Gift of the Golden Mountain (76 page)

     If you want my opinion, marrying you was the only smart thing Dad ever did. I don't know if Thea or me would have made it without you, knowing you were pulling for us. So what I want to say is this—you'll always be important to me, even if we aren't related anymore. And I guess there's something else I want to tell you, because I think maybe it could help you now, too.

     You remember when I joined the Corps I was in bad shape, figuring what happened to Dad was my fault. The fight and all. I pushed myself pretty hard physically, and that was okay for a while, but then I started feeling pretty awful and, well, I won't go into all the details but finally this guy I'd met from Georgia, a real cracker, told me I ought to go see the chaplain and, to make a long story short, I did. I talked to him a long time, and I told him I felt like I'd been carrying this 200-pound pack up a mountain, and I just couldn't carry it any more. I felt like I wanted to lie down and go to sleep forever. Then the strangest thing happened. He was just this nice little guy, but when he started talking his voice sounded like it was coming to me from outer space, and what he said was that God had sent his son to suffer for me, and that if I would believe in him, my burden would be eased. I can't tell you how it happened, or why, but that changed my whole life. I prayed, and this heavy thing was lifted off of me. I suppose this may sound strange to you, I know it would to Dad, he doesn't much believe in religion, which is why I've never told him.

     It's been raining here pretty much ever since I arrived. Everyone says the VC are getting ready to make their move and we'll see some real fireworks as soon as the ground dries out a little. They've been hitting storage facilities
and small airfields and other little stuff all summer long. It's kind of a creepy place, you know. Some of the guys who have been here before, on other tours of duty talk this "you should've been here when . . ." bullshit, almost like they liked it better when the VC were offing our guys. I guess you think I'm getting cynical, huh? Well, maybe I am. I still think the Corps is great, and I'm proud to be a member, but it just seems to me like this little piece of the world is not worth 58,000 American lives, which is what somebody told me is the dead count.

     Don't mean to sound morbid. Had a long letter from Thea, and I guess you've had some long talks with her from what she said. It was kind of funny (not really), but you've been worried about her for so long, and now she's worried about you. Thea said something to me that she didn't say to you. That was, that she couldn't stand to think of you spending your future taking care of Dad. I'm telling you because I feel that way too. Thea told me about the offer you got to run a gallery for some artists. Are you sure you want to stay on in the islands? It is kind of nice, thinking of you there. Don't forget our date, beachside at the Royal Hawaiian, sipping a mai tai. Whenever I start getting homesick, I just think of that day . . . and the sun setting all pink and blue on Waikiki beach.

     In the meantime, write me when you can because out here we live for the mail call.

     Love,

     Danny

     Paul Hollowell had been waiting in the lobby for half an hour. She had said it was important to be there by sunset and he had given himself plenty of time to stop at the florists to pick up a ginger lei. He walked across the lobby to meet her, carrying the
flowers awkwardly, like a boy on prom night. He lifted them over her head and brushed her cheek with his lips, formally. She was wearing a dress of blue cotton gauze, very full, her hair was loose about her shoulders, and she smelled of lilacs.

     "Thank you," Karin said, "for the flowers and for coming. There is something I have to tell you and I wanted to do it here, for a reason. I'll explain."

     He took her hand and they walked toward the oceanfront terrace, her high-heeled sandals making clicking sounds on the polished tile of the Royal Hawaiian's promenade.

     "We sat at this table," she told him, "and Danny insisted we have mai tais."

     "Would you like one now?"

     She shook her head. "No. I don't drink now. But please, go ahead."

     "Big waves tonight," he said, looking out to sea at the line of surfers waiting to catch the next big wave.

     "The night we were here, the sun had turned the water a wonderful shade of pink. Dan said it was as close to heaven as he'd ever been . . ." her voice cracked and she stopped.

     "He is in heaven now," Paul said, a simple statement of fact, "and maybe it is like this—all these shades of pink and blue playing on the water."

     She could only stare at him. "Do you believe that?" she asked.

     "Yes," he said, "Yes, I do."

     She leaned toward him over the table. "I'm not trying to keep you in suspense . . . about why I asked you here . . ." she began.

     "When you're ready," he answered, "no hurry. I know how your son must have felt, being here with you. I feel happy just sitting here right now."

     "We had a date. I told him I'd meet him here, when he came back. It was important."

     She turned to look down the beach, watched as a small figure far out beyond the breaking waves stood and caught one, moving
before the swift cutting curl of the wave, gliding and sliding in the trough, staying ahead of the water that glimmered blue in the silken light. He seemed to ride forever, defying the forces. Karin and Paul watched, holding their breath as the surfer continued to elude the wave, choosing his time, his place, to dip into the pink-silver sea.

     She looked at him and said, "I brought you here to tell you that I am going to have your baby."

     He stared at her. Then a slow, sweet smile moved over his face, his eyes came to life with a kind of wild delight. He reached for her hand, took it in both of his and bent to touch her fingers.

     "We have to talk," she told him.

     "Yes," he answered, solemnly, "we will talk, every day of our lives. I promise you that, Karin." He looked down the beach as the lights began to blink on. "God," he exclaimed under his breath, "I didn't know it was possible to feel this way."

     "It isn't going to be easy," she warned him. "There are all sorts of problems. I'm not sure when we can be together."

     "We're already together," he said, "the rest is details."

