Days passed, each a lure that Darrow went out and followed; Helen again took the human- interest assignments she had previously scorned. The radius of her pursuits circling tighter and tighter, with the apartment in Cholon eventually the only place she was absolutely at ease.
Robert threw his “Light at the End of My Tunnel” party at the broken-down Hotel Royale. The restaurant and bar were colonial-period shabby, in keeping with the party’s theme. Robert walked through the palm-lined lobby in the white wool uniform and pith helmet of a French military commander. People overflowed the lobby, standing on the steps and out on the sidewalk, sipping champagne while a band played fox-trots and tangos in the overhead ballroom. A street boy, small and fast, reached his hand up like a periscope over the platters, stuffing his mouth with what ever he grabbed before it could be taken away. A crippled war veteran leaned against the building, his left leg missing, and sipped at a glass of champagne someone had handed him.
In the cab going over, Darrow hummed show tunes. Helen had borrowed a long, cream-colored gown with a large black silk rose pinned at the chest. “Nice,” he said, uninterested. He had reluctantly put a suit on, and he sat in the backseat of the small car, knees to his chest, looking crushed and miserable.
They walked up the steps to where Robert stood in the doorway. “The luckiest man in Vietnam,” Robert shouted and raised his glass. “Beware, I might try to steal her away to night.”
Darrow smiled a strained, polite smile. “Do it while I get drinks,” he said, and made a quick escape into the crowd.
“As cheerful as always,” Robert said.
“He’s tired.”
More and more people arrived, cars jamming traffic for a block all around.
“How many people did you invite?”
“Oh, five hundred, give or take. Everyone I’ve ever met in this country. But I don’t recognize half the faces here, so I think it’s taken on a life of its own. Appropriate for a war with a life of its own.”
Annick had been right-she had underestimated him. “You’re leaving in style.”
“Leave with me.”
Helen smiled and looked down. For a moment she thought he mocked her, but he understood how shabby her situation was. Besides, there was no sport in it, like shooting fish in a barrel. “Is Annick here?”
“With her new beau. She’s not one to hold a grudge, especially at the mention of a party.”
“No, she isn’t. That’s part of her loveliness.”
“Such a pretty dress and such a sad face.” Robert drew himself up and put his hand across his chest. “Marry me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“That’s right. That’s the way men like me screw up the courage to ask for what they want. After the fact, when it’s too late.”
“It is too late, isn’t it?” She bit her lip. “You’d fall down dead if I accepted.”
Robert burst out laughing and drank down his glass. “Of course I would. That’s what’s so delicious about you. You think like a man. No, I need a sweet, marrying type who loves me and stays out of war zones.”
“That’s not me,” Helen said, smiling, stung by his words. “What’re you going to do with all of that peace?”
Robert shook his head. “I’m more in love the more you pull away.”
Darrow walked between them, balancing three full champagne glasses. “Who’s pulling away?”
“I am, if I’m lucky. All I care about is my departure time,” Robert said. He winked at her and poked his finger at Darrow’s chest. “You know what they say-‘Old reporters don’t fade away, they transfer to lesser bureaus.’ ”
“Don’t give me that. Los Angeles is a kick up.”
Robert drank down his glass in one gulp. “Not if you want to be where the action is. Not if you consider the work a calling.” His sudden earnestness made all three fall silent. Although it was obvious Darrow didn’t think much of him, Robert respected and disliked the man in equal mea sure.
Darrow shrugged. “Say no.”
“Oh, baby, that’s where you and I differ. I’m twenty-nine months, five days too long in this hellhole.” The one thing Robert knew for sure was Darrow’s stringing Helen along was shameful.
“We’re leaving soon.” Darrow looked down at his feet.
Robert raised his eyebrows and looked from him to Helen. She seemed equally surprised. “That’s great. Really. I’m two hundred bucks poorer, but what the hell.”
“You bet on us?” Helen said. “Against us?”
“I’m a reporter. I took the odds.”
Helen wandered the dining room and found Annick at a table of Americans from the embassy. A large, beefy-faced guy with curly black hair protested as Helen pulled her away to the bar to have a drink alone.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Annick looked back at the man, who never took his eyes off her. “Two champagnes.”
“How long have you been seeing this one?”
“This one is the one.”
“You said that last time. Isn’t it bad form to bring him to Robert’s party?” Annick wore a long, beaded red gown that sparkled as she moved. Now she pushed away from the bar and began to sway to the music. “Look around. All the good men are either leaving or dying. What difference can it possibly make?”
“What if you end up alone?”
“I was married and ended up alone. Everyone leaves. Robert, Sam, and you. It makes me too sad.”
“Then find someone.”
Annick turned a tough, appraising look on her; the businesswoman face at the shop was the real her. “You count on the future too much. Tonight, just dance.”
“Go get your beau.” Helen laughed, pointing to the man at the table, his lips pressed together in a frown.
“He hates to dance. And he’s jealous. If I dance with another man, it will be a bad night.”
“Then let’s you and me,” Helen said, pulling her toward the dance floor.
“You’re fou. Crazy.”
“Now you’ve convinced me.”
Out on the dance floor, the two women danced to cheers from the surrounding tables. Helen led, and they both stumbled, doubled over laughing so they could hardly stand. Slowly they worked out the rhythm for a box step.
Helen floated to the music, her mind on the silly spectacle of herself and Annick, a huge surge of relief not to worry and want. She was glad she hadn’t drunk much champagne, that this was pure joy she felt. As Annick spun in a circle away from her, sparkling, Helen thought she was perhaps right, this was the only possible escape from the war.
The first sign something was wrong: the band coming to a ragged stop, stranding the dancers on the floor. Angry yells. Helen recognized Darrow’s voice. As she made her way through the crowd, she saw Tanner first but could not make out his words. Darrow stood quietly across from him while Robert stepped between the men, trying to lead Tanner away. Instead, he jerked out of Robert’s grip, lurching forward and again saying something she couldn’t hear.
Darrow made a single forward motion, right fist connecting with Tanner’s face, knocking him onto his back. Cartoonish. Uncertain laughs came from the crowd, and Helen saw a smear of blood under Tanner’s nose as he shook his head. He sat relaxed on the floor, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief someone handed him. When he spoke, his voice was low and reasonable, as if he were discussing politics over brandy.
“Screw you, Darrow… just as dead with or without my pictures.”
“My problem is you.”
