September 1991
‘Perhaps everyone who reports on war is in part sating their own dark curiosities. I know I will return soon.’
Askold Krushelnycky, war correspondent
They were having a cook-out next door and playing soft rock on a radio. Webb and Jenny sat on the deck, nose to nose like gladiators, a bowl of green chilies on the patio table between them. Webb had just beaten his all-time record of five, but Jenny showed no sign of breaking under this pressure. Sweat ran down Webb’s face.
‘This time let’s make it interesting,’ she said. ‘Two at once.’
Webb got up and ran inside to get iced water from the refrigerator.
‘Wimp!’
When he came back his eyes were red. He had just drunk three glasses of water and he was chewing on a piece of dry bread. She had told him the bread was more effective than the water in putting out chili fires.
‘You know what I said about being pleased you came up for the weekend,’ he said. ‘I lied.’
She laughed again. ‘No way you’re ever going to win. Vietnamese mothers give their babies chilies instead of dummies.’
‘Another lie.’
‘At work they believe it.’
‘How is work?’
‘Frustrating. Do they give out Pulitzers for court reporting?’
‘Only if the court is the Supreme Court and the plaintiff is the President.’
‘I might as well be invisible. How am I going to get anywhere writing about men masturbating in Central Park?’
‘Philip Roth did okay out of it.’
She made a face. Very funny. ‘Seriously.’
‘I did my apprenticeship with a provincial newspaper where the fifth anniversary of a fire at the church hall warranted a color supplement.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I went to Vietnam.’
‘Maybe I would like to go to Vietnam.’
He went inside to check on lunch. In honor of Jenny’s weekend visit he had cooked two fillets of swordfish on the barbecue, and prepared noodles, green salad, roasted peanuts and a sauce made from nuoc mam, lemon and oil.
She helped him carry the plates out on to the deck.
‘If you went back to Vietnam what would you do? Discover your roots?’
‘All my roots got pulled up. I don’t know. Maybe it would just be good for me to see the place where I was born. Through adult eyes.’
Uh-huh.’
‘And there’s my father. I’ve been thinking a lot about him, lately. I was wondering if I might be able to track him down.’
Webb took the fish off the hot plate and brought it to the table. ‘Ladies first,’ he said, handing her the serving forks and poured more wine.
‘I’m waiting,’ she said, after she had filled her plate.
‘What would you do - if you did find him?’
‘Sometimes I think I’d like to kill him. I’m joking. Don’t look at me like that.’
‘It would be pretty hard to find him after all these years. Is it that important?’
‘To me it is.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s things I’d like to ask him.’
‘You start,’ he said, and drank his wine, gave himself time to think. Well this had come out of nowhere. How could he tell her, after all this time, that he had known - or suspected - who her father was all along?
He wondered where Ryan was these days. He had followed his progress in newspapers and magazines through Afghanistan, Lebanon, and the Gulf War. The last dateline had been somewhere in Yugoslavia.
‘I’d think it would be just about impossible to find him after all this time. Where would you start?’
She selected a piece of fish with her chopsticks, held it poised between the plate and her mouth. ‘Sometimes I thought you might be my father.’
He looked at her in amazement. ‘Me? Why?’
‘I don’t know. A feeling. Some of the things you’ve said.’
‘What things?’
She shrugged her shoulders, without answering, and tasted the fish. She closed her eyes. ‘Not bad.’
‘Would it make any difference if I was your father?’
‘Yeah it would make every kind of difference.’
He had always known this day would come while somehow hoping that it wouldn’t. He had read somewhere that the concentration camp survivors who had coped best after liberation were the ones who had blocked out the past, pretended none of it had ever happened. ‘I don’t know if there’s much to be gained by digging up the past.’
‘You never had a past like mine.’
‘True. Well, personally, I wouldn’t know where to start. But I’ll help you out any way I can, if you decide to go ahead.’ Time to change the subject. ‘Are you still going out with, what was that guy’s name, the one with the ring through his nose?’
‘Enzo.’
‘That his real name?’
‘He’s Italian.’
‘Tell me, what does he do if he gets a head cold. I mean, how does he wipe ... ?’
‘You are so retro.’
‘Is he dealing drugs?’
