by Tatjana Soli
"Of course not. About half. But listen, the ones left were good enough for another cover. And your fee doubled, too, so not so bad, huh?"
He was a sly one; she suspected he had tricked her into realizing how valuable they were.
"My fee just tripled. And I want my byline on each picture." She rolled back onto the bed, appalled with this small, hard ambition inside her. "What about the one with Samuels standing at the edge of the paddy?"
"Tripled, didn't I say that? I'll have to check on the name, greedy girl. Your soldier's the cover boy." He was relieved by her voracity. That bit of ruthlessness would serve her well and meant that all this bed rest was just theatrics.
"No, you didn't say."
"Of course," Gary said, running his hand up and down the bedspread, "knowing the outcome of the battle... well, he's immortalized."
She closed her eyes, weighing the decision. "Even if he shot himself?"
Gary paused, relieved now that he had found out the cause of her behavior. "I didn't even hear that."
"Are you that cynical?"
He glanced at her, a small, wan smile, then got up and moved away. "Man, it's boiling in here. What I am is a guy with a constant deadline. Samuelson--"
"Samuels."
"Whatever. Was a brave soldier--I have testimonials. You don't know what happened for sure. Things go on out there that can't be judged by the standards of ordinary life, little girl."
Even if Gary knew exactly what had happened, it would make no difference.
"Give this a thought. Fly to Washington and present a print of this Samuels to his parents, or girlfriend, wife, what ever he's got. That would be great coverage."
She shook her head. "I'm through."
"That's why you had your fee tripled? What you need is rest." He paced the room, sweating and wiping his forehead with a paper napkin. "How about me sending some meals over from Grival's."
"You can't buy me," she said into her blanket, but they both knew he had won.
"It's on the expense account, okay? And you'll get your byline."
"I don't care."
He studied her for a moment. "Even if the guy did flip out for a second--which I'm officially denying--what about all the times he's a hero and no one is handy with a camera? He's a brave SOB in my book just for being out there in Vietnam, another name for Hell." He picked up his pack to leave.
"At the field hospital--"
"I'll tell you something I shouldn't. I rescued Darrow out there in Angkor. Don't ever let him know. Hiding in the rocks. Flipped out, man. Scared of his shadow. I'm not sure what would have happened if Linh hadn't shown up." An exaggeration, of course, but one for a good cause.
Helen had never heard this version of their time at Angkor; all she knew was Darrow's obsession with going back there.
"Be one of my best photographers. The job won't betray you. I love Darrow, but he's headed in a bad direction again--the thing with Tanner was dumb. I'm relying on you and Linh to pull him through."
But Gary was wrong. Already the job had betrayed her. Or she had betrayed it, had fulfilled MacCrae's prophecy, and become part of their movie. Young boys like Michael would see that picture of Samuels and follow in the footsteps of a man who rolled the dice with his life.
When Gary left, Helen got out of bed, dressed, and took up life again. At dinner with Annick, she sipped at a martini, so icy it went down like water. The smoothness of the tablecloth, the ice in their water glasses, the laughter at the tables around them, soothed her. A man across the room nodded, and she smiled back. The waiter brought them a complimentary round of drinks.
"You're strange to night," Annick said, and lit a cigarette.
Helen noticed the smudge of lipstick on Annick's glass as she moved it away from her lips, the pristine cleanness of the china (nothing in the field could be made that clean), the rustle of a woman's dress as she passed by.
"I was a coward."
Annick blew away a stream of smoke and shrugged. "You made it back to Saigon. The only victory that counts." She looked over her shoulder at the man. "I think he likes you."
"Maybe I should call him over." Helen pointed her chin in the man's direction. "A whirlwind romance. We'll get married, and he'll take me home to meet his mother. Why not?"
"You're drunk."
"That's the problem. I can't get drunk. I'd need elephant tranquilizer to bring me down."
