Saigon (84 page)

The Vietnamese nodded. “Bad mistakes are always costly for those who make them. Your country has paid its price.” 

Joseph considered his response in silence for a moment. “Have you never regretted, Kim, doing what you did in 1936? Haven’t you ever regretted turning your back on your father and dividing your family?” 

“It’s often made me very sad,” replied the Vietnamese in a halting voice. “I brought great sorrow to my mother and Lan, I know. I paid a high price for my political beliefs — but I always knew there was much more at stake than just my own relations with my family.” 

“Hasn’t the terrible destruction in your country ever given you second thoughts? Didn’t you ever wonder whether you made the right choice?” 

Kim was silent for a moment, then he shook his head slowly. “It was perhaps impossible for my father to see things my way, I realize that now. He couldn’t comprehend that history was about to change the world. He thought the lands granted to him unjustly by the French would remain in our hands forever. Your intervention in Vietnam stemmed the tide of history for a while and prolonged those vain hopes, but today’s agreement has set history in motion again. Very soon my brother Tam’s rice lands will be taken from him and he will realize at last that like my father he chose the wrong side.” Kim paused and sighed quietly. “My father said to me that last day that Marxism would destroy our family and our country — but he was wrong about our country. What’s happened here in Paris today has made me more convinced than ever that I made the right choice in 1936. My sacrifice has been worthwhile.” 

“But you’re a lonely man, Kim, I can see that.” 

“Yes, I don’t deny it — that’s why I’ll be pleased to do what I can for Trinh.” He looked up quickly at Joseph with an embarrassed smile. “When I look at Trinh, sometimes I see Lan as she was as a young girl when she and Tam and I were all happy together. The memory is sweet and painful at the same time — but as a man gets older his memories become more important if he has nothing else.” 

Joseph stood up and crossed to the window to stare out into the wintry darkness. The rain had turned to Snow and big flakes were spinning silently to earth through the pools of light cast by the lamps in the Tuileries. The bleakness of the scene seemed suddenly to echo Joseph’s own feelings, and he spoke over his shoulder in a dispirited voice. “Back home the military are very proud of the Christmas bombing. Killing only sixteen hundred people while destroying all the strategic targets in two major cities is a cause for celebration for them. But even one death is too many — if it’s your daughter.” Joseph continued to gaze unseeing into the falling snow. “That bombing was our form of torture. You wrung propaganda confessions out of our pilots although everybody knew they were meaningless. Because Le Duc Tho wouldn’t say what we wanted him to say in December, we launched the biggest air strike in history. We tightened our ‘ropes’ until Le Duc Tho rushed back to the Avenue Kleber to ‘bao cao’ and sign the agreements. We both know you signed to stop the pain of the bombs —. and we both know when you’ve recovered you’ll take South Vietnam as you’ve intended to all along.” 

Kim stood up, his face impassive, buttoning his coat. “You’re right, Monsieur Sherman. We shan’t rest until we achieve our goal. Our country will be reunited one day — we haven’t fought all our lives just for a compromise.” 

Joseph turned from the window and stepped towards Kim, holding out his hand. The Vietnamese, taken aback, looked down at it with a startled expression on his face. 

“We can’t pretend we’ve always been friends, Kim, but we have known each other for nearly half a century — and today should be a day of reconciliation. Thank you for bringing the photographs. And thank you for telling me about Tuyet — I would rather have known.” 

They shook hands briefly and the Vietnamese turned away towards the door. Joseph walked ahead of him, then hesitated before opening it, a quizzical look on his face. “Tell me one other thing, Kim — did you meet with your brother Tam while you were both in Paris?” 

A defensive look came into Kim’s eyes and he fumbled awkwardly with his gloves..”I visited him briefly at the address you gave me — but it was painful for both of us to have to part again so soon.” For a second or two he stared at his shoes, then he looked up anxiously at Joseph again. “Nobody knows about this except you. Please don’t mention it to anybody.” 

