"The Lotus Eaters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Soli Tatjana)

TEN. Thien Ha

Under Heaven

The day was a perfect jewel, and long after Linh would remember it as the happiest day of his life. Neither too hot nor too cold. The sky a soft azure, unmarred by a single cloud; the white sand of the beach on fire in the sunlight. The helicopter pilot flipped off the switch for radio contact, hooked a sharp right, and came in low over the palm trees, creating a wind that raised the sand into small whorls, chopped the waves into emeralds at the ocean’s edge.

Half an hour later, Helen, Darrow, Linh, and the helicopter crew were seated in a beachside café in Vung Tau, the old Cap St. Jacques, drinking “ 33” beer and eating cracked crab. The proprietor, thrilled by his dollar-laden clients, had two tables with large blue-and-white striped umbrellas dragged out onto the sand. For the occasion, he even ran a greasy towel over the oilcloth tabletop. When they ordered more beer, a small boy dug around in a trash can filled with ice that housed both the bottles and that day’s catch. As the meal went on, orange-pink splintered shells formed a jagged reef around the table.

After lunch Darrow set up a chess set and played Linh while the helicopter crew ran touch football on the beach, recruiting the local boys, who kept running off with the ball. One of the men turned on AFVN radio.

Maintenance of the M16 in the field is affected by conditions. In the upper altitudes only a light lube should be applied, thin and often, especially often. Down in the delta, areas with plenty of water, be extra careful that your lubrication does not get contaminated. Take care of your weapon and your weapon will take care of you…

If you leave Vietnam on emergency-leave orders…

“Turn that damn thing off!” the pilot yelled. “Can’t you see we’re on vacation here?”

And, indeed, the relaxed faces of the people on the beach, the wet breeze and the lethargic waves, made the war seem somewhere far away. When Helen left to walk on the beach, Linh moved his knight so that his king was exposed.

“Hey, you can’t toss the game!” Darrow said.

“Sorry, I can’t concentrate.”

Darrow looked around and spotted the pilot stretched out on three chairs. “ Billings, you’re up.”

The pilot mock sighed, opened a fresh “ 33,” and sat down at the table. Linh stepped over the reef of crab shells and made his way to the surf where Helen stood. They watched fishermen, their skin a dark, sun-cured teak, tug nets of beating fish up on the sand.

As they walked along the surf, a boy ran by, and when he was within feet of Helen, he reached down his arm and splashed her with water. She stopped and looked down at her soaked capri pants, then at the boy. She cupped her hand in the warm water and splashed him back with twice as big a spray. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he stood still and gave a loud belly laugh. Then began a tag game in earnest, Helen and the boy joined by his friends, running through the knee-high waves, catching each other in ropes of water. At one point, Helen was clutching Linh inside a ring of the boys who circled the two of them, pressed them in, splashing them with water, circling around and around. Helen had a sudden vision of her long-ago dream of the Vietnamese children when she had first arrived in Saigon, how threatening she had found them as they circled around her and Michael. Perhaps she had read the dream wrong, and they weren’t menacing at all. After fifteen minutes, the novelty of the American woman wore off, and the boys retreated to a food stall. Helen stood drenched beside Linh.

“I’ll tell you the truth, I hated it here when I first came. It was strange and frightening. But this time in the village… despite everything, this place moves me.”

“I’m pleased.”

“Since we’re wet, let’s swim out to that buoy,” she said.

“I can’t.”

“Come on. What if I get a cramp? You’ll need to save me.”

Linh looked down at the water slapping over his knees but said nothing.

“What?”

“I cannot swim.”

Helen sensed his embarrassment and took his hand. “Then you’re in luck, because I taught swimming every summer during high school.”

They walked together along the sand, away from the crowds, coming across dead jellyfish whose purple translucent flesh reeked in the sun. At a deserted stretch, they entered the water that had only a hint of oily coolness. Helen showed Linh how to hold his breath underwater, to float on his back, to move his arms for the breaststroke and the sidestroke.

She touched him, hand against hand, arm against chest, trunk against back, with a kind professionalism, like a nurse with a patient. Linh dunked his head underwater again, opened his eyes wide to allow the sting of salt, the excuse for tears. No one had touched him, except in the most incidental way-Helen’s hug, the brush of strangers-since he had lost his family. He had numbed himself to the absence, but this strange baptism woke each part of him to a fresh agony. He dunked his head again, held his breath till his lungs threatened to buckle, surfaced to the shattering of light, spluttering, the far-off laughter of playing children.

Helen put her hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

Linh shook his head. They walked out of the water and stood in the sand.

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t come all at once. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Why do you dream to photograph the Ho Chi Minh trail?” he asked her.

