As they approached, Darrow stretched his arms over his head, smiling at them even as he cast a troubled glance down the beach. All Linh could see was the radiance of Helen’s face as she gazed at Darrow.
“I only have that fierce will for those I love,” she said under her breath to Linh. “I need to get him away from here.”
Years later Linh would wish that there had been some sign that this moment was the perfect one, balanced on the edge of changing, that the three of them would never again be together and as happy as they were then. But even if he had known, how did one hold time? Instead, there was a shout from one of the crewmen: “Ice cream!” and Helen grabbed Linh’s hand as they hurried through the white powdery sand, stumbling, laughing, blind.
The three of them returned to the war that had brought them together, but the war itself had changed. Saigon with it.
Helen and Linh went out to photograph the refugees crowded into the new slums overwhelming the city. The faces they met were weary-bones pressing against skin, hollow-cheeked, eyes sunken and stony from hardship-looking away, not into the camera. An indication the enemy was winning?
Life in the city remained as schizophrenic as ever: Each night Helen waded through dozens of quickly mimeographed invitations to dinners at posh restaurants and cocktail receptions at the embassies. As the war grew larger, the social life of the city expanded with it. They attended the official functions dutifully, knowing that nothing of interest would come out of it beside the line about winning the war.
Darrow and Helen returned a couple, and they now took their place in the expat life of journalists and adventurers. Many came from ambition, as Darrow had claimed, but just as many came to escape what ever bound them to home-jobs, family, boredom. Media stars mixed with journeymen photographers and freelancers who never took a picture, a movie star’s son, and a Connecticut debutante. American teenagers washed up on the streets, straight out of high school or college dropouts.
They met at all-night parties hosted in dilapidated French villas or in seedy bars scattered through the city. They listened to Cuban music a wire-service stringer supplied; they drank rum and scotch, smoked pot and opium. Most of the men had Vietnamese girlfriends; the few women had a number of men to choose from.
The talk of the parties was about the price of brandy and the availability of hair spray and war; the latest restaurant and nightclub and war; divorces and marriages, war; romances and salaries, war; babies, the danger of the countryside, war; eventually they came back to the bedrock of their existence, the cause of the present Americanized incarnation of Saigon, and it was always war.
But it was her life with Darrow in the crooked apartment behind the Buddha door in Cholon that formed Helen’s true history. What was between them balanced the madness outside.
Darrow and Helen were sent to cover a refugee exodus below the DMZ-a poisonous, sinewy, snakelike stream of old fuming diesel trucks, loaded-down bicycles, carts, wagons, and people. By the time they reached the convoy, a dozen other journalists were already there, including Robert. Then Matt Tanner appeared. Helen had not run into him again since their exchange over the Captain Tong pictures, and she considered that a good thing, and regretted seeing him now.
Tanner walked on, not acknowledging them. Robert shook hands, polite and curious. As soon as he saw them together, he realized he had lost all chance with her.
Darrow and Helen walked alongside the refugees while Linh asked questions. People had evacuated in a panic; there was a shortage of basic supplies. They passed Helen with slow, solemn steps, taking no notice of her camera. Food and water were scarce. Although she was parched, Helen avoided sipping from her canteen, guilty that she had water and at the same time protective, afraid to be mobbed for it.
After the calm of the village, the sheer numbers of people overwhelmed; the scale of the disaster made her feel useless. Dry-mouthed, she licked her lips, tasting salt, growing more thirsty. When an old man collapsed on the side of the road, she stooped down, shielding him from view, and gave him precious mouthfuls of her water, but in seconds a crowd formed, and she had to move on.
The sides of the road, used as both kitchen and toilet, had turned to mud, the stench unbearable. Some of the older villagers so frail every step was a miracle of will. Darrow walked ahead and ran into Tanner and two other photographers circling a young man as he struggled to pull a cart loaded down with belongings. A tiny, aged couple-grandparents?-sitting in the back with three small children in their laps. The young man had taken off his shirt and wrapped it around his head. His ribs were sharp, etched, every muscle and tendon roped with the strain of pulling the cart. Tanner appeared especially bull-like as he towered over him, bending as he angled his camera to capture the young man’s expression.
Darrow jumped forward, pushing Tanner hard in the back so that he braced his hands on the side of the cart to keep from falling. The wood wheels of the cart shuddered and creaked from the sideways thrust.
“What the hell-?”
The young man stopped and put down the stays of the cart. His chest heaved with hard intakes of breath. Indifferent, resigned to what ever would happen next.
Darrow motioned him to the back of the cart and picked up the stays himself and began to pull. The young man’s eyes widened, but he followed the cart, speaking softly to the white-haired couple. The woman turned her arthritic neck to study Darrow’s back.
“What the fuck stunt is this supposed to be?” Tanner screamed. “You lunatic!”
Robert watched the scene unfold. Let Darrow hang himself, but he couldn’t stand Helen’s stricken face. He shook his head. “Go on ahead, Tanner.”
“He’s a goddamned nutcase!”
“Go on!” Robert yelled.
Linh slipped the two neck straps from Darrow’s neck.
“Put them in the cart,” Darrow said. “Go ahead and get some pictures farther up.”
Linh jogged ahead. Darrow’s face tight, jaw quivering. Helen didn’t know what to do, and in her indecision, she walked alongside the cart. A brawl averted, Robert dropped back down the line without a word to either of them. Whatever had gone wrong in Darrow’s head was her problem to deal with now.
For two hours, not a word was spoken. Finally the young man ran up to the front of the cart and tapped Darrow on the shoulder. He pointed to a shady spot under the trees, and Darrow nodded and pulled the cart off the road. The moment he set down the stays, the old couple sprang up and began handing down the children. As the old man washed their faces with the corner of a handkerchief and some water, the old woman unpacked a basket of wrapped banana leaves.
Clenching and unclenching his blistered hands, Darrow stood awkwardly, not knowing how to leave them. What are the boundaries of charity? When started, where does it morally end? His upbringing had been a secular one, but how he longed to have the crutch of faith, even temporarily. Something had exploded inside his head, an anger he thought he had dealt with. The cool thing for us is that when this war’s done, there’s always another one. The placid thought floated in his head that he would have shot Tanner point-blank if given the chance.
Helen came up and, silent, handed him a canteen. Shy with him, knowing he wished she hadn’t witnessed the act. No matter what came next, she had seen underneath the bravado. Deep despair. Does contradiction in the beloved make one love him less or more?
The old man untied a piece of bamboo and opened the banana leaf. Inside was a square of rice. He motioned for Darrow to have it, but Darrow shook his head, fished in his pocket for what ever chance money there was, and handed it over, a fortune of a few twenties, as if in contrition. The man’s face lit up, but already Darrow had slunk away, disappearing up the road.
That evening Linh, Darrow, and Helen sat at a table on the terrace of the Continental. Both of Darrow’s hands were wrapped in gauze, so he cupped his hands to pick up the slick glass of gin and tonic.
“Tell her how great Angkor is,” he insisted.
