Part 19 (1/2)

Monsoon showers came, and with it the percussion of water against the broad leaves of banana and rubber trees that lined the paths of the village. The heavy earth smell of rain. Drops pummeled against the thatched roof; rivulets curled down the inside corners of the walls.

In the afternoons they would lie in the darkness of their hut under the mosquito netting, wearing the thinnest of clothing, drenched in sweat. Darrow tracing a lazy finger along the damp of Helen's inner arm, her neck, down between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, along the hollow of her stomach.

”I'm taking you to Switzerland.”

”Really? Why Switzerland?” she whispered, reluctant to break the moment with her voice.

”To a small inn on the tallest mountain. Dufourspitze. So high there's snow in summer. We'll burrow under a thick featherbed in front of a roaring fire, and we won't be able to remember we were ever so hot.”

”Let's go now.” A revelation that they could be together somewhere else in the world, somewhere there was no war.

”Soon.”

Helen s.h.i.+fted, aware she had gone too close to the edge, their tacit agreement not to discuss the future. Although she herself didn't exactly want to leave, his hesitation goaded her. ”I'd miss Ngan's cooking. How she tucks us up in the mosquito netting at night. How she listens to us making love each night.” She paused. ”We shouldn't be here, should we?”

”What do you mean?”

”In this country.”

”No.”

”Then why do we stay?”

”We want to know the end of the story.”

”How will our story end, you think?”

Darrow frowned. ”I was in Eastern Europe, covering the Hungarians who were fleeing their country before the Communists took over.

”At night it was below freezing, and Russians with machine guns patrolled the borderland. It's flat farmland out there, no landmarks. People got lost crossing the fields in the dark, walking for hours in circles, getting caught or dying of exposure. So the Austrian farmers on the other side of the border started building these bonfires in their fields that could be seen for miles. Night after night, until they had to burn up their crops to keep it going. If people could get far enough to spot the fires, they had a chance.

”At the time building those fires seemed like the best thing you could be doing in the world. Shedding a little light. Being there I felt my life was bigger than it had been before.”

Evenings, Ho Tung would invite Darrow to join the village men. They'd sit in invite Darrow to join the village men. They'd sit in the communal house in the center of the hamlet to drink beer.

Helen tried to read by lamplight, but she found it impossible to concentrate on the words of the page, so abstract and distant compared to the moonlight through the trees outside or the thick sweetness of grapefruit and frangipani blossoms. She closed her book, blew out the lamp, and gazed into the night sky. Words superfluous. She had reached a point of absolute stillness in her life, empty of wanting. Nothing could be added that would not unbalance the perfection of the present.

She fretted over Darrow's words because she halfway believed them. The picture of Captain Tong had created headlines. It had opened eyes, made the old man's death not in vain. In Darrow's words, it had made her feel her life was bigger, more important than before. But to repeat that, Helen would have to be willing to go out again and again on missions. She longed to be in that chalet in Switzerland, almost willing to turn her back on the Captain Tongs of the world for it. What was wrong with a small, selfish life?

Ngan came in on the nights that Helen was alone, bringing a bowl of scented the nights that Helen was alone, bringing a bowl of scented water and a towel, insisting on sponging her down. When Helen at first refused, Ngan sulked until she reluctantly agreed.

The girl, only twenty, was already a widow with a small boy of two. She had bright, clear eyes and a high forehead, and Helen thought her quite pretty.

”Ngan, why no boyfriend?”

She giggled, squeezed water out of the sponge, let it run along Helen's arm. ”No one interested.”

”That's not what I hear.” The other women in the village gossiped that a certain middle-aged farmer had proposed and been refused.

”Minh?” Ngan shuddered. ”I study in Saigon one year. I want to be teacher. I learn more English.”

”But no boyfriend?”

Ngan frowned, turned Helen onto her stomach, and made long strokes along her back. ”Not farmer's wife. I go back to Saigon, back to study for teacher.”

”No Minh?”

Ngan laid her head on Helen's back. ”He is old and ugly. Smells like buffalo,” she whispered, giggling, and Helen laughed.

”You want a young, handsome man?” She could feel Ngan's head nodding on her back.

”A good man, like your husband.”

Helen did not correct her. ”There's no one you like?”

”Linh.”

Helen was silent for a moment. ”Oh.”

”His wife die. No family. No children.”

Helen pulled the sheet around her and sat up. ”He told you this?”

Ngan smiled and nodded. She stood up to throw the contents of the bowl outside in the bushes. ”No woman friends, either. Very proper.”

Helen feigned a yawn. ”I'll go to sleep now.”

The girl left the room, but not before Helen took new note of the straightness of her back, the small and delicate curve of her feet.

Alone, her breath slow and deep, she meditated on the tragedy of Linh's family. and deep, she meditated on the tragedy of Linh's family.

If one's meaning came from being a brick in the wall, what did it mean to have no one?

To be unmoored? What did it mean in Vietnam not to be part of any family? Was that the answer to the sadness she sensed in him? The answer to his devotion to Darrow? Half asleep, she waited to hear Darrow's footsteps, waited for him to take off his clothes, to part the white netting surrounding their bed and close the folds behind him, for his lips to find her. A husband in every way that mattered.

Perfect stillness and perfect communion, and yet she struggled to stay in the present of her happiness, thoughts returning again and again to the puzzle of Linh. Of course, there was what had happened with the convoy in Pleiku. She probed that like a sore tooth, testing the impact of her mistake. But also, this news from Ngan. Was it true that he had lost family? What of Darrow's sanguine att.i.tude to his possibly being a spy?

Where had he gone off to now while she was camping out in this village backwater?

Darrow. She suspected that even if she closed her eyes to the evils of the Captain Tongs of the world to live her insulated happiness in a chalet in Switzerland, it was a fool's choice because Darrow had already decided long before he met her.

The wariness of the villagers grew to friendliness--Darrow and Helen enfolded villagers grew to friendliness--Darrow and Helen enfolded within the life of the village. Grain by grain, Helen's restlessness fell away; she became part of Linh's brick wall. A madness to consider going back into battle. But as Darrow's arm strengthened, she noted he again listened to AFVN on the radio and read what ever newspapers he could cadge from the USAID compound.

Each morning and evening, Helen joined the women to bathe in the river, in an area upstream of the hamlet part.i.tioned off with cotton sheets. The women disrobed under the soft greenish light filtered through trees leaning over the bank. They slowly soaped while talking, the beautiful smooth bodies of the teenage girls next to the sinewy dark limbs of the old women. Many of the married women stood with jutting bellies while they nursed babies at their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Ngan now kept far from Helen during bathing. The girl had been shy around her ever since their talk, and Helen guessed that she regretted her revelation. Two small girls stood naked in the shallows, was.h.i.+ng themselves while watching Helen. She called to them, but they ran away.

Helen handed out coveted bars of Ivory soap as gifts and created a sensation when she pulled out a razor and sat on a rock to shave her legs.