by Tatjana Soli
Darrow's forehead creased, his head bent down as he walked over. "That's enough. Women are watching up there."
Tanner turned and narrowed his eyes. "Don't get jealous, Sam. You're not the only photographer in Vietnam."
A few of the soldiers glared at Linh as he moved along the beach with Helen. "How come he didn't warn us?" they asked over and over.
"Because he didn't know. He's on our side," Darrow said.
When the first medevac landed, Darrow joined Helen and Linh. "Let's take this one out. We've got enough."
Tanner stayed with the company.
As they walked by villagers placed under guard, Helen felt their eyes on her. The women clutched their children against their bodies, away from the guns. "Why aren't they releasing them?"
"Interrogation. Can't ask a dead man if he's VC."
"Maybe we should stay," Helen said.
"The company's out of control. More Tanner's style anyway."
Scared herself, Helen didn't have the heart to argue. Later, she would regret giving up so easily and leaving. The change in herself proved by how little she thought of the villagers' fate, how uneasy she was around her own soldiers. They flew to the field hospital and unloaded Costello, who floated on a large pillow of morphine, oblivious to their good-byes. The trip back to Saigon was a gloomy one.
That night, as she prepared to take a shower, she noticed the ends of her hair were stiff. When she brought the tips to her nose, they smelled singed. After staying under the shower so long the water ran cold, she came out of the bathroom in her underwear and bra, hair dripping, and sat on the bedspread beside Darrow. He was stretched out, eyes closed.
"You're dripping on the bedspread," he said.
"I don't care."
He opened his eyes. "Let's see Lan tomorrow."
Helen bent her head down. How could she admit what she felt all afternoon coming home? Still as clear as after they lifted off from that beach--the photograph wasn't enough. Helped no one. Soldiers still died, civilians suffered, nothing alleviated in the smallest amount by the fact that a shutter had opened and shut, that light had struck grains on emulsion, that patterns of light and dark would preserve their misery. No defense at all against the evil that had been perpetrated. Out on the beach that day, it had all been failure. Even the best picture would be forgotten, the page flipped.
"I can't do this anymore," Helen whispered, apologizing to the pillow, unable to meet his eyes.
Darrow covered her body with his. "That's the first thing that goes. Belief. You're better off without it."
_______
Hard facts were difficult to come by--twisted and manipulated by each mouth they passed through according to need or whim. Buried deep in newspapers or government reports, perceived facts had no effect on truth. Rumor, though, caught fire, flew as fast as the events themselves. Lived on in the minds of the listeners, haunting them.
They had been back in Saigon only hours when the first stories about Molina's company began to circulate.
The official version was that a female VC climbed out of a tunnel and opened fire with an AK-47 on the soldiers, although no weapon or bullets were found, although after the initial attack, not a single American soldier was killed or even wounded by bullets.
Another version was that a village woman who had witnessed her husband gunned down on the beach below pulled out an old French-made hand revolver. Was it to kill herself or to kill the Americans? The soldiers panicked, opened fire, killing all the fleeing women and children. Later, said revolver was examined and found to be rusted out and empty of bullets.
Another, darker story was that Molina cracked, frustrated by the casualties and the defiance of the women, and ordered the soldiers to fire on them. The next day, on patrol, Molina walked point and stepped on a Claymore, killed, neatly ending any interrogation.
Whatever the truth, Tanner made the front page of a dozen newspapers documenting it. His pictures backed up military claims that VC and VC sympathizers had been gunned down in battle. Darrow threw the paper across the room.
"You couldn't have stopped it," Helen said.
"It doesn't matter. I should have... been doing my job, not--"
"Babysitting me?"
"I was distracted. I can't afford to be."
The battles dragged on. Tay Ninh turned into Bong Son, which turned into An Thi.
At night, Darrow edged closer to Helen in the dark of the bedroom, the wind through the leaves of the flamboyant lulling like the sound of the ocean.
"What do you say, Helen, we delay leaving till next month. Get up to the DMZ one more time. I've heard things are going on in Qui Nhon and in the A Shau."
Nothing.
"California will still be there a few months from now, huh? We'll go with a few more covers under our belt."
Later, Helen often thought about why she remained silent. Their love a riddle she couldn't explain, only that Darrow coming of his own volition was the only way. Otherwise, she would be forcing him; unbearable, especially when it was obvious to everyone that she had lost the stomach for the work while he was so clearly born to it.
So he pretended he would leave, and she pretended that she believed him, and each knew the other was telling an untruth.
Days passed, each a lure that Darrow went out and followed; Helen again took the human-interest assignments she had previously scorned. The radius of her pursuits circling tighter and tighter, with the apartment in Cholon eventually the only place she was absolutely at ease.
Robert threw his "Light at the End of My Tunnel" party at the broken-down Hotel Royale. The restaurant and bar were colonial-period shabby, in keeping with the party's theme. Robert walked through the palm-lined lobby in the white wool uniform and pith helmet of a French military commander. People overflowed the lobby, standing on the steps and out on the sidewalk, sipping champagne while a band played fox-trots and tangos in the overhead ballroom. A street boy, small and fast, reached his hand up like a periscope over the platters, stuffing his mouth with what ever he grabbed before it could be taken away. A crippled war veteran leaned against the building, his left leg missing, and sipped at a glass of champagne someone had handed him.
