Gift of the Golden Mountain

by Shirley Streshinsky

  March 18. Early each Monday morning May takes the short flight over to Honolulu where she stays during the week. She works until seven, sometimes eight, but last Thursday she returned early to the apartment she keeps on Beretania Street, to be there when Marie-Claire arrived.

  May had rented the furnished apartment sight unseen, from a realtor who assured her she would absolutely adore it, that the last tenant had been an interior designer who had decorated it to perfection. She did not need perfection, May told the woman, all she needed was a comfortable place close to the office and convenient to the airport.

  The rugs and the walls and most of the furniture are white: thick white carpeting everywhere, white linen walls, white silk sofas, fluffy white bedspreads and towels and draperies. Here and there are splashes of color: fuchsia and turquoise and coral, in silk-screened prints on the walls and pillows scattered about. Against the wall of glass that looks out over the city is a virtual forest of plants, many tall enough to touch the ceiling. All very chic, May supposed, but she felt as if she were staying in a hotel.

  There is nothing in my Hawaii journal about May's meeting with Marie-Claire; it was a long time afterwards that May told me what happened.

  She unpacked the groceries she had brought back to the apartment: eggs, a loaf of bread, orange juice, coffee. The refrigerator was bare. She emptied the remains of a quart of milk that had been there long enough to have soured, and wiped the sink clean. She checked the cupboards: instant coffee, cereal, and a can of curry powder. She could not remember why she had bought the curry powder; she did not think she had ever actually cooked a meal in this place.

  She filled a glass with ice, poured some orange juice over it, and went into the living room. The carpet had been vacuumed that day, and her bare feet left prints. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored wall: Sweet Jesus, she thought, me in a white dress in this great blinking white palace. She went into the bedroom, rummaged through the closet until she found a loose, olive-drab jumpsuit, climbed into it and felt better. She was tying the belt when the doorbell rang.

  The voice on the intercom caused her to reach for a cigarette: "Is it Mei there?" the voice said. "I am Marie-Claire, Hayes's friend." Lilting French, very feminine. Damn, May thought, swallowing a sudden surge of anger, what the hell does Hayes think he's doing? She put the cold glass against her forehead, and told herself that it didn't matter, that she didn't care, as she pressed hard against the buzzer.

  "How beautiful," the girl said, her eyes moving slowly about the apartment, "it is very modern, very splendid. Are you doing this yourself, the decorating?" She was small, precise, and very pretty. Dark curly hair, cropped short; a heart-shaped face, intelligent eyes. She was dressed simply, in cotton slacks and a tailored shirt, but she wore them with style. May noticed a small, antique locket that hung on a gold chain around Marie-Claire's neck, and wondered, unreasonably, if Hayes had given it to her. Suddenly she felt awkward in her rumpled overalls.

  When they had settled on the balcony overlooking the city, May realized that she had meant to greet her guest in French. Now she knew she would not, that she would be safer in English. It was Marie-Claire who brought up Hayes. "He has told me so much about you," she said in her soft, French accent. "I know you are great friends."

  "Oh, well," was all May could bring herself to say. She did not want to talk about Hayes to this woman. She turned the subject away with, "But he didn't tell me much about what you are doing here—something to do with a documentary film?"

  Marie-Claire nodded, took a small sip of juice, and explained, "I am doing advance work for a film on the Vietnam War. It is to be historical, going to the early French colonial history and through Dien Bien Phu, where we were defeated, you know. There will be many film clips from archives. They do that work now in Paris. We have a film crew in Vietnam, and I am here to see about two episodes: The young servicemen who are sent here on what is called R and R—rest and recreation—and where they meet with their families, before going back to the fighting. And a burial in the military cemetery here, the Punchbowl, I believe it is called."

  "How did you happen to get involved with this particular film?" May asked, to keep the subject away from Hayes.

  "You are like Hayes." Marie-Claire laughed. "Always asking the questions, keeping the other talking. I should like to know about you—I know you do fascinating work with the volcanoes, that much Hayes has told me."

  That much Hayes has told me. So he didn't talk about her, she doesn't know. Her spirits lifted.

