Tatjana Soli - The Lotus Eaters

That night, as she prepared to take a shower, she noticed the ends of her hair were stiff. When she brought the tips to her nose, they smelled singed. After staying under the shower so long the water ran cold, she came out of the bathroom in her underwear and bra, hair dripping, and sat on the bedspread beside Darrow. He was stretched out, eyes closed.

“You’re dripping on the bedspread,” he said.

“I don’t care.”

He opened his eyes. “Let’s see Lan tomorrow.”

Helen bent her head down. How could she admit what she felt all afternoon coming home? Still as clear as after they lifted off from that beach-the photograph wasn’t enough. Helped no one. Soldiers still died, civilians suffered, nothing alleviated in the smallest amount by the fact that a shutter had opened and shut, that light had struck grains on emulsion, that patterns of light and dark would preserve their misery. No defense at all against the evil that had been perpetrated. Out on the beach that day, it had all been failure. Even the best picture would be forgotten, the page flipped.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Helen whispered, apologizing to the pillow, unable to meet his eyes.

Darrow covered her body with his. “That’s the first thing that goes. Belief. You’re better off without it.”

Hard facts were difficult to come by-twisted and manipulated by each mouth they passed through according to need or whim. Buried deep in newspapers or government reports, perceived facts had no effect on truth. Rumor, though, caught fire, flew as fast as the events themselves. Lived on in the minds of the listeners, haunting them.

They had been back in Saigon only hours when the first stories about Molina’s company began to circulate.

The official version was that a female VC climbed out of a tunnel and opened fire with an AK-47 on the soldiers, although no weapon or bullets were found, although after the initial attack, not a single American soldier was killed or even wounded by bullets.

Another version was that a village woman who had witnessed her husband gunned down on the beach below pulled out an old French-made hand revolver. Was it to kill herself or to kill the Americans? The soldiers panicked, opened fire, killing all the fleeing women and children. Later, said revolver was examined and found to be rusted out and empty of bullets.

Another, darker story was that Molina cracked, frustrated by the casualties and the defiance of the women, and ordered the soldiers to fire on them. The next day, on patrol, Molina walked point and stepped on a Claymore, killed, neatly ending any interrogation.

Whatever the truth, Tanner made the front page of a dozen newspapers documenting it. His pictures backed up military claims that VC and VC sympathizers had been gunned down in battle. Darrow threw the paper across the room.

“You couldn’t have stopped it,” Helen said.

“It doesn’t matter. I should have… been doing my job, not-”

“Babysitting me?”

“I was distracted. I can’t afford to be.”

The battles dragged on. Tay Ninh turned into Bong Son, which turned into An Thi.

At night, Darrow edged closer to Helen in the dark of the bedroom, the wind through the leaves of the flamboyant lulling like the sound of the ocean.

“What do you say, Helen, we delay leaving till next month. Get up to the DMZ one more time. I’ve heard things are going on in Qui Nhon and in the A Shau.”

Nothing.

“California will still be there a few months from now, huh? We’ll go with a few more covers under our belt.”

Later, Helen often thought about why she remained silent. Their love a riddle she couldn’t explain, only that Darrow coming of his own volition was the only way. Otherwise, she would be forcing him; unbearable, especially when it was obvious to everyone that she had lost the stomach for the work while he was so clearly born to it.

So he pretended he would leave, and she pretended that she believed him, and each knew the other was telling an untruth.

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.”