Now he would see if Mak had really done him this last favour, if he had sufficiently cleansed Percival's background.

The
can bo
laughed. “What is that riddle, Chinaman?”

As Mak had intended to adjust Percival's past, Percival must now complete the revision of his own history. Summoning the courage of luck as he would at the casino, Percival leaned forward, but not too far. “This school was a special intelligence project for the revolution. I ran it with my comrade, Mr. Mak. Top secret. How would my neighbours know? In fact, I'm not surprised, comrade, that you didn't know I am a Viet Cong intelligence operative.” The
can bo
stopped writing and looked up. “Your rank is not high enough for you to have been briefed. Comrade Mak and I both joined the Viet Minh over thirty years ago, to oppose the Japanese. Later, we created the Percival Chen English Academy in order to place Viet Cong spies in the Americans' Saigon offices.” If anything would save Percival and Laing Jai, it was Mak's work. And Cho's. Percival tried to channel Mak's deft confidence, and the vocabulary of recent loudspeaker broadcasts, as best he could. “In Tet of 1968, we had such high hopes of victory. We cried bitterly to see the flowers of revolution wilted, and so many of our comrades slain by the imperialists. With that temporary setback, however, our resolve to overthrow the oppressors only grew stronger. We continued the patriotic fight against the corrupt capitalist puppet regimes.”

The officer's expression softened a little, and he selected an unlit cigarette, said nothing.

Percival continued, “Thank you, comrade, for coming to complete the liberation. I have dreamed of this day.” He told the
can bo
of their most inspired initiative, to gain special recognition from the Americans for the Percival Chen English Academy so that they would have direct access to all the most sensitive American jobs in Saigon and could place spies everywhere. He added, “With such good connections, anyone would have found it strange if we did not charge a very high tuition.”

“Hmm …” said the
can bo
.

“How I rejoice to see the armies of the people in victory. This is a joyous day!” Percival grasped for the right language. In the sea, one must swim. He hoped the trickle of sweat down his temple did not betray his fear. Percival kept on talking, reminded himself to speak slowly lest he stumble over his own words, lavishing the account with any details that came to mind.

Finally, the
can bo
interrupted and asked, “Where is this supposed comrade, Mr. Mak? I would like to debrief him also.”

“He has been missing since the liberation.” Percival pushed down the image of the burned car. “He might be deep undercover, rooting out any remaining counter-revolutionaries. I look forward to celebrating with him.”

“We will look into it,” said the Northerner. His pen scratched the notebook. He lit the second cigarette. This time, he held out the pack to offer one. Percival refused. The
can bo
filled a page in his little book with notes in a tiny hand. When he finished his second smoke, he said, “The things you say are intriguing. They will require verification. Everyone in the neighbourhood says that you lived an indulgent capitalist life.”

“Part of the ruse. How better to avoid suspicion than to live like those who were American puppets? In service of the revolution,” said Percival as if this were the most obvious and trivial thing. He felt the same shiver that he knew from laying down a large bet on a bad hand. He smiled. “I am certain,” Percival continued, “that in your patriotic intelligence branch of the North Vietnamese Army, there are many reports referring to our work as Southern Viet Cong spies. These will confirm what I am telling you, comrade.”

The
can bo
took out a sheaf of papers that had been mimeographed in purplish blue ink. He wrote Percival's name on one, signed it, and handed it across the desk. “This is your residency permit. You will need it for food. Without a permit you are subject to deportation to the countryside. We will get rid of most of you Chinese, because Saigon is for the Vietnamese. Ho Chi Minh City, that is. If you are really a patriot, perhaps we will have to allow you to stay. If you lied to me, you will regret it. Don't lose your permit.”

Percival looked down at the paper and read his name. He held it out. “Comrade, do the names of children go on the permits as well?”

“We do not register half-breeds. They have no place in the new society. Tell your houseboy to get out of here, to vanish.”

“He is my son.”

“What?” The
can bo
snatched the paper back.

“I have served the—”

He held Percival's permit up, taut between two hands, about to rip it in half. “In any case, I don't think you need him registered, do you?”

“General Cho would be so upset if anything happened to him,” Percival said, “for he is very fond of Laing Jai.” He felt the tingle of doubling up a wager on a bad hand. Sometimes this was the trick, to take a bet too far, so far that no one could think it a bluff. “Whatever—I don't care. Rip that up. I'll get another and have General Cho speak to your commanding officer.”

The
can bo
relaxed his grip on the paper. “General Cho?”

“Laing Jai is his great favourite. Cho was in command of our special project. Mak and I reported directly to him.” Percival spoke as quickly as he could think. “My son often delivered our briefings to him—who would suspect a young boy of carrying intelligence papers? Cho always gave him sweets.”

“I've heard of the Viet Cong General Cho, that he has a temper.”

“Yes, then you know who I mean?” said Percival. The flush of good luck was palpable. “A bitter temper. My son is one of the few people he has a soft heart for, I don't know why.”

The
can bo
put the paper on the desk, scrawled Laing Jai's name, and handed Percival the residency permit. “Consider this permit temporary. We will verify your story.” He stood. “You may keep one room, after I choose one for myself. I am going to tour my new school.” He left the office and went down the hallway. Once he was gone, Laing Jai threw his arms around Percival. He did not cry, but only held on to Percival tightly.