“I did.” Helen shook out her hair. “I still do. Not for the same reasons anymore.” She brushed sand off her arms. “I’m beginning to admire them. Their fierce will. Do you understand someone better when you’ve sat down and eaten a bowl of rice with them?”

The sun spun low in the sky, turning the South China Sea into a long liquid field of bronze.

“I thought of you all the time in the village. You should have been there with us,” Helen said. “I felt it, the thing you talked about, being a brick in the wall.”

With those words, Linh knew without a doubt he loved her. He barely remembered walking up the sand to the café, how they stood shoulder to shoulder, how her hair dried to the color of light straw.

As they approached, Darrow stretched his arms over his head, smiling at them even as he cast a troubled glance down the beach. All Linh could see was the radiance of Helen’s face as she gazed at Darrow.

“I only have that fierce will for those I love,” she said under her breath to Linh. “I need to get him away from here.”

Years later Linh would wish that there had been some sign that this moment was the perfect one, balanced on the edge of changing, that the three of them would never again be together and as happy as they were then. But even if he had known, how did one hold time? Instead, there was a shout from one of the crewmen: “Ice cream!” and Helen grabbed Linh’s hand as they hurried through the white powdery sand, stumbling, laughing, blind.

The three of them returned to the war that had brought them together, but the war itself had changed. Saigon with it.

Helen and Linh went out to photograph the refugees crowded into the new slums overwhelming the city. The faces they met were weary-bones pressing against skin, hollow-cheeked, eyes sunken and stony from hardship-looking away, not into the camera. An indication the enemy was winning?

Life in the city remained as schizophrenic as ever: Each night Helen waded through dozens of quickly mimeographed invitations to dinners at posh restaurants and cocktail receptions at the embassies. As the war grew larger, the social life of the city expanded with it. They attended the official functions dutifully, knowing that nothing of interest would come out of it beside the line about winning the war.

Darrow and Helen returned a couple, and they now took their place in the expat life of journalists and adventurers. Many came from ambition, as Darrow had claimed, but just as many came to escape what ever bound them to home-jobs, family, boredom. Media stars mixed with journeymen photographers and freelancers who never took a picture, a movie star’s son, and a Connecticut debutante. American teenagers washed up on the streets, straight out of high school or college dropouts.

They met at all-night parties hosted in dilapidated French villas or in seedy bars scattered through the city. They listened to Cuban music a wire-service stringer supplied; they drank rum and scotch, smoked pot and opium. Most of the men had Vietnamese girlfriends; the few women had a number of men to choose from.

The talk of the parties was about the price of brandy and the availability of hair spray and war; the latest restaurant and nightclub and war; divorces and marriages, war; romances and salaries, war; babies, the danger of the countryside, war; eventually they came back to the bedrock of their existence, the cause of the present Americanized incarnation of Saigon, and it was always war.

But it was her life with Darrow in the crooked apartment behind the Buddha door in Cholon that formed Helen’s true history. What was between them balanced the madness outside.

Darrow and Helen were sent to cover a refugee exodus below the DMZ-a poisonous, sinewy, snakelike stream of old fuming diesel trucks, loaded-down bicycles, carts, wagons, and people. By the time they reached the convoy, a dozen other journalists were already there, including Robert. Then Matt Tanner appeared. Helen had not run into him again since their exchange over the Captain Tong pictures, and she considered that a good thing, and regretted seeing him now.

Tanner walked on, not acknowledging them. Robert shook hands, polite and curious. As soon as he saw them together, he realized he had lost all chance with her.

Darrow and Helen walked alongside the refugees while Linh asked questions. People had evacuated in a panic; there was a shortage of basic supplies. They passed Helen with slow, solemn steps, taking no notice of her camera. Food and water were scarce. Although she was parched, Helen avoided sipping from her canteen, guilty that she had water and at the same time protective, afraid to be mobbed for it.

After the calm of the village, the sheer numbers of people overwhelmed; the scale of the disaster made her feel useless. Dry-mouthed, she licked her lips, tasting salt, growing more thirsty. When an old man collapsed on the side of the road, she stooped down, shielding him from view, and gave him precious mouthfuls of her water, but in seconds a crowd formed, and she had to move on.

The sides of the road, used as both kitchen and toilet, had turned to mud, the stench unbearable. Some of the older villagers so frail every step was a miracle of will. Darrow walked ahead and ran into Tanner and two other photographers circling a young man as he struggled to pull a cart loaded down with belongings. A tiny, aged couple-grandparents?-sitting in the back with three small children in their laps. The young man had taken off his shirt and wrapped it around his head. His ribs were sharp, etched, every muscle and tendon roped with the strain of pulling the cart. Tanner appeared especially bull-like as he towered over him, bending as he angled his camera to capture the young man’s expression.

