and his thinness had turned sharp. “Was she at least pretty?”
Linh smiled. He had observed them since his return, how Helen’s eyes lingered on Darrow’s face, questioning.
“Maybe you need to go back to the war to rest?” Darrow said.
“Maybe we go rest together,” Linh said, and Helen burst out in laughter, the first since Linh had arrived.
When they tied the boats along the steep bank and climbed up, the heat was so intense Helen thought the rivers should be boiling. They drank water and ate cold rice for lunch, then the villagers stretched out under the trees to sleep.
“When will you return to America?” Ho Tung asked.
“Soon,” Helen answered.
“Can you go to St. Louis, maybe? Check on my granddaughter?”
“It’s a very big country,” Helen said, and seeing the disappointment, added, “Give us her address.”
Ho Tung smiled, relieved, his mission accomplished. The chief motioned for Darrow, Helen, and Linh to follow him to explore the interior. “There is a temple in the center of the island.”
“Come on, then,” Darrow said, grabbing Helen’s hand.
They pushed aside the thick barrier of brush and edged along an overgrown path. Every inch of land filled with huge purple orchids. Abundant, dense, violent growth.
Linh lagged behind the others, but when he saw the flowers he stopped. “I’ll wait back at the boats.”
“No, come on,” Darrow said. “It won’t take long.”
“I’d rather-”
“Come.”
Flowers hung aggressively from trees and crowded on the ground and along rocks, thick and choking in a wild scramble for light in the semigloom of the overhead palm and rubber trees.
“This is an enchanted garden,” Helen said, moving forward into the sea of flowers, her bad mood turned to delight.
She picked a small bloom and brought it to her nose, but there was only a faint scent of decay. She tucked the flower behind her ear anyway.
As she turned, Darrow snapped her picture. “There’s my girl.”
“No fair.”
“Look over here again.”
“No.”
“Come on.” Darrow took a step forward through the dense foliage.
“No!” Helen laughed and ran, crashing down the path through the flowers, trampling vines and leaves and petals.
“Come back,” Darrow shouted, laughing, running after her.
Drenched, she ran as if in a downpour, sides heaving. Hearing the crash of footfalls behind her, she ran faster, careless, when suddenly a shadow passed in front of her face. She looked up into a huge banyan tree from which hundreds of orchids clung, choking the tree in a blaze of purple. One particular orchid hanging from a long branch seemed especially large and perfect. She took another step to reach for it, tripped over a tree root hidden in the underbrush, and fell down into the plants.
“You okay?”
Darrow stooped down next to her as she laughed and rolled onto her back. He bent over and brushed the dirt off her knees as Linh and the chief came up.
“Helen is hurt?”
Darrow shook his head. “Not yet.”
She sat up, searching the ground for what poked into her back and picked up small white sticks. She brought them closer, her smile fading as she realized they were bones, and showed them to Darrow.
“Human?”
“This is a burial island,” Ho Tung said, pleased.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Helen asked.
“They bury monks here. The first monk, a hermit, lived here by himself. When the villagers came to check on him after the monsoon, they find only his bones and a purple orchid growing out of the rib cage. The flowers are said to be a manifestation of his enlightenment. How do you say? They are ‘right luck’?”
Helen dropped the bones on the ground.
Ho Tung waved his arms, motioning to Helen as he talked. “Keep. Brings right luck.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on,” Darrow said. “You don’t believe this hocus-pocus?”
Linh shook his head. “Right luck. Some women come here to pray because they want children. Or they have only daughters. Others come for forgetting.”
“Forgetting?” Helen asked.
“Their sorrows. If they grieve so much they cannot bear the land of the living.”
She stared at Linh, and he met her eyes. “I’ll wait at the boats,” he said.
“Me, too,” Helen said. The mood broken, the small island now seemed gloomy and claustrophobic.
“No temple?” Darrow shook his head. “You two are no fun.”
Helen swept the bones under a bush with her boot. She stood and dusted herself off. Ho Tung knelt with his hands together in mudra and chanted under his breath.
As if he had been waiting behind a tree for just this moment, an orange-clad monk stepped out into the middle of the path and bowed to them. Linh came back and talked at length with him.
“This is the hermit monk of the island,” Linh translated. “He invites us to tea.”
They sat in the small temple that was no more than branches strung loosely together overhead. The monk stirred twigs and placed his iron teapot over them, looking at the foreigners sideways, giggling.
“He says he has never seen white faces before. He asks why you are here.”
Darrow shrugged. “The war. Tell him we’re photographers.”
“Who would want such pictures?”
Darrow chuckled.
“He asked, ‘Which war?’ ”
A pause. “Between the North and South.”
“He says there is always war, but why are the Westerners fighting Vietnamese war?”
“To give freedom.”
The monk shook his head, rubbed his hands over his stubbled scalp. He talked rapidly to Linh, gesturing, then laughing. “That makes no sense. Why die for Vietnamese?”
“Tell him… it’s complicated. Tell him it’s geopolitics, the movement of Communism, the domino theory of the fall of Southeast Asia…”
The monk stood up and yawned, moved off to a tree, and relieved himself against it. Linh laughed. “He says your words mean as little as his piss does to this tree.”
Darrow blinked and then laughed, and the monk laughed louder, till he was red in the face, and came back to sit down.
“We’re making bigger and bigger mistakes because we can’t admit we made the first one. We can’t lose a war to a small Asian country.”
The monk giggled and covered his mouth. “But you’ll have to fight till every last Vietnam man is gone.”
Darrow looked at the ground and nodded. “The first wise man I’ve met.” The monk shook his head and poured tea.
