by Tatjana Soli
"It's important to save face. But it's important for me also," he said. A wild gambit, but he thought the idea of lust would be understandable to Bao and protect Helen. For the last year, Mr. Bao had been consumed with his drug business, Linh with his work, and their reports to the NVA had been empty for a long time. In desperation to appear busy, Bao had slowly pieced together the idea of Helen being captured by the Viet Cong, taken prisoner. Maybe even allowing her to take pictures of the other side, leaking some of them out. He thought that would create new interest in his assignment, quell the talk of his being reassigned to a less lucrative post in the North.
"Why not have a civil ceremony in Saigon, with Gary and the others?"
"This first. A Buddhist ceremony for us."
"You know I can't have a child."
"You are my family," he said.
Helen rubbed her forehead. She had been living in a dream world in the hamlet, and now he was forcing her to think fast, but her thoughts came sluggishly. How could she explain the infidelity of her heart, that asleep in his arms she couldn't help if her dreams were still of Darrow. The pain of being in the war with Linh and the pain of being away from him were equal, were driving her mad. She had broken, become something else. She didn't know what yet. Could you love someone in the process of changing? She did love Linh. As much as a ghost loved. The mind treacherous.
The ceremony was simple, only a dozen people comprising the whole village attending. Both the bride and groom decades younger than the youngest guest. A quiet, subdued afternoon, the clouds having finally spread, wind speeding overhead and spitting raindrops. The times were lean in the countryside no matter how much money one had, and Mrs. Xuan could not buy a proper pig for the feast, so she had made do with catfish, shrimp, and buffalo.
Linh stood with Helen before a small altar of joss sticks, borrowing his aunt's pictures of his parents, brothers and sister, and Mai. A glass of rice alcohol and a plate of food offered in celebration. He bowed over the lacquer box of betel leaves and areca nuts, to signify unity and faithfulness in the marriage, then gave Helen the traditional set of gold hoop earrings to complete the marriage vows. It scared him to feel so hopeful for the future.
The old village women stood huddled at the back of the house, Mrs. Xuan in the middle. All during the brief ceremony, they eyed the plates of food brought and placed on the center table. When Linh clapped his hands and invited everyone to eat, they fell on the food with ravenous eyes and clawing fingers.
After they had eaten, their stomachs as tight as drums, the villagers settled down in the garden for a long night of drinking, but Linh scolded them away, pushing them out of the house with the remaining dishes of food, out of the garden with bottles of beer. The three old men grinned and said he was an anxious groom, but one of the women, Mrs. Xuan's best friend, said that he had already been at the duties of a groom for the last week, and they all burst out laughing.
"Enough," Linh said. "Leave us alone."
Helen, oblivious to all the talk, sat near the pool watching the clouds chase their way in front of the moon. When everyone was gone, Linh came out to her. "Don't you feel the drops? You're wet."
"I'm happy."
He carried her into the house, and they made love, past desire, past hunger, past exhaustion. His thirst for her had changed, grown greater, like drinking sea water only to feel more parched with each drink. He woke the next day, late in the afternoon, his face thinner, dark circles under his eyes like bruised fruit, but as soon as he touched her skin his desire again became electric, and he wanted to conquer each part of her all over once more.
Now it was Helen who searched out Mrs. Xuan for meals. The old woman approved of the American's new wifeliness. Helen brought food to Linh while he slept, and she sponged him off with cool water after they both were soaked with sweat, sore down to the muscle and bone. It gave her a deep plea sure to take care of him during those days, something that he had never allowed before. Finally, like a fever, their passion broke, and they floated in the calm left behind.
It became more and more clear in the intervening days that Helen and Linh could not love each other fiercely, selfishly, as young lovers. They loved each other like secular saints, too selfless for reckless passion, too aware of each other's pain and the avoidance of it. They loved with a middle-aged caution.