Darrow jumped forward, pushing Tanner hard in the back so that he braced his hands on the side of the cart to keep from falling. The wood wheels of the cart shuddered and creaked from the sideways thrust.

“What the hell-?”

The young man stopped and put down the stays of the cart. His chest heaved with hard intakes of breath. Indifferent, resigned to what ever would happen next.

Darrow motioned him to the back of the cart and picked up the stays himself and began to pull. The young man’s eyes widened, but he followed the cart, speaking softly to the white-haired couple. The woman turned her arthritic neck to study Darrow’s back.

“What the fuck stunt is this supposed to be?” Tanner screamed. “You lunatic!”

Robert watched the scene unfold. Let Darrow hang himself, but he couldn’t stand Helen’s stricken face. He shook his head. “Go on ahead, Tanner.”

“He’s a goddamned nutcase!”

“Go on!” Robert yelled.

Linh slipped the two neck straps from Darrow’s neck.

“Put them in the cart,” Darrow said. “Go ahead and get some pictures farther up.”

Linh jogged ahead. Darrow’s face tight, jaw quivering. Helen didn’t know what to do, and in her indecision, she walked alongside the cart. A brawl averted, Robert dropped back down the line without a word to either of them. Whatever had gone wrong in Darrow’s head was her problem to deal with now.

For two hours, not a word was spoken. Finally the young man ran up to the front of the cart and tapped Darrow on the shoulder. He pointed to a shady spot under the trees, and Darrow nodded and pulled the cart off the road. The moment he set down the stays, the old couple sprang up and began handing down the children. As the old man washed their faces with the corner of a handkerchief and some water, the old woman unpacked a basket of wrapped banana leaves.

Clenching and unclenching his blistered hands, Darrow stood awkwardly, not knowing how to leave them. What are the boundaries of charity? When started, where does it morally end? His upbringing had been a secular one, but how he longed to have the crutch of faith, even temporarily. Something had exploded inside his head, an anger he thought he had dealt with. The cool thing for us is that when this war’s done, there’s always another one. The placid thought floated in his head that he would have shot Tanner point-blank if given the chance.

Helen came up and, silent, handed him a canteen. Shy with him, knowing he wished she hadn’t witnessed the act. No matter what came next, she had seen underneath the bravado. Deep despair. Does contradiction in the beloved make one love him less or more?

The old man untied a piece of bamboo and opened the banana leaf. Inside was a square of rice. He motioned for Darrow to have it, but Darrow shook his head, fished in his pocket for what ever chance money there was, and handed it over, a fortune of a few twenties, as if in contrition. The man’s face lit up, but already Darrow had slunk away, disappearing up the road.

That evening Linh, Darrow, and Helen sat at a table on the terrace of the Continental. Both of Darrow’s hands were wrapped in gauze, so he cupped his hands to pick up the slick glass of gin and tonic.

“Tell her how great Angkor is,” he insisted.

Linh smiled, sensing a shift between them, a new agreement. “It is a nice collection of rocks.”

“No, I’m serious,” Darrow said. He took a large gulp of his drink and turned toward Helen. “I need to take you there.”

“There’s just this little war thing going on,” Helen said.

“Don’t worry. You’re in luck. There’ll be plenty of war when we get back.” Darrow heard the cynicism in his voice, but it felt old and outdated; he had moved beyond it.

Linh finished his own drink and lifted three fingers to the waiter for another round.

“Someday,” she said.

Exchanged looks.

“ Phnom Penh is like the dream image- Vietnam before the war.” Darrow nudged Linh. “Do you remember the quiet?”

“Everyone thought we were crazy. Working all day in the hot sun.”

Darrow laughed. “But it was good, wasn’t it?” He said it eagerly, needing it to be true.

Linh wondered what was going wrong inside him. Had the outburst with the wagon really been justified? “Yes, it was good.”

The waiter set down three more drinks. “How about ordering some food on the side?” Helen said. “Not someday-now. You need to see it. Let’s leave tomorrow morning.” Frustrated that neither of them was paying attention, treating him like a cranky child, Darrow sulked.

She caught the waiter’s eye. “Leave for where?”

“You aren’t listening,” Darrow said. “Mouhot forgot his homeland, his family, blissful in his exploration. He couldn’t tear himself away.”

“What a selfish man,” she said.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong. He was like one of Homer’s lotus eaters. He simply forgot all thoughts of return.”

“But you don’t need to go to Angkor. You already have the war.”

The waiter stood ready for their order when Tanner walked in.

“Pass on the food. Bring the check,” Darrow said.