“I won’t.” Joseph opened the door and stood aside. “But before you go I have something else to thank you for.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Before you arrived I didn’t know what to write about today’s events. Now I do. I shall write about the news you’ve given me — and the sadness it’s caused me.” 

The eyes of the Vietnamese widened in surprise. “You’ll tell of the death of your daughter?” 

Joseph nodded without hesitation. “Yes — and about my attachment to Vietnam over the years.” 

“It will be an article of considerable interest,” said the Vietnamese slowly. “Goodbye.” He grasped Joseph’s hand once more, then hurried out of the room. 

Joseph sat down at his typewriter and tapped the keys nonstop for the next hour. He described in detail his family’s long involvement with Vietnam, beginning with Chuck’s death during the 1920s hunting expedition and ending with a brief description of how Tuyet was killed in the Christmas bombing; in the course of the article he tried to spell out how events in Vietnam had influenced his own life, then he got up and paced the room deep in thought for several minutes before sitting down again and adding one final paragraph. “Looking back over those fifty years to that early personal tragedy in the jungles of Annam, I realize now that my family’s worst error was never to admit openly to ourselves that my brother’s death might have been avoided with greater foresight. Not facing up to that fact kept destructive tensions simmering beneath the surface for many years. In seeking to defend the ‘honor’ of the United States in Vietnam, successive presidents and other national leaders, I believe, have made similar mistakes and brought unprecedented tragedy down upon our nation. Only if we admit this and resolve never to make the same errors again, will all those Americans who died in Vietnam have made some worthwhile sacrifice.” 

Joseph tugged the last sheet of paper from the typewriter, read it over to himself and zipped the machine into its case. He gathered up the photographs of Tuyet that had lain beside his elbow on the table all the time he was writing and slipped them quickly into his case. He took his article down to the telex room on the ground floor of the hotel, handed it in for immediate transmission to The Times office in London and carried his type writer and overnight bag out into the street to wait for a taxi that would take him to the airport for his London flight. There were no taxis available immediately and he stood hatless on the pavement, oblivious to the falling snow; his shoulders sagged, his face was set in lines of deep sadness, and as he stood there the shoulder wound he’d received in Hue began to throb dully. Suddenly he felt old, and with flecks of white snow settling on his hair, he looked every one of his sixty-three years. 

An aging Tory Member of Parliament with a jovial, patrician face raised his glass of claret in Naomi Boyce-Lewis’s direction at the head of the table then passed it slowly back and forth beneath his nose, teasing his olfactory senses with its bouquet. “The whole world, Naomi, my sweet, may be tipping suddenly on its ear this Easter weekend — but while you and Joseph continue to serve this magnificent Château Latour, so wisely laid down here for you by your dear departed father in the year of your birth, I, for one, shan’t be convinced it’s all up with us.” The M.P. closed his eyes and sipped the wine with an expression of near-ecstasy on his face. 

“Shame on you, Toby, old boy,” cried a male voice from down the table, “giving away a lady’s age like that on her birthday!” 

The M.P. opened his eyes wide, stared for a moment at one of the Latour labels with its clearly marked 1936 vintage, then smote his forehead with his free hand in a theatrical gesture of mock anguish. His act drew a quick roar of laughter from the company, but Naomi, looking radiantly beautiful in a simple white Correges gown which left her suntanned shoulders bare, was obviously happy and content to be thirty-nine, even publicly. Not in the least ruffled, she raised an affectionately admonishing eyebrow at the M.P., then smiled warmly at Joseph who was seated at the other end of the table. 

Flickering candles in silver holders bearing the crest of the Boyce-Lewis family shone on the starched white shirt fronts and décolleté necklines of two dozen men and women whose faces were well known in British politics, the City, the London theater, and print and television journalism; most of the wives and mistresses wore discreetly expensive jewelry that flashed and sparkled in the candlelight whenever they turned their head or moved their hands, and on the walls behind them, gilt-framed portraits of several generations of Boyce-Lewises who had dwelled in the fashionable Belgrave Square house in London’s West End gazed down with what appeared to be approval on the privileged gathering. 