They returned to Saigon, and Linh moved into the crooked apartment in Cholon. She could have brought no other man there, it being both sacrament and sacrilege.
Within days Linh received the expected message that Mr. Bao wanted to have a meeting. He had anticipated as much. He sent back a message that the situation was too risky to meet in the city. Instead, they would meet at the house in the Ho Bo woods.
Linh took military trucks up to Cu Chi, then rode on civilian motorcycles and bicycles the final leg of the journey. On the prearranged night, he stopped for a leisurely meal at a street vendor's, making sure to get several men in conversation, periodically dipping his hand into his pocket, reassuring himself with the smooth touch of wire. After eating, he walked alone the final hours to the deserted cabin set deep in the woods.
The wind started up at sunset and blew with force, shaking leaves from trees, bending branches, dropping fruit not yet ready to fall. Linh had found great happiness during his weeks with Helen, but now he felt the weight and drag of that love. Ashamed at his relief to be alone again, walking on the deserted road, it occurred to him that he could keep walking and never turn around. A coward's thought. The wind wiped away the clouds; the sky burned sharp and glittering with stars like broken glass on blacktop. Linh hurried his step.
Mr. Bao lounged at a crude wooden table, drinking from a bottle of expensive Napoleon brandy. In the light of the lantern on the table's edge, he looked tired and smaller than Linh had remembered him. The graying at his temples, too, was more pronounced, and there were dark circles under his eyes. A pewter-topped cane was propped beside him. Many years had passed since they began their meetings. When he saw Linh, he smiled, revealing stubby brown teeth.
"Didn't hear you approach," he said. "Join me."
"Why not?" Linh sat at the chair opposite.
"I hear we should be making nuptial toasts."
Linh said nothing, only smiled.
"Indeed, when Mrs. Thi Xuan told me the whole village was invited, I wondered if my invitation had gone astray."
Again Linh said nothing.
"Come, we don't have all night. The question, it seems to me, is what do we do with the situation now."
"This is good brandy," Linh said, looking into his glass.
"You like the taste? Maybe your American can buy it for you now."
"Why do anything? I'm still your eyes and ears. I influence coverage as I can." Linh was confronted again with knowing how a situation should be handled but hoping against hope that it could be otherwise.
Mr. Bao laughed out loud as if he'd been told a good joke, then wiped at his eyes. "Things can't remain as they are. Uncle is waning, the powers are realigning themselves, some will go up and some down, loyalties will be reassessed."
"I see."
Mr. Bao wiped his hand across his lips, jabbed his index finger on the table between them to emphasize his point. "Let's be frank, my friend. Neither of us are political men. I've been on a loose rein, some would say overlooked, and I've allowed you the same. Now is the time to show your loyalty."
"What are you saying?" At long last, marrying Helen, he had shown his loyalty, and they both knew it.
"What do we do with her now? What do we do with you for so blatantly acting on your own?"
Linh drank his glass of brandy down in one gulp. Mr. Bao raised his eyebrows but poured another round.
"My job was nothing more than providing what ever information came my way. We are going here; we are going there. Very little," Linh said. He studied the hut, saw a tail of dust blowing through a crack in the wall, illuminated across the lantern's beam as it settled on the table, on thei
r glasses, on Mr. Bao's wrinkled and sickly face.
"True, most of what you give us is useless. What you did was infiltrate. You are in place. You are trusted. We never gave you credit for being much of a soldier or a spy. Mainly a lover." Mr. Bao giggled.
"Then let me go on."
"We are both men of the world," Mr. Bao said, his voice low and purring. "Women are hard to ignore. You and I have never believed in the war so much anyway. It is our sideline. But now we will show our allegiance, to survive."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I'll say the marriage was to gain her confidence. Take her back to the border. Another exclusive like the one you arranged on the Ho Chi Minh trail. This time have her captured. Let her be in on it or let her believe as she does. She takes pictures that are smuggled out."
"Too dangerous."
