The Man from Saigon

by Marti Leimbach

  They drive to the area where the ambush took place, this time as part of a convoy similar to the one that Susan rode with. They sit with the soldiers and smoke, riding the lurching track, waiting for something or nothing to happen. Marc takes some still shots of the area where the ambush took place; Locke films him as he describes the recent events on this road, the evacuation of villages, the movement of refugees. In the north, at Mang Yang Pass, they have defoliated the trees up to a half-mile from the road either side to prevent enemy attacks like the one resulting in Susan and Son’s disappearance. Here, bulldozers have dug out huge boulevards through the jungle, though it seems less orderly than up north. There are haphazard chops through the jungle as though a giant lawnmower has gone awry. So much napalm has been deployed that the smell of charred wood saturates the air. They report these facts, or rather subdued versions of these facts, then pack up and thank the drivers, who have waited for them.

  “The camp is a mess,” Marc tells Locke. “You won’t believe it.”

  “We’re not going to the camp,” Locke says. “We’re getting a lift back, then getting on a plane and going the fuck back to Saigon.”

  “Why?”

  “Take a look at yourself, man. That’s why.”

  “Don’t you want the story?”

  “There is no story,” Locke says impatiently. They drive for a mile or so in silence. Then Locks says, “We’re too late.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Your employer—you might remember a little thing called the network. I’ve been covering for you for almost a week now, Davis, but the ’flu I made up can only last so long.” He runs a hand through his hair. He looks like a father, worn out chasing his teenage kid. “It’s stressful, all this lying. I don’t know how MACV keeps it up.”

  They laugh. They watch the sun lower itself like a hawk, level for level, in the evening sky. They do not talk about Loc Ninh. It’s among the unmentionable facts, like the way Marc allowed himself to be taken in by the military, despatched on a useless voyage to the Delta. The scent of coal fire and warm urine that pervaded the camp is in his clothes and shoes, his hair. It has embedded itself into his very skin, so that he smells like one of the thousands of homeless. He feels almost as displaced.

  They hitch a ride to Saigon, sitting among cargo. It’s a bumpy, awful journey and they get out of the plane into a shower storm. By the time they get back into the city he is shivering from the cold and yet his face is dark with sun, looking like pottery left too long in a kiln. He needs to stay in a dark, cool room, possibly for a long time, drink lemonade with ice, not move for a while.

  At the hotel room, Locke says, “Sit on the floor, not the bed, unless you want to pollute that, too.”

  “Am I allowed a chair?”

  “No, no chair. Burn those clothes. Put them in a bag and get them incinerated, understand?”

  “Affirmative,” says Marc.

  “I’m surprised the taxi driver didn’t throw us out on the street. Honestly, Davis, what on earth did you step in?”

  “I told you we should go down and look. Then you’d know what I stepped in.”

  Locke shakes his head, opens a window. Then he goes to the bathroom and turns on the tap, pouring shampoo from a bottle in order to make the water foam. He comes back in the room and slaps a bar of soap in Marc’s hand. Marc goes into the bathroom, takes off his T-shirt, and stares into the bath in which a rising circle of foam is gathering. Then he returns again to where Locke is now sitting in the corner of the room in an imitation Queen Anne chair beside the high, shuttered window.

  “Thank you,” he says. Hands on his hips, chest out, as though he’s making some kind of announcement. “Thank you, Don.”

  Locke notices the deep V of sunburn on Marc’s chest, the sudden line where his tanned forearm meets the area always covered by a shirt. He is even thinner than usual, but he is in one piece. And he’s not as nutty as the guys had warned him—the other reporters at the camp—including fucking Murray, who told him Marc was making an ass of himself. Heartsick as a puppy. It still makes him burn, the way Murray said that. Heartsick as a puppy. You better come get him out of here.

  “I’m waiting for you to scrub up so we can get something to eat,” says Locke.

  Later, in the bath, Marc hears Locke call out from the room.

  “I didn’t want to say anything until now,” he says, “but Christine is on her way. I read the cable. Maybe you better pull yourself together before she gets here, huh? Meet her at the airport. Act natural.”

