The Man from Saigon

But even on supposedly safer ground there were no guarantees. She’d been a block away when a small bomb blew up a diplomat’s car. The next day a bar frequented by Americans took a grenade, injuring dozens and killing two soldiers and three of the bar girls who drank overpriced “tea.” Even so, Saigon itself did not frighten her. The assaults she suffered were not by artillery but by the prostitutes on Tu Do Street who called her names as she passed. Or when she walked, trying to stay beneath the thin shade of the plane trees, and soldiers sidled up to her asking where she was from, what was her name, where was she going. The hotel was one street down from the flower market and sometimes the air around it was so fragrant that if she shut her eyes she could make herself believe she was in the lushest garden in all of Southeast Asia. At night, the smell of flowers disappeared and the rats arrived, traveling up from the rivers, feasting on garbage. Beneath streetlamps the air clouded with insects. There were candy shops that sold Belgian chocolates and marzipan flown in from Spain, restaurants that brought in fresh lobster so that you could choose your own dinner from a tank. In the cosy heat of early evening, sitting on the terraces of the better restaurants, she would look up at the colorful sky, its reds and oranges set like a painting above her, unable to imagine anything more beautiful.

But there was contrast at every corner. People slept outdoors in the shaded entrances to shops, or flat out on benches, or sometimes curled on the steps of the cathedral until moved on. Market stalls sold goods quite obviously wrangled from the military post exchange or off the bodies of dead soldiers: combat fatigues, helmets, boots, even guns if you followed the vendor to the back room where they were kept. Old women sold tea, Marlboros and marijuana. Some sold only marijuana. Children sold pictures of naked girls, and the older ones sold the girls themselves. They stole the pens from your pockets, wrangled spare change from your hand. She lost a camera the first week and had to buy a new one. That is, purchase someone else’s camera, also stolen, but now displayed on a cardboard box propped up in a makeshift stall.

She was settling in, getting to know the places to meet, who to speak to, where to go, but also she registered an unease that (she would learn later) never truly lifted from a visitor to Saigon. The city surprised her in a million ways. There were mysterious chirpings and whistles that arrived with dawn, along with the onslaught of traffic, a ceaseless commotion that exhausted her as much as the temperature that she measured not in degrees but by how many times each day she had to immerse herself in water.

There were other sounds, too, that required attention. One night, shortly after her arrival, she heard something like thunder that confused her senses, making her imagine a storm when the night was clear. But the storm was not the reason for the noise; it was bombing to the west of the city, which from the street she could not see, but thought she could feel, detecting a kind of vibration in the air. The sound of the bombers was heard not only as thunder, but in a sudden heightened awareness of people around her, who appeared to step up their pace, or crowd themselves at doorways, or create even more knots of traffic in the swarming streets. The war registered itself in the way the window glass rattled, how the strings of lights upon railings flickered and were still. Closet hangers danced, making their tinny sound; dogs that roamed freely began to shout into the night.

In Susan’s own small room the pendant lamp above her bed was set in motion, barely noticeable, as rhythmic as a metronome. Plaster broke away and splattered on the floor, the war approaching and receding like a tide. Even if she wasn’t in the room at the time, she would notice upon her return the broken tile, the settling of dust, feeling almost as though someone had been through her things and moved them all a millimeter or two in a ridiculous but unsettling act. Sometimes, with a group of other journalists, she stood on the rooftop terrace of the Caravelle Hotel, watching the bombing, tracking tracers and bullets many miles off that poured from the guns of a US airship as though from a firehose. She watched the sudden red of bombs meeting their targets, trying to determine exactly where they were falling. There really was no more to it than that. She hadn’t thought about what it would be like to be on the receiving end of artillery, or to be under those bombs. In her cocktail dress recently purchased from Marshall Field’s, during those first few weeks in Saigon, while clasping the delicate stem of a drink from someone she’d just met, whose name she couldn’t recall as she clinked his glass, she could not imagine such things.

