The Deepest Water Page 16

  Thanh regarded her with sympathy. "I'm very sorry about your loss," she said. "I didn't know him personally, as I said, but I share your grief. Many people share your grief."

  Abby's hands were folded on the table, and for a moment she feared that Thanh was going to reach across, take her hand, touch her; she put her hands in her lap.

  "Here's our tea," Thanh said as the counterman returned to place the pot and cups on the table. When he left again, she poured for them both. "I'll tell you what I know, and afterward you ask your questions."

  She did not wait for a response. "We lived in Saigon when I was very young, no more than a baby," she said. "My father was an engineer and my mother worked for the French embassy as a translator. She speaks six languages fluently," she added. "When the French left, Father Jean told my parents that others would come, the Americans would come, and they should return to the countryside, where they might be safer. He got her a job teaching at a convent school not far from our grandmother's village, and that's where we moved. My parents, three brothers, and my sister. We had been relatively wealthy— middle class, I suppose you would say—and suddenly we were peasants."

  She sipped her tea and drew back as the counterman placed large soup bowls and a number of small condiment bowls on the table. Thanh named the various additions to the soup as she added them to her own bowl: cilantro, flakes of red pepper, rice noodles, other things that Abby had never heard of.

  "Try it," Thanh urged her gently. "I imagine you haven't recognized your own hunger."

  Following Thanh's example, Abby added some of the condiments, and the soup was delicious. She really had not recognized her hunger pangs.

  "So," Thanh said, continuing her story as she ate, "it happened as Father Jean had predicted; the Americans came, the war became a ravenous monster. My father was conscripted, and we never saw him again. Then my oldest brother vanished into the forest one night when he was sixteen. The next year another brother went into the forest. No one told me anything: I was too young. Later I knew that they had both joined the forces from the north. When my sister, Xuan, was sixteen, she began to work for the Americans as a translator. My mother had taught us all well; Xuan was a good translator."

  She put down her spoon and gazed over Abby's shoulder, her expression remote now. "One day Father Jean came to tell us good-bye. The school would be closed, the nuns recalled, and he would be sent to the United States, to work with the Vietnamese refugees. He had come from a town in France, in the Burgundy region; it was his dream to return to his own village one day, but he never did. Then the Americans burned the school; they said the Vietcong were using it as a meeting place."

  She drew her gaze back to Abby. "This was all a very long time ago," she said softly. "Before you were born even. And I was a child. For us it's no more than history."

  For Thanh it was more, Abby knew; pain of the memories was clearly written on her face.

  "By the time I was eight," Thanh went on briskly, "I was seeing what I had not seen before, although it had been there to see. Xuan was meeting with our brothers in secret. A few miles away from our village was the American camp where she worked, and from it missions were sent out daily. The soldiers from that particular camp were greatly feared; the captain who ordered the missions was considered one of the best soldiers, very smart and cunning, and without mercy. My brothers and sister, and others, of course, were plotting to entrap the best unit from that camp, the best soldiers, the most hated lieutenant, and destroy them."

  She lifted her teacup, then set it down without a sip. "My sister was a very important part of the trap," she said slowly. "Her job was to seduce a soldier, to make him fall in love with her, and pretend love for him, and to confide in him, tell him about an important family meeting that would take place on a certain day. A meeting that would bring in officers from the Vietcong to participate in a celebration. She knew that what she had to say must be reported to the soldier's superiors, or at least be overheard by them. I don't know how they managed the details, but that is what happened. She used the young soldier; his own officers used him and learned of the celebration, and they planned to raid it, to capture and kill important officers, destroy their rendezvous site. Everyone used the innocent young soldier," she said faintly. "He was your father."

  For a time neither spoke; Abby couldn't have spoken, her mouth was too dry, her lips too stiff. The same story her father had told in the novel, a few details changed, but the same story. The Vietnamese translator had seduced him, used him, discarded him, just as he had written about Sammy, who had seduced the boy Link and discarded him.

  Thanh seemed lost in the past. She broke the silence. "Most of this I learned from my brothers later," she said. "Over a period of several days the villagers quietly left the village; my mother took my youngest brother and me and our grandmother to my uncle's house. The Cong moved into the village to keep up the appearance of normalcy, to light cooking fires, tend the vegetable gardens.... Then they left also, but the fires were burning, cooking smells in the air, a few animals wandering about. Normal village life. The Americans moved in, and someone began to run from house to house warning the people that they were coming, or so it appeared. The Americans began to shoot. And the Cong sprang the trap. They annihilated the American unit that day. No American in it survived, and only one of our people was killed. My sister. She was the person they saw running from house to house."

  Abby remembered what Jud had written; the beautiful girl, his lover, had taken him into the forest and left him. She knew what was coming; she wouldn't have gone back to the village.