Percival whispered, “It's alright.
Baba
will take care of you.”

The
can bo
chose Percival's third-floor room with its handsome balcony overlooking the square. He took the old school office for his
own. Percival and Laing Jai retreated to Dai Jai's room, and the
can bo
's unit of special political soldiers occupied the rest of the building. The next day, they carted out the English school books and American magazines and burned them in a bonfire in the square. The loudspeakers directed everyone who had American and French books or magazines to bring them and burn them in the fire or face harsh penalties later. Percival secretly removed his hidden stash of books and canned fish to Dai Jai's room. He saw that the soldiers wrote down the names of everyone who brought books for burning, lists for future reference.

THE MIMEOGRAPHED RESIDENCY PERMIT ENTITLED PERCIVAL
and Laing Jai to a weekly ration of food, one kilo of rice and a cabbage each. At the site of the old post office, which had been made the food depot, Percival lined up at dawn to be sure to get their ration. The cabbages were often rotting. There were usually stones in the rice. Percival read books with Laing Jai, hoping that his grandson might lose himself in the pages, careful to put a Vietnamese cover over English books in case one of the soldiers who now lived in the house happened to come into their room. Percival went out once a day—he had no money to buy anything, no reason to see anyone, but he loitered around the cafes to hear the gossip. If he recognized someone from the old days, they might exchange a quiet nod at a distance. Since they had known each other as capitalists and profiteers—though they had once called themselves businessmen—they did not acknowledge one another openly.

He wrote to Cecilia, to explain what had happened to Dai Jai. His story was safe for any censor to read. Their son had died as a soldier of the liberating Northern army. For a while there was no response, and Percival wondered whether this was because she had written something that the censors had seized, or simply that she had found nothing to say to her ex-husband. Then, after a few months, Percival received a brief note to thank him for his recent correspondence, nothing else. His mail had been forwarded to Cecilia in America. There was a return address in Brooklyn. He penned an equally short
note wishing her all the best and saying that he was glad she was pursuing her dreams. Percival did not write about Laing Jai's true paternity. If he ever saw Cecilia again, he would explain the rest.

Jacqueline had been right about Vietnam's fate. Percival kept Laing Jai in the house. Abandoned
métis
children scurried in the shadows of the streets and alleyways, filthy and skinny, begging and stealing to live. In the morning, they were often found dead from the army patrols' night-time abuses.

Once in a while, Laing Jai asked about America, whether his mother had sent any letters and when they would go to join her. “Soon,” Percival always answered. “Very soon.” The boy spoke as if he were certain that Jacqueline was waiting for them in America. Percival was unsure whether Laing Jai actually believed this, or whether he said it because it was the best thing for him to believe. He did not contradict the boy.

When Percival saw that Laing Jai's spirits were low, he would open a can of fish for him in their room, and remind him to keep it secret. Later, he would sneak the empty tin out in order to dispose of it discreetly. Week after week, Percival and Laing Jai saw trucks arrive in the square to be loaded with people who had been told to report for re-education in the countryside. The Northern soldiers checked names off lists, slammed shut the tailgates of the trucks, and drove away. A few former teachers from the Percival Chen English Academy were assigned to teach in the new Revolutionary School Number Thirty-Seven. Others, those who had larger houses or came from more prosperous families, or perhaps just spoke with a little too much confidence, were ordered to report for re-education. Some mornings, Percival watched as someone he knew, a former teacher or student, peered at Chen Hap Sing from the back of a North Vietnamese Army truck, a wordless goodbye in their eyes. He dared not wave. He wanted to turn away, but felt obliged to at least watch them go. Meanwhile, Percival heard occasionally of other former students who received good positions in the new government—they were those who Mak had placed as Saigon spies.

In Chen Hap Sing's classrooms, the new Revolutionary School
Number Thirty-Seven taught Marxism, classical Vietnamese poetry, and political confession to the neighbourhood children. There was no question of sending Laing Jai. In political confession class, the
can bo
sat and took note of the things children said about their parents.

By autumn, no one had returned from their two weeks of re-education in the countryside. One did not ask after people who had not been seen for a while. Such queries led to a re-education order. By the anniversary of the liberation, everyone knew someone who had fled by sea, or who had either died or been arrested trying to do so. In the old days, trouble could be avoided by slipping away to Phnom Penh, but now Percival heard that the killing was even worse in Cambodia than in Vietnam.

Once the lists of the politically questionable were exhausted, the
can bo
turned his attention to deporting would-be escapees. He began to fill the trucks with people who had tried to ride bicycles out of Cholon towards the coast at night, people who had attempted to engage snakeheads who were really political soldiers in disguise, families who hid themselves in the trunks of cars heading east, or those who had sought out coastal charts or waterproof compasses. Their gold was confiscated, their houses given to soldiers and officials, and they were put on trucks bound for the jungle camps. Even so, there were the whispered rumours of escape, that someone's uncle or brother had sent word, having escaped by boat to Thailand and found his way to San Francisco, or Montreal, or Marseille.

One of the teachers who had been assigned to work at the Revolutionary School snuck up to Percival and Laing Jai's room one day, when the
can bo
had gone to Saigon. He did not knock, he simply opened the door and crept in. In the old days, this teacher had been jovial and amply fed. Now, he was nervous and thin.