It turned out not to be a matter of time, but of distance. It was a decision you made, where you put yourself in the country, who you traveled with. It began slowly enough, going out with soldiers until something—an angle, a profile, an interview, a sudden, newsworthy event—happened her way. It had almost become a game she played—how close could she get to the war without getting too close. She wore chinos and a short-sleeved blouse, interviewing those who set up refugee camps and orphanages, her hair limp in its ponytail, her cheeks newly sprinkled with freckles. A gradual change was taking place; she settled into her role. She realized two weeks into what was now being called her “tour,” while trudging through a dusty, crater-filled village, barraged by gangs of children demanding their piastres, swearing in mixed-up English at her if she didn’t pay, that it was precisely because she hadn’t hungered after battlefields, and in fact had no definite opinion one way or another on whether the war was ethical or winnable, that she’d been sent in the first place. The magazine would never have chosen a “political” reporter. They’d chosen her because she was quirky enough to train horses in her spare time and because they thought—they really did think—that she would never leave Saigon. That is, all except her editor. She’d received a telegram a few days earlier:

GET STORIES OUTSIDE THE CAPITAL STOP YOU ARE AS GOOD AS ANY OF THEM STOP

She carried that telegram with her for days. It made her think she could do it, made her know. It was still too early for her to have bad dreams; too early for her to be woken in the night by them. She wished only to understand truly what was happening in this one small country and everything she did was a process of this unfolding. It was not unpleasant. Quite the contrary: it was exhilarating. The trip up to Con Thien had both terrified and intrigued her. She then went to Pleiku and wrote a good story about a small hospital there. That was when she came across Son, whether by fate or by deliberate intent on his part, she never knew. The country was full of random occurrences and anyway it was not surprising that she should meet him—everyone knew him. While Western correspondents came and went, staying a few weeks or a few years, their numbers growing exponentially with each season, Son remained, a kind of ambassador to the war. He’d watched the number of newsmen in Vietnam increase tenfold and more. He’d watched Saigon fill up like a dam.

His full name was Hoàng Van Son. He had a couple of identical Nikon F cameras, a heavy zoom lens which was a recent acquisition, and he filled his pockets with Ektachrome color and a few rolls of Kodak Tri-X black and white just to walk down the street. He had a long mouth that curled up at the ends, blocky white teeth that aligned as though he’d had years of orthodontistry, which he most certainly had not. He was quite handsome—Susan thought so—but in a way she was not used to and which kept her from fully acknowledging it. He spoke English very well—that was the main thing. He knew how to cover the war. They decided to form a partnership, him as a still photographer, her as a print reporter. He was her friend—she believed they were friends—and also her translator and her entrance into combat reporting. One afternoon, still during those early weeks in Saigon, he showed her how to fall to the ground when mortared. That is, he tried to convey how fast she needed to move. But she didn’t understand.

Is there a certain technique? she asked innocently. They were at the hotel. He’d been checking out the bathroom to see whether he could use it for a darkroom. The bathroom had a broken doorknob that occasionally locked solid, and for this reason there was a screwdriver behind the tap. The room looked as though a poltergeist lived there: rotting tiles that came off the wall and broke in pieces on the floor, plaster dust, handles that dislodged themselves overnight, doors that swelled with the humidity and wouldn’t shut or wouldn’t open. The bath was moldy; the grout grew a tenacious fur. Insects everywhere, occasional rats, which she discovered had gnawed spaces in the plaster where the pipes were laid so that they could navigate the whole of the building through the maze of its plumbing. Despite these flaws, Son said it was perfect. The bathroom would be ideal for developing his film. But could they put a board across the bidet (rust-colored water; jammed, immobile taps) and use it as a small table? Could they get rid of the flouncy shower curtain Susan bought because there had been none when she arrived? Could he move the towels? In short, could she do without a bathroom?

