said abruptly.
Missy has always spoken warmly of your family, Sydney said.
I mean lately.
It would be a pleasure to meet Claude, Sydney said.
No doubt, Monsieur said.
Perhaps he wouldn't want to, Sydney said thoughtfully. I suppose I can understand that. It could be awkward for him. Perhaps risky, depending on the circumstances. He has a wife. And soon he will be a father. He would not want to expose himself more than necessary. The Communists were ruthless and adhered to the old rule, My enemy's friend is my enemy. Sydney took a swallow of wine and observed that it would take courage to meet openly with Americans, the occupying power; and the moment he said the words he knew he had blundered, the phrase all wrong. Monsieur Armand grew red in the face and bellowed a furious burst of French, and then he threw down his napkin and left the table. When Sydney asked Missy what he had said, she blushed and shook her head. But she was smiling.
Tell me, Sydney said.
Papa said Claude has balls to his knees, Missy said.
***
Monsieur Armand did not reappear; and shortly Madame followed him to bed. Missy and Sydney did the dishes, not talking much. They both knew he had made a careless error. He had committed a simple mistake of language, wanting to move back from the precipice only to discover that he had been walking a high wire, the old Frenchman willing him to fall. Certainly this would not have happened if there had been a common language along with ordinary common courtesy. And Missy had been no help at all, her loyalties lay with the Armand family. But he had a better idea now of just how suspicious the French were, and how determined to preserve theirâhe supposed the word was neutrality. He wondered if Dede had the same instinct. Dede from rat-a-tat-tat Chicago, wife of devilish, naughty, balls-to-his-knees Claude. In a rational world Dede would be eager to confide in a compatriot, but Sydney knew now that the world was not rational.
Probably you should leave tomorrow, Missy said.
I'm sorry about it, Sydney said.
Yes, she said. So am I. There's a morning train.
God, they're stubborn, Sydney said. They get an ideaâ
They're very nice people, Missy said.
âand then they try to nail you.
I think you were trying to nail
him.
He just got there first. If you had told me, I might have been able to help.
A mistake all around, Sydney said.
What did you want from him actually?
A friendly letter of introduction to his brother. Something that said I was a friend of the family. Didn't have horns and a tail.
I could have given you that, she said.
You could?
Yes, of course. You still don't understand. The Armands are my family.
It's obvious now, he said.
She shrugged and turned away, drying her hands on a towel.
So how about it? Sydney said.
Not now, Missy said. Now that I know what you want.
I don't want so much, Sydney said.
You want Claude to collaborate. That word has a particular meaning here. Don't you know that?
We are not Nazis, Sydney said evenly.
We're not Nazis.
I don't know anything about it, Missy said.
Whose side are you on? Sydney demanded.
Not your side, Missy said.
The clock in the hall chimed midnight. Sydney stacked the dishes and carried them to the cupboard, looking again at the photographs of the Abidjan and Xuan Loc Armands, Dede so openly American and relaxed as she stared into the camera's lens. He wondered who or what had brought her to Embassy Saigon, a hardship post half the world away from the Near North Side, Astor Street, North Dearborn, one of those probablyâor a suburb, Winnetka or Lake Forest. He knew she was a country-club girl by looking at her, the shape of her chin and the way she held it and the way she did her hair, no different from the girls around the tennis courts and paddocks of Darien in the summer. Smith or Vassar, a degree in art history or English literature; he'd stake his life on it. Yet she had married an expatriate Frenchman and was living in
Missy has always spoken warmly of your family, Sydney said.
I mean lately.
It would be a pleasure to meet Claude, Sydney said.
No doubt, Monsieur said.
Perhaps he wouldn't want to, Sydney said thoughtfully. I suppose I can understand that. It could be awkward for him. Perhaps risky, depending on the circumstances. He has a wife. And soon he will be a father. He would not want to expose himself more than necessary. The Communists were ruthless and adhered to the old rule, My enemy's friend is my enemy. Sydney took a swallow of wine and observed that it would take courage to meet openly with Americans, the occupying power; and the moment he said the words he knew he had blundered, the phrase all wrong. Monsieur Armand grew red in the face and bellowed a furious burst of French, and then he threw down his napkin and left the table. When Sydney asked Missy what he had said, she blushed and shook her head. But she was smiling.
Tell me, Sydney said.
Papa said Claude has balls to his knees, Missy said.
***
Monsieur Armand did not reappear; and shortly Madame followed him to bed. Missy and Sydney did the dishes, not talking much. They both knew he had made a careless error. He had committed a simple mistake of language, wanting to move back from the precipice only to discover that he had been walking a high wire, the old Frenchman willing him to fall. Certainly this would not have happened if there had been a common language along with ordinary common courtesy. And Missy had been no help at all, her loyalties lay with the Armand family. But he had a better idea now of just how suspicious the French were, and how determined to preserve theirâhe supposed the word was neutrality. He wondered if Dede had the same instinct. Dede from rat-a-tat-tat Chicago, wife of devilish, naughty, balls-to-his-knees Claude. In a rational world Dede would be eager to confide in a compatriot, but Sydney knew now that the world was not rational.
Probably you should leave tomorrow, Missy said.
I'm sorry about it, Sydney said.
Yes, she said. So am I. There's a morning train.
God, they're stubborn, Sydney said. They get an ideaâ
They're very nice people, Missy said.
âand then they try to nail you.
I think you were trying to nail
him.
He just got there first. If you had told me, I might have been able to help.
A mistake all around, Sydney said.
What did you want from him actually?
A friendly letter of introduction to his brother. Something that said I was a friend of the family. Didn't have horns and a tail.
I could have given you that, she said.
You could?
Yes, of course. You still don't understand. The Armands are my family.
It's obvious now, he said.
She shrugged and turned away, drying her hands on a towel.
So how about it? Sydney said.
Not now, Missy said. Now that I know what you want.
I don't want so much, Sydney said.
You want Claude to collaborate. That word has a particular meaning here. Don't you know that?
We are not Nazis, Sydney said evenly.
We're not Nazis.
I don't know anything about it, Missy said.
Whose side are you on? Sydney demanded.
Not your side, Missy said.
The clock in the hall chimed midnight. Sydney stacked the dishes and carried them to the cupboard, looking again at the photographs of the Abidjan and Xuan Loc Armands, Dede so openly American and relaxed as she stared into the camera's lens. He wondered who or what had brought her to Embassy Saigon, a hardship post half the world away from the Near North Side, Astor Street, North Dearborn, one of those probablyâor a suburb, Winnetka or Lake Forest. He knew she was a country-club girl by looking at her, the shape of her chin and the way she held it and the way she did her hair, no different from the girls around the tennis courts and paddocks of Darien in the summer. Smith or Vassar, a degree in art history or English literature; he'd stake his life on it. Yet she had married an expatriate Frenchman and was living in
Similar Books