  Thanh said very quietly, "The plans went awry. She was not supposed to fall in love with the big American, but she did. And she betrayed him. She made our brothers promise not to hurt him, to ensure his safety, and she took her part in the final scene, her act of atonement. He saw her get shot, and he saw the helicopters come in later and firebomb the village. He knew. He collapsed, and my brothers stood guard over him until the American rescue team arrived. They did not harm him, but they believed he would also die. They said he became a ghost that day."

  Abby wanted to cry out, No! He hadn't written it that way. Up until now she had believed every word, but not this. It was Teri Frazier he felt guilty about, not the Vietnamese girl. She couldn't speak, couldn't move. Thanh reached across the table and touched her hand.

  "Let's walk back to the office," Thanh said. "I told them I'd pay the bill later. I think we're finished here."

  On the sidewalk, oblivious to the busy street, the traffic, passersby, Thanh began to talk again. "Back in 1991, Father Jean told us a man appeared on his doorstep one day, your father, who had brought with him a cashier's check for four thousand dollars. He asked Father Jean if he knew about the family of Xuan Bui, if any of them had survived the war, if the village had been rebuilt. The check was for the village, he said, and his name could not be revealed. At that time he didn't even tell Father Jean who he was. He was afraid they would reject the money if they knew the source, Father Jean said, and he said the man apologized for the meagerness of the check. Father Jean assured him that that much money in Vietnam was a fortune.

  "The following year he came back, with a bigger check, and that time he began to ask questions about the school, had it been rebuilt, or a different one built. When Father Jean told him there was no school near that village, he became excited, and said he wanted to build a school there. That it would take time and patience, but he would do it."

  They had reached the office; she unlocked the door and they entered. She did not remove the CLOSED sign. Motioning for Abby to follow, she led the way through the office to the next room. "We'll be more comfortable here," she said. She smiled and gestured to a round table with half a dozen chairs drawn up around it. "Not much more comfortable, but a little. This is where we plan and scheme."

  They talked for a long time. With the American's money and the priest's influence in the church, they had acquired the land and construction
had begun; her mother was the school administrator, and Thanh was the American coordinator, the one who hunted down the best bargains in computers, paper, textbooks, even teachers. She brought out photographs that showed the development of the school, from a forest reclaiming the land, to a clearing, a tiny one-room building, .another, then a larger building that housed three classrooms, a dormitory, and an office. She gave Abby copies of legal documents that detailed where every penny had been spent.

  "As soon as he stipulated the name of the school," she said, "we knew the name of our benefactor. Xuan had talked about him to us, and about us to him. We knew. Father Jean has honored the promise he made to keep our benefactor anonymous; he has never mentioned his name, but there was no need. When Father Jean became ill, they set up a trust fund in a bank here in San Francisco, and the money is funneled through it anonymously. Now, some of our own people are starting to contribute, not merely with money but volunteer workers, even volunteer teachers; in time the school will grow and thrive. A memorial to your father, and to my sister."

  15

  On Sunday night Felicia Shaeffer had dinner with her daughter Sara, Sara's husband, John, and their three children. Sara was an executive secretary for a group of attorneys, John worked in the city building-permit department, and they both took their positions, their responsibilities very seriously. Their children took their jobs as grandchildren seriously also, she thought, suppressing a sigh, as she listened to the youngest, eight-year-old Sylvie, play a tortured piano piece. Dinner had been exactly correct, broiled skinless chicken breasts, some weird potatoes in a casserole with fat-free sour cream, green beans that had been heated but not really cooked—and at this time of year everyone, except Sara, knew you had to cook them; God alone knew how far they had traveled, how long ago they had been picked. Everything measured, calories counted, so many grams of fiber provided, down to the salad sprinkled with lemon juice and dry-roasted sunflower seeds. All very healthful. Sara, like her father before her, did not believe alcohol was good for you, and served none, not even wine with dinner. At nine o'clock Felicia yawned widely and said old people like her belonged in bed along about now. She escaped.

  Back in her own one-bedroom jail, she petted her two dogs affectionately, then went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. How on earth had she managed to bring up such ... she groped for a word, found it.. .puritanical children? What had she done wrong? It was the damn pendulum effect, she thought glumly; she was of the sixties' live-and-let-live generation, they were the new pure, holier-than-thou generation. She pitied them, hoping the pendulum had found its farthest reach by now and soon would start back again.

  Daisy and Mae were eyeing her anxiously, doing their dance, wanting to go out, needing to go out after hours inside. At home she could open the door and let them out when necessary, but here she had to bundle up, put them on leashes, walk with them. It wasn't as if they ever stayed out a minute longer than they had to, they were house dogs, after all, but they were used to the freedom of choosing when to go outdoors. And so was she, she thought, looking about the tidy little apartment with distaste.

  "All right, girls," she said then, and got her heavy jacket from the closet. She pulled a stocking cap over her head, over her ears, added warm wool gloves, and they were ready. Actually, she needed some fresh air to clear her mind. A visit with her perfect children and theirs always left her feeling strange, an alien among weirdos. Tonight she had no intention of going to bed anytime soon; she had some heavy thinking to do. A brisk walk first would help.