In the cab going over, Darrow hummed show tunes. Helen had borrowed a long, cream-colored gown with a large black silk rose pinned at the chest. "Nice," he said, uninterested. He had reluctantly put a suit on, and he sat in the backseat of the small car, knees to his chest, looking crushed and miserable.
They walked up the steps to where Robert stood in the doorway. "The luckiest man in Vietnam," Robert shouted and raised his glass. "Beware, I might try to steal her away to night."
Darrow smiled a strained, polite smile. "Do it while I get drinks," he said, and made a quick escape into the crowd.
"As cheerful as always," Robert said.
"He's tired."
More and more people arrived, cars jamming traffic for a block all around.
"How many people did you invite?"
"Oh, five hundred, give or take. Everyone I've ever met in this country. But I don't recognize half the faces here, so I think it's taken on a life of its own. Appropriate for a war with a life of its own."
Annick had been right--she had underestimated him. "You're leaving in style."
"Leave with me."
Helen smiled and looked down. For a moment she thought he mocked her, but he understood how shabby her situation was. Besides, there was no sport in it, like shooting fish in a barrel. "Is Annick here?"
"With her new beau. She's not one to hold a grudge, especially at the mention of a party."
"No, she isn't. That's part of her loveliness."
"Such a pretty dress and such a sad face." Robert drew himself up and put his hand across his chest. "Marry me."
"You're drunk."
"That's right. That's the way men like me screw up the courage to ask for what they want. After the fact, when it's too late."
"It is too late, isn't it?" She bit her
lip. "You'd fall down dead if I accepted."
Robert burst out laughing and drank down his glass. "Of course I would. That's what's so delicious about you. You think like a man. No, I need a sweet, marrying type who loves me and stays out of war zones."
"That's not me," Helen said, smiling, stung by his words. "What're you going to do with all of that peace?"
Robert shook his head. "I'm more in love the more you pull away."
Darrow walked between them, balancing three full champagne glasses. "Who's pulling away?"
"I am, if I'm lucky. All I care about is my departure time," Robert said. He winked at her and poked his finger at Darrow's chest. "You know what they say--'Old reporters don't fade away, they transfer to lesser bureaus.' "
"Don't give me that. Los Angeles is a kick up."
Robert drank down his glass in one gulp. "Not if you want to be where the action is. Not if you consider the work a calling." His sudden earnestness made all three fall silent. Although it was obvious Darrow didn't think much of him, Robert respected and disliked the man in equal mea sure.
Darrow shrugged. "Say no."
"Oh, baby, that's where you and I differ. I'm twenty-nine months, five days too long in this hellhole." The one thing Robert knew for sure was Darrow's stringing Helen along was shameful.
"We're leaving soon." Darrow looked down at his feet.
Robert raised his eyebrows and looked from him to Helen. She seemed equally surprised. "That's great. Really. I'm two hundred bucks poorer, but what the hell."
"You bet on us?" Helen said. "Against us?"
"I'm a reporter. I took the odds."
Helen wandered the dining room and found Annick at a table of Americans from the embassy. A large, beefy-faced guy with curly black hair protested as Helen pulled her away to the bar to have a drink alone.
"Isn't he beautiful?" Annick looked back at the man, who never took his eyes off her. "Two champagnes."
"How long have you been seeing this one?"
"This one is the one."
"You said that last time. Isn't it bad form to bring him to Robert's party?" Annick wore a long, beaded red gown that sparkled as she moved. Now she pushed away from the bar and began to sway to the music. "Look around. All the good men are either leaving or dying. What difference can it possibly make?"
"What if you end up alone?"
"I was married and ended up alone. Everyone leaves. Robert, Sam, and you. It makes me too sad."
"Then find someone."
Annick turned a tough, appraising look on her; the businesswoman face at the shop was the real her. "You count on the future too much. Tonight, just dance."
"Go get your beau." Helen laughed, pointing to the man at the table, his lips pressed together in a frown.
"He hates to dance. And he's jealous. If I dance with another man, it will be a bad night."
"Then let's you and me," Helen said, pulling her toward the dance floor.
"You're fou. Crazy."
"Now you've convinced me."
Out on the dance floor, the two women danced to cheers from the surrounding tables. Helen led, and they both stumbled, doubled over laughing so they could hardly stand. Slowly they worked out the rhythm for a box step.
Helen floated to the music, her mind on the silly spectacle of herself and Annick, a huge surge of relief not to worry and want. She was glad she hadn't drunk much champagne, that this was pure joy she felt. As Annick spun in a circle away from her, sparkling, Helen thought she was perhaps right, this was the only possible escape from the war.
The first sign something was wrong: the band coming to a ragged stop, stranding the dancers on the floor. Angry yells. Helen recognized Darrow's voice. As she made her way through the crowd, she saw Tanner first but could not make out his words. Darrow stood quietly across from him while Robert stepped between the men, trying to lead Tanner away. Instead, he jerked out of Robert's grip, lurching forward and again saying something she couldn't hear.