  His wife, Christine.

  There is the sound of water against tile, a big whoosh, and then a pounding of footsteps. Marc storms into the room, dripping water everywhere, a towel around his waist, four days of beard growth, his teeth flashing as he yells, “Who the fuck thought that was a good idea!”

  “Her,” Locke replies. “The network told her you were sick. They think you should take some time. What should I have done? Suggest that you weren’t sick at all, and that the last person you wanted to see was your wife?”

  “You could have thought of something!”

  Locke wipes his brow. “No, not this time. I’ve been dodging for you for a week, man. The bureau is, like, Where the fuck is he? I’m out of bright ideas.”

  His wife hates her name because it conjures in her mind the leathery face of a veteran socialite, some kind of country-club-going housewife whose children are grown, gone, and who has been left with bridge parties and ladies’ golf.

  Which is one reason I will never learn how to play either, she once told him. They were engaged then, the autumn of 1965, one brief month during which they planned a hurried wedding.

  Both are great games, Marc said. He was stubborn even in small things. He knew he was, and occasionally shocked even himself with his own inflexibility. Christine smiled, unfazed, agreeing with him. It was the simplicity with which she tossed off such appeals to argument that allowed her to defeat him, and he loved that in her company he could find himself unwittingly becoming a gracious, even friendly man. You make me into someone I can stand, he told her once late at night at the height of their romance. Someone I might even like. She raised an eyebrow; she had the most wonderful dark golden hair and it arched up away from her forehead in a crest. Well, I like you, she said.

  He taught her honeymoon bridge, mostly because of the name. Fresh from the wedding, still finding confetti in their shoes. They played on the mattress in the mornings after making love. Two dummy hands. They’d thought she would have a baby then, too, which was why it had all happened so fast—the engagement, the marriage. She was ten weeks along, two days married. Her belly was just beginning to harden above the rim of her pubic bone. He admired her long hands as she shuffled and dealt. She had creamy skin, shapely calves. Her belly was a long expanse of naturally tanned skin. She was a beauty. He used to watch how people treated her, those incidental exchanges at stores, or news-stands, in a doctor’s waiting room, or standing in line at the bank, and he’d see how differently they treated her, simply because of how lovely she was, how fine. When he pointed out how the world responds in a unique way to a beautiful woman, how he was never given quite the same consideration she got as a matter of course, she smiled and told him he was exaggerating, or imagining. Rose-tinted glasses, she said.

  He told her she’d make a great bridge player. It’s a memory game, he explained.

  She sighed. But I have a terrible memory I can’t even remember the order of suits, much less what’s been played. She dismissed herself like this all the time. He sensed that she had some kind of odd, almost clairvoyant knowledge of her life and its contents, as though each year had already been exposed to her, end to end, and that she’d peered into the vast plain of her years and found everything ahead of her a little disappointing. He felt at these times a need to cheer her up, urge her on, but he saw, too, that there was peace in having limited expectations. Christine did not want more than she had; she was hardworking without being am
bitious, game without being aspiring. She was so beautiful. He touched her leg. He didn’t want to upset her. If he disturbed her equilibrium he feared everything that made their lives together possible would come undone.

  Bridge is a game of diplomacy as much as technical skill, he said. That’s why you will be an excellent player, while I will always be dreadful at bridge. I’m anything but diplomatic.

  She laughed. She’d witnessed his anger rise suddenly at the very start of their honeymoon, when at the airport ticket counter they were told their seat reservations had been lost. She’d seen his frustration at the taxi driver who had missed the hotel and circled around once more without turning off his meter, and his irritation that one of their bags had been damaged so that the handle was now loose. Little things bothered him—a shirt back from the cleaners missing a button—and those of larger importance, of principle, as when a piece of his own work was translated almost wholesale into a print story by someone else with not so much as a mention. She knew this about him. She shook her head, smiling, amused that he could at least admit his shortcomings. It was a beginning, she thought. Like most young wives, she believed she could change her husband, improve him.

  Of course, my advantage at the moment is that I know the rules, he continued.

