IN THE SOUTH of VIETNAM

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There was a Canadian who lived in the south of Vietnam, the very south, on the edge of the ocean and next to Cambodia. He ran the largest concrete factory in the region and was viewed by the locals as Italian villagers view their godfathers. The King Shit of Turd Hill was what he called himself.

 

There was a small church in the village built behind the lone bell tower left standing after the American bombs had levelled the original church. The priest, Father Chu, was a weathered man in his fifties who spoke French as well as his native Vietnamese. On those Sundays the Canadian decided to go to church the priest would stop mid-prayer to thank him for joining the congregation, switching from Vietnamese to French to do so. The whole congregation would turn around and smile at the Canadian and let him know how honoured they were by his presence. His factory employed almost every one of them and while he recognized some faces, the names, foreign and unfamiliar on his tongue, eluded him even though he’d attended the weddings of many.

 

The Canadian was invited to all of the functions in the village, even those held in the brothels. His wife would join him and eventually became friendly with one of the madams who spoke English using old American slang she’d learned working the officer’s club in Saigon during the war. Even though the Canadian lusted for the whores, he didn't mind his wife being there. As godfather to so many, he could not be seen behaving that way. And besides, he knew the other dangers of sleeping with whores in Asia.

 

The Canadian’s driver was very powerful in the village by virtue of proximity. When anyone needed something that required the Canadian’s permission or help, they approached the driver. He would then bring it up in casual conversation while weaving through the foot and bicycle traffic that crowded the road between the Canadian’s house and the concrete factory. The Canadian knew the driver’s arrangement with the villagers and would never respond to the driver but would contact those who needed him directly, removing the driver from the loop.

 

He removed the driver totally from the loop after he picked the Canadian up at a restaurant so drunk he could not walk let alone drive. The driver told his friends he didn’t understand why he had to be fired. After all, it wasn’t like he’d killed somebody. He hadn’t even dented the car.

 

The Canadian’s wife was a kindergarten teacher who now built homes for poor people. The NGO she worked for asked her to choose deserving people and then sent teams of enthusiastic Christians to erect the new houses. Whenever the Christians were in town the Canadian would take them to the village church where the priest would stop his sermon to greet so many noble guests. After the service the local Christians would be falling over themselves to practice their English with the visiting Christians, who were only too relieved to have found a church in such a god-forsaken hole. They marvelled at the one remaining original bell tower and said it must have been God’s way of reminding people he was there before the war.