Annick finished her drink and started on the new one. "But maybe you should marry him. All anyone can gossip about is Darrow's wife coming to town."
Helen set down her glass, sobered.
"She came for a surprise visit. Waiting for him in his room at the hotel. Word is that rumors made their way back home about a certain loose female photographer."
This mythical wife existed in a time and space so far away from the crooked apartment that Helen had been able to ignore the situation. Darrow himself gave the marriage such little credence that she couldn't grasp the reality of the wife's sudden presence in Saigon. But here it was, or rather, here the wife was, pushing herself into a place she didn't belong. Helen felt the scruples of her old life. If she had meet Darrow back home, the fact of his marriage would have kept her from seeing him, but the thousands of miles, the nature of the war, had seduced her, made life back home strange and unfathomable.
"You shouldn't care. He loves you, not her."
The idea of being the other woman so ridiculous. Compared to what she had just witnessed, wasn't Darrow right, wasn't this small and unimportant? She wanted her life to be clean and right; to have things of her own. This must be the first thing to change. Helen leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What should I do? Go home?"
"A woman's never the most important thing to a man like him. You are fighting over scraps. Why not just take your pictures?"
Helen waved her hand as if shooing off an annoying insect.
"Then stop," Annick said. "You've proved yourself."
"The more I go out there the less I know why. But there are moments... when I feel this is what I'm alive for."
"So take a little vacation to Singapore. A break." Annick stubbed out her cigarette. "Other people make a whole life out of avoiding pain." The waiter brought a bowl of fruit; Annick smiled up at him extravagantly till he left. "Distracting themselves."
Helen smiled at her open flirtation. "What about you? I know how you distract yourself."
Now Annick sat up and her demeanor became as businesslike as in the shop. "Speaking of--would you mind if I saw Robert?"
A stab of possessiveness, but Helen dismissed it. Of course, life had to go on, and it was no one's fault that she had messed up her own. "Someone should be happy in Saigon."
"Don't be silly. This is a small place; we have to reuse each other. You think he's an innocent, but you're wrong. He sees through you and Darrow. He's like me; he knows this war means nothing. Maybe a change would do us both good. Maybe living in New Orleans would be fun."
That night Helen lay in bed, restless. After the drinks with Annick, she had hoped to fall asleep quickly, but each time she closed her eyes the image of Samuels haunted her. She regretted things. Crazy thoughts, made more powerful because of their lack of logic. What she had done or failed to do. The arrival of Darrow's wife presaged a change, but to what? She fell into a fitful sleep, and again she had the dream; children approached and circled her, pressing in, circling around and around, touching, but when she tried to speak with them, they turned away.
After midnight footsteps on the stairs woke her, a key in the lock, and now that the change was close she wished he had stayed away longer.
Darrow felt his way into the dark room. "You awake?"
"Yes."
He flipped on the red-shaded lamp. "I was hoping you were here." He sat on the bed. "I drove straight in from Bien Hoa, screw the curfew."
In his arms, she let herself be still a minute, feel protected for the barest fraction of time. He smelled of sweat, dirt, and the fecund reek from b
eing in the field. It repulsed and made her hold him tighter. His body strong, but he was no different from Samuels, the vulnerability of flesh.
"Your wife's in town. At your hotel room."
He let go of her. "Not now."
"Wasn't my choice."
"How do you know?"
"As in, have I seen her? No."
Darrow pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "She threatened something about coming."
Helen moved away and pulled the sheet up around herself. "You didn't mention me... no." He had let it come to this, having her here. Helen's feelings were suddenly clear. "I had my own little religious experience out there this last time. Maybe you didn't tell her about us for a reason. I need something of my own. Not you. It never was. You and I were just a diversion."
"Where's this coming from?" He was angry at how quickly she was willing to throw them away.
"That's rich--you're being jealous."
Darrow stood and shoved a chair hard across the room. It made a heavy thud as it fell on its side. "A war is on, you notice? What the fuck do my marriage and your hurt feelings mean?"