"Otherwise... the obvious choice... a dead woman reporter would demoralize the Americans."
"Think of something else." He had let Mai down; he would not let harm come to Helen. "Let me talk with headquarters."
"Headquarters doesn't know who you are. Think I'm a fool? Those are your choices. Prove you're not led by your pants. And you've had your bit of fun, too. Tell me, what is she like in bed?"
Linh laughed and drank down his glass. Mr. Bao had already been suspicious about him before this, so the marriage was neither good nor bad. But he was wrong about Linh. He had changed in the intervening years, had become what he wasn't before: a soldier. "Pour us another, and I'll tell you things. Her eyes."
Outside the wind howled so that the thatch of the hut rustled and whispered.
"Forget eyes. Tell me about her breasts. I knew when I saw you with her scarf that time." Mr. Bao laughed. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt from the heat of the drinks and the heat of the lantern in the small room.
"It was so obvious?" He knew how Mr. Bao's mind worked; he would rather find a dishonest route than an easier, straightforward one. He would rather steal a dollar than be given it. Like so many of the Communists, he did not particularly love his country or his people, but he used the system so he could steal from them. "Milky white breasts of a goddess. What else?"
Mr. Bao sighed now and became businesslike, forehead and neck glistening with sweat. "We might convince her to come over to our cause. Help get stories sympathetic to us. But it doesn't explain why you married her." Mr. Bao poured another round, but this time his hand was slower and unsteady with the bottle, leaving a small ring of spilled liquid around one of the glasses.
"Maybe I did it for love," Linh said. The truth was far, far more intoxicating and dangerous than any amount of brandy, and his heart beat hard against his chest at the released words.
Mr. Bao paused, his glass against his lips, as if considering this possibility. "That... would be the worst thing."
Stupidly, now that the outrageous truth had been told, he wanted to insist upon it. "Why? I mean, if it was true."
Mr. Bao looked at him now, the alcohol held in check, his reptilian eyes dark and cold. "A greedy man, a corrupt man, a man filled with lust, that's understandable. That can be accounted for. But you can never trust a man who falls in love with the enemy."
Linh stood and stretched, catlike. The brandy made the room seem to expand and contract as if it, too, were stretching, breathing, unsheathing its claws.
Mr. Bao reached out for Linh's arm and grabbed it. "I mean, how lost would a man have to be to do such a thing? Uncle's words: 'We are from the race of dragons and fairies.' "
Resolved, Linh jerked his arm free. He was a soldier. "We'll plan another trip to the Parrot's Beak next week then," he said, slowly moving back and forth in the small room, thumping his hand against the flat of his stomach. "Sufficiently risky area. She'll be captured for a week. Take pictures that are released to all the newspapers. Then she'll be released unharmed."
"Good," Mr. Bao said as he finished his glass.
"We'll divorce, and she'll go back to America. And then I'll start building a future for myself in the party--since there is no longer any choice," Linh said. "Maybe you can help me learn. Since no one knows who I am, right?"
"Young bull, huh?" Mr. Bao laughed.
"No one knows who I am to protect you. I can't report on your activities."
"True," Bao said thoughtfully.
"Don't you have unmarried daughters? I'll be in need of a new wife."
Mr. Bao was silent.
"Wasn't the youngest a real beauty? Or no? Am I wrong?"
"Yen is beautiful," Mr. Bao conceded.
Linh walked around the table and stood behind Mr. Bao's chair. Yes, he was a soldier now. A soldier did what he had to do to survive. As he reached inside his pocket and pulled out the coil of wire, wrapping it across each palm, the wooden ends tucked in closed fists, Linh was surprised at how thin Mr. Bao's hair was on top. Not even hair at all, really, more like the memory of hair. An old man already, ready for death.
