The Man from Saigon

At last he found her alone at the window, one of three large sash windows with great swags that had grown dusty and old now, the ornate gold piping frayed along the seams. He went to the window next to where she was standing, amazed that she had not noticed him yet, much less recognized him. It occurred to him that she might be avoiding him. The way she studied the sidewalk outside seemed almost a deliberate turning away, and in one respect this gave him hope. That he’d had an impact on her, that she hadn’t forgotten the bunker in Con Thien, what passed between them in those minutes, what he thought had passed. If she wanted to avoid him, then it must be that she remembered, that she knew the power of their first, extraordinary meeting when she fled like Cinderella from the ball, holding her helmet with one hand, her notebooks in the other. In his day dreams he had often entertained himself with that last image of her, running toward the jeep, leaping up on to the open bed. It seemed wholly at odds with the woman he saw now, in a dress that hugged her hips, her hair falling in a fan across her shoulders, and the contrast he found dazzling, exhilarating. He didn’t know if he dared talk to her.

He glanced through the window and saw army trucks and clusters of careening bicycles, people rushing from the first throes of evening rain. The pedicab drivers leaned into the motion as they worked. The kids traded money and sold things they’d found or scrounged, pens and card packs, pictures of naked girls, all of them getting soaked now, getting drenched. A boy in a T-shirt three sizes too small and a pair of underpants, nothing more, darted across the crazy street like a dog, trying to avoid being killed outright, selling cigarettes that nobody wanted to buy. It began to rain harder and his hair shined with it, his underpants dragged down his hips, his bald little legs splashed in puddles. At some point the boy looked up and saw Marc at the window and called out Wanna buy? Marc reached into his pocket and found a clump of notes, dropping a colorful bill down to the boy who stood with his hand stretched out, his chin to the sky, rushing one way, then another as the note floated, swooped and dived to the street below. It felt mean to have made him work so hard for the note, so he threw some change and the boy ran for it, too; other children, hearing the coins scattering on the pavement, started doing the same. A crowd gathered, rushing in from adjoining lanes, not just children but old men, teenage girls, all of them rushing now. A child with only one arm danced below the window trying to lift the coins from the road with her single outstretched hand. A round woman with long gray hair pushed a child to one side. They were all running for the coins, calling up, screaming for more. But the rain was fierce, banging down on to the steaming tarmac and bouncing up again, streaming down the edges of the road, soaking the clothes and hair of the people below and drowning out their voices.

Suddenly, a spear of lightning cracked across a piece of sky to the west and all the lights went out. The street went black as though it had disappeared altogether, like a stage across which the curtain has been drawn. Inside, too, the room, the party, was suddenly immersed in darkness. He glanced away from the street and into the sudden gray shadows of the hotel—he didn’t even know whose room it was—and looked across at the adjacent window, blinking, searching for Susan, but she was gone.

The lights stayed off but no one was alarmed. It was a city of precarious amenities. Water, light, access down a particular street or building, at a particular hour or a different one, were granted or not granted. One night, as the guest of an embassy official (someone he assumed to be a spook), he’d been in one of Saigon’s best French restaurants when a blackout had taken hold of several city blocks. The waiters hurried with hurricane lamps and table candles, reassuring the diners that all was well. They had a generator for the kitchen, the food would not be a minute delayed. The waiters carried small flashlights, like theater ushers, and set out a line of lanterns at the station where they brought orders. He and the official carried on with their meal, though the man seemed suddenly quite awkward, straining through the darkness to see the other restaurant guests, who paid no attention at all to the blackout. If anything, they seemed to enjoy it. Outside, the streets were lit by headlamps and starlight; while the restaurant, now cloaked in the candles’ amber glow, felt like a festive cavern. Everyone spoke more softly than before, as though the candles enforced a kind of secrecy, and Marc found himself having to drop his own voice, leaning across the table and into the cloud of light made by the flickering flame between him and the official, in order to hear the man speak. They carried on for a few minutes and then he saw the official’s face suddenly glaze over. He was staring into a small spray of flowers that had been on the table all the time but, until now, had gone unnoticed. They were tiny lavender buds, each one the size of a thimble, and they let off an unusually strong scent in relation to their small size. In an abrupt move, the official dropped his napkin on to the table. Let’s get out of here before someone takes us for a couple of faggots, he said, standing. He summoned the waiter for the bill, threw some money on the table. One of the waiters followed them out apologetically, suggesting that they at least finish their main course, but the official said, Wrap it up, give it to someone. He looked down at the plate of change the waiter had brought, rumpled bills on a saucer of white porcelain. To Marc, he said, They give you these dirty notes so you’ll leave them as a tip. Why should I give him all that? The place doesn’t even have working lights. Then he said, Come on, let’s get something to drink.

