Thanh’s wife nodded in agreement, but added, “This is a foul-smelling wind.”
Vo did take more cigarettes from Thanh, three times a week. He never demanded them, but somehow Thanh always offered, usually after mention of Pham and Thi. The cadre was indeed clever and it was this cleverness that frustrated Thanh most of all.
Vo frustrated Thanh s neighbors, too, so much that they came to his home one night after dark, sneaking inside like thieves.
Minh, the government clerk, was the first to speak. “Thanh, we have come to you for advice because of your age and wisdom. Vo pays us nothing to live at our home and he eats like two men. When I hint of payment, he tells me that revolutionary joy is sufficient payment and that we all must sacrifice — the same stupid things he says at meetings I am afraid not to attend. He reminds me that I was a clerk for the Thieu regime, too. Then he tells me that my cooperation may earn me a promotion. He threatens me and promises things in a single breath. I am confused.”
Quoc, the tailor, said, “He does that to all of us. I repair his clothes and am now sewing him a new shirt. He knows that before Liberation I altered Army uniforms and sewed insignia on them. He tells me that I have been poisoned by the Thieu government and their American running dogs. When I agree to his demands, he promises to talk to officials about getting my cloth ration increased.”
Phu, the mechanic, was next. “Thanh, when Saigon was filled with cars and motorbikes, I fixed them and sold parts. Vo says I was a prostitute of the bourgeois. My customers have only bicycles now. I gave Vo tires for his because he said they were worn out and he could not use it to get around on important Party business. He lied. His tires are good. I know he sold them. You must stand in lines and pay many dong to buy a tire at a government store. He says he knows somebody who can supply me with all the tires and tubes I need. I have not yet seen them.”
Then Thanh told his story. His friends were sympathetic.
“You have the most to win or to lose,” Quoc said. “Comrade Vo has power over us, but he claims to have power over Pham, too. Is this true? Can he persuade them to release your son from the reeducation camp?”
“How can I know?” Thanh said. “How can I risk defying him?”
Minh said angrily, “Having him in my home is unbearable. We must do something.”
“We cannot,” Thanh told them. “Vo is but a strand of hair on the monster. If we pluck it another will grow in its place, one that might be even coarser.”
“Remember Loc, Vo’s predecessor before he was sent home to Hanoi,” Phu argued. “He preached socialism to us and asked us to spy on our friends. But he did not take bread from our mouths. If Vo is replaced, maybe the new cadre will be a finer hair.”
Finally Thanh said, thinking, staring at Lin: “I see your point. If a river swollen by the monsoons rises, we may, by digging a trench with our bare hands, divert a small trickle that is enough to prevent the river from raging over us.”
The men agreed unanimously.
A certain telepathy exists between a man and woman who have been married over forty years. Without a word, Lin excused herself and left the room. She returned in a moment with a dusty bundle wrapped in paper and string. Her eyes were glassy with tears.
Thanh took it from her and said that he had a possible solution, addressing his suggestions primarily to Minh.
The day after the next, Vo was escorted from Minh’s home by two soldiers. Everybody in the neighborhood observed them as they walked — Vo talkative, gesturing with his hands, the soldiers impassive. If Vo or the soldiers had looked back, all eyes would have quickly averted.
But they did not look back. Thanh saw that one soldier carried Thi’s precious books, the books Minh had secreted in Vo’s belongings before notifying the authorities.
Thanh did not understand the contents of the books — one of which was the life story of an American patriot named Lincoln, another a schoolbook devoted to the study of the U.S. government. There was a Christian Bible, a text of the English language, several volumes of poetry, and a thick series of essays defending the American involvement in Vietnam.
Thanh did understand that they were counterrevolutionary. Maybe soon, he thought, Vo would meet Pham. In his next letter, he would have to ask.
Wait until morning
by Edward D. Hoch[7]
It was a man named Matt Milton who telephoned the Libby Knowles Protection Service on a hot Monday morning in August. Libby’s secretary Janice said he sounded like a client and Libby took the call.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Milton?”
“Am I speaking to Libby Knowles?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m calling about an extremely confidential matter involving one of my clients.”
“Are you a private investigator, Mr. Milton?”
“I’m a personal manager. An agent. You must have heard of my client, Krista Steele, the rock singer?”
“I don’t follow the contemporary music scene as closely as I should,” Libby admitted. “Is your client in need of protection?”
“She is.”
“From fans, or from some specific person?”
“From herself. She’s been using cocaine and other drugs lately, and she’s finally agreed to my suggestion she hire a bodyguard to keep her off the stuff. Is it the sort of thing you could do?”
“It’s not what I’m in business to do,” Libby said, “but if your client is willing to cooperate, I could give it a try.”
“Good. Could you meet with Krista and me this afternoon at my office? We’ll discuss your duties and your fees.”
Matt Milton was a fatherly looking man in his fifties who wore a string tie of the sort Libby remembered from movies of the Old South. He was a bit chubby around the middle and smoked expensive-looking cigars. He was the last person in the world one might expect to be promoting the career of Krista Steele.
Krista was slender and tall — close to Libby’s own five-foot-eight. She wore a dangling earring in her right ear. Her hair was all on the left, hiding that ear, and her pale-blue eyes were almost lost in a maze of harsh black eyeliner. Her silk dress looked expensive. She pouted at Libby from her chair. “You’re going to be my nursemaid?” she asked in a cold voice.
“If you need one. But what you’ll be hiring is a bodyguard, and I don’t come cheap.”
“I thought bodyguards were male,” Krista said, fidgeting with the clasp of her little purse.
Matt Milton cleared his throat. “I thought Miss Knowles could do the job better, without distractions. She’s highly recommended.”
Krista studied Libby for another moment and then asked, “You know what you’re supposed to do?”
“Tell me.”
“Keep me off drugs — cocaine, speed, grass, LSD. If you see me buying anything or taking something from a stash someplace, take it away from me.”
“All right. Will you be cooperative?”
When Krista didn’t answer, Matt Milton did. “Yes, she’ll cooperate. But if she resists you, be as firm as necessary. That’s what you’re being paid for. We’ll pay you a thousand dollars a week. Is that satisfactory?”
It was more money than Libby had ever made before. “Plus expenses?”
“Plus expenses.”
“For how long?”
“Week to week, till we see how it goes.”
“How much travel is involved?”
Krista Steele shifted in her chair. She stopped playing with the clasp on her purse and said, “I have a concert tour next month, but for the next few weeks there are only recording dates here in town, and rehearsals.”