Free Deros Vietnam by Doug Bradley Page B

something in Vietnamese.
    â€œWhat’s she jabbering about?” Carter asked the others.
    Neither of the men said anything. The mama-san kept pointing. Jones finally spoke up.
    â€œShe wants us to take the stairs on the left,” he said, “because that’s how men enter the hall. Females enter on the right.”
    As the trio ascended the stairs, Jones started to hum his favorite Glenn Miller song, “Let’s Build a Stairway to the Stars.”
    They entered a huge, pillar-supported rectangular hall. Looming above them was a massive statue of Buddha, seated in meditation on a lotus blossom, wearing the garb of a monk.
    â€œPleased to meet you,” Carter mumbled in his best Mick Jagger accent, “hope you guessed my name.”
    Jewelry hung from the Buddha’s ears. He had closely cropped curly hair, and a large protuberance on his head. Carter knew from his “Introduction to Religions of the World” class in college that these indicated something, but he forgot exactly what. Royalty? Aptitude?
    â€œI don’t think we’re properly dressed for the occasion,” whispered Van Slyke.
    Do-Re-Mi’s smiling face appeared. He bowed and escorted them down the rectangular hall. With his plain robe and shaved head he looked like a miniature version of the statue.
    At the back of the large hall, seated in a circle, were the Pagoda’s elders in flowing robes that reminded Carter of Gandalf in Lord of the Rings. Their sleeveless tunics, trimmed with yellow brocade and yellow silk, made them appear like tiny starbursts.
    One by one the monks, with Do-Re-Mi translating, spoke about life and death, Buddha and Vietnam.
    â€œThe struggle of the Vietnamese people is not only for peace and independence,” came the translation of the words of the first elder. “The struggle of the Vietnamese people is to remain Vietnamese.”
    When Jones tried to ask a follow-up question, Do-Re-Mi held up his hand. Another bonze spoke. “A dog is not considered a good dog because he is a good barker. A man is not considered a good man because he is a good talker.”
    That was the way it went.
    â€œAn idea that is developed and put into action is more important than an idea that exists only as an idea.”
    â€œA jug fills drop by drop.”
    â€œMy editor’s going to love this,” snarled Jones, imagining the ball-busting McMillan cursing him out for delivering a scoop consisting of windy epithets. What was the monks’ strategy? What were their demands? When were they going to take action?
    As if the Buddhists sensed his thoughts, the oldest monk spoke, in quiet tones.
    â€œAll of life is sacred,” he began, speaking in near-perfect English, “but life has to be lived.”
    The monk paused.
    â€œLook at us. We are the walking dead. We are mere puppets. Our beliefs, our traditions, our way of life—are all dying. But even death is not to be feared by one who has lived wisely,” he smiled.
    He and the others stood, bowed and left the hall.
    Van Slyke put his hand on Jones’s shoulder, trying to keep him from exploding. Carter looked pleadingly at Do-Re-Mi, who had a twinkle in his eye.
    â€œOne more question, yes?” He smiled at the trio. Van Slyke and Jones were reaching into their pockets to withdraw their reporter’s notebook when Carter blurted out, “What does burning human flesh smell like?”
    Do-Re-Mi stood and smiled.
    â€œYou’ll know it when you smell it,” Jones grimaced. “It stays with you forever.”
    The tiny monk nodded.
    â€œI had to write about it in 1963 but it really described itself.” His voice sounded more like a coroner’s than a reporter’s. “Burning skin melts and, well, it smells like charcoal, but not any charcoal I’ve smelled before, or since.
    â€œWhen a human body burns, the iron in the blood gives off a coppery, metallic odor,” Jones was