Alligator (29 page)

Rye had rolled off the mat and lay on the floor with his back strangely arched; his teeth were chattering, and sweat streamed down his face in huge drops. His fever was even worse. Still, he was a tenacious bastard and was holding on; that in itself was a miracle. Rye's refusal to die impressed Lee a great deal more than his defiance of death. Lee considered it the first thing Rye had done that was deserving of respect.

Lee was about to move Rye back to the mat, but decided not to chance waking him.

His concern no longer surprised him. Even when he'd left Rye ranting and raving on the hummock, howling to his gods for protection, he had known in his heart that he would be back. Lee could kill a man in the heat of the moment, but, once thinking about it, he never could do it.

From then on it was all preordained. Lee never did things halfway. If he wasn't going to kill Rye, he had to save him.

Lee wondered if perhaps the decision hadn't been made even earlier. He could have killed Rye at various points since they had met, yet he hadn't. It certainly wasn't because he couldn't kill; he'd learned he could some years back. It seemed he had made his decision the first time he didn't kill him when the opportunity was there. At the time he'd thought it was more like indecision, but it came to the same thing. Things only stalled up for a time, and then they happened. The only difference was that indecision took a large load of responsibility off Lee's shoulders and placed the blame safely on fate's doorstep.

Lee walked out into the clear, bright midday sunshine. For the first time in twenty-four hours, he could feel his body in motion and it felt good. He breathed in the clean, fresh air deeply, to clear the stench of the shack from his lungs. Lee realized that killing Rye had never been a possibility. He would never kill again. Killing a man took away more than his life; it took away your own. Not because of the guilt you felt, but because you discovered after it was done that you had enjoyed it. Lee had seen the enjoyment of violence in other men since he was a child; it wasn't until Viet Nam that he saw it in himself.

When he thought back on it, the act in itself had been a small one; he'd done a lot worse, as had everyone else. It was the feelings he'd had that made him shrink from the world and himself in horror. They were feelings he'd never forget. They came up anew every time he let down his guard, and always he was left with the fear and disgust.

Lee still remembered every minute of that day. His unit had been fighting for three days before they finally took the village. Their bodies had been battered into mounds of gelatin from rubber-balling between Dexadrine to put on an edge and weed to take it off, so that by the time the fighting finally stopped, they were way beyond caring.

It was just after dawn, and some of the villagers were going out into the fields in that strange business-as-usual way that at first struck the Americans as valiant and later on as almost subhuman.

The sergeant's name was Bregman. He was a big man, just verging on fat, with stringy blond hair, a chipped front tooth, and a lifted top lip that made him look like he was last in line for promotion to garbage collector. Actually, he was a writer, and not stupid at all. His views were unique, the result of putting an educated brain on the body of a worker. He alternated between being a cynic and a Yankee Doodle redneck almost in the same sentence. He made fun of being in the Army, but it was a challenge to him, too. Lee liked Bregman, but he also feared him.

Most of the villagers stayed inside as the Americans marched through, waiting to see what would happen, testing the air like frightened animals. The tables had turned so many times in the area that only the most subverted had survived, and getting an opinion from them on anything, even last night's dinner, would have been impossible.

Finally, they did come out. Tentatively at first, twenty years of fear in their eyes. There was something about the way they slinked out that really got the men angry. It was partially because they were always so fearful themselves that other people's fear irritated them, but also it was because of the power those victim-eyes made them feel.

As Bregman watched them coming out of their houses, his expression was detached, almost laughing. Lee could tell he was betting with himself on which one was the leader. It was often hard to tell. Sometimes he was the least likely candidate: The oldest or most frightened-looking man might be the one. While they waited, the men used to make bets. It was an interesting game, and Bregman was good at it.

This time was more predictable. Tin Lo was about forty, compact, with a preoccupied but efficient face. If there had been a briefcase in his hand, he could have melted into a rush-hour crowd. Lee could see from Bregman's face that he had guessed right.

Tin and Bregman talked for a while; then Bregman came back and told the men that they were in luck, a lot of Viet Cong had been caught in the village when they attacked.