Marc remembered this now, standing in the darkened party, and it made him smile and cringe at the same time. He listened as someone bemoaned the dead stereo, the unexpected discontinuation of music. Laughter erupted from down the hall where the darkness was almost complete. The party guests, unable to contain themselves in the excitement of the abrupt night, moved in waves in one direction, then another, guided only by the momentary hiss of a lit match, the glow of cigarettes, the few penlights that passed from hand to hand like batons.

And then, just as he least expected it, she was by his side. He recognized her profile in the darkness, her nose, her chin, the shape of her hips in the dress. Her voice was new to him. He’d never before heard her speak. I know you, she said, standing at his shoulder. He took her in, straining his eyes to see her more clearly. He remembered how in the bunker a few weeks earlier the darkness had obscured her, and how she’d arrived with the unexpected tide of light from the sergeant’s lamp. He could picture her face then, streaked with mud, a few scratch marks, her eyes frozen in fear, pupils wide, her mouth open, unsure whether even to take in a breath. He reminded himself that he had once held her, crying, in his arms. It gave him confidence to remember that, to tell himself that she had found solace this way.

She said, I wasn’t sure, at first, and then I thought maybe—I don’t know—that you wouldn’t want me to bother you.

The rain was heavy now, the drops splattering the floor near the window, open for the necessary breeze it allowed into the crowded room. He saw a fat raindrop land on her bare arm, another on her shoulder, and it was all he could do not to reach out and wipe them away. You’re getting wet, he said, leading her from the window. Lightning came and went; with every bolt she became temporarily visible, the opaque whiteness making her skin seem pale, almost translucent. Then she seemed to disappear altogether as his eyes adjusted to the dark wake of the vanished electricity. He was fascinated by her presence, he couldn’t say why. He had anticipated this meeting for weeks, guessing at where he might see her, and under what circumstances. He’d been careful how he asked after her, allowing himself to display no greater interest than he would in any new journalist he might see in the field, or at least not much more. He knew her name, who she worked for, a few places she had been recently. He looked at her now, wondering whether to tell her how he had sought her out, how her memory had dogged him. They had met in such honest isolation, both of them terrified, neither hiding nor able to hide anything about themselves. He had never admitted, nor would admit, to that kind of fear, certainly not to another journalist. But she’d been there, witnessed it, given him the gift of her trust as she clung to him in the bunker. Now she said I know you, and it seemed so right and appropriate a greeting. She did know him, had seen a part of him he did not allow himself to dwell upon; he had considered at that time the possibility that they would suffer a direct hit, that the bunker would disintegrate and take them with it, that he would die with her there. He’d thought of that very thing and he knew, too, that she had.

The lightning came and went once more, a kind of shutter through which they saw each other and then did not. When he was able to focus again he saw her blinking up at him, smiling. He had not seen her smile before and he drank it in, greedy for it. She was so alive, so vibrant before him. He had found her once more. That, in itself, seemed a miracle. He wanted to scoop her up in his arms and twirl her.

I wasn’t sure whether to come over or not, she said.

I’m glad you did.

I used to see you on the news all the time. Before I arrived here, I mean.

He nodded, at first confused. She carried on talking now, listing some of the news reports she’d particularly admired, one of which he hadn’t done at all—it had been a colleague of his at the network—and at some point he realized that when she’d said I know you this is what she’d meant. That she’d seen him on television.

His stomach soured; the euphoria of a few seconds earlier drifted away. He felt himself receding, as though he had somehow been suddenly transported to the ceiling and was now looking down upon himself talking to this woman, a young and attractive woman who had no idea who he was except as he appeared on television when he did his best to sound as much as possible like Walter Cronkite. He wanted to rewind to that moment by the window, or even before when he followed her around the crowded rooms. He found himself shaking his head slowly, unintentionally back and forth. She had no idea who he was. Whatever he thought of their meeting in Con Thien, it held nothing for her. She seemed to him suddenly just like any girl, like anyone else at the party. He watched her grow silent in front of him, aware perhaps that something inside him had shut down, that he was no longer listening.

I’m sorry, he said, his voice filled with disappointment, sounding overly contained, even robotic. I thought you were someone else.

The lights went on again and a great round of applause erupted from the party’s guests. He could see her plainly now, and though the storm continued to rage outside it no longer felt as if it were here in the room, even between them. The record went back on, so loud that the guests raised their voices to shout over the heavy beat. Some began dancing, colliding into those who stood with drinks and some who sat. She leaned toward him so that her mouth was just under his chin, her brow knit, and said in a clipped manner, Then I beg your pardon.

