The Man From Saigon (30 page)

Everywhere there was someone trying to sell you something: stale cigarettes, warm sodas, stolen radios and other small electronic devices, black market currency which was set at a better rate than the official exchange. People crowded through markets, which extended from shop fronts into narrow, covered walkways, selling everything from dried shrimp to army-issue canteens. Old women cooked in wide, dark vessels that turned out delicious smells, lost among the influx of traffic fumes. There were garlands of flowers, black market stalls stocked with Prell shampoo, Crest toothpaste, melting chocolate bars and brands of tampons and hand cream that she knew from back home—clearly the ravages of illegal dealings. Every few feet she was approached by beggars, often children, holding out their hands in search of piastres. They knew enough English to insist on the money. That first month she made the mistake of giving someone a dollar bill, which caused a virtual stampede.

She met Son in a coffee house, entering cautiously, her eyes taking time to adjust to the sudden darkness after all the dazzling
sun. She saw him there, his lip still swollen, the stitches in their stiff little x’s just as they’d been sewn in Pleiku a few days earlier, and she smiled automatically. He waved and gestured with his hand. He saw that she was temporarily blinded by the cool dimness of the coffee house, that she had to move slowly, her hands held slightly outward as though to protect her from unseen walls, and so he came toward her, leading her back to the table with him.

He was wearing the same pants as he had in the hospital, but clean now, except for a few stains at the cuffs. He wore a fresh dress shirt, a silver watch with a wide band. His face lit up as though her arrival was everything he’d ever wished for. His broad smile strained the stitches on his lip. It looked a little painful and she asked him about it. He told her it was nothing. He was more concerned about her. Was she all right? She told him she had only been in the hospital to report, not because of an injury. He nodded enthusiastically. He seemed so eager to agree with anything she might say that she wondered if he was paying any real attention at all. Finally, he asked if she’d like a coffee. She nodded and he pulled a chair out for her to sit, then swept toward the bar, firing off orders to the waiters, who he clearly knew.

He’d evidently been studying a map. It was there, unfolded, lying across the table. There was an ashtray set on a long, silver stem that rose up from the floor, now full of spent butts, and a couple of dirty coffee mugs and a beer glass. There was another man at the table, and she was left to introduce herself to him. He was a cameraman, she discovered, named Don Locke.

Is that your map?
she asked.

It’s for you. You look lost
, Locke said. The map showed an area in War Zone 1, hundreds of miles away.

She laughed.
I hope not. I only came from the hotel, though I admit it was a bit of an adventure.

You’ll get used to it here. Everything about this place is weird
,
but you kind of get to understand its weirdness after a while. And then, of course, you yourself grow
—

Weird?

We like to call it acclimated, but yeah. It’s inevitable.

There it was: the place. Whatever was bothering you could be blamed on the country and its resident war. Who she was, what she would become, the distant years, the uncertain, alluring future, was all enveloped by a country in which she’d arrived with her ambitions and apprehension, her need to escape or to discover. Locke blamed the place; they all blamed the place. It started immediately, even upon arrival, and lasted a lifetime. He invited her to think so, and without speaking she accepted.

She said,
I’ve only been here a couple of weeks.

Son arrived with the coffees, making what seemed like a lot of noise with the spoons and milk jug, the saucers and cups, drawing Susan and Locke’s attention to him. She grabbed at a wad of paper napkins before they fluttered to the ground. Locke took the tray from Son.

Are you trying to tip it on us?

I’m not such a good waiter.

I think you’d make a fine waiter
, said Locke.
But meanwhile, you might let the pros do it, you know?

They are too slow. I wanted Susan to have a drink
—

Well, don’t pour it on her!

Son looked at Susan.
Davis isn’t here
, he said.
That’s why
he’s
here. Locke usually won’t talk to me
—
only to Davis
—
but this morning is different because Davis is away.

Marc Davis. He’s gone to see his wife
, said Locke.
Singapore.