That scared Lee. Stories about My Lai were just starting to filter out, and most of the men in his group had been fighting for six months, not long enough to be waiting to go back, but long enough for the loathing to get to them. They got to hate the Vietnamese's differences after a while: the color of their skin, the shape of their eyes. Even the best of them felt it.

Bogner, who was a garbage collector, from New York, asked what they should do with them. Lee could see Bogner was thinking the same thing that he was.

Bregman smiled. "We'll let them take care of themselves."

It relieved Lee to hear that, though there was something unsettling about the way that he said it. Bregman had been in Viet Nam for two years—long enough to understand more than the others, long enough to know he'd never fully understand.

The men split up into groups, some of them keeping guard while the others slept. Bregman went back and started talking to Tin. They were a funny-looking pair, standing together in the dusty street. Bregman was a good foot taller, and probably a hundred pounds heavier than Tin, but there was a similarity which came from their outlook on life. Lee could see they too had recognized it immediately, and they treated each other as equals.

The two men spent most of the day talking. Lee never did find out what they talked about, but he would have liked to have heard them. Bregman was a good talker. He wasn't the kind of guy who threw around a lot of names, though he knew them all. Lee had the feeling that though Tin had never read a book in his life, he probably had thought out a lot of ideas on his own.

After several hours passed and nothing happened, Lee began to suspect that the villagers had had enough of violence and were going to spare their captives. The Americans hadn't seen the Viet Cong yet, but they could tell in which house they were being kept from the way people tried not to look at it. Lee figured it was because they were still scared of the Viet Cong, but Bregman's theory was they didn't want the Americans to take what belonged to them.

When it got dark and the Americans were still there, the tension in the village started to disappear. Darkness had come to be linked in their minds with change, and they were good at surviving change. This time, when it got dark the Americans were still there, and the villagers began to feel the tide had shifted.

Lee was sleeping when it started. He woke up with a jolt from the light and the noise. He figured the Viet Cong had come to free their friends, and, grabbing his gun, he ran out into the street.

The villagers had all lit torches, and were standing in two parallel lines, carrying their farming equipment, as if they were about to march out to the fields. It would have looked picturesque if it hadn't been for the noise. They were all talking at once, very excitedly, and there was a nasty sound to it.

Lee asked Bregman what the hell was going on. Bregman said he didn't know, which was probably the truth; or at least, if he knew what was happening, he didn't know how it would happen.

The house where the Viet Cong were being kept was lit up with torches, and Lee could see the shadows of the prisoners. There were six men and four women.

Then Tin came out of the house and began talking to the villagers. Lee spoke a little Vietnamese, and so did some of the other Americans; Bregman spoke more than any of them, but none of them could understand what he was saying. The more he talked, the louder his voice got, until he was almost screaming. The villagers would answer him every once in a while, and their voices too got louder and more hysterical, until one of the women broke from the group and began screaming. It sounded as though she was crying and laughing at the same time.

Then everybody began to scream. It was a mass hysteria that grew louder and stronger, feeding on itself, until Lee could feel the noise in his own body. His heart was pounding in his chest; the palms of his hands were moist with sweat.

All of a sudden, the noise stopped. Lee had never heard such silence.

Everyone turned toward the house where the prisoners were being kept and watched as the door opened. An old man stood in the doorway, blinking in the torchlight. He was at least seventy, and his meager flesh hung from his bones like overcooked chicken. His arms were thin as broom handles and smeared with blood. It was clear he had been beaten.

He must have been frightened, but he didn't show it. He had great dignity as he stood, exposed and bruised, watching the villagers. He had known them for years, had seen many of them born. They were his neighbors, his friends, his relatives, even his children. The villagers didn't move. They seemed afraid of him, though it couldn't have been for what he could do to them—it was obvious enough there was nothing he could do—but because of the power of this association.

The old man's arm had been broken so badly that the shattered bone protruded through the skin. He must have been suffering great pain. Lee could hardly imagine the tremendous strength it must have taken to hide the pain and fear.

