A Dangerous Friend

by Ward Just

  They reminded Sydney of adolescent boys in a locker room, taunting one another before they turned on the outsider. The carbine was the rolled-up towel. One of them nudged the woman with his toe but this time she lay still and did not respond. He and his friends moved back into the shadows and resumed their argument. They were shoving each other and talking at once. Violence gathered decibel by decibel. The woman said something in Vietnamese, her words soft and hesitant. She was asking for something but the men paid no attention to her. Whatever she wanted, she would have to wait for it. The one with the carbine was face to face with a black-eyed teenager with a little feathery goatee and a black beret, the goatee doing most of the talking, his hands moving in agitated arcs.

  Sydney stepped forward into the interior of the stall. Along the sides he saw tins of tomatoes wrapped in ammunition bandoliers. There were jerry cans of—he supposed they were filled with water. On the edges of his vision he saw the small boy peeking around the corner of the stall, his eyes wide with—perhaps they were wide with anticipation, perhaps something else.

  What happened here today? Sydney asked, and at his voice, loud in the closeness of the stall, the woman seemed to flinch.

  The one with the carbine answered in Vietnamese, a long, unpleasant sentence, apparently an explanation of some kind. He waved his weapon threateningly. One of his friends seemed to object but was quickly silenced. Then the one with the goatee stepped forward, looking closely at Sydney, at his face and his clothes, his shoes.

  Che gha, he said, followed by a long line of syllables. And again, Che gha, che che che. And finally, American?

  When Sydney said yes—he answered softly, as if he were in a classroom and did not want to call attention to himself—Goatee broke into an approximation of a smile and turned to his friends with a nonchalant movement of his fingers that said, plainly, See? I'm right. But the one with the carbine was not convinced.

  Che gha, Goatee said again.

  And from her pallet at the rear of the stall, the woman said in an infinitely weary drawl, The idiot's asking if you ever met Che Guevara. He thinks that since you're an American and Che's an American you might have met, perhaps at one of the demonstrations at the university. The University of Havana at Miami. He knows that Che is a revolutionary hero in America and speaks often at university rallies and in Washington. He knows you would be sympathetic because you're wearing blue jeans and your hair's over your ears. Perhaps you've heard Che and shaken his hand. And if so, he is wondering what Che is like to meet. And shake hands with.

  Goatee listened to the woman with evident satisfaction.

  Sydney said, Only once, when he addressed the joint session of Congress.

  The woman said, Don't be a fool. I will not translate that.

  What should I say?

  That you have not had the honor. Che is very important to this boy. Do you understand? Che is a god to him.

  I can pretend I met Fidel, Sydney said carelessly, trying to enter into the spirit of the occasion.

  He doesn't know who Fidel is. He knows Che.

  He's probably heard about the women, Sydney said. Che's a true Latin lover. Girls love the beret and the machine gun and the cigar. When she did not respond, he added, What will get them out of here? So that I can get you to the hospital.

  She said a few words to Goatee, smiling as she said them. When she finished she was breathing heavily but Goatee was nodding, apparently satisfied, motioning Sydney forward. There was blood on her clothing but she had ceased to heave and lay now with her face turned to the wall.

  Sydney said, How are you injured?

  I am not injured, she said. She gave a long sigh and added, as if by afterthought, I am having a miscarriage.

  When he approached, she shuddered. The one with the carbine turned to his friends and grunted something, gesturing at the woman. Sydney saw then that she was greatly pregnant. He touched the canteen at his belt and wondered if it was safe to give her water. He knew it was necessary to get her to the army clinic but did not want to leave her alone with these Vietnamese. He heard movement behind him and then silence. When he turned, he saw that the stall was empty. He watched the men hurry across the field, the one with the carbine in the lead, Goatee close behind. The small boy trotted after them. They entered the forest in single file and vanished. He was alone in the stall with the woman, who stirred again, groaning and holding her stomach with both hands. He wondered suddenly about her husband.

  He unhooked the canteen from his belt, having difficulty because his hands were shaking. He had not been frightened while they were there, but he was now that they had gone. He was undone the way anyone is after a near miss. He waited a moment to allow things to settle. Voices came to him from outside the stall, the market resuming its natural life. He supposed he had taken courage from the woman, who had spoken sharply to them, giving nothing away but not allowing them any liberties, either. There was some familiarity in her manner and now he remembered the sly smile that accompanied her words to Goatee, a smile that suggested complicity, even affection. She was injured but stubborn and unafraid, contemptuous almost.

  He said, I have water here.

  She muttered something he could not hear.

  She said, Can you help me?

  He said, The army clinic in Tay Thanh—

  His voice sounded strange, even to himself. She had flinched when she heard it moments before, but seemed calm enough now. He noticed the thin gold chains around her swollen ankles and the gold crucifix at her throat. He wished the priest were there with him. When she moved to look at him, he wet her lips with water. Her eyes were filled with mistrust as she stared at him, moving with difficulty, rising painfully from the pallet. She held her stomach with both hands and stood swaying. When he put his arm around her shoulder she gasped as if all breath had been torn from her lungs, then murmured something through clenched teeth. She said, Slowly please.