She turned and walked in one deliberate, fluid movement, leaving him unsure whether to follow or let her go. He was angry and he had no right to be angry. He wanted to call to her, even to argue with her, this stranger, a woman whom (he reminded himself now) he did not even know. Unable to get her attention in the din of the party noise, the blaring music, the waves of laughter that seemed to come from the corners of the room, he went after her once more. When he was close enough, he reached forward and touched her shoulder and she turned, her eyes fierce upon his. Now he saw her as he remembered her, the strength of her emotions connecting them. It comforted him somehow, to see her once more as strong and clear as she’d been those weeks ago, not hiding a thing about herself. She could hate him if she wanted; that was understandable. He’d humiliated her—he realized that—but it hadn’t been deliberate and he wanted to tell her so. Instead, what came out was altogether different, a plea from inside him that he hadn’t reckoned on. He said, You were in that bunker by the observation post. We sat across from one another. You don’t remember that?

She looked confused at first and he thought for one brief, dreadful moment that somehow he’d gotten the wrong girl altogether, that it was his mistake. It didn’t seem possible that the girl in the bunker was some other English girl. He knew her face, her eyes. But there was no point in carrying on. It had happened, finally, even inevitably: they had met again. Never in all his imaginings did the event have so little importance.

I’m sorry, he said. Never mind.

He looked down, trying to decide how best to navigate himself away, out of the room, the hall, the hotel. He thought he could go to the bureau, or somewhere.

Then she said, Con Thien?

He felt something between them relax. He looked up and saw her face, the awareness arriving like a slow-growing wave. She began to fidget, holding her elbow with one hand, pressing her fingers over her mouth. She looked at him newly, her eyes scanning his face, his chest, his hands. Finally she said, I remember that.

He hadn’t moved, was standing close, still holding her arm.

She said, I didn’t know it was you. I mean, how would I know? You were covered in dirt. You didn’t have a helmet on and it was all in your hair—Her hands moved to her own hair as she said the words. He felt the corners of his mouth rise, felt a wash of relief. She remembered. He let go her arm now, sure she would remain with him, that whatever would happen now had already begun, had taken hold. She looked down at the floor, a frown of concentration across her brow. I thought you were a marine, she explained.

No—he began.

Your hair is short like a marine and you had a first-aid pouch—

It was a tape recorder. The first-aid pouch is waterproof so I use it—

You weren’t wearing glasses.

They were in my hand.

I was sure—

Susan, he said, the first time he used her name. Think back. I had no weapon.

She looked down at the floor as though searching there for something she had dropped. He saw her shoulders move; she looked up and he realized that she was laughing. He tried to smile but could not. When had his life become so weighted he could not laugh with a beautiful woman?

Oh my God, she said. She sounded happy, relieved, a little overwhelmed, even. I thought I’d never see you again.

The truest advice she ever heard about combat reporting was that if you were really scared, you shouldn’t go. But the amazing thing about being around war so long—one of the amazing things—was how it began to feel normal; healthy fear melted away and was replaced by curiosity. The stories came daily, told at the bar or while waiting at the airport for a lift. They were printed in newspapers, cabled from the offices on Tu Do Street, and with every story of a firefight, a skirmish, a reconnaissance, a bombing mission, a search-and-destroy, came a sense of the increasing normality. It was exactly the way the horses she had trained became used to fire and smoke and crowds and sudden loud sounds: a simple system of approach and retreat. Not that she became immune to fear—in some respects she felt scared all the time—but she reached a place where it arrived too late to keep her from doing the dangerous thing.

She did not feel braver. It was more that over the weeks the battles themselves had moved toward her, moved toward them all, into every city, every ville, so that it no longer seemed such an odd thing to witness and report, then eventually to wait around when a rumor was in the air, and at last to request to be woken at 4 a.m. to go out on an operation. It happened naturally, a slow attrition of common sense.

Now, she packed ace bandages, iodine, cotton. She regarded bits of rope or twine with interest, carried duct tape even though it weighed so much, wore a thin leather belt with a strong buckle. These things became most ordinary, like packing socks or underwear. She didn’t think about why she packed them any more, though if asked she could tell you. Almost all battle deaths are caused by loss of blood.