“I don’t want to put the damper on your birthday party, Naomi,” said the M.P., his face becoming serious, “but even on this happy occasion we can’t ignore the fact, can we, that there’s hardly been a time in the recent past when we’ve had so much damned bad news all at once. With Kissinger getting the thumbs-down sign from the Egyptians and the Israelis after all that shuttling, and King Faisal getting himself murdered, the Middle East must go up again in flames soon. The new cabinet in Portugal’s being stuffed with Communists, so we’ve got official Commie spies in NATO, and to cap it all the North Vietnamese hordes have come from nowhere again and look like reaching Saigon within the week.” 

“It’ll probably take a bit longer than that,” protested Joseph with a smile. “Hanoi may have thrown eighteen divisions into the offensive but Thieu’s regrouping his forces along the coast and around Saigon.” 

“Whatever happened to Nixon’s ‘Vietnamization’ program that was supposed to make the South self-reliant? It’s only two years since Kissinger negotiated those tricky Paris agreements — surely they were meant to prop Thieu up longer than that?” 

“Vietnamization only increased the size of the army and the amount of weaponry at their disposal. Morale never got any better, and the soldiers were no better trained. But why Thieu suddenly decided to retreat from the central highlands is anybody’s guess.” Joseph shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps he was haunted by the French experience at Dien Bien Phu — he had a horror of the North Vietnamese cutting off his 23rd Division a long way from their supply bases. Now the retreat’s touched off a panic and soldiers and civilian refugees are fleeing southward together like lemmings.” 

“Dreadful bloody mess.” The M.P. turned back to Naomi. “It’s your old stamping ground too, of course, my dear, isn’t it? Are you going to dash back to cover the death throes?” 

“My office has been having panic discussions all day today about a final documentary — some sort of ‘Farewell to Saigon.’ They’ve asked me to do it — but so far I’m hedging.” She smiled affectionately down the table at Joseph again. “I’m not sure now that I want to go all that way and leave my poor husband here to fend for himself.” 

The M.P. snorted. “Poor husband, indeed! Look at that California suntan. He hasn’t been here through our foul winter 

spent his time out there playing tennis and swimming, I shouldn’t wonder. All that stuff about writing a new book on America’s future role in Asia is just a cover for living the good life, if you ask me. He’s as fit as a flea.” He eyed the three uniformed women in black satin frocks, white caps and pinafores who had been serving at table and were beginning to clear the last of the dishes. “And as for fending for himself, he wouldn’t have to do much of that. Look — if you decide to go and he really needs looking after, I’ll come round here or pop down to that lovely country house of yours in Sussex and help open a bottle of the Latour from time to time.” ‘The M.P.’s shoulders shook and he guffawed so infectiously at his own humour that the rest of the table joined in. 

In the hall outside the dining room a telephone tang, and a moment later the door opened an one of the maids came to Naomi’s chair to whisper in her ear. As she hurried out, a butler appeared with a tray of port decanters and liqueurs and while they were circulating the same maid returned to tell Joseph that Naomi wished to consult him for a moment to two in private about the telephone call. He excused himself apologetically and found her waiting for him in his book-lined study that was furnished with many of his oriental artworks and mementos from Cornell. 

“That was the studio — they’re getting in a state about the Vietnam story. They’ve just had news that Thieu’s forces have surrendered Hue without a fight. Da Nang’s going to be next. The government troops have started fighting each other with hand grenades to get on the evacuation aircraft. They say half the South Vietnamese forces have now either been killed, wounded, taken prisoner or forced to retreat without their equipment.” 

Joseph shook his head in disbelief. “So if you’re going to Saigon you’d better hurry.” 

“Yes, that’s why they were ringing — they want to get a crew and a director off first thing tomorrow morning.” 