“Anyway, we can’t leave. Linh and I are scheduled out with Olsen’s unit day after tomorrow.”

Darrow drank down half his glass in one gulp. “I need to go back to Angkor. I’ve been here… too long.”

“What you need is to eat. You’re drunk.” He was childish and petulant, and she was bewildered by the change that had come over him. She saw this as a version of her own fear, and she tried to help him with her own mantra, Fear is not an option.

“We need to get back what we had in the village,” Darrow said.

“But the village was a lie, wasn’t it?”

Tanner scanned the tables and saw the three of them, changed direction, and walked the long way to a table in the back.

“You know what your problem is?” Darrow said, hunching his back against Tanner’s presence, running his finger down the center of the table as if tracing a line of thought. “You should have been an accountant. You can take pictures, but you take them like an accountant.”

Linh stood. “I am busy tomorrow. See you early on Friday?”

Helen ignored his effort to escape. “You know what you have, Sam? The great white correspondent’s ego. When did it all get to be about you? What you did today was all about you and Tanner, not those people. Poor you.”

Across the room, Tanner’s loud bark of a laugh rang out as people joined his table. Darrow flinched as if from a sharp slap and kept glancing over his shoulder. “He makes me feel like a ghoul. Feeding off people’s suffering. I’m tired… sick to death…”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t leave. This is my chance now,” Helen said, and in spite of her pity for him, she felt strong.

“You’re lucky. I was like you once. I didn’t care for a long time.”

Helen threw bills down on the table, wanting to leave before he caused more of a scene. “Help me out, Linh.”

Darrow dropped his hands into his lap. “I made a fool of myself. I know that.”

Linh laid a hand on his shoulder, then turned to leave, wanting no part in Helen’s hardness.

One of the street children, a young girl who regularly sneaked in, ran through the restaurant waving a twenty-dollar bill. “Thief!” A waiter grabbed her, lifting her feet from the floor, and she shrieked.

“He give, he give,” she cried, pointing. In the back of the room, Tanner stood and motioned the waiter over.

“Yes, I did. Just a little present, okay? It’s hers,” he said to the dining room at large, then turned and shrugged to his companions. “Maybe I should hire a cyclo to take her home? Or better yet, drive it myself.”

They had to drag Darrow out, as he muttered expletives behind him. On the street, Helen waved down a taxi. They arrived at the mouth of the alley, the meeting place of silk and lacquered bowl streets. The depression in the road was dry, and they walked through it and on to the crooked building, Darrow’s arm around Helen’s shoulder, half protecting, half supported.

They lay under the mint green bedspread, the light of the lampshade warming the shimmering expanse of silk and the barren room beyond it.

“One mission is blending into another. It’s time for me to leave. I have nightmares.”

Helen laid her head on his chest. “Watching Tanner made me sick, too. Forget him.” She wanted to say something that would help, but he was so far away from her now.

Darrow moved up on his elbow and put his hand across her throat. “What’s there to do other than war? It’s become my life.”

Helen held his hand against her mouth, kissing each fingertip. “I’m your life.”

“I don’t know how to repair.” He had never spoken like this before, and she wondered what she would do if he said the words she had so long waited for.

“My family’s name was Koropec… Hungarian. I was fifteen when I decided I was going to be a famous American war photographer. And famous American war photographers didn’t have names like that. I made myself into Sam Darrow. Who am I if not that name? Now I have to live up to it.”

“Says who?”

He lay back in the pillows. “If only I had met you twenty years ago.”

“We met now. That’s worth something. I’m the accountant, remember?”

Dawn lit the sky outside the bedroom window. The leaves of the flamboyant fluttered, somnolent in the last of the night breeze. Helen woke to a noise and saw Darrow sitting at the window, smoking, an ashtray full of cigarettes at his feet.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“I left a will at Gary ’s office a few weeks ago.”

Now Helen woke up fully, scared. “Morbid conversation first thing in the morning.”

“It’s not… The reason I’m telling you is that it caused a rumor that I had some kind of death wish. It’s just that if something did happen, I don’t want to be buried. A phobia.”

“It’s bad luck to talk-”

“My scaredy-cat. It’s the reality. I’m wagering to live to be an old man.”

She rolled off the bed and pulled clothes off the chair to slip on. Since the previous night she had been formulating a kind of equation: the idea that leaving to save Darrow would allow her to leave Vietnam without guilt. A chance. “Don’t you wonder if it’s worth it?”

“Every time I go out. Wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t. No one wants to say it, but husband, father… none of that stuff is important in the war. Otherwise, why are we here?”

“We’ll take the next plane out. You said yourself you’ve been here too long.”

Darrow nodded his head and stubbed out his cigarette. “We might,” he said, then softened it. “We could. Soon.”