He reached behind the counter for two more bottles of wine. Before shuffling out of the shop, he added, “Make another noise, and I will burn this dog shed down to the red mud on the ground. Then you will know what it is to be in debt. If you don't believe me, cluck for the police, old hen. See for yourself which one of us is a wolf, and which one only scratches in the dirt.”
The woman shut her mouth with both of her hands, struggling to turn the sobbing in her throat into something that sounded like an attack of hiccups. He gave her a final glare and walked out. Two curious children followed him, but their mother ran out from her hiding place, snatched them up, and held them to her chest. He looked at no one and headed toward the wide road that led to Magistrate Toan's mansion. It was high noon. A few scattered clusters of cloud skidded across the sky that November day. His face was as red as the sun. The alcohol seeped through his body, turning his head like a pinwheel. He felt gigantic, invincible, and full of anger.
The horrid temperature made him mad. Perspiration pricked the skin on his back like a thousand hungry red ants. He gulped through the two bottles of wine in an attempt to fend off the heat. Instead, it seemed to expand inside his head. He yanked open his shirt to bare a chest that, like his face, was crisscrossed by scars. Swaying, he sang the only song he knew.
There is no way out of the rubber camps
Men enter those gates in their physical prime
Only to leave when they are inches away from Death's door
Big Con had never had the pleasure of passing through the door of Death, he sometimes thought. Heaven as he knew it had rejected him a long time ago. And Hell, he believed, had moved inside his head, so there would be no need for him to claim the devil's throne. His thought of the devil reminded him of Magistrate Toan, and he cursed out loud.
It was then that the people of Cam Le Village first learned the extensive vulgarity of his wrath. He was worse than a fishmonger who had not made a sale all day. He damned Magistrate Toan's ancestors all the way to the powerful man's front steps. Everyone was sure that the magistrate would come out of his library and put a bullet in Con's chest without hesitation. Big Con, after all, was a condemned man with a prison record.
However, the moment that Con burst through the gate onto his enemy's property, what he instead faced was a vicious dog, the size of a grown deer and just as brown. It lunged at him from behind a lilac shrub. With white fangs dripping with foamy spit, the beast seized his forearm and knocked him off balance with its weight. Con fell off Magistrate Toan's front porch into a thornbush. The ferocious animal continued to snarl and pull at him. Big Con cursed louder. With his free hand, he smashed an empty wine bottle against the hard pavement. The shards gleamed under the harsh sun.
But Con did not use the weapon against his relentless attacker. Instead, kicking and screaming, he scraped it across his own face, making several deep cuts. Like a man possessed, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his mouth gaped. Blood spurted from the wounds, mixing with the sand around him.
To Con, mutilating his face was his strategy. His injuries would make his enemy appear guilty before the police. No judge would believe anyone could be crazy enough to inflict so much damage on himself. Contrary to popular belief, Big Con had never fought a battle in his life. When faced with a confrontation, he simply disfigured himself. The scars he bore were his trophies, telling the turbulent tale of his life.
Seeing the intruder's frantic movements, the dog paused. It seemed to forget even to growl. Then, as if Big Con's behavior were too outrageous even for an animal, the creature retreated under a shade tree and proceeded to lick the blood off its paws. Con continued to cut his face and chest with the sharp glass, screaming. Not a soul on the street witnessed the gory scene; even the sun discreetly hid behind a tuft of white cloud.
A loud explosion shattered the air, drowning out Big Con's frenzied cries. On the front step of his house, Magistrate Toan appeared, holding a gun. The tip of his pistol, pointed toward the sky, emitted a lingering trace of smoke. The dog yelped as it leaped behind a lilac bush.
“Which one of the devils are you?” Toan asked in his most intimidating voice. “Why are you disturbing my home?”
Big Con remained on the ground, covering his face in his hands. He was no longer screaming or cursing. The only sound that came out of his throat now was a soft and pitiful mewling. “Does the name Big Con sound familiar to you?” he moaned to the older man. “You killed me once in the past, Bastard Toan. Why don't you try it one more time, see if you can finish the job?”
Magistrate Toan cocked the muzzle of his gun toward Big Con's chest. His eyes narrowed into two thin slits. “Get off my land,” he warned the drunk.