You want me to tell you how to fall down? he said. His cigarette bobbed in his mouth as he spoke; his large white teeth reminded her of piano keys, and though he was smiling he seemed completely baffled when she nodded and said yes. It was one of those moments between them—one of many—in which he seemed as confused by her as she was by him, by the whole of his country, and especially the war. He could have admitted he was equally mystified by Western women, and particularly by Susan, but he might have thought that this fact was already quite plain. Fall down? he said now. Just…his hands beside his head showed his confusion. Have you never done that?

Not deliberately, she told him.

If a vehicle is hit, it can easily blow up, and vehicles of any description are one of the favorite targets of the Vietcong, who attempt to take out as many supplies as possible on their way to the field.

She read this in the Handbook, but she had no idea what it meant, what it really meant, until Son threw her off a flatbed in the same manner in which you might throw off a bale of hay. She learned also in those long minutes that once you’ve heard the shooting and jump over the side of the truck, you should follow immediately wherever the soldiers are running. And they will be running toward the bullets. Again, this was not initially for her a voluntary act; she was hauled along by a marine who held her like a bag of groceries in his nonsmoking hand.

She was getting closer all the time. She didn’t realize how close.

She got a telegram from her editor:

EXCELLENT WORK ON HOSPITAL STORY STOP PHOTOGRAPHS BY HOÀNG VAN SON FIVE DOLLARS NO MORE STOP

She had to tell Son five dollars was all that the magazine would give him. She was embarrassed by how cheap her editor could be, or whoever it was who decided such things. Sorry, Son, we can’t really argue with them, but you could sell the photographs elsewhere, she said. It’s so little money, I’m embarrassed.

No arguing, said Son. Celebrating, yes, but no arguing.

But I hear Associated Press is paying fifteen a pop—

Susan, that is blood money.

Blood money?

I don’t think you understand what is danger yet. The first few months you won’t. What were you doing up in Con Thien? You’ll begin to judge these things better. Well, I hope so.

He looked at her as though she were a live circus act. As though trying to decide if she’d fall off the wire.

First there had been the bunker in Con Thien, then Marc saw her at a party in Saigon. It wasn’t like him to go to such a party. He’d been in Vietnam a long time, been to more than his share of events in hotel rooms and embassies and restaurants, private rooms and villas, hotels and offices and bars. He’d grown weary of them. But tonight’s casual, crowded gathering took place in his own hotel, one floor down. He’d have had to make an effort to escape it and there had already been enough talk about him. About how solitary he’d become, how remote. The rumors—that he kept his own M16 under his bed, that he was never without the dried hind foot of a rabbit, either in his pocket or around his neck; that he, in fact, had a mojo bag full of talismans and holy cards, wore a St. Christopher’s, counted backwards from seven before jumping from choppers—used to make him laugh. But lately, he’d come to wonder if he appeared strange to his colleagues, enough so that they thought some explanation was in order. So he went to the party, arriving at the door to the welcome of Brian Murray, about whom no rumors were ever put forward. The man never seemed to travel five minutes for a story these days.

Oh, good, the press has arrived, Murray said. Murray was a print reporter and his comment might have been yet another little dig at television reporters who—it was understood—were not nearly as informed as those who wrote for newspapers. Marc never really understood the rivalry, and he didn’t see why Murray always felt compelled to remind him of it. It felt like a reprimand, coming from the older man.

You look well, Marc said. Murray wore crisp cream-colored trousers, a new belt. His shirt had been diligently pressed, undoubtedly by one of the Vietnamese girls who worked in the hotel. His shoes, too, were unscuffed, even glowing, beneath the layers of polish that had been applied.

I’m in one piece, he said.

You’ve had a lot of print lately.

The wire has. It’s Sanchez. He’s always out there, him. But not me. Not as much as I’d like. Murray said something else, too, but Marc found it difficult to hear him. The music blared from four speakers, rigged up in the corners of the room. Murray was a quiet guy. He didn’t look like he belonged in such a gathering. He looked like he should be at home with his wife and children, with a dog at his feet and a warm drink and a pipe. His hair curled in graying locks and his pale skin showed exactly how little he got out. He probably never left the city any more. He probably was at the door now because it was the quietest place to stand.