  Sydney said, Where is your husband, Mrs. Armand?

  She said, Haven't you caused enough trouble?

  Ten minuses later he returned in the Scout. A crowd had gathered in front of the stall. Two peasant women assisted Dede Armand into the car, laying a blanket so that she could lie down on the cramped rear seat. She was explaining something to the women, who nodded reassuringly. From her pocket she extracted a pencil and paper and wrote a number, her fingers unsteady on the page. She offered the women money but they politely waved it away. She said something that made them smile, then fell back on the seat and closed her eyes, her hands crossed on her belly. Her dress was stiff with blood. She moved then from shadow into sunlight, raising her chin defiantly—and he remembered the woman in the photograph, her long neck and arched upper lip, her freckles and almond eyes, gazing at her husband with the most open affection. She was not at ease but she was very pretty, even in extremis.

  Sydney steered cautiously around the perimeter of the market, the Scout laboring in four-wheel drive. When he drove over ruts in the field he heard her sharp intake of breath. But she did not cry out and did not speak at all until they were out of the field and well along the highway heading to Tay Thanh.

  Not your American clinic, she said at last.

  It's close, he said. It's a good clinic, really, our own doctors and a full pharmacy and operating room—

  No, she said firmly. She needed to go to Saigon and named a private hospital. She gave the street, ninety minutes' driving time if he maintained good speed. She could hold on for ninety minutes, more if necessary. The worst was over now. She was no longer bleeding as she had been and the pain was not so bad. It was tolerable. But God, she said, it was very bad in the market. She woke up feeling queasy. She was stupid to have gone to the market. My own fault, she said. Not that it makes much difference now.

  She was beginning to ramble, and he decided that if she fainted he would take her to the clinic in Tay Thanh whether she liked it or not.

  My doctor is there, she said. He knows me. He will do what he has to d
o. Anyway, I trust him. It's bad to go into something like this with a stranger you don't know or trust. He's a friend of my husband's. They used to play tennis together.

  Try to rest, Sydney said.

  I'm resting, she said.

  I mean sleep.

  It's all a matter of faith in any case. Her voice broke then and she murmured something under her breath, evidently a prayer for she was holding the crucifix next to her cheek. She said, Are you religious?

  He said, No.

  I wasn't until I came here.

  He smiled into the rear-view mirror. No atheists in the foxholes?

  When I became pregnant, she said.

  I'm sorry, he said.

  She was quiet a moment, staring out the window at a pagoda. She said, There were plenty in Winnetka.

  What did they believe in Winnetka?

  She shrugged, still looking out the window. They believe there is safety in numbers. The higher the number, the safer it is.

  Money, he said.

  Not only money, she replied.

  I know about Winnetka. I grew up in Darien.

  There was a country club in Darien.

  Several, he said. But the one you mean is the Abenaki Club.

  Yes, that's it. I used to date a man in Darien. Todd. We'd go to the Saturday night dances. They called them supper dances. Todd used to say, God, it's nice at the Abenaki Club. And it was, too.

  Probably we bumped into each other.

  Probably we did, she said. They were sort of twin cities, Darien and Winnetka.

  I would have said, Excuse me for stepping on your foot. And you would have said, That's all right. And then you would have turned to Todd and whispered, Who's the oaf? And Todd would have said, That's Sydney Parade. Stay away from Sydney. Sydney's bad news. God, it's nice at the Abenaki Club when Sydney's not around. His name was Todd Blanksomething. Blankenwhip, Blanken wheel.

  She said, I've forgotten.

  We had a fight when we were teenagers.

  Keep your eyes on the road.

  And I know what he believes in. He believes that a seven iron gets you from tee to green on the short par three.

  She closed her eyes, still holding the crucifix. A column of Vietnamese soldiers was sprawled along the side of the road, taking a siesta. Their weapons were spilled carelessly around them. Substitute golf bags for weapons and the scene was reminiscent of the caddy shop at Abenaki. Sydney slowed, concentrating on his driving. The road was thick with local traffic.

  I don't know Saigon, he said at last. I mean the streets.

  I know it, she said, her voice strong again. She raised herself on one elbow, looking around at the carts and animals that clogged the road. She described the approach into the city, street names that meant nothing to him. Then she described the hospital, small but efficient and well equipped. French doctors were in charge. The hospital was a few blocks from the Continental Palace Hotel and its world-famous terrace where everyone gathered after work for drinks and intrigue. The hotel was a landmark, sort of like the Paris Ritz. Everyone stayed there.

  You'll have to direct me, Sydney said. And then he added, You're making a mistake, this French hospital.

  Not a mistake, she said.

  American medicine, he began.

  Is no better or worse than French medicine. It's all the same medicine. There's nothing that can be done anyhow. The baby is dead. After a pause she repeated herself, The baby is dead. And I do not know why that should be.

  Where is your husband?

  Claude will be there, she replied quickly. The women at the market will telephone him and he will know where to go. She was silent a moment. He could hear her breathing, shifting position, pulling the blanket more tightly around her. I hope he is there. I cannot bear this alone.

