The Headmaster’s Wager. Vincent Lam

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СКАЧАТЬ Had he been given enough to eat? Did he still have his lucky amulet? But Percival did not ask. He did not wish to reveal anything more of his desperation.

      The man continued. “Since you are not comfortable with the language of my country, we can speak in French, or English, as you prefer, Headmaster. You Chinese look down at us, but we are more flexible people than you.”

      Percival said in Vietnamese, “Children get silly ideas. How can I remedy the situation?” He wondered what the price would be—a thousand American dollars, or two thousand perhaps. He would bargain. Even a thousand would be a fortune for a rough man like this, he thought. Perhaps he could be persuaded to accept piastres.

      “Boys get their ideas from their parents,” said the man in Vietnamese.

      “I am a simple teacher.”

      “Don’t embarrass us both. You say that Dai Jai’s demonstration of loyalty to China was a youthful indiscretion. Next, you will tell me that he plans to join the South Vietnamese Army, unlike so many Chinese boys whose fathers send them to Australia or Canada before they can be drafted. Go on, spin some fanciful story, but before you do, should I tell you something about my practical nature?”

      “Please.”

      “I’m not concerned with your politics.”

      “Fine.”

      “Yes. It is.”

      On the road outside, Percival heard a truck gear down as it prepared to climb the small hill towards the graveyard. It was the sound of grinding, mechanical determination.

      “Ambiguity is worthless,” the man continued. “For instance, Mak must have told you that Dai Jai is at the National Police Headquarters? Yes. But what does this mean, exactly? Is he being held in the section for criminals, or the section for suspected communists—the political section? Do you know?”

      “No.”

      “It doesn’t seem like he committed a simple crime.” The man’s pacing stopped. “The political section would seem to be the right place.”

      “Have you seen him there?”

      He began to walk again. “I see many people.”

      Percival’s restraint crumbled. He had to know what was happening to Dai Jai. “I would be most grateful if you would tell me.”

      “At least you possess some polite phrases. Let us say, for the sake of discussion, that he is being held in Room 47A. There are many political prisoners there. The room is no bigger than this one but contains over a hundred men, all waiting for questioning. Your son would be one of the younger prisoners, which does not mean he would be shown any special kindness. He would be taken for his sessions in one of the east interrogation rooms. What are those like? Small, with two chairs, a little bench, a table, and a bucket. Sometimes there is other equipment, as needed.”

      Percival heard a machine’s high-pitched cry—the truck, cresting the hill, then its gears screeching down past the graveyard.

      “Two chairs would seem normal, yes, so that the official and the prisoner can sit while chatting? The bench, you might think, is for the prisoner to rest. Perhaps to take a little break from the discussion in order to reflect upon issues at hand? A bucket, you assume, provides a cooling drink? These rooms are hot.”

      As the man spoke, Percival noticed, as if they had materialized from the darkness of the shack, the outlines of two chairs, a bench, and a bucket on its side in the corner. Nearby sat an old table.

      In the manner of an administrator, as if boring himself by explaining the need to fill out a form in triplicate, the man continued. “Did you know that sometimes a person being questioned must be bound to a chair?” He kicked one of the chairs, which skittered away. “The National Police Headquarters is busy. There is a schedule to be followed. If the prisoner has a tendency to fall asleep, which can happen after many hours of focused discussion—attempts at retrieving memories of crimes—it may be necessary to keep him sitting up and alert.” The man continued in English. “You’ll recall I mentioned ambiguity? It is so difficult to avoid, for not all things are what they seem. Take this bucket, for instance. Obviously it is a bucket, but what is its real purpose?” He rapped the metal pail and handed it to Percival. “Feel the bottom. Run your finger over it.” Percival did so. “Ah, you found the little hole?”

      “Yes.” A tiny gap in the metal.

      “It is not an ideal bucket for holding water,” he said, now in English. “It has a hole. But if one wishes to keep someone who is bound in a chair awake, one cannot be forever prodding him and shouting. This tires the interrogator, who is a busy man and has other prisoners to attend to. Hence, this bucket can be filled with ice and suspended from above.” The man pointed to the ceiling. Percival saw nothing, but imagined the type of hook from which an electric fan or light was often suspended. “As the ice melts, cold water drips onto the head of the man or woman, though we will say boy, if you like, in the chair. You would think it is merely a chair, and only a bucket. Not so. The cold dripping of the water becomes a dagger thrust into the skull, though more rhythmic and merciless. It seems like nothing, but a boy with this water dripping onto his head soon vibrates with pain. His entire body quivers like the strings of a violin. Or the strings of an erhu, as you are Chinese.” He must have switched to English to be sure that Percival understood.

      “I take your point …” said Percival, feeling a wave of nausea.

      The man gave no indication of hearing him. He said, “As this goes on, the skin on the head becomes red. With each slow, patient drop, the prisoner—the boy—cries out, as his scalp becomes a deeper colour, eventually purple. This continues for hours. As the ice melts and the droplets fall more quickly, the screaming becomes ever more hysterical. He tries to move his head, but the water still falls on him somewhere—forehead, eyes. He cannot keep his head away from the water, so he gives in—sitting in the drip. Now he is broken. He will remember whatever he is supposed to. No one even needs to touch him.”

      “Enough. You have explained this. I see your—”

      “This is a new Vietnam. We strive for modern efficiency. The interrogator can leave to do something else and return hours later.” Percival tried to interrupt, but the man shushed him and continued, energized by his own words. “Finally, with one important drop, the boy’s head tears open like paper. The skin splits wide open, and blood flows down the scalp. For a little while, this gash actually seems to relieve some of the pain, and sometimes sleep comes. But not for long, and soon it is worse as the water falls on the open wound, runs down the face, and mingles with blood and tears.”

      Percival fought down the sick in his stomach. He wished it would stop, but the man continued, his words beating down like drops of water. His English was good, somewhat formal, accented by French. His phrasing, Percival realized, betrayed an education. An elite one. He was more than the rough thug Percival would have expected in this place. He spoke in a slow, pedantic manner, like a teacher who admires his subject, saying, “Water shapes the earth. No one can resist it. This is the difficulty you are facing. The facts may be simple—that your boy is in a room with a chair and a bucket—but there is such ambiguity in these facts. I am here to clarify.” The refinement of his language gave softly spoken words even more venom.

      The man picked up a policeman’s baton from somewhere in the gloom and swung it as he talked, as if in warning. Percival closed his eyes, tried to slow his racing heart, saying, “Where did you study, if I might ask?”

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