You going to let me in? Marc said.

Oh yeah. Sorry, Davis. Come in.

Marc looked for the bathroom, where undoubtedly there would be a tub of beer swimming in melted ice. He looked for Locke, but couldn’t find him. He was probably asleep. They’d been up most of the night before, flying the milk-run from Danang, hoping to get back before the weather turned. Marc got a drink and talked with a few guys from a French paper. The French pouted into their drinks and passed each other Gauloises cigarettes. They always looked so miserable at American gatherings; he wondered why they never appeared to miss a single one.

He picked up a Life magazine, thumbing through its pages for the stories about Vietnam, but it was all about protestors this week, photograph after photograph of marches and rallies. He glanced through the articles, looking at the images of streets and squares so crowded with people he could not pick out a single feature of cities he knew well. He tried to imagine himself there again, back home in the States. The country—his country—felt far away, almost impossible to reach. Sometimes, when they packed the film to be sent to San Francisco and then on to New York, it seemed to him like magic that the parcel could reach those same streets he knew, that the city blocks and buildings with all their shining windows existed at all, and even more astonishing, that they existed exactly as he remembered them, untouched, unbothered by the chaos he reported daily.

He put the magazine to one side. He looked up and he saw her; he saw Susan. She was by the door, standing in the exact spot he’d been next to Murray. For a moment, it seemed almost as though she had stepped out of his own imagination, or wasn’t really there at all, for in his mind she was somehow consigned to the north. He’d expected to see her in Danang or Chu Lai, or even once more in Con Thien. But of course it made more sense to find her here in Saigon among the press, the crowded bars and restaurants, the hotels. She would have been at the daily press conferences, the five o’clock follies, that he could barely bring himself now to attend. He’d heard from Locke that there was a new English girl in town, some girl journalist, Locke had said. The minute he mentioned her, Marc knew it was the same. I think I know the one, he replied. But even so, he always thought of Susan up north, not here. It shocked him, seeing her among so many people he knew.

She was framed in the doorway, her hands on either side of the opening. It seemed to him she was hesitating, taking in the geography of the room, the people inside. Murray was trying to talk to her—what was he, a sentry at the gates?—and from this distance she appeared to be answering him politely, her head tilted to one side. She looked shy, sweet, young. He wanted to go over to her but he hesitated, watching, and then she was swept up with a group and he didn’t want to intervene. Somebody asked him for the Life magazine and he handed it over wordlessly.

Davis—he heard, Hey, Marc! Someone was calling his name, a man, not her. He kept walking.

He tracked her, a few steps behind. It was a game at first. To see if she noticed him. He watched her pass through the party in a thin dress, its sleeves shaped like flute glasses from which her wrists seemed surprisingly delicate. He could still recall how she’d clung to him in the bunker, her arm looped over his knee, and the strength of that grip. The dress made her seem more fragile than she was, and in this manner he found her appearance deceptive, as though he was being shown a pretend version of Susan, when he knew full well how strong she was, how fast she could run. He could still see her racing down that hill, her feet swinging up to her hips as she pushed forward through the dust and stones to the jeep. Tonight she looked altogether different, and it was like looking at a beautiful portrait that showed some other new and lovely aspect of her person. He could hardly stand to look away.

He felt a hand clap around his calf and he stopped, frozen, staring down. It was Curtis, a soundman he occasionally worked with when he was lucky enough to get a soundman. He was arranged on the floor with some friends, sitting absurdly close to the speakers, which blasted the Stones so loudly you could feel the vibration in the air. The guys asked if they could mooch just a little weed as were down to seeds and stems. Marc patted his empty pockets, shrugging.

I’m all out, he said. The music was so loud he had to lean down, shouting into Curtis’s ear. From a distance it would have appeared as though he were telling Curtis a secret.