  He’d been teaching her for days. Their honeymoon, which began in the courtyard of an elaborately decorated Lisbon hotel, had been mostly conducted inside the vast rooms in which they’d settled. The bed was situated so that when they woke they could feel the breeze from the courtyard, smell the lemon trees, the ebullient flowers, and hear the steady, soothing flow of water from a fountain statue of St. Christopher. The bathroom had a fired earth floor, intricately painted tiles, polished brass taps. She’d dropped a wineglass and it shattered into so many pieces there was barely anything left of it. The light, arriving in the mornings, was so lovely that they did not use the curtains. They enjoyed feeling the rising light across their bodies, opening their eyes to the dawn. The morning light seemed to celebrate her beauty as she lay in bed. Together like that, they were blissfully happy.

  He took her dutifully to see the sights of the city. They ate in the recommended restaurants, tried caldeirada, a stew of shellfish scented with cloves, and bacalhau, prepared so many ways. They sat among the hand-painted plates, the delicate tiles. He did not ask himself if he would love her if she were not so beautiful. When Christine stood, she was as tall as the maître d’ and everyone’s eyes followed her as they found their table. He took her wherever she wanted to go—it was no trouble—but what he mostly wanted was to take in the landscape of her body sprawled across the ironed sheets.

  In the evenings they had drinks in a parlor room with marble tables in which chessboards were embedded into the design. The dark furniture was thickly varnished, with velvet seat cushions in a rich mossy green that he had always associated with churches. They played cards and drank, though she allowed herself only the one drink as she was expecting. Here, too, her beauty was noticed. The mincing waiters approached, sometimes five in a quarter-hour, fawning above her so that they began to whittle away at his patience. In the end he scowled at them, and told them to please leave.

  On the third night another guest, a tall, gray-bearded man who wore a brimmed hat even indoors, invited them to play cards, share a box of cigarillos, drink from his bottle of old tawnies. Marc watched as the man flirted with Christine, taking in her long, bare arms, the tidy package of her hips in her cocktail dress, her pretty mouth which sipped tentatively at the port.

  Oh dear, cards, she said, as though it were a slightly scandalous activity. My husband has been teaching me bridge.

  The port was a yellowish brown color. She was drinking it but Marc could see she was unsure about the color. He wanted to explain to her that it had been aged so long it had lost its red hue, but didn’t want to embarrass her. Instead, he took a long sip of his own, making sure she noticed this, and she then followed suit. The bearded man told them his name—Reynolds—and excused himself for a moment. Marc kissed Christine quickly before she could stop him. By the time Reynolds returned, Christine was wiping the lipstick from Marc’s chin. Reynolds did not seem to notice. He had his hand on the arm of an elegant-looking woman with a high, coiffed hair-do who gazed down on the newlyweds as though on to baby pandas at a zoo.

  My wife, Angelica, Reynolds said.

  They sat north to south. Marc watched Christine take up her hand, looking suddenly unsure. He asked if she wished to declare, but she declined, absolutely, wagging her chin. He’d known she would refuse, of course. Had she not, it would have been the first time she’d surprised him.

  He played boldly, making a double and a redouble. He drained his glass and received a fresh splash of the port. He found Christine adorable, how she knit her brow, following the game, how she trusted him as he gathered as much information as he could through his bids. Reynolds asked Christine questions—had she climbed up the grassy area on the Rua de Alcolena to see the Ermida de São Jerónimo? Definitely worth a visit. What about the Belém Tower? Yes, of course she’d seen that. You couldn’t not see that. He asked these questions, paying great attention to the answers as though discussing matters of state. Reynolds was old enough to be Christine’s father, but he did not seem so old. He had a fetching smile, a well-kempt beard. Though he had a paunch, his clothes were nicely tailored. He treated Christine—he treated them both—with a kind, avuncular air. Christine mentioned that she liked films and there was a conversation about whether a particular, quite famous actor was resident in the hotel right now. Marc didn’t know who the guy was. He was enjoying his port when he felt his leg being caressed beneath the table, felt the familiar, high arches of Christine’s feet gliding up his shin bone. He looked up, smiling at his new wife. Now she had surprised him, surprised him indeed. They were doing very well, he thought.