Saigon, 27 October 1973

THE PLANE DESCENDED into the saffron air that lay like dirty gauze over the city, and they landed at Tan Son Nhut at midday. May was blinded by the glare of light on the tarmac. With her free hand she groped for her sunglasses, lost somewhere in the bottom of her handbag. She gave up the search when Hayes's hand on her arm hurried her into the terminal, and concentrated on threading her way through the crowd that pressed against them inside the building, everyone pushing for position.

     "Is it always so chaotic?" she gasped, but Hayes was too intent on getting them through immigration to answer.

     Outside, waiting for a bus, she stood in the noise and the heat and tried to make sense of the scene. She was in Vietnam, the country that had weighed so heavily on their hearts these past years, and she expected to feel something, but the shouting and the confusion and the heat stifled all feeling. The bus, gray and battered, pulled up in a cloud of exhaust fumes. The windows
were open, but covered by grates. "So no one can lob in a grenade," Hayes explained. This is a country at war, she told herself. None of the old rules apply.

     As they drove through the French part of the city, she studied the pastel Colonial architecture from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the broad leafy plantain trees that cast the streets in deep shade. She knew that once it must have been lovely, but now it was not. Heat and a sense of exhaustion permeated the scene. The buildings, the roads, the people, even the trees, everything seemed to be in a state of dazed exhaustion. As if all energy had been drained from the country, as if all that was left was a sense of desolation, a loss of faith that was utter, complete.

     Hayes broke the silence. "The French like to say they don't colonize, they civilize. But this is not a civilized place, all you see now are the remnants of culture. It's changed, even, since I was here six months ago."

     "The gas fumes are making my throat raw," May told him. "Is it always like this?"

     "A lot of the vehicles use a mix of oil and gas, so you get a constant smell of burned hydrocarbons."

     The taxi jolted to a halt at the Caravelle Hotel on Tu Do Street, in the middle of Saigon. Heat did not usually trouble May, but in combination with the gas fumes and the smoke that seemed to pervade the city, her head ached and her eyes burned.

     When they were in their room, May sprawled across the bed, her arm over her eyes to shut out the light. Hayes rummaged in his shaving kit and came up with two aspirins which she took without waiting for the bottled water to be sent up. "Aggrrh," she said, trying to swallow. "I can't stand the taste of aspirin."

     Hayes opened a bottle of bourbon he had brought as a gift or a bribe, and gave her a sip.

     She lay back on the bed, feeling as exhausted as the city. "Why don't you take a nap while I go meet the Corsican?" he suggested, his hand pressed gently to her head. "I'll call you around six—it
should be cooler then, we can meet for drinks if you feel up to it. If the guy turns out to be helpful, I could invite him to join us."

     "The one who was in the French Army, and stayed on?"

     "His name is Gerard Levasseur and he seems to be connected to most of the principals in this city. I'm hoping he knows Le Tien An's father, or someone who has influence with the family, who will intercede for us."

The two men sat at a table on the terrace of the Continental Palace Hotel and watched May approach. She could feel their eyes on her, could read the approval in their faces. She had showered and changed into a cool white two-piece dress that was loose against her body, and had pulled her hair back from her face and caught it up with lapis combs.

     "My wife," Hayes said, rising to present her with the pride of possession, and the other, a man in his late fifties bent low over her hand, glancing briefly at Hayes in approval.

     "Gin and tonics all around?" Hayes asked, as they rearranged themselves to accommodate May.

     "Gerard was telling me about the changes he's seen in Saigon over the past ten years," Hayes said to May.

     "Please go on," May prompted.

     Gerard paused to looked around him at the scattering of people who had gathered on the terrace. "Once, you would have heard laughter and easy conversation in this place . . . people greeting each other as they met for an early evening drink. The sounds were soft, lyric—many of the people speak a mix of Vietnamese and French, a language we called matisse. Very soft and singing. The city still had a French character in those days, the whores were not so aggressive. They did not accost you on the street and demand, 'G.I. you buy me one Saigon tea.'"

     "And tell you 'G.I. you number ten,' if you don't," Hayes put in.

     "What does that mean, number ten?" May wanted to know.

     "Very bad," Gerard answered. "It means you are very bad for not wanting to spend money on them." He went on, "I would say it was about 1965, when the Americans began to come in numbers, when the change began. Now the voices of the city are shrill, crass. If you will excuse me for saying so, I believe that the Vietnamese and the Americans have brought out the worst in each other. Saigon has become a cruel place, a city of buyers and sellers, and everything is for sale."

     They sat for a time, looking out onto the street in the dimming light, and May fought to shake off the feeling of lethargy that had hovered over her since their arrival.

     "How about dinner in Cholon?" Hayes asked.

     "If you like steamed crab claws, there's a place called 'Diamond,' that attracts a mix of Westerners, Chinese, and Vietnamese," Gerard offered. "It is noisy, but the food is good." He shifted in his chair and leaned toward Hayes. "Do you happen to know the fellow over there, with the long dirty blond hair and the flowered shirt?"

     Hayes glanced, shook his head.

     "He came in soon after we arrived and he's been watching you ever since. I must be getting Saigon fever—all the time suspicious. It's a dreadful way to live, but there seems to be no alternative, not in these times." He sighed. "But this is my home, France would be foreign territory after all these years."

     "What would happen," May began carefully, "If the North Vietnamese should take over . . ."

     "My dear," the man laughed, "you mean,
when
they take over. The only ones who doubt it are the poor naive souls who also think you Yanks would never let it happen."

     "An's father," Hayes broke in, "what does he believe?"