A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain: Stories Read online

  A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain: Stories

  Butler, Robert Olen

  Perseus Books Group (2012)

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  Robert Olen Butler's lyrical and poignant collection of stories about the aftermath of the Vietnam War and its impact on the Vietnamese was acclaimed by critics across the nation and won the Pulitzer Prize in 1993. Now Grove Press is proud to reissue this contemporary classic by one of America's most important living writers, in a new edition of A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain that includes two subsequently published stories -- "Salem" and "Missing" -- that brilliantly complete the collection's narrative journey, returning to the jungles of Vietnam.

  A GOOD SCENT

  FROM A

  STRANGE MOUNTAIN

  Also by Robert Olen Butler

  Fiction

  The Alleys of Eden

  Sun Dogs

  Countrymen of Bones

  On Distant Ground

  Wabash

  The Deuce

  They Whisper

  Tabloid Dreams

  The Deep Green Sea

  Mr. Spaceman

  Fair Warning

  Had a Good Time

  Severance

  Nonfiction

  From Where You Dream

  A GOOD

  SCENT

  FROM A

  STRANGE

  MOUNTAIN

  STORIES BY

  ROBERT

  OLEN

  BUTLER

  GROVE PRESS

  New York

  Copyright © 1992, 2001 by Robert Olen Butler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

  First published in 1992 by

  Henry Holt and Company, Inc., New York

  This Grove Press edition includes two stories—"Salem” and “Missing"—not included in the original collection.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Butler, Robert Olen.

  A good scent from a strange mountain : stories / by Robert Olen Butler.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 9780802193896

  1. Vietnamese Americans—Fiction. 2. Vietnamese Conflict, 1961–1975—Fiction. 3. Louisiana—Social life and customs—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552. U8278 G66 2001

  813’.54—dc21

  00-066310

  Grove Press

  an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  07 08 09 10 11 12 13 12 11 10 9 8

  FOR JOHN WOOD

  The stories in this book have appeared in the following places: “Open Arms,” The Missouri Review; “Mr. Green,” The Hudson Review; “The Trip Back,” The Southern Review, reprinted in the 1991 edition of The Best American Short Stories; “Fairy Tale,” The Virginia Quarterly Review; “Crickets,” syndicated by P.E.N. and broadcast on National Public Radio’s “NPR Playhouse” “Letters from My Father,” Cimarron Review; “Love,” Writer’s Forum; “Mid-Autumn,” Hawaii Review; “In the Clearing,” Icarus; “A Ghost Story,” Colorado Review; “Snow,” The New Orleans Review; “Relic,” The Gettysburg Review, reprinted in New Stories from the South, The Year’s Best 1991; “Preparation,” The Sewanee Review; “A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain,” New England Review, reprinted in the 1992 edition of The Best American Short Stories and in New Stories from the South, The Year’s Best 1992; “Salem,” Mississippi Review, reprinted in the 1996 edition of The Best American Short Stories; “Missing,” Gentleman’s Quarterly.

  CONTENTS

  OPEN ARMS

  MR. GREEN

  THE TRIP BACK

  FAIRY TALE

  CRICKETS

  LETTERS FROM MY FATHER

  LOVE

  MID - AUTUMN

  IN THE CLEARING

  A GHOST STORY

  SNOW

  RELIC

  PREPARATION

  THE AMERICAN COUPLE

  A GOOD SCENT FROM A STRANGE MOUNTAIN

  SALEM

  MISSING

  A GOOD SCENT

  FROM A

  STRANGE MOUNTAIN

  OPEN ARMS

  I have no hatred in me. I’m almost certain of that. I fought for my country long enough to lose my wife to another man, a cripple. This was because even though I was alive, I was dead to her, being far away. Perhaps it bothers me a little that his deformity was something he was born with and not earned in the war. But even that doesn’t matter. In the end, my country itself was lost and I am no longer there and the two of them are surely suffering, from what I read in the papers about life in a unified Vietnam. They mean nothing to me, really. It seems strange even to mention them like this, and it is stranger still to speak of them before I speak of the man who suffered the most complicated feeling I could imagine. It is he who makes me feel sometimes that I am sitting with my legs crossed in an attitude of peace and with an acceptance of all that I’ve been taught about the suffering that comes from desire.

  There are others I could hate. But I feel sorry for my enemies and the enemies of my country. I live on South Mary Poppins Drive in Gretna, Louisiana, and since I speak perfect English, I am influential with the others who live here, the West bank Vietnamese. We are all of us from South Vietnam. If you go across the bridge and into New Orleans and you take the interstate north and then turn on a highway named after a chef, you will come to the place called Versailles. There you will find the Vietnamese who are originally from the North. They are Catholics in Versailles. I am a Buddhist. But what I know now about things, I learned from a communist one dark evening in the province of Phu’ó’c Tuy in the Republic of South Vietnam.