  What I love about bridge, Reynolds was saying, is that it is as much about how you relate to your partner as anything.

  I agree, said Marc. He felt her leg high upon his. He longed to reach across the table, lift Christine from the cushioned seat, bring her upstairs to the bedroom with its magical courtyard where he’d seen, just this morning, a little family of goldfinches. It was a kind of paradise, he thought. They’d somehow landed in Eden.

  The game continued. Reynolds began to bother him a little. It might have been that he was just cranky from drinking. He tried to remain as Christine would have him: pleasant, tactful, easy within the company of others. He felt Christine’s foot just above his knee, the play of her toe on the inside of his leg. He could almost sink into that one feeling alone. He was working out a detail of his game when he noticed the way Angelica was looking at him. She had long, arched eyebrows, shining blue eyes under their hoods of liner, an overly red mouth. She wasn’t exactly smiling at him, but she had a distinct, cemented attention that made him uneasy. He wondered if she knew what was happening under the table. He thought he might somehow communicate to Christine that she should stop, that others had noticed. He sat up, but Christine’s foot followed his movements, digging deeper up his leg. He looked rather desperately at Christine and realized, all at once, that she was turned in such a way that the foot could not possibly have been hers. She and Reynolds were engaged in a conversation about the origins of the name Portugal. Reynolds was clearly enjoying educating her in the complicated history of the Iberian peninsula, and now his avuncular arm was pursuing the brass tacks around the back of Christine’s chair so that her hair brushed occasionally against his wrist. Meanwhile, there was Angelica, climbing like a vine up his leg.

  He stood. I’m sorry, I don’t feel well, he said.

  Surely you just need another drink, said Angelica. Her mouth was open in a smile. She was younger than her husband; her hair had lost its silkiness but it was a nice shade of brown, forming a neat bowl at the nape of her neck. She held her own drink up, as though showing him something in it. Her eyes squinted at him, her teeth shone in the candlelig
ht. He shook his head, backing a few paces, bumping into a bar waiter. He fell forward again, trying to come up with an excuse, bumbling as though he had drunk too much.

  Christine looked at him, puzzled. Angelica rose from her chair and looped her elbow through his. Let’s all go outside. The night air is good for you. It will clear your head.

  Is the game over then? asked Christine.

  Marc shook off Angelica rather too brusquely. She had to put her arm out to balance herself. Christine looked appalled. She took a step toward him, her cheeks flushed.

  We’re going now, he whispered, pulling on Christine, extracting her from the couple as though it was she who had done wrong.

  Back in the room, he tried to explain. He sat her next to him on the bed, then turned so that they were catty-corner. Imagine a tablecloth down to here, he said, slicing his hand a few inches from the floor. Then he showed her what Angelica had been doing, urging her to believe him.

  I don’t know, she said. Maybe it was too much drinking. I can’t believe Angelica would do that. I mean, right in front of me? That’s crazy!

  You talk as though you know them. You don’t know them! They targeted us.

  Oh, no. I’m sure not—

  Christine, don’t be stupid.

  I’m not stupid!

  He was staring at you like he was going to have you for dessert!

  We were talking!

  I had to do something.

  Well, fine. You’ve done something! Now, you’ve really done something!

  She never believed him. Not the night the couple had tried to engage them in God knows what kind of affair, and not later, either, when he would speak of the ways in which the government was conning America into supporting the war. She did not believe him when he took up his post in Vietnam and wrote of what he’d seen firsthand, following the troops. Whenever they spoke, him barking down an unreliable telephone line, her voice small and light as though coming from the end of a long tunnel, ten thousand miles, the whole of the Pacific Ocean between them, he found himself getting more and more emphatic. They stand there at the briefing and lie. About everything. About the outcome of every firefight or set piece or bombing or engagement. Nobody is winning. We certainly are not winning. Either she didn’t feel it necessary to add to the fire of his emotions—the bold accusations, the announcement of unsavory discoveries he made weekly and which he recorded, when possible, on film—or she didn’t believe him. He began to suspect the latter was the case.