Mercy

counter made o f stone, as i f a piece o f hard rock was hauled in

from the mountains. It’s solid stone from top to bottom.

There are no w ood cabinets or shelves, just solid stone. I f there

is running hot water you are in the house o f a millionaire. I f

you are ju st in a rich house, the people heat the water up in a

kettle or pot. In the same w ay, there m ay be a bathtub

somewhere but the woman has to heat up kettle after kettle to

fill it. She will wash clothes and sheets and towels by hand in

the bathtub with the water she has cooked the same w ay the

peasant woman will wash clothes against rocks. There is no

refrigerator ever anywhere and no General Electric but there

m ay be two bunsen burners instead o f one. Y ou get food every

day at open markets in the streets and that is the only time

women get to go out; only married women. The Am erikans

never go anywhere without refrigerators and frozen food and

packaged food; I don’t know how they can stay in Vietnam.

The Am erikan doctor said he was writing a novel about the

Vietnam War like Norman M ailer’s The Naked and the Dead.

He had a crew cut. He had a Deep South accent. He was blond

and very tanned. He had square shoulders and a square jaw .

Military, not civilian. White socks, slacks, a casual shirt. N ot

young. N ot a boy. O ver thirty. Beefy. He is married and has

three children but his wife and children are away he says. He

sought me out and tried to talk to me about the War and

politics and writing; he began by invoking Mailer. It would

have been different if he had said Hem ingway. He was a

Hem ingway kind o f guy. But Mailer was busy being hip and

against the Vietnam War and taking drugs so it didn’t make

much sense to me; I know Hem ingway had leftist politics in

the Spanish Civil War but, really, Mailer was being very loud

against Vietnam and I couldn’t see someone who was happily

military appreciating it much, no matter how good The Naked

and the Dead was, if it was, which I m yself didn’t see. It was my

least favorite o f his books. I said I missed Amerikan coffee so

he took me to his ranch-type house for some. I meant

percolated coffee but he made Nescafe. The Greeks make

Nescafe too but they just use tap water; he boiled the water.

He made me a martini. I have never had one. It sits on the

Formica. It’s pretty but it looks like oily ethyl alcohol to me. I

never sit down. I ask him about his novel but he doesn’t have

anything to say except that it is against the War. I ask to read it

but it isn’t in the house. He asks me all these questions about

how I feel and what I think. I’m perplexed and I’m trying to

figure it out, standing right there; he’s talking and my brain is

pulling in circles, questions; I’m asking m yself if he wants to

fuck or what and what’s wrong with this picture? Is it being in

a ranch-type house on an island o f peasants? Is it Formica on an

ancient island o f stone and sand? Is it the missing wife and