  Sydney attended to his driving. The road had cleared and he was able to accelerate. In the distance he saw the road that would have taken them to the army clinic. The wise move would be to take her there whether she wanted to go or not. But she was very determined, and her husband would be on his way to Saigon.

  You almost got us killed back there, she said. Those boys were nervous. Someone told them a round-eye in blue jeans was in the market and they thought you were Claude, even though Claude has never worn blue jeans in his life. Then, when it was obvious you weren't Claude, they didn't know what to do. They didn't know who you were. They have an idea that the American people support their war. Movie stars do. So there was that interval of—self-criticism. That's what they do when they don't know what to do, criticize themselves in order to find the true path, that is, act correctly. In the end they decided that you were not against them.

  Sydney watched her in the rear-view mirror. The moment she had turned toward him in the stall he had recognized her. But she looked nothing like her photograph now, her face drawn and yellowish in the midday light.

  She said, They have their own discipline. You talked too much and they did not like your tone of voice. But you did not challenge them directly, and that was wise. So thanks for that and for not arguing too much now.

  What were they doing in the market?

  The usual, she said. They argued with the merchants. One thing led to another. They're just peasant boys, really, far from home. They were hungry and demanded rations and money. Someone fired a weapon, I don't know who. You know how these things are. My bad luck that I had come in off my stake for a Coke. They were there, ordering everyone around. So there was shooting and one of them was killed. And the wife of one of the merchants. Everyone began to run and I was knocked down and began to bleed. Gosh, it hurts.

  My clinic is only a few minutes away.

  Don't start that again, she said. Don't be tiresome.

  I'm worried about you, he said.

  Keep driving, she replied.

  He was making what speed he could, using the horn, passing rickshaws and motocyclos. But traffic was heavy again and now he saw an American military convoy ahead; and just then he passed the road to the clinic.

  He said, So they were VC, back there.

  Local cadre, she said. Harmless.

  Harmless?

  Usually harmless. Someone decided to challenge them, and that's always a mistake. Almost always.

  And they knew you and your husband?

  She did not reply to that. He watched her raise her eyebrows as one does at a slow-witted or naive remark. He pulled to the side of the road to allow the convoy to pass, four army trucks with jeep escorts fore and aft. The jeeps were mounted with machine guns, the guns manned by GIs in flak jackets and steel pots. They waved and he waved back. The convoy was traveling much too fast for the condition of the road but that was not his affair. When they were past he started up again, the Scout bucking now in the uneven road. They were almost at Tay Thanh.

  They drove in silence for a time and then she said, I haven't thought about the Abenaki in years. They always had pretty flowers for the dances, and lights in the maple trees.

  They still do.

  Roses and chrysanthemums.

  I don't remember the species, Sydney said.

  I was there once or twice in the summer, making the rounds the year I came out. My roommate and I had our own dances in Winnetka and then we went to Grosse Pointe and Rye and ended up in Darien and Westport. That was the summer of 'fifty-three, all those country clubs before I went off to Smith. I remember dancing outside at Abenaki. You could smell the flowers and the mown grass of the golf course. People would wander onto the fairway with their drinks. Wasn't there a famous occasion when two of them were found sound asleep in a sand trap the next morning? It was a scandal because they were married but not to each other. Probably every club has its own morning-after sand-trap story, not only Abenaki. They were lying in the sand trap with empty glasses, quartered limes in the sand ... She had begun to talk rapidly, her voice losing strength and focus, trailing away.

  I'm better now, she said after a moment.

  It helps me to talk. Was I mak
ing any sense? Tell me when I stop making sense.

  Perfect sense, he said. What happened after the sand trap?

  She said, What are you doing in South Vietnam, Sydney Parade?

  I run one of the aid programs.

  Is that what Llewellyn's outfit does?

  That and other things, Sydney said.

  I know who you are. I know who you work for. You're a brass band in Tay Thanh, making your inquiries about Claude and me. No, I mean why here instead of Latin America or Africa or other places where Americans go to spread the word. What encouraged you to come here? Did you have a marital breakup? So many do. They come here to get away from the missus and the children underfoot. They come here like they used to come to Havana. The girls are cheap and the whiskey's cheap, too. It's hot. And it's better than Havana because your army's here to protect you and you don't have to worry about courts of law, like that dreadful character who ran things in Tay Thanh, Dacy. They were ready to kill him. They would have if he hadn't wised up and gotten out of the district. Claude says he's holed up somewhere in Saigon with a teenage whore. If you're in touch with him, you'd be doing him a favor to tell him to go back to America. Be doing us a favor, too, not to mention the Vietnamese. Where do you get them from, Sydney Parade? Where do you find people like Dacy? Or do you think South Vietnam's like Australia a hundred years ago, a place to dump your incorrigibles.

  She hesitated, trembling, her hand on her forehead.

  She said, Am I still making sense?

  I suppose you are, he said.

  Because I need to rest for a while. Let me know when we pass the airport and I will direct you from there. Better hurry. Her voice wavered as a fresh spasm rippled through her body. But please if you could watch out for the potholes.