"Chambardement General" is the French term. The General Bombardment. Blowing everything up. Destroying Society to start again.
Life, she thought, is a general bombardment. A bombardment of passions, of lies, of struggles. A bombardment of troubles to be met with a bombardment of solutions.
She only believed in one thing only; that the world was very dirty, and only dynamite could make it clean.
Her lover, an Englishman who described himself as an "Explorer", had taught her this. When he was drunk, which was often, he would quote Lenin,
"We destroy to build better."
Lenin had said that more than ten years ago, and the world was not better yet. Clearly, she reasoned, much, much more needed to be destroyed.
But where to start... Saigon offered so many targets... so many dirty places that needed destroying. She did not know where to begin.
Fortunately she was still young, there was plenty of time.
'Thuy,' he called out to her across the crowded street from the tiny cafe where he waited for her. 'You are late."
"Always late," she said with a smile.
"Better late than never, I have waited three months, what is one more hour?"
He stood and embarrassed her.
She normally hated it when he held her in public. A rickshaw driver frowned at her and spat on the floor, and two old ladies selling corn muttered viciously. But tonight she did not care.
"Where have you been, Steven" Thuy asked him as she sat down.
"Eldorado."
He always said that when he didn't want to tell her where he had been. She knew it was a joke, but she did not understand it. She laughed anyway.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked her.
"No, the weather is fresh after the afternoon storms, lets go for a walk."
"Is it really like Notre Dame in Paris?" she asked as they walked past the replica that the French had built back in 1880.
"Not really,' he replied."But it looks good in the moonlight."
"It would look better in fire light."
He kissed her passionately.
'Don't,' she hissed, "people are watching..."
She pulled away. and glanced round, the street was deserted.
He laughed, and she could not stay angry.
They had met two years ago, in the cafe where Thuy had worked.
He was sat drinking wine alone, watching her all night like a hunter,
catching glances and smiles. He stayed until all the other costumers and
the French manager had gone home. The air had hung heavy and humid
that night. At that time, past midnight, the darkness on the street was
disturbed only by the occasional rickshaw.
Then, in her own language, he caller her over and offered her a glass
of wine. She accepted, it had been a long day, and she had never sampled
the wine she spent her life selling.
He told her, in tolerably good Vietnamese, that he would be going to
Malay the next morning, and wished to see her when he returned in a
month. His Vietnamese was soon extinguished, and although she spoke a
little English and excellent French, she did not know what to say. They
sat in silence for a few minutes.
"It is monstrous!" he suddenly exclaimed with a wave of him arm to indicate everything.
He repeated himself in French for her benefit.
Her eyes showed that not only did she understand, she agreed.
The wine was going to her head. Her high cheeks blushed crimson.
"It is a mess," she said.
"What is?" he seemed surprised and his head darted from side to side.
'Everything."
He spoke rapidly in English, mixed with French, Vietnamese and Russian.
It was impossible to understand, but he was definitely angry.
"Sorry," he said, after a pause. "I ought to go home. A bit too much wine."
Thuy smiled.
"Good night," he said, "See you in a month."
"See you again," she said, and waved.
She did not expect to see him again.
He had surprised her when he was back exactly a month later. He was sat with a tall, gaunt man with a shaved head. They had ordered coffee, but they were both drinking from a bottle of vodka.
They were deep in heated debate, conversing rapidly in French and Russian.
Only one word stood out : Chambardement General.
Eventually he called her over.
"Good to see you again. This is my good friend Eric Kuchova. Erik, this is...'
Then the tall man started shouting in Russian, which she did not understand. He then snatched up the bottle of vodka and marched away.
"Most embarrassing," Steven said, and then, "would you like to meet me for dinner?"
"You can see me here everyday," Thuy replied.
"Perhaps you might meet me elsewhere when you have time off work?"
'You can see me here everyday.'
He understood. His broad face turned grim, but then he smiled.
"See you tomorrow, " he said with a grin, "good night."
"See you again."
The next morning she found that her cafe had been destroyed. Seemingly by a bomb small enough to smash the furniture, windows and doors, but cause no serious structural damage.
Next, she spotted him across the street. he was sat in a tea shop and looked extremely pleased.
'Good morning," he called across to her, "I see you have a few days off work, where would you like to go?"
PART 3
That was how it had started.
With a bomb.
And that was how it would end.
Love, she thought, is like the monsoon rain.
The heat and pressure increases until it is unbearable, then the storm. Pouring rain... flashes of light in the darkness... a flood.
Overwhelming and unstoppable.
Which only builds up to the next storm.
Like the fuse of a bomb.
TO BE CONTINUED.
He had surprised her when he was back exactly a month later. He was sat with a tall, gaunt man with a shaved head. They had ordered coffee, but they were both drinking from a bottle of vodka.
They were deep in heated debate, conversing rapidly in French and Russian.
Only one word stood out : Chambardement General.
Eventually he called her over.
"Good to see you again. This is my good friend Eric Kuchova. Erik, this is...'
Then the tall man started shouting in Russian, which she did not understand. He then snatched up the bottle of vodka and marched away.
"Most embarrassing," Steven said, and then, "would you like to meet me for dinner?"
"You can see me here everyday," Thuy replied.
"Perhaps you might meet me elsewhere when you have time off work?"
'You can see me here everyday.'
He understood. His broad face turned grim, but then he smiled.
"See you tomorrow, " he said with a grin, "good night."
"See you again."
The next morning she found that her cafe had been destroyed. Seemingly by a bomb small enough to smash the furniture, windows and doors, but cause no serious structural damage.
Next, she spotted him across the street. he was sat in a tea shop and looked extremely pleased.
'Good morning," he called across to her, "I see you have a few days off work, where would you like to go?"
That was how it had started.
With a bomb.
And that was how it would end.
Love, she thought, is like the monsoon rain.
The heat and pressure increases until it is unbearable, then the storm. Pouring rain... flashes of light in the darkness... a flood.
Overwhelming and unstoppable.
Which only builds up to the next storm.
Like the fuse of a bomb.
TO BE CONTINUED.
