Pasqual lay sweating in his otherwise comfortable room at the homestay, sorting through the parts of the case, skirting happy memories of his uncle Ernesto before the war with his brother Jose, Pasqual’s father - over a lousy 6 acre parcel of dirt. It was difficult to reconcile the happy faces of locals he had met in the short time he’d been in Vietnam with anyone capable of ending his gentle uncle’s life. He understood violence having grown up in a border town during political changes that unleashed murder and mayhem under the color of authority - a term he learned working in the legal clinic for displaced families during the fascist administration of 'merica 2016-2020. He also understood that there was nothing to be gained by gnawing on his memories like a bone, late at night in a foreign country, while trying to winnow wheat from chaff on a case with substantial assets on the line. He began breathing methodically and repeating mantras he and Angela had learned at a retreat for grieving parents while they were struggling to hold their marriage together in Uruguay after the death of their baby Jesus during the 2nd wave of Covid deaths.
Hoping for late afternoon nap, he opted to answer the knock at his door. It was Tieh Ngong holding a small teapot of fragrant tea, Pasqual attempted to conceal his happiness at seeing her - it confused him. “I thought this might be helpful. The weather can interfere with sleep if you’re not used to it.” She was dressed comfortably with concessions to the oppressive humidity that gathered steam around the setting sun like a train leaving the station loaded with boxcars of heat. He tried not to take notice of her easy beauty having traveled enough to know the reputation of white men in exotic lands. Her studied manners suggested she was more curious about his swarthy appearance than threatened. He asked if she would like to come in, but after leaving the teapot at a low table she returned to the doorway and perched with a frank evaluation of him and his obvious fatigue. “Are you sleeping okay in the heat?” asking like she might be asking about a price in a store rather than referring to a force of nature that felt like a grip around one’s throat.
“I’ve tried to cool using just the fan, but had to turn on the A/C to sleep after reading that heat can interfere with REM sleep; I apologize if that gooses your bottom line.” She chuckled with amusement.
“What does that mean ‘goose the bottom line?” she asked. It was Pasqual’s turn to chuckle realizing what an accomplishment it was for this young woman to master a foreign language so seamlessly without access to many cultural idioms, yet understanding the scientific relationship of REM to sleep.
Gazing at her poised possession of the doorway, Pasqual suggested “Think of ‘goosing the bottom line’ like the hand of a grandmother on the butt of a small child who wandered too far off the curb of a busy street; ” Pasqual enjoyed watching this woman think with no idea what she thought, much different than the hardened women of the West though there was something very wary in her manner; much like the women of the West. Pasqual had almost forgotten what comfort could be found in the company of a beautiful woman’s attention.
Their transient moment of intimacy was broken by footfalls in the narrow hallway by one of the diners from the “Cafe Banh Mi Diametro;” the other night, and the continuing coincidence heightened Pasqual’s concern about being trailed, given the nature of his visit. Rather than engage this unwelcome stranger, Pasqual excused himself with a slight bow while nodding to Tieh, he remarked “Can we continue this another time?” closing the door on a conversation that required his inattention. Behind the closed door Pasqual determined it would be a good opportunity to explore more of Hoi An and gathered his shoulder pack for a bicycle ride. He re-opened the door; excusing himself past the two, and while appearing to scroll for messages, snapped a photo of the interloper for future reference.
Hoi An was a delightful city to bicycle in - flat with slow moving scooters, transporting necessities encouraging responsible driving and reflexive courtesy aiding a flow of traffic like the tidal flows of the estuaries lapping at the long shoreline of the ancient city. There was an easy tension between foreigners and locals not much different than grazing herds on any savanna in the world where resources fluctuated between feast or famine. The Covid pandemic had been repeatedly curtailed in Viet Nam, though the population was only marginally vaccinated. The rapid mutations of the 2nd Wave required a more sophisticated science than the developing economy of the recovering war ravaged country could support. Containment was possible by brute force quarantines and an educated population that easily cooperated in projects of mutual self interest.
The foreign population was a mixed bag; Pasqual was long over the presumption that travel translated into tolerance and warm-heartedness; his short time in Vietnam confirmed his working hypothesis and Viet Nam was no exception. Almost from the boarding gate of his flight, through to Da Nang, Pasqual’s “Neoliberal/Covertfascist” radar was on high alert. He found himself surrounded by unctuous, well-dressed travelers - refugees from late stage capitalism escaping the failed states of their birth nations taking every last shekel of extracted profit, while they searched the world over for “opportunities” to mine depressed economies and train the “little brown brother’s” in the virtues of anarchistic capitalism - as they had been indoctrinated to do.
