Tree of Smoke: A Novel by Denis Johnson

Author:Denis Johnson [Johnson, Denis]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 0312427743
Amazon: B002KHMZGS
Publisher: Picador
Published: 2007-01-02T08:00:00+00:00

“Well —I didn’t think we did.” “We started out Shaughnesseys. All of a sudden on the boat over it was Sands.”

“That’s what Aunt Grace told me. All my life my mother treated it like some great mystery and scandal.” “No, it’s just a source of amusement and minor shame. How’s the

news from your mom?” “All good, I guess. I get letters from her. I send back postcards.” “Anyway, fellas, I wasn’t toasting a whole nation. Just my old team—

the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. I’d say they’re the majority of them

Polish. At least we were when I was on the squad—look at Skip. Look at

his face. He thinks the old man is about to start.” “Go ahead, Uncle. I’m drunk enough, if you are.” “Yes yes yes, I’m full of hot gas. You could raise a balloon with my

reminiscences. Go ahead, change the subject.” “Your paper for the journal. I didn’t understand your paper.” “I didn’t either.” “This isn’t exactly changing the subject—if the subject is hot air.” “I’m impervious to criticism.” “Lotta wild terms in there. ‘Insulated activity.’ ” “Insulated activity: showing initiative, i.e., taking the bull by the

horns while the brass sits on its ass.” “And others.” “What others? I’m your glossary.” “I can’t remember.” “Jargon is important. Consider the potential audience. These folks

are all about mumbo-jumbo. Have you read ‘Politics and the English

Language’?” “Urn-George Orwell. Yeah.” “Have you?” ‘Tes. And 1984.” “Well, 1984 is coming. And it won’t take seventeen years to get here.” “Anyhow,” Skip said. “More like sixteen,” Storm announced. “Sixteen what?” “Sixteen years till 1984.” “Wait a minute. Eighteen. Eighteen.” Storm laughed, waving a slice of bread around beside his crew-cut

head.

“Men,” the colonel said, “the enemy isn’t doing this.” “Doing what?” “Adding and subtracting, Sergeant.” “What’s the enemy doing, Colonel?” “They’re cutting up our dud ordnance and blowing off our testicles

with it. They’re living in holes in the ground. They’re not having pudding. They’re eating their children in the name of victory. That’s what they eat for lunch. So let’s get with it. We’ve got one of them on our side now. He could whip half our infantry by himself. He’s come in by every gate—you know the VC’s ‘three gates’? Blood, imprisonment, and time in the North, he’s done all three. Hao can tell you—this guy’s been fighting since the French. He was a prisoner on Con Dau. He went north and was reindoctrinated after the Partition. He came back down on Uncle Ho’s trail and he’s been doing his worst ever since. Couple years ago in Cao Phuc he tried to assassinate me.”

“You’re kidding.” “About a year after Kennedy died, so late ‘64, I’d say. Two and a half years ago. He admitted it to Hao.” He turned to Hao, who’d remained invisible despite his presence at the table, and Hao confirmed it. “He said to me, yes.” “Tossed a grenade into the temple when I was visiting. He’s the real McCoy. Lousy Chinese grenade.” Skip felt his mouth hanging open as he regarded his uncle—drunk, obsolete—absolutely unkillable.

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