  I was working as an interpreter for the Australians in their base camp near Núi Ðt. The Australians were different from the Americans when they made a camp. The Americans cleared the land, cut it and plowed it and leveled it and strung their barbed wire and put up their tin hootches. The Australians put up tents. They lived under canvas with wooden floors and they didn’t cut down the trees. They raised their tents under the trees and you could hear the birds above you when you woke in the morning, and I could think of home that way. My village was far away, up-country, near Pleiku, but my wife was still my wife at that time. I could lie in a tent under the trees and think of her and that would last until I was in the mess hall and I was faced with eggs and curried sausages and beans for breakfast.

  The Australians made a good camp, but I could not understand their food, especially at the start of the day. The morning I met Ðng Vn Thp, I first saw him across the mess hall staring at a tray full of this food. He had the commanding officer at one elbow and the executive officer at his other, so I knew he was important, and I looked at Thp closely. His skin was dark, basic peasant blood like me, and he wore a sport shirt of green and blue plaid. He could be anybody on a motor scooter in Saigon or hustling for xích-l fares in Vng Tàu. But I knew there was something special about him right away.


  His hair was wildly fanned on his head, the product of VC field-barbering, but there was something else about him that gave him away. He sat between these two Australian officers who were nearly a head taller, and he was hunched forward a little bit. But he seemed enormous, somehow. The people in our village believe in ghosts. Many people in Vietnam have this belief. And sometimes a ghost will appear in human form and then vanish. When that happens and you think back on the encounter, you realize that all along you felt like you were near something enormous, like if you came upon a mountain in the dark and could not see it but knew it was there. I had something of that feeling as I looked at Thp for the first time. Not that I believed he was a ghost. But I knew he was much bigger than the body he was in as he stared at the curried sausages.

  Then there was a stir to my left, someone sitting down, but I didn’t look right away because Thp held me. “You’ll have your chance with him, mate,” a voice said in a loud whisper, very near my ear. I turned and it was Captain Townsend, the intelligence officer. His mustache, waxed and twirled to two sharp points, twitched as it usually did when he and I were in the midst of an interrogation and he was getting especially interested in what he heard. But it was Thp now causing the twitch. Townsend’s eyes had slid away from me and back across the mess hall, and I followed his gaze. Another Vietnamese was arriving with a tray, an ARVN major, and the C.O. slid over and let the new man sit next to Thp. The major said a few words to Thp and Thp made some sort of answer and the major spoke to the C.O.

  “He’s our new bushman scout,” Townsend said. “The major there is heading back to division after breakfast and then we can talk to him.”

  I’d heard that a new scout was coming in, but he would be working mostly with the units out interdicting the infiltration routes and so I hadn’t given him much thought. Townsend was fumbling around for something and I glanced over. He was pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket. He read a name off the paper, but he butchered the tones and I had no idea what he was saying. I took the paper from him and read Thp’s name. Townsend said, “They tell me he’s a real smart little bastard. Political cadre. Before that he was a sapper. Brains and a killer, too. Hope this conversion of his is for real.”

  I looked up and it was the ARVN major who was doing all the talking. He was in fatigues that were so starched and crisp they could sit there all by themselves, and his hair was slicked into careful shape and rose over his forehead in a pompadour the shape of the front fender on the elegant old Citroën sedans you saw around Saigon. Thp had sat back in his chair now and he was watching the major talk, and if I was the major I’d feel very nervous, because the man beside him had the mountain shadow and the steady look of the ghost of somebody his grandfather had cheated or cuckolded or murdered fifty years ago and he was back to take him.

  It wasn’t until the next day that Captain Townsend dropped Thp’s file into the center of my desk. The desk was spread with a dozen photographs, different angles on two dead woodcutters that an Australian patrol had shot yesterday. The woodcutters had been in a restricted area, and when they ran, they were killed. The photos were taken after the two had been laid out in their cart, their arms sprawled, their legs angled like they were leaping up and clicking their heels. The fall of Thp’s file scattered the photos, fluttered them away. Townsend said, “Look this over right away, mate. We’ll have him here in an hour.”

  The government program that allowed a longtime, hard-core Viet Cong like Thp to switch sides so easily had a stiff name in Vietnamese but it came to be known as “Open Arms.” An hour later, when Thp came through the door with Townsend, he filled the room and looked at me once, knowing everything about me that he wished, and the idea of our opening our arms to him, exposing our chests, our hearts, truly frightened me. In my village you ran from a ghost because if he wants you, he can reach into that chest of yours and pullout not only your heart but your soul as well.