" 'The cool thing for us, baby, is that when this war's done, there's always another one. The war doesn't ever have to end for us.' What would you do without the war as an excuse?"
"Ask me to leave her."
"Very romantic, but impractical."
Darrow kicked the door, and it bounced back into the wall. She flinched. The knob left a fist-size indentation in the wallpaper. "I'm ending this marriage now, regardless of if you're here when I get back." Her back was to him, and he stood in the door frame, catching his breath. "Be here when I get back."
A military jeep roared past Darrow in the street. Three ARVN soldiers sat in the front, two squeezed in the passenger seat. They had just finished a good dinner, with ample quantities of beer, and insisted on driving him to his hotel so that less liberal-minded soldiers didn't hassle him for being out past curfew. Apparent that if he didn't oblige, they, in fact, would be the ones to hassle him. He got in and offered cigarettes all around. Satisfied, the soldiers forgot about him and gossiped among themselves. Darrow sat back in silence and smoked.
Helen was right, of course. He didn't reveal himself, or rather the limited facts of biography never seemed important, always giving an arbitrary, confining version of the truth. He smiled in the darkness, realizing this was a liar's rationale. His wife's father owned the major newspaper that he had first worked for; he knew that fact led to surmises about his integrity. What it meant in reality was that he worked much harder to prove himself, that he had doggedly achieved on his own merits despite that.
But the withholding had started even earlier. He had never even told his wife about his name change. At the time, he had felt it gave him a foolish and vaguely embarrassing vanity, an adolescent stunt. Now too much time had passed for the truth; they had been married six years, even though he hadn't spent more than a few weeks at a time with either her or the boy.
No, not telling his wife had involved something deeper that he wanted to hide. She fell in love with Sam Darrow, the famous war photographer, but he was still the insecure young man determined to create this mythic persona. When he told her the first time that he was leaving for the Middle East, she sobbed. Wanted him to move to features, take pictures of politicians and movie stars. Not understanding that the creation now demanded its due, demanded to be played out.
He sat her down on the chintz-covered sofa in the living room. The marriage a terrible mistake, he offered an immediate divorce--an annulment for her sake. But she insisted on waiting till after the baby. Which was the way she announced her pregnancy to him. Much to his father-in-law's displeasure, he jumped when the offer to work for Life came, no longer beholden to the paper. He had been gone since; if it made her happy to stay married, he had seen no reason to inflict more suffering on the girl than he already had.
As the jeep swung through the empty streets, the night air blew cool and damp; he was still grimy from patrol but in no hurry to reach his destination. No other place he'd rather be than Saigon, no other life he would choose.
He hardly knew the woman waiting in the hotel room for him. He supposed she was a nice, loving girl and that her marriage to him had been a terrible disappointment. He blamed himself for weakness. There was another reason for his marriage that he hadn't admitted to Helen, which had to do with his fear of not coming back; a kind of insurance policy at the time to leave someone behind, waiting for him. But this woman's love had not weighted him down to either safety or caution.
The jeep stopped in front of the hotel, and Darrow climbed out. He tossed the rest of the pack of cigarettes to the driver and received a happy nod as the jeep sped away.
He felt a hazy discomfort, as slight as a sore muscle, afraid that changing the status quo, no matter how unsatisfactory, would jinx his luck. Helen's love was difficult, took away his lightness, his fearlessness.
Sunlight, broken up and scattering itself as the leaves of the flamboyant tree moved in the wind outside the window. Helen hadn't slept, reconciling herself to the future of things, and now at late morning, she still lay in bed, heavy, half awake.
She heard the key in the door, and then Darrow stood in the bedroom. Studying his face under half-closed eyes, she imagined she had summoned him with her dreams. The thought surprised her that she would never love anyone as much. His expression defiant as he pulled the wedding band off his finger and threw it across the floor. They both heard the hollow roll of it as it circled down into silence.