Big Con pulled open his shirt. The sun shed its golden rays over the exposed flesh of his chest. He said to Toan, “If I die, I will become the most awful demon and forever haunt your family.”
The old man hesitated. One couldn't become a magistrate by being weak-minded.
He placed the handle of his gun against his lip and eased into an armchair. Under the shade of his tin roof, his face appeared as a blur among the shadows. Baring his sharp teeth against the steel pistol, he gave himself time to think. Things had changed since the days when he ruled this village. Now, even a soft-spoken coward like Con, the tutor, had become a monster, a potential killer.
Magistrate Toan formed his lips into a pleasing smile—with a little clever thinking, he had found a solution for his problem.
He would not take this lowly dog's life. Instead, he would make a killer out of him. With the right amount of persuasion, Big Con could help him take care of certain enemies, the ones that had power and positions in society. And if Con got killed, Magistrate Toan would be rid of the pest without dirtying his fingers. Either way, he would come out ahead. He was extremely satisfied with the splendor of his wit.
He said to the drunken man, “Oh, come now. I didn't recognize you. Why would I want to murder you, Teacher Con? You and I are bound by a dear and brotherly friendship, and I was stricken with grief over your unfortunate tribulation. When did you arrive in town? I am disappointed that you did not notify me sooner. I would have told the cook to prepare a feast for us. Fowls are extremely succulent at this time of year.”
“You are a snake,” Big Con snapped. “I am well aware of the sort of devil I have to deal with.”
“Please, don't use that language with an old friend.” Toan's charm was relentless. “Come inside. Sit next to me! Tell me what you want. Give your orders, and I will execute them.”
Big Con sat up. The alcohol had evaporated from his brain, and he felt a dull throbbing from his wounds. The pain made him weak at the knees. He yearned for more wine, the only thing that could make him strong and invincible again. “I came here to claim what is rightfully mine,” he said to the magistrate. “I want compensation for my incarceration.”
“How much do you want?” Magistrate Toan asked.
Big Con tried to think of the largest sum that he could. “Five silver dollars,” he said.
Magistrate Toan rested his gun on the floor next to his feet. He took his handkerchief, which he used to wrap his cash, from his pants pocket. Then, he held out five silver coins. They gleamed in his hand, beckoning. Big Con did not trust the old coyote enough to touch his money.
“It is all right,” the old man urged. “Take them. Like you said, they are your compensation.”
Big Con reached out his dirty hand, but the old man's reflex was faster. He folded his bony fingers to conceal the money and asked in a half-joking, bitter manner, “Are you certain that five dollars would be sufficient for your needs, Teacher Con? I suspect that if I give it to you, you will be back here tomorrow asking for more. I will not be the sort of bank that will grant you unlimited credit. Perhaps we will understand each other better if I ask you to come up with a bigger sum.”
Big Con swallowed hard before he answered. “Five silver coins are plenty, sir.”
Toan shook his head. “Let's fix a sum of fifty dollars to accommodate your drinking habit for the next thirty days. What would you do for that amount, Teacher Con?”
“Fifty?” gasped out Con. “Certainly I would do whatever you please for that much money.”
The magistrate released his hand, once again displaying the sparkling coins. Con touched them carefully. This time, the old man gave him the money and said, “There will be fifty silver coins for you in my house, in exchange for a small favor you can do for me. Do you remember Officer Dao, the man who arrested you nine years ago?”
Big Con nodded as his brain conjured up the image of the policeman.
Toan continued. “For some time now, this bastard has wanted to get rid of me. If I am dead, then no one will take care of you in this town. Do you understand me?”
“Say no more,” Big Con cried. “Consider that man a problem no longer, Sir Toan. I will take care of him.”
“Excellent. Make sure that he is dead,” said the old man.
The magistrate opened the gates and saw his guest out. As the drunken young man staggered back out on the street, Toan returned to his armchair. A smile darkened his gaunt face.
