The Headmaster's Wager (8 page)

The younger man said to his colleague, “This headmaster thinks we are truant officers.”

The older one said, “Or he is playing dumb.”

Dai Jai said in Vietnamese, “Let go of me.”

The younger one twisted Dai Jai's arm behind him. The older one slapped Dai Jai hard in the face. “Stupid Chinese,” he said. He waved Percival off with a backhanded gesture.

“Big brothers, there has been some mistake, a misunderstanding,” said Percival, all assurance gone from his voice. “Perhaps some additional … paperwork will help. I might have some red packets inside, also green paper. Let's go into the school, big brothers.” The lotus-leaf cone dangled from Dai Jai's fingers. Percival looked around, as if assistance might be nearby. The vendors watched with some curiosity. There was the one-eyed monk, begging for alms.

“Just like a Chinese. You think that money buys everything. I don't think so.” The older man from Saigon retrieved a single-page document from a manila envelope. He squinted. It was not clear whether he was reading or if this was simply a gesture. “These arrest papers are from the Political Security Section. That section has no interest in your green paper.”

Percival saw the gold chain peeking out from under Dai Jai's shirt, thought of the charm hidden within. He hoped it would not be snatched from the boy's neck by these men, prayed to the ancestors' spirits that their powers and those of the family charm would keep his son safe. He had clasped it around Dai Jai when he was a small boy, the night before he was to attend the Teochow Clan School for the first time. He had sat on the edge of Dai Jai's bed and told him the same stories that Chen Kai had once offered, of the distant ancestor bringing the charm from abroad, of its protective power. Now
he trusted, he had to trust, that the charm could somehow keep the wearer safe even if arrested by the quiet police. But he must not succumb so easily—perhaps there was still something to say. Percival tried to muster some bravado. “Ah, the political section. The new advisor to the education minister is busy, yes? I know Colonel Thuc well. An old friend, a childhood friend.” His voice trailed off. Percival thought of the photo in Mr. Tu's office, of a man he had never met. In any case, Mak would know how to get to him.

“Unlikely. He is from Quang Ngai.”

“Long live Prime Minister Ky, who will vanquish the communist terrorists,” offered Percival desperately. “Listen, big brothers, I know all about yesterday's unfortunate incident at the Teochow School. Is that the problem?”

“So you know all about it,” said the older one.

“Yes.”

“You know more than we do?” said the younger one. “Is that what you're saying,
hou jeung
?”

Suddenly, Dai Jai burst out in Cantonese, “I'm sorry for causing trouble.” His voice was high, his eyes wet. “I was only trying to show you my patriotism.”

These words burned. Percival did not meet Dai Jai's eyes or give any sign he had heard him. His smile was frozen, insistent. “Mr. Tu is my good friend at the Ministry of Education. I will call him. Leave the boy here. Tomorrow Mr. Tu can answer any question that you might have. We'll all sit down and talk about it then.”

The younger one said, “This matter doesn't concern education or Mr. Tu, Headmaster. Besides, school is over for the day. If you were simply this boy's teacher, why would you tell him to go inside? You are his father. You think we don't remember that the two of you were having breakfast yesterday on your balcony? Don't play us for stupid.”

“Never, big brothers.” Percival felt a painful strain in his face. “Please leave him with me. I will bring him myself to Saigon tomorrow. We will all sit sensibly and work out an arrangement. Tonight, think about what you would like. You know a father will do anything for his son.”

“Ah,” said the older one. “You could both be in Cambodia by tomorrow. A day changes so much, doesn't it? This arrest warrant states that Dai Jai is a dissident, and if your son is a dissident, you are right to be concerned.” He brandished the paper under Percival's nose.

“A stupid gesture,” said Percival, “an immature demonstration.”

“Indeed.”

Mrs. Ling's Malay girl had a spicy fragrance that Percival had lingered to enjoy a second time. The first time he had been too quick, only satisfying his body, not his agitation. She had climaxed, then dozed a little before the second slow, carnal pleasure in which they had both cried out. What if he had come home after the first time, slipped out while she napped, leaving some money on the bed? He might have got home in time.

