Tree of smoke by Denis Johnson Page A

Saigon. You want Taiwan.”
    “Colonel, with the very deepest respect, sir, what you implied before is completely mistaken. We’re going to beat them.”
    “I didn’t mean we don’t beat them, Skip. I meant we don’t beat them automatically.”
    “I realize that. I expect them to be worthy of us.”
    “Aaaah—despite all my best efforts, you’re one of these new boys. You’re a different breed.”
    “Send me to Vietnam.”
    “Taiwan. Where the living’s good and you meet all the people on their way up. Or Manila. Manila is number two, I’d say.”
    “My French is improving. I’m reading well, always did. Send me to the language school and I’ll land in Saigon talking like a native.”
    “Come on. Saigon’s a revolving door, everybody’s in and out.”
    “I need rubber bands. Big long thick ones. I want to batch your cards by regions until you get me some more drawers. And more card tables. Give me a room and two clerks in Saigon. I’ll write you an encyclopedia.”
    The colonel chuckled, low, wheezing—sarcastic, histrionic—but Skip knew it for a happy sign. “All right, Will. I’ll send you to the school, we’ll work that out. But first I need you to go on assignment for me. Mindanao. I’ve got an individual down there I want more on. Would you mind poking around Mindanao a little bit?”
    Sands vanquished a rush of fear and said emphatically, “I’m your man, sir.”
    “Get in there. Have intercourse with snakes. Eat human flesh. Learn everything.”
    “That’s pretty broad.”
    “There’s a man named Carignan down there, a priest, he’s been there for decades and decades. Father Thomas Carignan. You’ll find him in the files. Familiarize yourself with the stuff on this guy named Carignan. American citizen off in the boonies there, a padre. He’s receiving arms or such.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Well, I don’t know what it means. That’s the phraseology. Receiving guns. I’ve got nothing elaborated.”
    “And then what?”
    “Off you go. See the man. Looks like we’re gonna finalize the file.”
    “Finalize?”
    “We’re laying the ground for it. Those are the orders.”
    “‘Finalize’ seems…” He couldn’t quite finish.
    “Seems?”
    “This sounds to be about more than files.”
    “It’ll be months before any decisions. Meanwhile, we want things in place. If it’s a go, that’s not us. You are there only to report to me. You’ll transmit the report through the VOA station there on Mindanao.”
    “And then I’m your cataloger in Vietnam?”
    “Vietnam. Better ship your M1 home to Mama. We don’t issue that ammo anymore.”
    “Shit. I think I’ll have another brandy.”
    The colonel held out his glass while Skip poured. “A toast—but not to Vietnam. To Alaska. Yowza!”
    Anders and Skip raised their drinks.
    “This is a happy coincidence. Because I wanted to give you a little task, and I think if your conduct in the field is as exemplary as I’d predict for you, then I’ll have every reason to get you reassigned.”
    “Are you playing me? Have you been playing me all night?”
    “All night?”
    “No. Not all night. Since—”
    “Since when, Skip?” He drew on his cigar so his fat face bloomed orange in the darkness.
    “You’re a vaudevillian.”
    “Playing you?”
    “Since I was twelve.”
    The colonel said, “I went to Alaska once, you know. I toured the Alaska-Canada road they built there during the war. Fantastic. Not the road, the landscape. The mighty road was just this insignificant little scratch across that landscape. You’ve never seen a world like that. It belongs to the God who was God before the Bible…God before he woke up and saw himself…God who was his own nightmare. There is no forgiveness there. You make one tiny mistake and that landscape grinds you into a bloody smudge, and I do mean right now, sir.” He looked red-eyed around himself, as if he only halfway recognized his environment. Sands willed himself