Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

At first, as Wale speaks, Maggie isn’t listening properly. She’s concerned that Brid will turn up to watch, and that by making comments she’ll ruin the whole thing. Maggie keeps an eye out for her while worrying over the composition, the changing light, the angle of the next shot. It’s only when he breaks off that he draws her full attention.

“What is it?” she asks. “Don’t stop, you’re doing great.”

“I’m talking to a machine. I want to talk to you.”

“Oh. Okay.” A part of her can’t bear the thought of just sitting there, but when they start again, she tries to react visibly to his words. Then she begins to hear what he’s saying about the war, about killing women and nine-year-old boys, and she grows more certain that she doesn’t want to listen. To distract herself, she fiddles with the zoom, trying to concentrate on matters of technique. When he speaks about how the Vietnamese treat dying, though, she bursts out, “You can’t really think that.”

A moment later he has his head in his hands and the cartridge has run out. For a second she wonders whether she should go to him or reload. Then she’s putting her arms around him, but it feels like a mistake. Not knowing what else to do, she keeps holding him and finds herself taking the measure of his back, his different scent, comparing his muscular torso with Fletcher’s lanky one. There’s something wrong with her. She isn’t a good person.

“I don’t think we should film any more,” she tells him.

“No, it’s all right.” For a while they sit there hanging their heads. There are distant voices that sound like Pauline and Brid in the orchard. “Come on,” says Wale, pointing to the camera. “Let’s get this over with.”

Reluctantly, but also with relief, she goes back to load a new cartridge.

He talks of his desertion, his capture and escape, his journey to the farm. When he finishes, she turns off the camera, the cassette recorder, and the lamp she has used to light his face, then gathers the cord for the microphone. There are half a dozen cartridges scattered on the floor where she dropped them. She collects them into a paper bag.

“What will you do with those?” he asks, still sitting in his chair.

“Don’t know. What would you like me to do?”

“Whatever you want. I don’t care.”

By herself in the playroom later, as she arranges the cartridges with the others to be dropped off at the Virgil grocery store for development, his question returns. What’s she going to do with them? And not just with them, but with all the reels she has accumulated? Remembering the editing machine that Fletcher bought, she decides she needs to start piecing them together into a longer film before they become too unwieldy.

There’s a certain pleasure at the thought of lodging herself in the playroom with the machine and bringing order to things. Probably Wale would say it’s just another version of her hiding behind the camera. But she remembers his composure while he talked, then his racked body in her arms, and she realizes that if some people hide behind the camera, others hide in front of it.

They travel through mountainous forest, a line of them with Yia Pao and Gordon in the middle, three Lao men ahead of them, and two white men behind. Yia Pao has been blindfolded using a strip of cloth torn from the garments of his son, while Gordon’s eyes are covered by his red bandana. Both men’s clothes are filthy from stumbling and sliding, Gordon’s hands having been bound in front of him while Yia Pao’s hold the child. The baby cries, falls silent, cries again. Their captors seldom speak, and they walk with their eyes on the ground.

As darkness approaches, they reach a place high up where the trees are stunted, the ground cover sparse, and a pair of tents has been pitched next to a campfire circle. The hard-eyed Lao guard removes the captives’ blindfolds; his companion from the riverbank enters one of the tents. After a time it grows luminous, and he returns holding a kerosene lamp that emits a low hiss alongside a stammering light.

The two white men stand off to the side, conferring with each other. One is tall and gawky, a feather poking out from his mane of dirty hair. There are patches of reddish soil on his cheeks that once might have resembled war paint but have since been smeared so that they look like the rouge of a circus clown. The other man is shorter and older, with grey hair cropped to a brush cut. Occasionally he casts a glance at the captives, who stand silent while Xang whimpers in Yia Pao’s arms. The man with the brush cut finally points to Yia Pao and orders him taken away. The Lao men march him into the forest carrying his son.

“Where are they going?” says Gordon.

The man with the brush cut ignores the question. “So you’re a missionary,” he says. His voice has a Southern twang. “Since when did missionaries grab people’s kids?”

“The baby was in danger,” Gordon answers.

“Danger?” says the man, sounding affronted. “It wasn’t the baby that had our money.”

“I don’t know anything about your money.”

“Yeah, you’re innocent as grass,” says the man. “Just like every American over here.” He chuckles, then turns to his gangly companion. “Isn’t that right?”

“Sure, Sal,” says the other man without conviction.

“You aren’t getting out of here unless we say so,” the man called Sal says to Gordon. “You wouldn’t survive the jungle, and nobody’s coming for you. I had a word with the priest before we left the mission. If anybody asks, he’s going to say you and your buddy went to Ban Den Muong. And if we hear he’s been telling people otherwise, we’ll pay him a visit. You understand?” Gordon nods. “Now, you’re going to write a letter. A nice personal one, so people will know we’ve got you and we’re not just making it up.”

“If I write it,” says Gordon, “will you let Yia Pao and his son go?”

Sal punches him in the stomach, and Gordon doubles over. “This isn’t a negotiation,” says Sal.

“I’ll write the letter,” says Gordon, coughing. “I will. But Yia Pao—” He has to take another swallow of air before he can finish. “He doesn’t have your money.”

“Sweet that you’re such good friends,” says Sal. “I might believe you if you hadn’t snatched his kid for him.” He pats Gordon on the back as he coughs again and spits into the dirt. “That hurt? It was just a taste, okay? Remember that.”

He disappears into one of the tents. Gordon straightens while the other man watches, shaking his head as though disappointed with him. After a minute Sal returns with a pen and spiral notebook.

“You got money?” he says to Gordon. “Rich friends? Rich old man?”

“I have debts,” says Gordon. “My mother’s a widow. Missionaries don’t get paid.”

“Well, you better hope the Church ponies up for you.” Sal circles behind Gordon and kicks his feet out from under him, toppling him. Gordon lands with a cry of pain.

“Sit up,” says Sal.

Slowly, Gordon gets himself into a cross-legged position. The Lao men return from the forest without Yia Pao or his son and take up a position on the light’s periphery.

“The baby needs milk,” says Gordon.

“My friends and I need money,” Sal replies.

“If the baby doesn’t get milk, it will die,” Gordon insists.

“If we don’t get our money, you’re all going to die. My friend and I here retired early from the army, so we’re short on our pension.” He drops the notebook and pen into Gordon’s lap. “Don’t be a hero. Just write what I tell you.”

When they’ve finished, Sal gestures for him to be taken away. The third Lao man, older than the guards from the riverbank, steps forward and drags Gordon to his feet, then leads him down a trail to a place in the forest where a narrow pit has been dug. Beside it is a pile of heaped earth. Gordon pulls up short at the sight, and the guard speaks to him sharply in Laotian. Yia Pao’s voice comes from the bottom of the hole.