‘Why, do you want some?’
‘He looks like a substance abuser, okay?’
‘Of course, you never touched drugs when you were my age.’
‘That was different.’
‘Of course it was.’
‘We know better these days.’
‘Meaning you’ve had your fun.’
‘Don’t you ever get sick of winning arguments?’
‘Never.’ She had moved out several months before, now had an apartment with three other street smart young women in Tribeca, out there with the rest of her trendy crowd. ‘So what were you doing when you were my age?’
‘I was taking photographs of church fetes and scout jamborees.’
‘You were in Vietnam reporting on a war.’
‘Not until I was an old man of twenty-two.’
‘Maybe that’s what I should be doing. It would keep me out of trouble.’
‘Don’t even joke about it.’
‘Another sexist remark. I can’t believe you came from the same generation as Jane Fonda.’
‘Please don’t mention me and her in the same breath, there’s a good girl.’
‘Now you’re being patronizing. You need a woman to straighten you out.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘What about that woman down the road, the one who always comes round here in a lycra suit pretending she’s just come from aerobics classes? The one reeking of Chanel instead of sweat?’
‘She tries too hard.’
‘You have to stop playing so hard to get. It’s about time you settled down.’
‘I’m a writer. I’m supposed to be Bohemian.’
‘You need someone to take care of you now I’m not around.’
‘I’m forty-three years old. I think I can look after myself by now.’
‘Look, I found a grey hair.’
‘Don’t pull it out! It makes me look distinguished.’
‘You’re going to need someone to wheel you around on Sundays. I can’t be around forever.’
‘I’ll get by.’ It was a joke, of course. But the way she said it, he realized later it should have been a clue to what she was planning.
* * *
The woman pulled the Pinto to the side of the road. She could see the cottage from here, and the open redwood deck; she saw a man sitting out on the deck with a young Asian girl. She checked the mailbox again. It was the right house: Webb.
She studied her reflection in the rear-vision mirror. Not bad, considering everything. But she couldn’t compete with a twenty-something. What was it with middle-aged men and teenagers?
Perhaps this isn’t such a hot idea.
She had not seen him in eight, nine years. There had been occasional letters and phone calls, but that was different to showing up on his porch unannounced wearing French perfume. What arrogance. He had his ow
n life now, and it looked as if he was doing well at it.
She turned the car around and drove away.
Chapter 63
Webb was lunching with his editor in the Union Street café when he saw Crosby. He stopped on the way to his table to shake hands. ‘Hugh! Haven’t seen you for years. How are things?’
‘I’m fine. Good to see you, Croz.’
‘Good to see you too, man.’
Webb introduced his editor. ‘Croz, this is Peter Crawford. He’s my editor at Putnam. Pete, this is Dave Crosby. I’ve mentioned him a few times in my books.’
The two men shook hands. ‘Right. I feel like I know you,’ Crawford said, with a practiced smile. Crawford was a good editor, and he knew what books, but he thought Webb and his fellow correspondents were all certifiable, had even said so once after one too many spritzers at a book launch.
Crosby turned back to Webb. ‘I’ve seen your stuff around. You must be doing okay.’
‘I almost earned out a couple of advances. What about you? Are you limping?’
‘Piece of shrapnel in my knee. Vukovar. Been covering the Balkan shit for IPA. They airlifted me out to get it fixed, thought while I was here I’d get myself a decent lunch. I’ve been hanging out for calamari. They’re all out over there.’ He lowered his voice. ‘That is a bad, bad scene. You imagine the Middle Ages with rocket-propelled grenades and you have some idea.’
‘I’m glad I’m out of it.’
‘I was with this new kid, a freelancer. He had been there one day. One day. I took him around, showing him the ropes, you know. He’s fifty feet away from me in the street, taking a photograph, there’s a thump, and that’s it. Mortar round, blew his fucken head off. His first day.'
‘I can’t believe you’re still doing that stuff.’
‘Someone has to.’ He smiled, realized he was getting intense. ‘Enough of that shit, tell me where famous authors live these days.’
‘I’m out on Long Island. Lincoln Cove.’
‘Guess you’re the local celebrity.’
‘There’s a few writers out there.’