  "I do," May answered, smiling back, "but right now it seems to me that since your time is limited, we'd better get down to business and make sure you get what you need. How can I help?"

  That night they went to a military party on the beach at Fort DeRussy, arranged for servicemen and their families. The entertainment was pure tourist flash—Tahitian women dancers with their wildly swinging hips, and male fire dancers, all laced with erotic innuendo, and the audience cheered and whistled and wanted more. At the luau, May found herself next to a pale young girl from Tennessee who laughed too loudly and jarred the tiny baby sleeping in her arms. "He's seeing his daddy for the first time," the girl confided, and May smiled as she watched the big-boned boy put his finger in the baby's mouth for it to suck. Marie-Claire moved among the youngest of the servicemen and the women who had traveled here to meet them, wives and girlfriends, occasionally a mother or sister. May watched her smile and draw them out, then listen as if what they had to say was of tremendous importance. She wrote their names and made notes in a black leather notebook, and when she was finished she thanked them as if they had done her a great honor. She is charming, May thought. And bright, and she is in love with Hayes. About that, she was certain.

  The next day May drove Marie-Claire to the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific and stood on the sloping sides of the crater of the ancient, long-extinct volcano, which now was the sacred repository of the bones of men killed in the world's wars. A long sweep of markers marched in painful symmetry down in the low, scooping bowl as dark sea birds turned and glided above, sliding in unison high on the wind. At the hour before noon, only a few living beings shared this place with the thousands of dead. A middle-aged couple stood, arms around each other, while a casket was lowered into the newly opened, red earth.

  May and the French woman watched from a decent distance. A warm wind tore at them, blew their skirts hard against their legs, and sent May's long hair blowing and tangling about her face.

  May heard it, and did not know, at first, what it was. A soughing in the winds, she thought, and then she realized Marie-Claire was sobbing. She had her hand over her mouth, she was crying and she couldn't stop.

  May led her to the car. They sat there, surrounded by the graves of soldiers, while Marie-Claire worked to regain control. She took a deep breath. "I am so sorry," she finally said, "it is so foolish of me. It has all been so long ago . . ."

  "You don't have to explain," May told her, but she said that yes, she did. Her father had died at Dien Bien Phu. On March 15, 1954, the day after a major battle. He had been a colonel of artillery. It had been his responsibility to position the bases which would guard the garrison. When these were overrun by the advancing army of the Vietminh, he had pulled the pin out of a grenade and killed himself. "He said he was dishonored," Marie-Claire explained, wiping her nose. "You know how the French are about honor. The fact is, I suspect, that he thought himself to be invincible, and discovered he was not, and could not live with the shame of it."

  "How old were you?" May asked.

  "Seven. I scarcely knew him, he was gone so much of the time. I have only vague memories. That is why it is so stupid that I should break down like this. And quite unexpected! I think perhaps it was last night, those couples, so young. The little wives with their tiny babies, so sweet and simple and sad. It is such a terrible war, this one. That boy over there in the grave, that mother . . ." The couple was moving away from the grave now, th
eir bodies bent in attitudes of grief.

  Her chagrin was so genuine that May reached to touch her arm. "I was thirteen when my father died," she heard herself say. "I can still touch a place where it hurts." She put her hand under her breast and held it there.

  Marie-Claire smiled through lashes tangled with tears, and May saw in her eyes the intimacy she had been trying to avoid.

  "Hayes does not speak of himself, you see," she began, as if they had been talking about him, "I thought perhaps you could tell me . . . there is so much I want to know. How do you know him? He has never said if you . . ."

  May caught herself; she had been thrown off guard, she struggled to regain control. She knew exactly what she was being asked, and was determined not to answer. "We were friends at the university," she began carefully, starting the motor and edging the car down the narrow road, "at Berkeley. I don't remember exactly how we met . . ." She felt Marie-Claire was about to interrupt, so she hurried on, "Oh yes I do, now. It was through Sam Nakamura—has Hayes ever mentioned Sam? No? Well, he and Sam had gone to high school together. Sam's in Vietnam now, as a combat photographer. Hayes hasn't mentioned him at all?"