Curtis said, Bullshit, you’re never out.

I am. I swear.

We don’t have anything even halfway smokeable. Come on, man!

You’re out of luck, I don’t—

Curtis pushed two fingers into Marc’s shirt pocket and uncovered a dime bag he’d forgotten about.

You’re not awake, Davis, Curtis said.

It’s this new dreamy image he’s projecting, another of them said. Like he’s here but not here.

Very cool.

The coolest.

Probably thinking about a girl.

Don’t tell his wife!

Curtis laughed. I think he was just holding out on us.

Marc shook his head. He watched Curtis pinch a spray of the weed and stuff it into the blackened bowl of a small bong with dirty water, some marks on the plastic where it had burned.

Keep it, Marc said, nodding at the bag.

They told him to sit down, share a bowl with them, but he shook his head. His eyes floated across the room once more, searching for Susan, hoping she hadn’t left already. She was dressed carefully, her hair newly washed. She was probably going off for dinner later. He shouldn’t even have talked to these guys. He knew what they were after anyway. He should have just dropped the pot into their open palms and kept on tracking her. But he had honestly forgotten he had any. He wondered if the bag had gone through the laundry.

Over the course of the hour the hallway filled. People filed in from their offices, or on their way back from other parties, from restaurants or clubs or straight out of the field. They came and everyone packed in, some never getting as far as the stairs. He stepped over the legs of those with their backs up against walls, using Coke bottles for ashtrays, sharing rolling papers and pizza brought up, dried and cold now, curled in boxes. He saw some guys from the bureau and fell into conversation about an assignment. Curtis’s girlfriend arrived in a miniskirt and unshaven legs, looking like a scruffy cheerleader, and kissed him full on the mouth. Locke showed up, holding court with one group, then another. People called him ‘The Information’, a name he didn’t seem to mind. A couple of guys would go off to find some more beer, or better beer, or more pot, or better pot. A group would bring in a few more records and then, for no reason, a song would be interrupted halfway through as the LP was changed, the great scrape of the needle across vinyl singing in the speakers and someone calling out, Shiiiiit, what are you doing, man? A bicycle was hauled up the stairs—it belonged to a student who didn’t dare leave it on the street. A guy whose two silver bars said he was a captain borrowed it off him and was now trying to wheel it through the crowd. The captain was here only because his girlfriend lived in the hotel. She was nothing to do with the war, but exported goods to the US.

War talk, all of it. Locke described a particular hill battle near Kontum and how he’d traded cigarettes for grass, ounce for ounce, and all the better ways they could have used the Montagnards as fighting soldiers with American advisers, but didn’t, and now they’re giving information both sides, what a fucking waste. The guy he was talking to said he’d lost three cameras: one stolen, one ruined by water, and another hit by shrapnel.

While you were using it?

No, man, it was in my hag.

There were correspondents, and soldiers—officers—and two GIs on R&R planning to bunk in the room, guys who worked construction or something anyway and didn’t talk about the war or anything but just sat stolidly and drank one bottle of 33 beer after another, lining up the empties in neat rows like game pieces.

It was odd to see anyone sober, or anyone over thirty. He watched Susan and noticed that she didn’t drink much, that she didn’t know many people. She seemed to flit about, talking only briefly here and there, not entirely at ease. She had some friends among the exhausted nurses, who slumped on the floor with their oversized drinks, and pulled her down to talk to them. There were women: wives or girlfriends, some who worked for the USO or other relief organizations, the nurses who’d been brought in by jeep by some bunch of seriously in-breach soldiers. The women had their moments of peculiar talk and outrageous flirtations, except for the nurses who looked so tired they might lie down and sleep right there across a doorway if that’s where they fell. They sat on the floor or lay on the floor, their hair falling all around them like lank seaweed, looking up at the ceiling fan going round and round, or staring at the smouldering end of their lit cigarette, or leaning into the arms of one guy or other, crowding around the air conditioner, laughing, drinking, once in a while bursting out crying.