Midnight, miles and miles from Saigon, out with soldiers in the jungle, absolutely riveted with concentration, unable to do anything but walk forward, she strained her eyes to keep track of Son, who was in front of her, and of the man in front of him. The line of soldiers stalked the land under the absolute darkness of a jungle night, putting the flats of their hands against the backs of the guys in front of them, training their eyes on to the tiny pieces of fluorescent tape tacked on to helmets, following the flashes of light that danced in the opaque screen of black as they marched. She held the hand of the man in front, and the man behind. There were no instructions required; they were all so scared that holding hands made sense. She had forgotten that she had not been drafted and had no need to be there, that she was not a useful part of the military machine. She had forgotten, had been in the process of forgetting for some time now, and had arrived at a place in which it hadn’t seemed at all extraordinary to go on this search-and-destroy mission. Following the column, part of it now, she thought how easy it would be to become lost, to somehow spiral out of this line of safety. If she were to get herself into trouble, this would be the place. It would be so easy to become momentarily separated and it would feel, she imagined, like losing your way in outer space. And then it happened. Not contact with the enemy, not the sudden rush of incoming artillery in her ears, but the same abrupt, unexpected tide of awareness that she had experienced before. In the middle of that night, in a manner that arrived like its own assault, while walking silently in a string of men barely out of their teens, it was as though she suddenly discovered where she was and how stupid she had been. It was, she realized, like being in the helicopter the first time she was on the receiving end of gunfire—she could not get away. She felt the sweat dripping down the sides of her body, flooding her forehead, her eyes. She would follow the men with assiduous care, with the same steady, silent footsteps, even though now she was out of her mind with fear, even though she would do anything not to have come on the operation. It happened to her the same way every time: the discovery always came too late, or in the wrong place, or the wrong circumstances. Each time that she came, however momentarily, to her senses, it was like being back in that helicopter months before, hearing the bullets like tiny hammers beneath her and wishing she could run.

Then don’t go.

Marc would tell her this late at night as they lay in bed. It was his answer to any hint of worry or doubt, any concern at all about things that happened—the chopper being hit, the awful night on the search-and-destroy mission. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything. Or she wasn’t supposed to admit it.

But I want to go, she said. She didn’t say that it was he who had woken her with his restless audible dreams, that she would not be up late at night worrying if he hadn’t startled her in the night with his voice. When he talked in his sleep he did not sound like himself. The first time she heard him she was frightened, waking momentarily to the thought that she was elsewhere, with a stranger, listening to a voice that seemed wholly detached from the man beside her.

He kept whiskey by the bed, always a glass of it, or a mug or paper cup. He took a long swallow now, then searched the ashtray, using a penlight so he could see. I’ve got a jay in here somewhere. Hand me those matches. Look, you go back to sleep. You’ll feel better later. It’s always worse at night.

What is worse?

She looked at him slyly. She wanted him to admit he had the same fears as she, though it would do no good even if he did. He shook his head, pushing himself up, so that his back leaned against the wall. He had a pillow on his lap, the ashtray on the pillow. Everything, he said. He might have said more, about how the dreams rise with you in the morning, that you eventually find there is no rest, but he did not. He sat in bed and smoked diligently until she fell asleep. In the morning he told her it was nice that she slept so well. He told her he was jealous.

Like everything in Vietnam, their relationship seemed to be on fast forward. They’d met for the second time at the party, and after that night he’d disappeared up north again and she was forced to put him from her mind. His face, which she had known from television when she used to watch from her apartment in Chicago as he broadcast from Vietnam, was now part of her daily thoughts. She associated him not with a network but with that bunker in Con Thien, that hotel room where they stood by the window, an electric storm, a particular song that kept being played on the record player. Back when she watched him as part of a news report, it had seemed as if he was broadcasting from a world far away and unreachable. Now it felt as if the television image of him was from another world, a ghost of him that visited the living rooms of people across America. She thought of him altogether too often, and then one day he arrived unannounced at her door, telling her he knew a very good restaurant, and asking if she had time for a bite.

She wasn’t all that shocked to see him. He’d somehow managed to get a cable to her, letting her know when he’d be back in town and asking if it would be all right to get in touch. Apparently, get in touch meant come and fetch her from her room.

It’s three in the afternoon, she said.

Should I come back later?

No.

Am I allowed in? Or are we going to stand here in the hall?

We’re going to—She didn’t know what they were going to do. She had a page of copy in her hand. Her fingers were stained from fixing typewriter ribbon that had gotten twisted. She wondered if there was black ink on her face. She wanted to appear bold, decisive, to be someone he would take seriously, who could surprise him. We’re going to your hotel, she said. I prefer it.

He tried not to show his delight. He looked around him—at the peeling walls, the scuffed floorboards with tiny holes throughout from some kind of insect damage, at the bare bulbs and places on the ceilings where water from long ago leaks, had stained the paint. I think I agree with you, he said casually.

She would have changed her clothes but there was nowhere in the room to undress except in the bathroom and Son had crowded photographs in various stages of development there. She ended up brushing her hair and checking her face with a hand mirror.

I didn’t know you were a photographer, he said.

I’m not.

He indicated all the black-and-whites clipped along the walls.

She told him they belonged to Son. I think you know him, she said. Now his expression changed and so she added quickly. It isn’t what you think.

Where is he now?

Son? She thought for a moment. I have no idea.

He just pops in when he feels like it?

She smiled. She didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He doesn’t have anywhere to live. No money. He sleeps on the floor, on a mat. I know it must seem very odd.