TWELVE
A Map of the Earth
Months passed. Robert's assignment was up; he was being promoted and sent to Los Angeles as bureau chief. When he invited Helen for a last lunch, they sat at the patio tables of the Cercle Sportif as shy as young lovers with unfinished business. Helen pretended to sun herself, tilting her face and closing her eyes. Although she always enjoyed his company, she wanted to know nothing about his relationship with Annick, which had been going on for the last few months. Annick had indicated that the relationship was less than satisfactory. Out at the pool, the daughters of wealthy South Vietnamese families sunned in French bikinis and ordered drinks from waiters who had been there since the colonial era.
Robert's white shirt and khaki pants were freshly pressed, his face shaven and smooth. And yet there were circles under his eyes and a cowlick that wouldn't settle over his forehead. Something vaguely dissipated about him, as if the tropics had finally had their way. He had aged a decade in the year and a half Helen had known him.
"If ever there was a revolution," Robert said, "it should start here, don't you think? Hopefully that waiter over there is a VC operative, a nephew of Uncle Ho."
"How can you leave all this?" She was teasing but also curious. Reporters were beginning to consider Vietnam a must-have on their resumes.
"I've had more than enough of this place. Two years is a lifetime in Saigon." He looked at her and smirked. "When're you taking off?"
"Soon..." Her hand fluttered toward the pool, the city beyond, before running out of force and dropping back in her lap. Darrow had delayed their departure three times, and the fourth date of departure was still up in the air. "If things would settle down... it's been one crisis after another."
He felt bad for needling her, so clear to him the one-sidedness of the thing with Darrow. "You're both coming to my going-away party?"
"Do we ever miss a party?" The truth was if Darrow wasn't on assignment, then he was buried in a crowd of people, either at other people's houses or at impromptu get-togethers at the Cholon apartment. They were never alone anymore; no doubt he intended the buffer to keep him safe from her nagging.
"Annick and I didn't work out. It's easier this way. Hope that doesn't change your mind about coming." Robert stood up. "I'd better get back to the grindstone."
Helen pushed back her chair to get up. "What happened?"
"She's a crazy one. Another war casu
alty. But it's ungentlemanly to kiss and tell.... Stay and enjoy your coffee."
She sat back and shaded her eyes to look up at him. "That's too bad, but I've missed you. You haven't had any time for me. I'm almost a lady of leisure now. Feature work. I've been sticking close in."
He wondered if part of his attraction to her simply had to do with being rejected, but now that the possibility was long past, he thought himself probably lucky. "I worry about you. I've kept my mouth shut because it'll sound like sour grapes," Robert said. "With Darrow, the war's different. I've seen it in other guys. He can't let it go. He's searching for more than a picture when he goes out, do you understand?"
Helen picked up her coffee cup and held it in mid air, then set it back down without taking a sip. "What are you saying?"
"He's taking risks he doesn't have to take anymore to get a cover," Robert said.
"You're wrong. He wanted to leave for Angkor awhile ago."
"For your sake, I hope I am."
"Anyway, we're leaving here right after you. He's got a replacement coming."
"But do you think he'll stay away? A man like him living in a house with a wife and a dog, taking the garbage out Monday nights?"
Helen shook her head. "There are other things to do. Stories that don't involve war, like the Angkor piece."
"His choice?"
"Our choice. We both want this."
Robert sighed. "So why have you stopped going out?"
Helen shrugged. Since Samuels, she had not ventured into the field, making excuses to Gary, which he all too readily accepted. Samuels's picture had gotten a lot of play and had been copied for numerous articles. Each plane of new soldiers coming off the planes at Tan Son Nhut a weight on her. "I'm taking a break. You know--do no harm."
"Just don't let him take you down with him." He bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned her face and kissed him on the mouth.
"Don't worry about me," she whispered. "I'll save both of us."
