“Why do you think that?”
How could he explain it to this man whose only view of life was through a wooden grillwork into the darkness of other men’s souls?
“Because she doesn’t have any respect for herself. No confidence. A couple of these guys dump her and-” He let the sentence hang.
“Go on,” the priest said.
“That’s all,” Moon said. “I’m finished.”
“But you’ve left me with the question unanswered. What was the big sin you mentioned? And how did you ruin the woman’s life?”
“I killed a man,” Moon said.
Into the silence that this produced he added, “He was-” But he left the sentence unfinished. What more was there to say?
“The Fifth Commandment,” the priest said.
“The fifth. Thou Shalt Not Kill is not even number two. But serious, of course. How serious depends on the motivation. Was it ambition, lust, revenge, envy, a moment of fury, hatred?-”
“He was my best friend,” Moon said. “I guess, outside my family, he was the only person I could ever say I loved. I could trust him. Absolutely trust him.”
“So what was the motivation?”
“I was drunk,” Moon said.
SAIGON, South Vietnam, April 17 (UPI)-A Saigon military spokesman announced today that “radio contact” with the fishing town of Phan Thiet has been lost following an assault by North Vietnamese infantrymen. “Loss of contact” is the term normally used by the South Vietnamese military when a position has been captured.
The Sixth Day
TO REACH THE DINING ROOM of the Hotel Maynila one took an escalator from the lobby, descended past a waterfall flowing over a granite pseudo-cliff, and surrendered oneself to an ornately uniformed fellow to be taken to a seat. Moon was assigned to a table adjoining the swinging doors from the kitchen. He explained he needed a quieter place for a business conversation. He suggested one of a row of empty tables by the glass wall with a view out into the garden. The uniformed fellow looked skeptical but bowed and made the new assignment.
Moon sat, elbows on the tablecloth, looking into a steady tropical rain and into a jungle of tropical flowers, none of which he could identify. The incident with the maitre d’ had confirmed a previous Moon conclusion. He must either get this jacket and these slacks to the cleaner and his socks, shirts, and underwear to a laundry, or say to hell with it, face reality, and fly home where it didn’t matter how he looked. The opulence that surrounded him here reinforced another decision. He had to check out of this five-star hotel, whether or not he went home. He couldn’t afford it. If he was going to play out this Don Quixote role to the end, he’d find Ricky’s apartment and move into it until someone told him where to locate the baby. Or until he got sensible and gave up, a conclusion to this affair that had come to seem tremendously appealing.
Victoria Mathias had taught her sons that being late for an appointment was inexcusably rude, an arrogant declaration that you were more important than the one you were meeting. Moon, therefore, tended to be early and thus had become skilled at waiting. He studied the menu, but saw nothing to modify his decision to order bacon and scrambled eggs. Then he unfolded the
The banner story concerned construction of the Imelda Marcos Children’s Hospital. A headline down the page declared that Pol Pot’s new government in Phnom Penh was establishing a “national program of reeducation” to restore Khmer values to Cambodia. Moon read every word of that. It involved Khmer Rouge troops driving hordes of civilians out of cities and towns into work camps being set up in the countryside. It sounded like a hodgepodge of rumors, mostly incredible. He turned to a follow-up story on President Ford’s request that Congress appropriate more money for weapons for South Vietnam. The writer saw no sign that Ford was twisting arms to get the funds, nor any indication that Congress would agree. From that Moon turned to refugees flee highlands. A photograph of ARVN troops crowding aboard a C-13o, knocking down civilians, accompanied the story. Moon imagined himself caught in such chaos, baby under his arm. Here he was, wasting time. And if Ricky’s child was still in Cambodia, how much time did he have? He put down the
But when Moon looked up, a woman was walking toward his table.
She was tall, slim, dark, a narrow face, a straight, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and large black eyes, which, when he noticed her, were studying him anxiously. This was not the plump blue-eyed blond Dutch matron the name had led Moon to expect, but she was walking directly toward him. He pushed back his chair and rose.
“Mr. Mathias,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”
“Not at all,” Moon said. “In fact, you’re early. I’ve just been reading the paper and waiting for some coffee.” He shook the hand she offered, pulled back her chair, and signaled the waiter.
“I hope you found some good news,” she said. “We could use some good news.” She smiled at him, a rueful smile. “Certainly
Moon looked surprised.
“I mean your brother’s death. And now your mother being so ill. Mr. Castenada told me of your troubles. I hope she is getting better.”
“Oh,” Moon said. “Thank you. It’s her heart. They’re doing some tests. Maybe they’ve already done them. To tell whether to do bypass surgery. Last time I called I couldn’t reach anyone who seemed to know anything.”
“The time difference,” she said. “You can never reach anyone on the other side of the Pacific. But I want to express my sympathy. Ricky was a wonderful man. And his wife. Eleth was sweet.”
“You saw the paper this morning,” she said. “Pol Pot’s mad children are in Phnom Penh. How does that affect your plans?”
Plans? Moon stirred, sipped. “Actually, it doesn’t,” he said. “I haven’t any plans. Only to talk to you and find out what you would tell me. And then I will see if I can find some of Ricky’s friends and see what they know. And if the child is somewhere here in Manila, I will get her and take her home to her grandmother.”
Mrs. van Winjgaarden was looking surprised. “No plans,” she said. Her lips parted slightly as if to speak again. Then closed.
“By the way,” Moon said. “I don’t know how to pronounce your name. Is it Dutch?”
“Dutch, yes,” she said. “One would say ‘wanwingarten.’ But it is hard to say. I think it would be better if you call me Osa.”
“Osa,” Moon said.
She smiled. “Your name is Malcolm, I know. But Ricky always called you Moon. Would it be impertinent to ask?…”
“It’s my nickname,” Moon said. “When I was little they used to have these little things they sold in a cellophane sack. Moon Pies was the name. A round cookie on the bottom, then a layer of marshmallow covered with chocolate. Two of them for a nickel. I always spent all my money on ’em. So they started calling me Moon Pie Mathias. It got shortened to Moon.”
Mrs. van Winjgaarden smiled politely, willing to change the subject. “Mr. Castenada told me that Ricky’s daughter never reached here. You think not so?”
“That’s what he said,” Moon agreed. “But I hope he’s badly informed. Maybe something went wrong with whoever was bringing her. Maybe somebody else completed the trip. Maybe they delivered her to one of Ricky’s