  Marie-Claire shook her head. "Hayes always makes a joke when I try to get him to talk about himself. He can be very amusing— that you know, of course. But very exasperating, too."

  "Yes," May laughed, feeling suddenly light, elated. She knows nothing, she thought, Hayes has told her nothing about me, about us, about anything.

  "I tell him he knows everything about me," Marie-Claire said, as if reading her mind, "while I know nothing about him, and I do not understand how he can expect us to go on in this unequal way, I tell him if he truly loves me, he will talk to me, but then he only makes jokes."

  May had to tell herself to shift down to second, to first, to stop. Clutch in, brake on. Breathe. She felt as if all incoming messages had to be simplified; she could not do two things at once. She could only drive now, negotiate the curve onto Auwaiolimu Street. Shift down to first, shift up to second, third, figure out how much time they need to get to the airport to make Marie-Claire's flight home. To Paris, to Hayes. Merge onto the Lunalilo freeway. She could not think about anything else now. She could not even try to figure out what it meant: if he truly loves me.

  May came to the Big Island that weekend, angry. I knew something had gone wrong by the way she climbed out of the truck and slammed the door behind her. Every motion of her body was explosive. Taking out a cigarette and lighting it was an exercise in fury. Her first words to Israel were, "Why didn't you finish the trellis before starting the gazebo?" And to me, "Nobody around here knows how to follow orders."

  She could not sit for more than a few minutes at a time, could not stay with one project. She was like a lioness, stalking about, nervous and angry and ready to attack.

  Clarence came in about midaftemoon, trailing Noelani. They stood together on the lanai, shifting from one foot to the other in front of May, who was making an attempt to read what seemed to be a report. She did not ask them to sit, did not even look up for a few moments though she knew they were there.

  "I—we—have some news, May," Clarence began uncertainly.

  She looked up, unsmiling, waiting.

  "We're going to get married, Noelani and me."

  Still May said nothing, only looked at them, as if waiting for more.

  "I wanted you to know first," Clarence said, dropping the "we" in his nervousness.

  "What do you want me to say?" May came back, her voice clipped. "Congratulations? Okay, congratulations." She turned back to the report.

  Noelani looked at Clarence, full of uncertainty. The boy stood there for a long moment, confusion and pain flashing across his face. He wanted desperately to say something, you could see that, but he could not find the words to break May's cold anger. Finally he turned and, with Noelani by the hand, walked away.

  I watched them go, and ached for them.

  May waited until she heard their truck rumble down the road, and then she exploded.

  "Christ!" she said, flinging the report across the lanai, "He wants to get married! He comes whimpering in here, pulling that child behind him . . . throwing it all away . . ." All the fury that had been bottled inside her came bursting out. She stalked around the house, ranting and throwing things. Israel heard her and came in double time across the lawn. I waved him off.

  When she had exhausted herself, she went into the room where I was staying and curled up on the bed. I followed, with one hand I smoothed the hair back from her wet face and with the other, I grasped her hand. She was crying; soft, wet sobs came choking out of her.

  "I've lost him," she managed to say, her voice shaking so hard I had to strain to understand, "I waited too long and I've lost him."

  I frowned. Whatever could she mean, "lost"? Then it came to me. Marie-Claire. Hayes. It was Hayes she had lost.

  "Listen to me now," I said. "Listen carefully, my darling May. Clarence came here because he needs your permission . . . no, listen, I know you are not talking about Clarence, but I am. That's right, Clarence. Permission and approval, if possible. He needs to hear you say that it is all right to get on with his life, the way he chooses to lead it. You are important to him, and that means you have a certain power over him. What Clarence needs from you is what you need from your mother: a release."

  She turned on the bed and looked at me, her eyes widening with the realization. After a few minutes she pulled herself to the edge of the bed and sat there, her face in her hands. And then, having reached a decision, she did not take time to wash her face, even, but climbed in the truck and roared off.

  She found Clarence near the Volcano Observatory. He was alone, staring into the crater of Kilauea, his back a study in misery.