  Tomorrow Willa would come by after work, and Abby had called to say she wouldn't be there at all, not until Tuesday. That was fine, Felicia had decided; there were things she had to do before she talked again with Abby.

  At the same time that Abby was leaving the room of the dying priest on Monday, Felicia was opening her door to admit Lieutenant Caldwell. "Come in, come in," she said. "Back off, girls, down." Both poodles were sniffing his legs with great interest; they retreated and sat down, keeping their eyes on him. "I'm glad you could come yourself. Detective Varney is very pretty, but she certainly is young, isn't she?"

  He smiled and nodded. "Young and pretty, and a very good detective. But your message said you wanted to see me, so here I am. You have something for me?"

  "Let me hang up your jacket," she said. "Do you want coffee?"

  "I'll keep the jacket, and coffee would be good. Never turn down coffee, that's my motto." He was wearing jeans with boots, and a windbreaker over a sweatshirt. He looked as if he planned to go undercover on the Eugene mall or, more likely, infiltrate a lumbermen association meeting.

  "That's a long drive from Salem," she said, motioning for him to follow her to the kitchen.

  "One hour twenty minutes."

  She nodded, suspecting that few details escaped his notice. The coffee was made; she poured two cups and pointed to the sugar and cream on the counter, but he used neither. They returned to the living room, where she sat in her rocking chair, and he on the couch; in the small room he was almost close enough to touch.

  "So tell me what you have," he said.

  "Last week Willa Ashford, Abby, and I worked at putting Jud's novel in order. Abby found the missing pieces, and we included them. Have your people found those parts?"

  "We recovered everything on his hard drive," the lieutenant said.

  "And they didn't help your cause," she murmured. "Have you made any headway at all, Lieutenant?"

  "We're tying up loose ends, running down leads, the usual thing."

  He was being cautious, giving nothing, and being very patient. She had noticed how people divided themselves: those who were patient with an old woman in a rocking chair, and those who began fidgeting, eager to get away, on to other things. She was glad he was a patient man; what she had to say couldn't be rushed.

  "Are you a reader?" she asked. "Have you read Jud's other novels?"

  "I don't do much fiction," he said. "Biography, history, that's my speed. I haven't read him except for the new novel, and I admit that we're not at all certain we have it in the proper order."

  She nodded regretfully. "Then there must be parts that don't make much sense, continuing motifs that appear in all the works, characters and subplots he comes back to now and then. I suspect that you're more oriented to the concrete, to details, and his work is very nuanced, things hinted at, shapes lurking in the background, the kind that if you turn to examine them, they're gone, but you know they're there again as soon as you stop trying to focus on them."

  He nodded. "It's a puzzling book."

  "Take that blond man, for instance," she said then. "What the pilot saw was long blond hair, ear studs, and cash in hand. If you had seen that man, I imagine your description of him would have included his height, weight, the color of his eyes, whether he had moles, good or bad teeth. Most people don't collect real details at all; a general impression is all they retain."

  He was watching her closely over the rim of his coffee cup. He set it down and leaned back. "You recognized him finally?"

  "No, no. I didn't mean to give you that idea. I think that when you find him, you'll learn that he was going home to a family crisis, a wife in labor, something of that sort. Out on the desert somewhere, or up in the mountains. I tried to turn him into someone I might know," she added. "That's what I do, start with someone real, and begin making changes, a longer nose, or shorter, hairier, prettier or uglier. But I couldn't make him into anyone. He's a stranger who was on a mission of his own that night, I'm afraid."

  "I doubt that you asked me to come around to tell me you don't know who he is," Caldwell commented dryly.

  "No, I didn't. I hoped you had read Jud's other books by now, so that you'd have a bit of understanding about the section I want to talk about. Jud was a very complicated man, Lieutenant. Very complex, and smart. He did a smart thing when he created the resort for his background. It allowed him to bring the world to his doorstep, you see. Sometimes playfully, fa
rcical even, sometimes very seriously. He satirized politicians mercilessly, Hollywood charlatans who channeled Indian spirits, aging stars, people of all sorts. He had fun with them. They aren't likely to recognize themselves because, like most of us, they look at the surface, or more likely they see the face they want to show the world, and that isn't how Jud painted them in his work. I think he saw people from the inside out, and then created just enough surface details to give them a sort of reality. A different way of seeing."

  "You think you recognize some of the people he was writing about?"

  She nodded. "Some. Quite a few, actually, once I caught on to what he was doing. I extracted some pages from the novel for you to read, if you will. Not a lot, just ten or fifteen pages at most. Would you do that?"

  "Now?"

  "Yes. Then we can talk about them." She had the pages on the table at her elbow and picked them up to hand to him. He stood up, came and took the pages reluctantly, then sat down again, began to read. He was only skimming, she knew. He had read those pages before probably and had made no sense of them, and he didn't expect to make sense of them now. Watching him, she was not surprised when his expression changed to one that was not exactly angry, but was no longer the placid, neutral one he had worn before.