In and amongst the amoral mercantile predators was the flotsam and jetsam of a broken civilization - earnest entrepreneurs; honest workers; and loving souls searching for a path out from the rapacious paradigm of “infinite growth” in a “finite world” that was causing untenable environmental havoc in an unstable political climate.
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Pasqual was able to bicycle off some of his anxiety, the rest evaporated by breathing the ceaseless beauty of a land long loved tended by tireless bodies. He wandered alleys and cement trails in the direction he thought Ngài Trâu’s studio might be found, not wanting to call, Pasqual determined he’d rather evaluate an unannounced welcome. After kilometers in the general direction of Ngài Trâu’s studio, the map on Pasqual’s phone began to intersect with landmarks he was looking at. In front of the memorable entryway and massive door from his first visit, he secured his mount and knocked. Again, as though he’d been expected the door breathed open to reveal the calm intensity of Ngài Trâu’s placid gaze and a clear invitation to enter.
The light of day added a much different perspective to the artist’s work, but Pasqual was also nearly certain that many of the pieces were entirely different than the ones he viewed only a few nights earlier.
Ngài Trâu waited while Pasqual finished his inspection and had sat down in the chair where it was indicated he shoult sit, along with the same low table and fragrant cup of tea. “What have you discovered about your uncle since we last spoke?” Ngài Trâu asked as though it was the same conversation after a short pause.
“Perhaps I am being impatient,” Pasqual said quietly. “I know that you said you would contact me when you had any information; as you know my uncle Jose Ortega was listed as MIA during the Tet Offensive of 1968; I have other matters which require me to journey to Hue which may coincide, and I was hoping there might be research I could do if you had learned anything useful from your sources.” Pasqual paused, not wanting to insist. He had learned from a distant aunt that Jose - a devoutly religious man - was deeply conflicted about his service to the military and was in the process of filing for “Conscientious Objector” when assigned to Hue where had visited the Root Pagoda at Từ Hiếu a number of times prior to the Tet Offensive of ’68 when he went “Missing in Action.”
Pasqual had read much from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle at Mordecaise insistence, and the quote by Sherlock Holmes to Dr. Watson - “How many times have I said to you that when you when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains however improbable, must be the truth?” remained tattooed to the inside of Pasqual’s skull.
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Leslei found life at the cottage meshed remarkably with her investigation of the Schmuck estate; Madame Ouvière, when prodded, produced a cache of postal letters to Demsford from before and after his death; neither commented to the other about the legality of such an exchange, each woman seeming to plumb the depths of other’s sincerity of the other. From the letters, Leslie discovered that Demsford and Reynaldo were in close contact with each other and in close spiritual agreement about the times they were living; apparently leading Reynaldo to pick Hoi An as a destination for its close proximity to Hue; Thich Nhat Hanh’a Root Pagoda and Jose’s disappearance.
As promised, Archdai Tryump; The Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon did return: 1st through his solicitor; then municipal functionaries; and lastly through commercial threats from the websites which used ‘canned’ legalize about resorting to the “unnecessary recourse of internet sanctions,” which Leslei, on a deeply considered whim, stymied all complaint with a single signature transferring the remaining 8 years of Demsford’s original lease to her.
Something, rankled Leslei Coerktern’s keen “spidey” sense of righteousness, though inexplicably disconsolate amidst the conifers and idyl so close to one of Cezanne’s views of Mont Sainte-Victoire, she combined her ennui with her ability to induce an existential trance state and focused on a hard-target computer search of Archdai Tryump and all associated capital assets. ‘The Corporate Putsch’ had been very successful after Y2k, in part due to primative “Data Warehousing” technology that transferred “handshakes” mindlessly from server to server; but alas, hubris knows no bounds, especially the techno variety, and “byte drift” began an inexorable sifting through antiquated algorithms like a digital Sahara might cross potholed interstates of a different age; ultimately; she wasn’t even sure if the subject of her original search, Archdai Tryump, was even aware of how close his ‘old money’ ties brought him in close proximity to the greatest accumulation of invisible wealth the world had ever known.