Darrow made a single forward motion, right fist connecting with Tanner's face, knocking him onto his back. Cartoonish. Uncertain laughs came from the crowd, and Helen saw a smear of blood under Tanner's nose as he shook his head. He sat relaxed on the floor, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief someone handed him. When he spoke, his voice was low and reasonable, as if he were discussing politics over brandy.
"Screw you, Darrow... just as dead with or without my pictures."
"My problem is you."
Tanner stood up unsteadily. Men approached to restrain him, but he shook them off. "I'm done here." He wiped his bloodied mouth and looked at his hand. "Quang Ngai. I'm supposed to interfere with a bunch of wackedout Marines? They were VC in the tunnels. What if they killed one of our guys?"
Darrow leaned against the wall, rubbing his hand. "Gunning down women and children."
"We're not the morality police out there. Especially you, huh? As long as you have the wife and kiddie back home, the piece of ass over here, it's all okay, huh?"
Darrow lunged. It took Robert and three other men to drag him outside. Although Darrow and Helen had been together openly for more than a year now, the spoken words unleashed something. She felt looks from some of the men, stares from wives and girlfriends.
"Forget Tanner," Robert said. "He's a shit. You've given him wet dreams even taking him seriously."
"I'm sorry," Darrow said. "I shouldn't have come."
"Come back in. It's still early," Robert said.
"Not for me."
Helen searched for Annick to say good-bye. At the end of the bar she spotted quivering red sparkles. When she got closer, Annick was crying.
"What's wrong?" Helen said.
Annick shrugged. "It's all coming apart." "What is?" "Everything. The war is ending." "Where's... your guy?"
Annick tossed her head, annoyed. "He's nothing."
"I thought he was the one."
"Only the war is the one."
_______
Darrow and Helen drove back home in silence. Helen hung up her borrowed dress, turned on the red-shaded lamp. They went to bed, lay side by side, not touching or talking, then rolled away from each other in sleep.
In the middle of the night, Helen awakened to the rumble of thunder, the sound of rain on the roof. From long habit, she hurriedly got up to put bowls under the regular leaks in the ceiling. Back in bed, she listened to the drops of water plink first against metal, then against water. Darrow rose and stood at the window, smoking.
"I guess you don't care we might drown in a puddle in our sleep," she said.
"Damned thing is he's right."
She stared at the water stain on the ceiling. "Who?"
"That SOB Tanner."
"About?"
"What pisses me off is seeing myself in him."
Helen sat up, knees folded beneath her chin. "You're nothing like him."
Darrow came to the bed and sat down. "I've been here too long. I hear something going down in Can Tho or Pleiku, I have to be the first one there."
"That's your job."
"I've been leading you along, too." He took hold of her arm, stroking the skin at her wrist. "I don't mean to."
"Don't leave because of me," she said.
Darrow shook his head. "Let's take our trip to Cambodia. I want to see the apsaras again. I had dreams there...."
Lying in his arms, she realized Darrow spoke with other people's words. Words she wanted to hear but that were not necessarily the same as the truth. He created himself like a collage, bits and pieces that she would never come to the bottom of.
"I'm ready to leave with you," he said.
She had dreamed the words so long that she barely made sense of them, but she tried to convince herself that the long siege was over. He loved her after all, and now they could go home.
When he left early that morning, she was still sleeping.
_______
It was this way in Vietnam during the war--sometimes Darrow felt all powerful, fel
t he could ride fate like a flying carpet, like a helicopter, will it to do his bidding. Other times fate reminded him that he was only a toy, blown this way and that, swept away or destroyed on a whim.
The difficult decision made, Darrow felt lighter than he had in years. Helen equaled life to him, and he would let all this go and follow her, follow life out of this place. As scheduled, he joined the crew of a gunship, spent the morning flying in Tay Ninh province along the Cambodian border, photographing a cross-border black-market operation. It was a good morning, a good helicopter. He felt in his element. The pilot flew contour, almost touching the tops of trees, what they called "map of the earth" flying. Hostile forces could hear the plane but didn't have time to draw a bead on it in the dense canopy jungle.
The pilot, Captain Anderson, was in his midtwenties, a big puppyish kid with a constant grin, unable to hide his plea sure in flying. Sunlight glinted off his blond, buzz-cut hair. Darrow smiled, and the sobering thought occurred to him that he was almost old enough to have a son that age. Where had the time gone?
After doing an aerial recon, Anderson got orders to drop in on a couple of forward firebases in the Parrot's Beak. Isolated, the area was considered bandit country, riddled with VC and NVA positions. The night before, bases were attacked, and now enemy bodies, strung up in the perimeter wire, bloated in the hot sun as trophies.
Darrow and the pilot sat on the ground, their backs against sandbags, and ate C-rations, ignoring the fetid smell blowing in from the wire.
"I'm shy to say this, but you were the photographer when my dad served in Korea. You took his picture."
"No kidding?"
"I swear it. Recognized the name right away."
"That's amazing. So he came home. And had you."
"And five others. Wait till I tell him you were here."
"That'll be good. Very good."
"Where you headin' to after this?" Anderson asked.