T
o get to the time-teller's cabin, Song led Ven and Dan for an hour along a path through a tangled thicket of bamboo. The rough and pointy leaves scratched at their faces like sharp fingernails, leaving red lines on their skin. Looking at Dan's sweaty face, Ven wished for a touch of wind to ward off the intense heat. At last they arrived in a rough clearing at the foot of the mountains.
Big Con's hut was located on a small hill, surrounded by an immense forest. Song signaled for Ven to follow her. They went around the cottage to enter through the rear, stepping over a narrow pasture of green grass.
As they emerged at the side of the humble dwelling, Ven took Dan by the hand. In front of them, the hut stood on four twisted, termite-eaten posts. Through a rectangular hole of a window, where a tattered drape fluttered, Ven saw that the house was dark and moldy. Cobwebs spread their grubby filaments over the entrance, and the sunlight danced across the fragile strings.
“Look over there,” Song said.
Following her glance, Ven saw the time-teller sprawled on the ground in front of his home. His mouth was wide open, showing a large coated tongue. He was snoring loudly. An empty wine bottle lay a few inches from his fingers. Ven's eyes stopped at his crotch, where the creased fabric was darkened with his waste.
Ven turned to Song. She felt the urge to flee, but one of her sandals got caught in the exposed root of a tree. She tripped, blurting out a startled sound. The time-teller opened his eyes and looked straight at her. His irises were the same color as his tongue, bleached and cloudy.
He hoisted himself up, grabbing the bottle by its neck and holding it in his hand like a weapon. Rage seeped into his eyes. The women pulled closer to each other. Dan, caught in their embrace, reached up to look over their arms.
The time-teller cleared his throat. In a rough voice, he asked, “What do you want? Why are you coming here to disturb me?”
A cloud of flies circled around his crotch. Their wings made a loud buzzing in the hot air. Big Con attempted to squash the bugs with his empty bottle. After a few tries, he lost his temper and smashed the bottle into a tree. Fragments of broken glass exploded onto the ground around his bare feet.
Ven stepped forward. “I came looking for the news,” she said. Her sharp voice grated on his nerves, but her open-palmed gesture told him that she was harmless.
He looked up into her face. The murkiness left his eyes, but he still wore a mask of somnolence. “It's you!” he said. “What do you want?”
Ven repeated, “I came here to get the news.”
“What kind of news?”
“About Master Tat Nguyen and his mistresses,” Song said.
Big Con brushed his hand in midair. “Get your gossip at the community hall like everybody else.”
Ven took another step forward. She was close enough to see the scars on his face. She pressed on. “I was told to come here. Please tell me if anything has been posted since yesterday.”
Ven stood her ground. Their eyes locked for several seconds, then he shrugged and pushed his chest forward. With a manner as majestic as that of a king, he stretched his hand toward an oak tree at the side of his cabin. Several posters were pinned against its trunk. A few of them featured sketches of Master Tat and Lady Nan. Under the pictures, words written in black ink marched in neat rows. “Those are your news bulletins, madam,” he said. “They came this morning.”
“Can you tell me what they say, especially these?” Ven pointed at the papers that bore the portraits of her parents-in-law.
He shook his head. “I haven't read or written in several years. I don't remember much anymore. If you can't read, then get off my property.”
Ven reached for the posters. Her fingers picked at the nails that fixed them against the tree.
“What are you doing?” the time-teller yelled. His thunderous voice startled Dan into tears. Song held him in her arms.
“Since you are not going to tell me what is in the notices, I am taking them with me,” Ven said.
“Don't you dare leave with that announcement!” Big Con strode toward her with a warning look. Ven turned to him. The pine tree behind her had two branches, like arms extending right and left, seeming to block her path. She leaned back against its trunk as fear rose to her chest.
“Please, don't hurt me,” she whispered to him. “I just want to get the information on these posters. What can I do to make you help me?”
He halted in his track, thinking for a moment before he said to her, “I miss the company of the Wine Fairy. For ten copper pennies, I'll read you the notice.”
Ven reached inside the cord of her belt, where she kept her money. Her hand found the warm metallic coins, slippery in her own sweat. The money was strung into a loop, all pennies. Under her fingers, they made a clinking sound as they moved against one another. Big Con's eyes lit up, and with his clenched fists, he seemed to be fighting the urge to snatch the cash.