  I knew the facts about Thp from the file, but I wondered what he would say about some of these things I’d just read. The things about his life, about the terrible act that turned him away from the cause he’d been fighting for. But Townsend grilled him, through me, for an hour first. He asked him all the things an intelligence captain would be expected to ask, even though the file already had the answers to these questions as well. The division interrogation had already learned all that Thp knew about the locations and strengths of the VC units in our area, the names of shadow government cadre in the villages, things like that. But Thp patiently repeated his answers, smoking one Chesterfield cigarette after another, careful about keeping his ash from falling on the floor, never really looking at either of us, not in the eye, only occasionally at our hands, a quick glance, like he expected us to suddenly be holding a weapon, and he seemed very small now, no less smart and skilled in killing, but a man, at last, in my eyes.

  So when Captain Townsend was through, he gave me a nod and, as we’d arranged, he stepped out for me to chat with Thp informally. Townsend figured that Thp might feel more comfortable talking with his countryman one on one. I had my doubts about that. Still, I was interested in this man, though not for the reasons Townsend was. At that moment I didn’t care about the tactical intelligence my boss wanted, and so even before he was out of the room I intended to ignore it. But I felt no guilt. He had all he needed already.

  As soon as the Australian was gone, Thp lifted his face high for the first time and blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. This stopped me cold, like he’d just sprung an ambush from the undergrowth where he’d been crouching very low. He did not look at me. He watched the smoke rise and he waited, his face placid. Finally I felt my voice would come out steady and I said, “We are from the same region. I am from Pleiku Province.” The file said that Thp was from Kontum, the next province north, bordering both Cambodia and Laos. He said nothing, though he lowered his face a little. He looked straight ahead and took another drag on his cigarette, a long one, the ash lengthening visibly, doubling in size, as he drew the smoke in.

  I knew from the file the sadness he was bearing, but I wanted to make him show it to me, speak of it. I knew I should talk with him indirectly, at least for a time. But I could only think of the crude approach, and to my shame, I took it. I said, “Do you have family there?”

  His face turned to me now, and I could not draw a breath. I thought for a moment that my first impression of him had been correct. He was a ghost and this was the moment he would carry me away with him. My breath was gone, never to return. But he did not dissolve into the air. His eyes fixed me and then they went down to the file on the desk, as if to say that I asked what I already knew. He had been sent to Phu’ó’c Tuy Province to indoctrinate the Villagers. He was a master, our other sources said, of explaining the communist vision of the world to the woodcutters and fishermen and rice farmers. And meanwhile, in Kontum, the tactics had changed, as they always do, and three months ago the VC made a lesson out of a little village that had a chief with a taste for American consumer goods and information to trade for them. This time the lesson was severe and the ones who did not run were all killed. Thp’s wife and two children expected to be safe because someone was supposed to know whose family they were. They stayed and they were murdered by the VC and Thp made a choice.

  His eyes were still on the file and my breath had come back to me and I said, “Yes, I know.”

  He turned away again and he stared at the cigarette, watched the curl of smoke without drawing it into him. I said, “But isn’t that just the war? I thought you were a believer.”

  “I still am,” he said and then he looked at me and smiled faintly, but the smile was only for himself, like he knew what I was thinking. And he did. “This is nothing new,” he said. “I confessed to the same thing at your division headquarters. I believe in the government caring for all the people, the poor before the rich. I believe in the state of personal purity that makes this possible. But I finally came to believe that the government these men from the nor
th want to set up can’t be controlled by the very people it’s supposed to serve.”

  “And what do you think of these people you’ve joined to fight with now?” I said.

  He took a last drag on his cigarette and then leaned forward to stub it out in an ashtray at the comer of my desk. He sat back and folded his hands in his lap and his face grew still, his mouth drew down in placid seriousness. “I understand them,” he said. “The Americans, too. I learned about their history. What they believe is good.”

  I admit that my first impulse at this was to challenge him. He didn’t know anything about the history of Western democracy until after he’d left the communists. They killed his wife and his children and he wanted to get them. But I knew that what he said was also true. He was a believer. I could see his Buddhist upbringing in him. The communists could appeal to that. They couldn’t touch the Catholics, but the Buddhists who didn’t believe in all the mysticism were well prepared for communism. The communists were full of right views, right intentions, right speech, and all that. And Buddha’s second Truth, about the thirst of the passions being the big trap, the communists were real strict about that, real prudes. If a VC got caught by his superiors with a pinup, just a girl in a bathing suit even, he’d be in very deep trouble.

  That thing Thp said about personal purity. After it sank in a little bit, it pissed me off. But this is a weakness of my own, I guess, though at times I can’t quite see it as a weakness. I’m not that good a Buddhist. I live in America and things just don’t look the way my mother and my grandmother explained them to me. But Thp suddenly seemed a little too smug. And I wasn’t frightened by him anymore. He was a communist prude and I even had trouble figuring out how he’d brought himself to make a couple of kids. Then, to my shame, I said, “You miss being with your wife, do you?” What I almost said was, “Do you miss sleeping with your wife?” but I wasn’t quite that heartless, even with this smug true believer who until very recently had been a bitter enemy of my country.