"But," Mr. Bao continued, "she could never be given to a man who could not be trusted, a man who married the enemy. You know that, don't you? But--"
The air went out of his throat so fast that the sentence hung in the room, waiting to be finished. Mr. Bao's stubby hands raked the table, digging slivers of wood, then at last stretched out, relaxed. Afterward, Linh gently dumped him forward until his forehead rested against the table. A dark pool of blood shaped a halo around his head before it spread and encircled the lantern, the brandy bottle, and glasses. He picked up his own glass, shattering it against the stone floor.
Linh leaned against the wall and buried his shaking hands in his pockets. Yes, a soldier. Not fear but adrenaline. Mr. Bao looked like the old bureaucrat he was, taking a quick nap that he would never have allowed himself in real life. When Linh first learned of Bao's corruption--his percentages in drug and prostitution houses--he had despised him, but quickly he had seen its uses, how such a man would overlook lapses in others. In truth, Linh had grown, if not to like, at least to tolerate Mr. Bao. But no one would come looking for Linh if Mr. Bao disappeared; in the new coming order, old-time greed was an embarrassment. They had been two con men, and Linh had merely drawn the lucky card first.
The wind died down to a whisper outside as he blew into the hurricane shade, extinguishing the light. In the darkness, he missed Mr. Bao already. A silly man, a petty crook, but not a particularly evil one. His sin was not to understand the meaning of the weight of a woman in a man's arms.
Linh opened the door and walked out onto the moonlight-scarred path, but now he was a less free man than when he came.
NINETEEN
The Ocean of Milk
April 30, 1975
It was late in the war, and she was tired.
Helen had not slept long in the dead grass of the embassy compound. The night before she had grabbed only a few hours while keeping her vigil over Linh. If the Communists were going to kill her, it might as well be while she slept in her own bed.
By the time she reached Cholon, she walked like a sleepwalker--inside the crooked building through the now smashed Buddha door, up the rickety, cedar-smelling stairs that had lasted another ten years since the time she doubted they would carry her weight. The end had arrived with a sputter, and although she had prayed for an end to the evils of war, now that it had arrived she couldn't deny being strangely brokenhearted. Like a snake swallowing its own tail, war created an appetite that could be fed only on more war.
Somehow, Linh and she had eked out a happy life here. They had come back from the hamlet married, but Linh insisted for their safety on keeping it quiet. Too, there were professional repercussions, although quite a few American men had married Vietnamese women. In fairness, they felt they had to tell Gary, in case it came out. He, ever the diplomat, broke into a huge smile that could have meant anything. "There's a certain poetry to it, that's for sure." He took them out for a fancy dinner. But the person who was really joyous was Annick. The war had begun to take its toll on her. Gossip was that
she took opium more frequently, and her pale skin and thin frame suggested its truth. In her store, she gave Helen a beautiful gold-and-pearl choker.
"I can't accept this."
"It is my wedding gift. Because finally something true has come out of this war. I predict you will be very happy."
And they were. Even as the war moved from the front to the back pages, bumped by the antiwar protests back home, Helen played wife, decorating their apartment, taking long meals with Linh, learning the city from the inside. Their time together was rich and precious. They continued covering the war, although the assignments were fewer and fewer, which suited them for a while. In America people had seemingly forgotten that soldiers in Vietnam were still fighting and still dying. And then came the drawdowns. Dwindling American troop numbers. Even less of a call for war photos. They covered the humanitarian crises caused by the country being at war so long. The effects of the defoliants on agriculture. Food shortages and lack of schools. In 1973, as the U.S. military pulled out, they classified their service dogs as surplus equipment and had them euthanized, claiming they were too dangerous to go back home. A few soldiers got in trouble trying to smuggle their dogs back to the States. Political stories in Laos, Thailand, and Cambodia began to take precedence, and they traveled with the news. Gary even talked of moving the bureau offices to Singapore, but then a flare-up in military action caused everyone to scurry back to Saigon. Helen hoped that some kind of compromise would be reached, a permanent division of the country so that they could stay. But Linh knew they all had underestimated the North.