On the street in front of Chen Hap Sing, Percival's agony was being monitored by the curious eyes of the shoe-shiner, the woman with the basket of bananas, and the two haircutters who squatted nearby. He wanted to yell at them to go away. A steady stream of the unconcerned—servants pulling on the hands of young children collected from school, the darting flashes of Vespa riders, a cyclo man with a passenger—continued to flow past. The one-eyed monk stood at a little distance, observing placidly. He might be praying, Percival hoped.

“Let's go,” the older officer said. He tossed the lotus leaf to the ground. The younger man shoved Dai Jai into the car and closed the door. Once inside the vehicle, he looked wildly about and pressed his hands against the glass. “
Baba
, help!”
Baba
, the word a small boy used. Dai Jai grappled with the door handle, but the door was locked.

“Please!” yelled Percival. “Don't take him!” He lunged for the door, but was casually knocked down by the older man and tumbled into the mud of the spilled larvae. The two men got in the car. The engine coughed to life, and the taillights glowed like hot coals. Percival picked himself up from the ground and saw his son's panicked eyes behind the glass as the boy began to cry. Percival ran alongside the car, pleading. The Ford's big engine revved and the car pulled away, scattering vendors and snack-sellers, who fluttered to each side like birds. Percival trailed after the car, shouting, until it disappeared out of sight.

Percival went in the house, closed the door and stared at it. It took a while for him to gather himself, to put one thought in front of another. It was almost dark by the time Percival telephoned Cecilia and told her what had happened. Did she know anyone in the Political Security Section? When he asked, she became uncharacteristically quiet. Then she cursed, and asked why had he not been able to do the most simple thing—to hide Dai Jai. She yelled at him through sobs. He lied about how it had happened. He said that the police had insisted on searching Chen Hap Sing, as if he had been standing guard there all day since their morning meeting, rather than bedding a prostitute for most of the afternoon.

“What should we do?” Percival said.

“We must both put our connections to work,” she said. “There may not be much time.” He wished he could contradict her, disagree, which was the norm between them, but he had the same fear.

After speaking with Cecilia, Percival found himself wandering outside. Walking past the spot where Dai Jai had been arrested, he saw his son's face dissolving into tears in the back of the car, thought of the lump of gold tied as always around his neck. Yes, that was something. Percival walked briskly past, into the welcoming darkness. Instead of going to gamble or to find a woman, he went out to buy a new lotus-leaf cone of mosquito larvae to feed his son's fish.

FROM BEFORE SCHOOL STARTED UNTIL AFTER
the last students were gone, Percival sat in his office with the door shut and lights off, sweltering by the telephone. Each time it rang, he seized the phone with fear and hope. But it was never Dai Jai. Nor was it the morgue.

It took a few days for Mak to arrange a lunch with Cholon District Police Chief Mei, who was usually eager for a good meal and a red packet but for some reason was now slow to make himself available. On the day of their meeting, Percival and Mak joined the chief in a private room within a quiet restaurant that specialized in Northern Chinese dumplings, Mei's favourite. Percival ordered dumplings filled with beef and young garlic, chicken and bird's nest, scallops and prawns. Mak and the chief made awkward small talk about the new Spanish racehorses at the track—no good in this climate; about mah-jong—a friend had lost a villa in Dalat in a big game; and about where to get the best black market exchange rates for the U.S. dollar. Percival bad-mouthed Cecilia's rates, but otherwise said little, restrained himself. All he wanted to talk about was whether Mei could help. Mak had advised Percival to keep quiet and let him do the talking. They drank beer, dipped dumplings in vinegar, and Mak laughed heartily at Mei's jokes.

When they loosened their belts and put down their chopsticks, the serving plates were still half full. Mei pushed himself back from the table, belched, and said, “It has been good to see you.” He glanced at his watch. “So late already.”

Percival started to rise, irate that Mei was going to play it this way, as if he did not know the purpose of this lunch. Mak shot Percival a glance, and he sat down, fuming. Mak asked if Mei could spare a further moment and calmly, slowly explained what had happened to Dai Jai. He explained it exactly as if Mei did not know, as if it were not a subject of heated gossip in Cholon.

Mei shook his head. “You have a serious problem.”