So we get to talk to Locke.
I
always talk. I can even talk with one lip in a paralysis state.

In a state of paralysis
, Locke corrected.
To Susan
, he said.
I don’t have a wife, just in case you were wondering.
He was a giant of a man; you could see it even when he was sitting.
His shirt billowed over his waistband. He looked like he outweighed Son by eighty pounds or more. Nice looking. On his hand was a gold wedding band which she did not bother to point out.

We work together
, Son said.

You work with Mr. Locke?
said Susan.

Don
, said Locke.
And hell no is the answer to that one.

I work with
you, Son said, directing his words to Susan.
I
hope
to work with you.

Just as a matter of interest
, Locke said,
this is why I don’t ordinarily talk to the guy. He makes no sense.

Susan looked at Son.
I’m not sure I understand
, she said.

Son, you can’t spend your life bullshitting
, Locke said.
You really are a consummate bullshitter. Everyone thinks you’re so wonderful, but Davis and I are on to you. We don’t believe anything you say.

Son giggled. He clearly found it all very funny
I should explain. I am
trying
to work with you, Susan. I would
like
to work with you.

Locke interrupted.
Your English is perfect. You only make mistakes when it’s convenient. You are full of it. And that
, Locke said, pointing now to Son’s lip,
was a fistfight.

I banged it in Pleiku.

On somebody’s knuckles
, Locke challenged,
at UPI.

Don’t be silly. I don’t fight. I cut my lip in the company of your competition at NBC. I was hit in the face with a TV camera. They are too big, your cameras.

I heard you hit someone.

No. I don’t hit people. You are the one who hit people
—

Hits
, corrected Locke.

You work for UPI?
Susan asked.

I did
, said Son.
I used to.

They dropped him because he kept disappearing for days at a time and nobody knew where he was
, said Locke.

Son said,
I never understood what they mean. Sorry
—he looked at Locke apologetically.
What they
meant.

They fell silent. Locke seemed to be studying Son, who quickly scanned the room as though looking for a friend hidden in the crowd. Susan found him irresistible, however much he annoyed Locke. It was with some reluctance that she said,
You can’t work for me. I don’t pay people. I work
for
people.

Son said,
We’ve been through all this. The other day, on the helicopter.

She gave up. Locke shrugged. Son continued to look over the room at the people at other tables.

Locke said,
Son, one day we’re going to find out the truth about you. The whole secret life of Hoàng Van Son.

You are talking rubberish.

Rubbish
, Locke corrected.
Or gibberish. And I’ll tell you what else, buddy, you won’t be able to cutey-pie your way out of it when
—

Son dropped ash from his cigarette on to the map on the table, the one they’d been studying before Susan came in. A little hole began to burn, quickly consuming one of the northeast quadrants. Locke grabbed at the map, stubbing out the flame with his fingers.
Give me that!
he said.

She’s very modest
, said Son about Susan.
The people will like her.

You mean they won’t spit on her when she walks down the road?
Locke said. He folded his map again, shaking his head at it, brushing away some ash. Then he looked up at Susan.
They spit, just in case you haven’t noticed. Another thing you get used to.

That’s
you, Son said,
because you look like a soldier. Your hair. And muscles.

My muscles
, said Locke, rolling his eyes.

Nobody spits on me
, said Susan.
But the girls yell a lot. On Tu Do Street.

Locke smirked.
They yell at me, too, but I can’t believe they are saying the same thing as they do to you.

Please, let’s not discuss this
, said Son.
Why must we reduce our conversation to what is being shouted on the streets?

I was a little shocked
, she said.
They don’t look fifteen.

They’re not
, Locke said.

Susan, they are afraid of you
, offered Son.
That’s why they shout. You are beautiful and, to them, exotic.

You’re the competition
, said Locke. She gave him a sharp look.
Sorry.

I have to say, they don’t
look
afraid
, said Susan.
And they are awfully loud.

Locke said,
Their only verb is fuck.

