The Quiet American Read Online Free Page B

didn’t seem much for the end of the working day, but, after all, he had had Phuong. Tucked away behind the anthology there was a paper-backed book called The Physiology of Marriage. Perhaps he was studying sex, as he had studied the East, on paper. And the keyword was marriage. Pyle believed in being involved.
    His desk was quite bare. “You’ve made a clean sweep,” I said.
    “Oh,” Vigot said. “I had to take charge of these on behalf of the American Legation. You know how quickly rumour spreads. There might have been looting. I had all his papers sealed up.” He said it seriously without even smiling. “Anything damaging?”
    “We can’t afford to find anything damaging against an ally,” Vigot said.
    “Would you mind if I took one of these books-as a keep-sake?” “I’ll look the other way.”
    I chose York Harding’s The Role of the West and packed it in the box with Phuong’s clothes.
    “As a friend,” Vigot said, “is there nothing you could tell me in confidence? My report’s all tied up. He was murdered by the Communists. Perhaps the beginning of a campaign against American aid. But between you and me- testen, it’s dry talking, what about a vermouth cassis round the corner?” “Too early.”
    “He didn’t confide anything to you the last time he saw you?” . “No.”.
    “When was that?”
    ”Yesterday morning. After the big bang.” “He paused to let my reply sink in-to my mind, not to his: he interrogated .fairly. “You were out when he called on you last night?”
    “Last night? I must have been. I didn’t think. . .” “You may be wanting an exit visa. You, know we could delay it indefinitely.”
    “Do you really believe,” I said, “that I want to go home?”
    Vigot looked through the window at the bright cloudless day. He said sadly, “Most people do.” “I like it here. At home there are-problems.” “Merde,” Vigot said, “here’s the American Economic Attaché. He repeated with sarcasm, “Economic Attaché.”
    “I’d better be off. He’ll want to seal me up too.” Vigot said wearily, “I wish you luck. He’ll have a terrible lot to say to me.”
    The Economic Attaché was standing by his Packard when I came out, trying to explain something to his driver. He was a stout middle-aged man with an exaggerated bottom and a face that looked as if it had never needed a razor. He called out, “Fowlair. Could you explain to this darned driver...?” I explained.
    He said, “But that’s just what I told him, but he always pretends not to understand French.” “It may be a matter of accent.”
    “I was three years in Paris. My accent’s good enough for one of these darned Vietnamese.” “The voice of Democracy,” I said. “What’s that?”
    “I expect it’s a book by York Harding.” “I don’t get you.” He took a suspicious look at the box I carried. “What’ve you got there?” he said.
    “Two pairs of white silk trousers, two silk robes, some girl’s underpants-three pairs, I think. All home products. No American aid.” “Have you been up there?” he asked. “Yes.” “You heard the news?” “Yes.”
    “It’s a terrible thing,” he said, “terrible.” “I expect the Minister’s very disturbed.” “I should say. He’s with the High Commissioner now, and he’s asked for an interview with the President.” He put his hand on my arm and walked me away from the cars. “You knew young Pyle well, didn’t you? I can’t get over a thing like that happening to him. I knew his father. Professor Harold C. Pyle-you’ll have heard of him?” “No.”
    “He’s the world authority on under-water erosion. Didn’t you see his picture on the cover of Time the other month?”
    “Oh, I think I remember, A crumbling cliff in the background and gold-rimmed glasses in the foreground.”
    “That’s him. I had to draft the cable home. It was terrible. I loved that boy like he was my son.” “That makes you closely related to his