“Hmm …” Mak said. “If we can at least find out if he is safe, where he is …”

“There are two main possibilities,” Mei said. “There is Paulo Condor, an island prison on the southern coast where the French used to send the Vietnamese who displeased them.” He spoke the same way that Mak had, as if what he was explaining was not known to everyone at the table, as if he were talking to some American newly arrived in Vietnam. Mei smirked. “Now, it has both Vietnamese jailers and prisoners. There is also the National Police Headquarters, which is well known because—”

“Yes, I am familiar with its reputation,” interrupted Percival, not wishing to hear whatever euphemisms Mei might use for that house of cruelties.

“Of course.”

Percival knew there was a third possible fate that his son might have already met, but pushed that fear back.

Mak said, “Brother Mei, what can be done?”

“You should have come to me earlier.” Mei shook his head, looked at Percival, and then turned his eyes back to the table. “It would have been easier to prevent his arrest. Now, to free him?”

“Big brother,” said Mak, undeterred, “can't your fellow policemen in Saigon help? You are a district chief. They will do you a favour.” It was not necessary to say that Percival would, in turn, owe Chief Mei any favour he thought to ask.

“They let us Chinese police control Cholon as long as we don't cross them … on sensitive matters.”

“And this is sensitive?” Percival asked.

Mei shrugged. “What do you think? ”

“But you will try,” said Percival, sliding forward a plump red envelope. He had to pay, even for this useless encounter. He could not afford to dismiss the possibility of Mei's help.

Mei slipped the envelope into the ammunition pouch on his belt. It contained no bullets, but was full of cash. “Of course, friend. I will see what I can do.”

Each morning, Percival pressed Mak on the situation and the progress of his inquiries. A week after the lunch with Chief Mei, Mak informed Percival that the usual Saigon channels were exhausted. He would have to begin making other contacts. It would require night-time queries. Could he take the car? Percival gave Mak both the car and driver, and often Mak took it in the evening, brought it back spattered with mud in the morning. Percival did not ask where Mak was going to look for help, because it didn't matter.

Cecilia probed her American business connections, but they were of no use. They could get dollars, francs, and change piastres for U.S. Army scrip. But this was Saigon politics, they said, meaning either that it was too deep for them to see what was happening, or they did not wish to look there.

Chen Hap Sing was bearable during the day, when school was in session and the old rice storerooms were full of students and teachers, bustling with English dictation and reading exercises. The nights were more difficult. Percival wandered the familiar high-ceilinged halls and fastidiously tended the ancestral altar. He found himself pacing the rooms and talking, not to himself, but saying to his father, “If you are here, lurking in this house that you built, rescue your grandson. Keep him safe.”

Dai Jai's fish tanks became dirty. Percival didn't have the patience to clean them, but continued to feed the fish. Dai Jai would be happy to see them still alive when he returned. Unable to sleep, Percival ventured out to Le Paradis, sometimes Le Grand Monde, anywhere noisy and filled with light. He played small sums to pass the time. He did not bring any girls home, had no taste for it. Several times, he chanced upon Chief Mei, and let him win a sum of money. Each time, Mei took the money, looked into his drink, and told Percival
that he had learned nothing about Dai Jai, as embarrassed as Percival was angry.

Twice daily, Percival burned joss sticks and prayed to all the departed spirits of the Chen family, asking them to please keep Dai Jai safe, and to return him home. On the new moon day, then on the full moon, Percival arranged a roast duck, oranges, and kowtowed before the altar of the ancestors with these offerings. Percival implored them to save his son. In the midst of this, he caught himself cursing his father for leaving Shantou and drawing them to the land of the Annamese, but he hurried to push this thought beneath the surface and replace it with prayers to the spirit of Chen Kai. Somehow, as much as he tried to make the feeling go away, being faced with the loss of his son made him angry at his father. Why had Chen Kai left their home in China and led them to this country? Wasn't it better to be poor farmers there than rich foreigners here? Then, in 1944, Chen Kai had suddenly insisted upon travelling overland to China while there was still heavy fighting between the Chinese and the Japanese in northern Indochina. Percival never heard from him again. Couldn't he have waited for the war to end, after being away from home for so many years? Why had he insisted, at the most dangerous possible moment in that war, that he needed to return to Shantou?