Did you know Tu Do used to be lovely?
Son said.
But not any more. It is best now to avoid
—

Or more precisely, “fuck-fuck,”
continued Locke.

Susan, you must absolutely not pay attention to that place. Or this man. His partner is much more refined. Locke, you get worse when Davis is away.

Locke wagged his head slowly back and forth.
He’s with his wife
, he moaned.
God, I wish I had a wife.

It looks as though you do
, said Susan, nodding at his ring.

Locke caught her gaze.
That
, he said with some disgust.
That’s old. She ditched me and I can’t get the damned thing off. I’ll have to have it cut or something. But look around you. Would you go asking here for someone to cut the ring off your finger? They’d chop off your whole hand, stuff it in their pockets, and run to the next market stall to sell it!

Oh
, said Susan. She wished she’d said nothing. But Locke began to laugh.

Someone said put my finger in ice long enough, it’ll shrink.

Ice
, she repeated. She was still reeling from the idea of the chopped hand.

Now
, Son said,
let’s have a look at something else, shall we?

He kept his photographs in a bag with his cameras and film. The bag was waterproof and light, the thick strap fitted over his shoulders, lying cross-ways against his chest. He unbuckled the bag and took out a short stack of black-and-white photographs, laying them out on the table. Susan instantly recognized the staff at the 18th Surgical in Pleiku. She saw the nurses in their stained smocks, the soldiers laid out in bed after bed so close together there was only room enough to walk between them. Right now, as she was sitting down with her coffee under the restaurant’s cooling fan, Howe would be scrubbing his hands, debriding a wound, teasing out a jagged bit of metal from the pink flesh around it, trying to think about this one patient in front of him, instead of all the others who waited. She thought of Donna, who moved with enormous speed on her swollen legs. Donna had explained that if the swelling climbed higher than her ankle, they made her take R&R.
But they don’t send me to no Hong Kong or nothing
, she said.
R&R here, in Pleiku, I mean, what good is that? The least they could do is let me have a few days in Saigon!

Donna was in a number of Son’s photographs. She had a wide open face, big dark eyes with a series of concentric circles around them, as though she hadn’t slept in years. She was going prematurely gray and had colored her hair; the effect was that it frizzed a little, looking like an ill-fitting cap on her large head. But she looked cheerful in the photographs. She had a lopsided smile, an off-center front tooth. Susan remembered watching Donna turn a patient and how the muscles in her forearms stood up. She’d trust Donna with anything, she thought. Even in the photographs she came across as competent and in charge.

There were photographs, too, of each of the men, the casualties who lay in beds by the dozen. Some of the pictures showed more bandage than soldier. Some showed the cheerful smiles of those who, she supposed, were just grateful to be alive. They held up peace signs to the camera, looking like big kids.

What about the POW who died? Did you get any of him?

Son seemed not to remember who she meant, which she found odd. She was sure he would have noticed him. But he said he had not. He hadn’t understood the importance of the prisoner, he explained. He’d just been taking pictures with American papers in mind. And besides, if he got in the way that nurse kept at him like a chained watchdog.

That’s because she knew you were trouble
, said Locke.
She saw through all your disguises.

My disguises! That is a good funny joke, Locke.

Susan shuffled through some more photographs. Howe looked just as strung out and exhausted in the pictures as he did in real life. There was one of him changing his shirt and you could see his hipbones sticking out, the sunken belly, the wasting muscles. It was the Dexedrine. It did that to you.

And there was one of Susan, kneeling in front of a wounded marine, her Leica aimed right at him, his eyes locked on to her own. He was bound into a metal transport stretcher, freshly lifted off a helicopter. He was high on morphine but even so the muscles around his jaw were clenched in pain. Two minutes later he would be lifted straight into surgery with no time for X-rays, but in the photograph there is just him and her, and the effect was chilling, as though she didn’t have any other goal but getting him framed in that lens. As though she didn’t care.