“What did you tell them?” 

“I said I’d Ting them back in ten minutes.” She took one of his hands in both her own. “What do you think I should do?” 

“You should go. You want to, don’t you? Saigon’s always had a great fascination for you.” 

She squeezed his fingers and smiled fondly into his eyes. “I think ‘had’ may be the operative word. I’m not so sure anymore 

I’ve got you now.” She paused and frowned. “I’m torn between going — and staying with you.” 

“But you’ll only be away for a couple of weeks.” 

She stroked the back of his hand with her fingers and lowered her eyes. “I know. But it’s not just that, Joseph. Even if I go I’ve decided this will be my last film. I suppose on her thirty-ninth birthday a girl gets around to thinking one or two deep thoughts. Like whether it isn’t time she gave up rushing around the world and thought about — well, other things, before it’s too late.” 

“Other things?” asked Joseph with an inquisitive smile. 

“It’s becoming quite the fashion, you know. Several friends from my year at Sherbourne have suddenly started doing it — even those with already grown up families.” 

“Doing what?” Joseph’s frown of mystification deepened. 

She shot him an exasperated smile. “Having babies, darling! In their late thirties or early forties. I know I’m practically a senior citizen but they can do all kinds of tests and things now to make sure it’s all right. Do you think I could still manage it?” 

Joseph laughed and ran an affectionate hand over one of her long, satin-clad thighs. “I’m absolutely sure you could do anything you chose,” he said softly. “But I’m darned sure this old monkey is too far gone for such tricks.” 

“What nonsense!” She pulled away from him and scrutinized his face for a moment. His hair was gray right through now but he was still lean and straight in his elegant Savile Row dinner jacket and his deep tan from his winter in California made him look younger than his years again. “You’re in better shape than a lot of men half your age, darling, and you know it even with a bullet hole in your left shoulder.” She laughed and caressed his cheek with her hand. “It’s me we’ve got to worry about.” 

A fire was burning low in the study fireplace, arid Joseph turned from her and picked up a poker to stir the logs. Bright flames rose immediately, casting an orange glow on his face, and he remained kneeling on the rug watching the charred wood burn, his expression suddenly wistful. The flames died away quickly, and when he spoke his voice betrayed an inner sadness. “I sometimes feel a bit like these logs, Naomi — glowing bright on the outside, maybe, but kind of hollow and burned out in the middle.” 

‘Joseph!” She dropped to her knees beside him and took his face in her hands, staring at him in astonishment. “You mustn’t feel like that — my darling, you mustn’t!” 

“I’m sorry.” He shook himself and stood up. “Why don’t we discuss it all after you get back. If you don’t go, you’ll always regret it.” He smiled at her again. “It will at least give me a chance to go down to the country arid get on with my book — and think about your latest bombshell in between chapters.” 

She returned his smile, then her face became serious again. “Joseph, couldn’t you come to Saigon? Not to work —just to be there with me?” 

Joseph shook his head. “There’s nothing but painful ghosts of the past in Saigon for me now, Naomi, you know that.” 

She looked at him in silence for a moment, then nodded understandingly. He followed her towards the door, but she stopped and turned to him before opening it. Putting her hands against the satin-faced lapels of his jacket, she smiled mischievously into his face. “When our guests have gone, darling, even though you haven’t had a chance to think about it between chapters, do you think as a birthday treat we could go straight to bed and start trying out my new idea? Or at least just pretend.” 

Aroused by her words he took her in his arms and pressed the softness of her long body against himself. He let his cheek rest against her blond hair for a moment, inhaling with closed eyes the delicate fragrance of her perfumed skin. Then they broke apart smiling tenderly at one another and he returned to the dining room to find the port decanters still circling the table amidst loud laughter and thick clouds of cigar smoke. As he closed the hail door behind him, he heard Naomi on the telephone telling the studio she would be ready to fly out to the doomed city of Saigon at noon next day.