Tony Hillerman - Finding Moon

Moon sat, elbows on the tablecloth, looking into a steady tropical rain and into a jungle of tropical flowers, none of which he could identify. The incident with the maître d’ had confirmed a previous Moon conclusion. He must either get this jacket and these slacks to the cleaner and his socks, shirts, and underwear to a laundry, or say to hell with it, face reality, and fly home where it didn’t matter how he looked. The opulence that surrounded him here reinforced another decision. He had to check out of this five-star hotel, whether or not he went home. He couldn’t afford it. If he was going to play out this Don Quixote role to the end, he’d find Ricky’s apartment and move into it until someone told him where to locate the baby. Or until he got sensible and gave up, a conclusion to this affair that had come to seem tremendously appealing.

Victoria Mathias had taught her sons that being late for an appointment was inexcusably rude, an arrogant declaration that you were more important than the one you were meeting. Moon, therefore, tended to be early and thus had become skilled at waiting. He studied the menu, but saw nothing to modify his decision to order bacon and scrambled eggs. Then he unfolded the Philippine Daily Journal he’d picked up in the lobby.

The banner story concerned construction of the Imelda Marcos Children’s Hospital. A headline down the page declared that Pol Pot’s new government in Phnom Penh was establishing a “national program of reeducation” to restore Khmer values to Cambodia. Moon read every word of that. It involved Khmer Rouge troops driving hordes of civilians out of cities and towns into work camps being set up in the countryside. It sounded like a hodgepodge of rumors, mostly incredible. He turned to a follow-up story on President Ford’s request that Congress appropriate more money for weapons for South Vietnam. The writer saw no sign that Ford was twisting arms to get the funds, nor any indication that Congress would agree. From that Moon turned to refugees flee highlands. A photograph of ARVN troops crowding aboard a C-13o, knocking down civilians, accompanied the story. Moon imagined himself caught in such chaos, baby under his arm. Here he was, wasting time. And if Ricky’s child was still in Cambodia, how much time did he have? He put down the Journal and glanced at his watch. In fifty-eight seconds, Mrs. Osa van Winjgaarden would be late, as people usually were.

But when Moon looked up, a woman was walking toward his table.

She was tall, slim, dark, a narrow face, a straight, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and large black eyes, which, when he noticed her, were studying him anxiously. This was not the plump blue-eyed blond Dutch matron the name had led Moon to expect, but she was walking directly toward him. He pushed back his chair and rose.

“Mr. Mathias,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

“Not at all,” Moon said. “In fact, you’re early. I’ve just been reading the paper and waiting for some coffee.” He shook the hand she offered, pulled back her chair, and signaled the waiter.

“I hope you found some good news,” she said. “We could use some good news.” She smiled at him, a rueful smile. “Certainly you could.”

Moon looked surprised.

“I mean your brother’s death. And now your mother being so ill. Mr. Castenada told me of your troubles. I hope she is getting better.”

“Oh,” Moon said. “Thank you. It’s her heart. They’re doing some tests. Maybe they’ve already done them. To tell whether to do bypass surgery. Last time I called I couldn’t reach anyone who seemed to know anything.”

“The time difference,” she said. “You can never reach anyone on the other side of the Pacific. But I want to express my sympathy. Ricky was a wonderful man. And his wife. Eleth was sweet.”

Eleth? Eleth Vinh? Wife? “I really didn’t know her,” Moon said. “We hadn’t met.” He signaled for the waiter again, waited while the coffee was poured, offered this dark woman the cream and sugar, and, when she declined, applied it to his own cup.

“You saw the paper this morning,” she said. “Pol Pot’s mad children are in Phnom Penh. How does that affect your plans?”

Plans? Moon stirred, sipped. “Actually, it doesn’t,” he said. “I haven’t any plans. Only to talk to you and find out what you would tell me. And then I will see if I can find some of Ricky’s friends and see what they know. And if the child is somewhere here in Manila, I will get her and take her home to her grandmother.”

Mrs. van Winjgaarden was looking surprised. “No plans,” she said. Her lips parted slightly as if to speak again. Then closed.

“By the way,” Moon said. “I don’t know how to pronounce your name. Is it Dutch?”

“Dutch, yes,” she said. “One would say ‘wanwingarten.’ But it is hard to say. I think it would be better if you call me Osa.”

“Osa,” Moon said.

She smiled. “Your name is Malcolm, I know. But Ricky always called you Moon. Would it be impertinent to ask?…”

“It’s my nickname,” Moon said. “When I was little they used to have these little things they sold in a cellophane sack. Moon Pies was the name. A round cookie on the bottom, then a layer of marshmallow covered with chocolate. Two of them for a nickel. I always spent all my money on ’em. So they started calling me Moon Pie Mathias. It got shortened to Moon.”

Mrs. van Winjgaarden smiled politely, willing to change the subject. “Mr. Castenada told me that Ricky’s daughter never reached here. You think not so?”

“That’s what he said,” Moon agreed. “But I hope he’s badly informed. Maybe something went wrong with whoever was bringing her. Maybe somebody else completed the trip. Maybe they delivered her to one of Ricky’s friends here. Mr. Castenada didn’t have any recent news.” Even as he was saying it the theory sounded inane. If the child had reached Manila, Castenada’s man checking the flights would have known. If she had been brought in some other way, surely Castenada would know.

Mrs. van Winjgaarden’s expression suggested she thought so too.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I think they would have got in touch with Mr. Castenada. You think not true?”

The waiter spared Moon the need to respond.

Mrs. van Winjgaarden ordered toast and melon, Moon his bacon and eggs. He was trying to match this self-assured woman with the small shy voice he’d heard yesterday on the telephone. The difference of a night’s sleep, he thought. Yesterday’s trip must have been exhausting-getting to Manila from Timor.

“You’re from Timor, I think,” Moon said. “I’m not sure I know where-”

She was smiling at this. “No one ever does.”

Moon realized the smile was wry; the amusement was at herself, at the obscurity of her homeland. Not at his ignorance. He found himself thinking he would like this woman.

“People know it’s an island,” she said. “It’s the last large island in the Indonesian chain. Southeast of Borneo. North of Australia.” She laughed, her expression apologizing to Moon for underestimating his education. “Of course, north of Australia. Everything is north of Australia. Say halfway between Australia and the Celebes.”

“Oh,” Moon said. “Sure.” Pretending to remember, flattered that she’d presume he could place the Celebes.

“But I don’t live on Timor. I was there arranging to buy things. To buy folk art for the export business. I live in Kuala Lumpur.”

“Oh,” Moon said. That’s somewhere in Indonesia too, he thought. Or perhaps the Malay Peninsula.

“And you, of course, are from the United States. I think Ricky said from Colorado.”

“From Colorado,” Moon agreed.