  "I am sorry about what happened," she began, sitting next to him and looping her arm in his. "Clarence, I was angry when you came today, but not with you. I was angry with myself, for being stupid about something else—something that has nothing at all to do with you. If what you want is to marry Noelani, then I will be happy for both of you. Truly."

  He looked at her, studied her face, and saw what he wanted to see. She put her arms around him, then, and he touched his face to her shoulder, so she would know the depth of his relief.

  March 27. Everything has happened so fast. The phone call, saying that Sam was in town and would be coming out for the weekend with a couple of his friends. Their arrival: three of them, Sam and a misshapen Laotian man with no hair at all on his head, and a woman from Italy introduced as a war correspondent.

  "Nicky's English isn't so good," he said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her around. She had a sharp, hard little face and eyes that scanned us with obvious disinterest.

  "Hi," she said, automatically.

  Sam made a great show of greeting me. Perhaps he was glad to see me, I can't tell any more about Sam. When he joined me on the lanai and I tried to get him to talk about taking photographs at the front, he was strangely glib. But I am wrong to criticize. I can only believe that what he has seen is too painful to talk about, and of course his photographs speak for themselves.

  Making conversation at dinner was laborious. Neither the Laotian nor the Italian woman made any effort to answer questions, nor did they volunteer. They concentrated on eating and drinking, and left May and Sam and me to carry on a desultory conversation. I excused myself as soon as I could.

  The murmur of talk drifted along the lanai late into the night. I supposed the liquor had loosened their tongues, and was glad I had escaped to bed.

  When I got up the next morning the living room was strewn with detailed maps of Burma, Thailand, and Laos, with empty glasses and the two bottles of scotch Sam had brought along, also empty. A thick, pungent odor lingered in the room. When I opened the door leading to the lanai I found May, dozing on a chaise lounge, fully dressed, a beach towel pulled over her for warmth.

  The others didn't leave their beds until after noon and then they
left quickly to catch a plane. Sam, I noticed, shared a room with the Italian woman. They are gone now, and I have tried to find out what is going on but May is being evasive. When I asked her what she thinks of Sam, she had to think for a while. "He's changed," she said. "Maybe Nicky has something to do with that. I gather they work together . . . I'm glad he has found someone, but I'm not sure that she is . . ." She broke off, started again with another, more positive thought. "I'm impressed at how much Sam knows about Asia. He's been all through Thailand and Laos, he has contacts among the hill tribes, it really is fascinating to hear him talk about it . . ."

  "He didn't have much to say at dinner," I interjected, rather too tartly.

  "No, he didn't," she grinned. "I have a feeling the booze and the pot got him going . . . those folks live hard lives, judging by their consumption."

  March 30. May called from Honolulu to say she has to go to Japan and that she isn't certain how long she will be gone. She wanted to know if I would be all right. I told her I thought it more appropriate for me to ask that question of her. This is not, I am almost certain, a routine trip. She was evasive. I considered asking Israel to fly over to Honolulu to talk to her, to try at least to find out what she is up to, but then I decided no, it wouldn't work. She is going to do what she is going to do, and I am afraid for her.

  Three weeks later, we had what as a kid I used to call a "cloudburst." It almost never-rains on the Kona coast, but the afternoon Hayes called the heavens opened and long silver sheets of rain poured down and beat so hard on the roof that I had to strain to hear. "I'm in Hong Kong," Hayes shouted, his voice familiar even through the bluster of the rainstorm. "May wired me from Thailand to meet her here. She was supposed to arrive yesterday—do you know where she is?"

  TWENTY-ONE

  SHE CHEWED GENTLY on the inside of her cheek and listed the things she was not going to think about. Hayes, and Marie-Claire. Faith, who would be wondering and worrying. Mad Obregon, God. He had flown into a fury when she told him she needed to be away for a couple of weeks, and wouldn't tell him why. Her mother, what would happen when . . . and Sam, she wasn't going to let herself think about whether or not he could do what he said he could do. She stood at the window of her hotel room watching a long-tailed boat make its way up the Chao Phraya, leaving a wake of brown water that lapped against the barge moored by the hotel's dock. She had been here two days, had been waiting two days, and it was too long. Damn you Sam, she thought, in spite of her pledge, You had better not leave me hanging.