Empires’ “ conceit about inevitable invulnerability” allowed this process to gradually cascade rivulets of previously sacrosanct private capital, while technological gravity archived these lost bytes into the “public domain;” the incidental trickles 3rd, 4th . .. place decimal points of monetary value eventually accumulated into a vast gulley of hard currency value, the infinite growth paradigm conceived of but did not anticipate with the unforeseen intersection of the programmably diabolical capacity of Artificial Intelligence to obfuscate and confuse, when its only command was to hide assets - which as it happened, AI did masterfully · hence “The Pot,” the only name given to an obscure file @.314.org within the public domain and which ironically remained within the “Public Domain.” Over time, the value of hard currency for this file exceeded many times over the combined assets of the 100 richest individuals on the planet - 100s of trillions of dollars virtually indistinguishable from digital “white noise.”
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Leslei called Guildern to confirm if what she was seeing was ‘straight up’; and if so - relay what she had discovered to Mordecaise and Pasqual.
Guildern’s reply was prompt; “Just from looking at the .pdf file, we’d be wise to cease telephonic transmission and try a pure telepathic channel for security’s sake. You know I heard that is what got Elon Musk dead - while fucking around with Kurzwell’s upload horse-shit, someone ran 220v straight in - that’s gotta hurt.” Guildern’s checkered background included stints at the Google campus, before Amazon accomplished its hostile takeover at the peak of the death swarm from Covid-19; b.1.1.13 of 2023, so Guildern’s wry humor was lost on Leslei who was just looking for guidance on how to proceed. Hearing silence on a long distance transmission Guildern ventured, “Let me see if I can contact those parties and get clarification on your order; will that help you now?”
“Sir, thank you very much - it is just the sort of help I need. Thank you very much for your kind assistance,” and Leslei hung up, comfortable knowing the most got said with the least.
Almost as though their conversation had been participated; she hung up to a knock which opened to the tattooed leer of the Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon; Archdai Tryump, holding high a bottle of Champagne Krug Clos d'Ambonnay 1995 - as an amateur sommelier she recognized the smell of leverage with each bubble she might coax from such a lush disposable. “Good of you to knock; your solicitor’s last message suggested my belongings would be on the doorstep when I returned. What do you want?” This was not said as invitation but from the business side of a closed portcullis.
Gifted with an apparently eternal conceit, Monsieur Tryump replied, “two glasses if you have them;” Leslei’s ambiguous body language fanned his flame and he jutted his Gucci slipper into the doorframe with such docile supplication, she condescended to his entree - who didn’t want to savor a bottle of Krug Clos d'Ambonnay 1995 with royalty? miming the Hawaiian Shaka tippling and combat/peace for “look there” she thumbed over her shoulder, dismissing her new factotum and his precious liquid booty - and for those moments upon his arrival, she was pure mongoose; he a deaf, dumb and blind Cobra.
Leaning into this comedic opera; waiting for his return, Leslei settled into the sofa reaching behind her shoulder into the bookcase and pulling down a rolled cigarette from amongst the 1st editions, she laid the joint in plain view on the coffee table and unbuttoned her chemise to its optimum decollete. Like any good help, the Duke returned promptly and quietly with a bucket of ice, the bottle, two whiskey tumblers, and a dish towel. The Earl of Avignon mimed a magician pulling up his sleeves and rotating his palms in the universal gesture of all disingenuous magus; carefully wrapped the dish towel around the bottle’s neck spiraling it deep into the ice. In an act of unctuous aplomb, the Duke lifted the joint up to his lighter and lighting it masterfully like an opium den-master, inhaled deeply a number of times, blowing the smoke back out through his nostrils prior to each inhalation.
Had Leslei a heart, she might have cautioned the peer that what he was ravenously inhaling was an admixture of: opium, hasish, churras, polyploid cannabis and trace amounts of DMT - her kind of heart suggested it would be best to share this intelligence after the fact. Leaning over the nearly comatose might-have-been masher, she nestled her cheek to his chest to hear respiration; rising slightly and lifting one of his eyelids, she evaluated pupil dilation; then holding her fingers to his wrist, her oddly calibrated breath determined that he was in fact deeply stoned, but quite alive.
Liberating his Intelphon from its sling, Leslei jacked his device to her PC and using a DOS script “backdoor” that every digital device possessed but few knew existed, she mirrored his entire library to her hard drive by the time his eyelids began to flutter. What Archdai Tryump perceived as he regained consciousness, was a beautiful woman he had arrived to conquer, sitting demurely beside him - she disheveled with a concerned expression - he exposed with his semi-erect phallus in her gently stroking palm.
jts 24/02/2021
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reprinted with permission; all rights reserved
∞