The man walked toward the villagers and looked at each of their faces individually. He said nothing—he didn't trust his voice—but the way he walked and held his head said a great deal. The people just watched him, awed by his dignity and his power.

Tin could see he was losing control. All at once he yelled out, "Kill him!" Lee could understand that. "Kill" was one of the first words the Americans learned out there.

Nobody moved.

Again Tin commanded, "Kill him!"

Lee started to lift his gun, but Bregman stopped him. "This has nothing to do with you," he said.

The old man didn't flinch; he just kept walking, feebly but steadily, his eyes on the people. And nobody dared make a move toward him. Just as he was almost through the lines, the old man stumbled. For one moment, he looked frightened; it was only a second, but that was enough. The control was gone. One of the women screamed. It was a scream of fear, but also of brutality. Suddenly everyone was on the old man, shrieking out, slashing him with scythes and hoes. It took five minutes for the frenzy to subside, and then it was only because the lifeless form of the old man no longer could give any resistance.

When they brought out the next one, there was no question in Lee's mind what the people were about to do. He could do nothing to stop them; the whole American Army couldn't have stopped them. Lee turned away to block out the sight, but he couldn't block out the terrifying sound of their screaming.

Lee looked over at Bregman. There was a strange look on his face, a look of horror and shock but also of fascination. All of the men were watching, spellbound, like bystanders at an accident who gawk for hours as the ambulance comes and the highway patrol cleans up the shattered glass and pieces of metal. That horrified Lee even more than the villagers. He had always had the feeling that the Americans were at least different.

After a while, Tin came over and talked to Bregman. Lee was disgusted by them; even the sound of their voices made the nausea return. Bregman laughed, and Lee wanted to kill him; he wanted to wrench that laugh from his throat.

The woman was quite pretty, and, living as the men had lived, she looked incredibly beautiful to them. Tin brought her over to them, and Lee knew at once what was about to happen.

She was heavier than most Oriental women, though her arms and legs were slim. It was just her torso that was rounded. She kept her head down, so Lee couldn't see her face, only her thick hair and the top of her forehead.

Tin ordered her to take off her clothes. A tremor passed through her, but she remained where she was. He repeated the order, and when she still didn't move, he grabbed her dress at the neck. For a moment she looked up. Lee never forgot the expression on her face, the look of injury and violation, as Tin ripped at her dress. Tin's face showed neither anger nor lust; it was full of humor, as if he were acting a part.

Still the woman didn't move. The front of her dress was open, and the remains hung down from her arms, making the sight of her skin even more potent. She didn't try to close her dress, but allowed it to hang there, like a reproach.

She was the color of pale amber, with slight tracings of blue just under the surface. Lee couldn't look at her face; he couldn't confront that look of the prey. But he couldn't turn away from her body and her smooth, polished, slightly mottled tortoise-shell skin. It was incredibly powerful.

A thin, almost imperceptible scar ran from her belly and disappeared into her pubic hair. It was a surgical scar. There were so few doctors out there; Lee wondered how she had gotten it. The white smoothness of the scar held him. It pointed up her weakness, her vulnerability, and that, in a way, she had been violated before.

Tin made a gesture to Bregman. Lee felt there was something corrupt and servile in that gesture, like the old roue introducing the young boy into the world, and it sickened him. Bregman stepped forward and held her by the wrist. Lee could see the muscles in his arm standing out, and knew it must have hurt her; still she kept her head down and said nothing.

Bregman roughly pulled her to him and began kissing her. Lee thought it morbidly funny that Bregman, stupid intellectual that he was, didn't see the incongruity of kissing what he raped. The woman didn't fight him, or even scream out. She could have been a store mannequin. Lee had never seen anyone so passive, so yielding. Bregman forced her to the ground and stood over her. She curled up on herself, fetuslike, and looked up at Bregman. It was a more congruous position, appalling, yet painfully moving. Bregman stood over her for a full minute, and Lee could hear the sound of her breath in her throat.