‘You’re being modest. You’d better give me your address.’
‘I’m in the phone book. Only one of me in Lincoln.’
‘I’ll give you a call. Hey, guess who I saw the other day. Remember Sean’s ex? Mickey something.’
‘Mickey van Himst,’ Webb said, and he felt something clutch at his chest.
‘She’s living here now. I saw her over in the West Village. We talked for a while, you know. She’s nursing at some swank hospital on the Upper West Side. Looking real good.’
Webb wanted to ask him which hospital. Instead he said: ‘Seen any of the other guys?’
‘I saw Ryan in Zagreb.’
‘How is he?’
‘You know Ryan. Still the same. Look, I’d better get back.’ He indicated a table of four men on the other side of the restaurant. ‘IPA people. I’m trying to persuade them to send me back to Bosnia. I think they’re worried this metal in my leg will slow me down.’
‘Take it easy, Croz.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
He headed off through the crowded restaurant and Webb talked some more about his next book with his editor, and tried to forget that Mickey was probably just a couple of miles across town. No, he told himself again, that part of your life is over. You can’t ever go back.
* * *
A faint breeze stirred the leaves of the crab apple tree at the bottom of the garden. Webb stared at it. He had barely typed a word since lunch. He was working on a new book called Apple, a social commentary on the history of New York, but it wasn’t coming together. Perhaps that was because he was just doing it for the money.
He took his coffee to the window, sat down on the window-seat. He closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face. Words had poured out of him those first few years; Goodnight, Saigon and Voices from America had both sold well, and his third, Deception, about American politics in Central America, had been a bestseller and made him something of a champion among American liberals. He had followed that with The Fall in Spring, about the last days of Saigon, and had written four others, about Indochina and the Middle East, using as a resource the hundreds of notebooks he had kept from his days with IPA. But now what he had once thought was a bottomless well of was running dry.
He had run out of things to say.
The phone rang. ‘Webb.’
‘Hugh?’
For a moment he couldn’t find his voice. ‘Mickey?’
‘How’s things?’
‘I’m fine.’ He had looked up her number in the directory, once he had almost called her. ‘Where are you calling from?’
‘I’m back in New York.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve got an apartment in the West Village.’
‘You always liked living in the jungle.’
She laughed at that. ‘I was hoping we could catch up. You want to do lunch?’
‘Sure, I’d like that.’
Her voice faltered. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘How about tomorrow?’
‘Sure. There’s a little place near here we can go. I’ll book.’
‘Okay. I’ll get the train into Grand Central and take a cab. I’ll swing by your apartment about twelve. How’s that?’
‘Sounds good.’
She gave him the address and he scribbled it down on a pad. ‘It’s good to hear your voice again, Mickey.’
After he hung up he went back to his desk, stared at the computer screen. Well, so much for Apple. He guessed that would be about as much work as he would be able to handle for the day.
He had always promised himself he wouldn’t do this. But hell, she had called him. He could hardly refuse. They would have some gnocchi and a couple of glasses of wine and that would be that. No need to get nervous about it.
He shut off the screen, went downstairs and poured a whisky.
Chapter 64
The fashion among the latest Manhattan restaurants was to suffix their names with an exclamation mark. This one was called REVOLUCION! The white adobe walls were pasted with memorabilia collected from South and Central American countries: crudely printed leaflets of the Missing like the ones handed out by the mothers of the disappeared in Buenos Aires; framed photographs of Galtieri and Romero and Allende in the attitudes of movie stars; revolutionary pamphlets collected from Peru, El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Brazil. Revolutionary graffiti, spray-painted in Spanish, filled the empty spaces.
The waiter led them to a paved courtyard at the rear and a handful of tables surrounding a fake marble fountain.
‘Are you making a statement here?’ he said.
‘I thought it was kind of appropriate. The food’s really good too.’
‘If they’ve got vampire bats on the menu I’m out of here.’
‘No bats, but they do breed a very special kind of malarial mosquito in the fountain over there.’
She smiled at him. The years had been kind to her; they had smoothed out the sharper angles, and there was a poise about her that had not been there before. She wore an apricot loose-fitting jersey over a black cotton skirt and leather pumps. Her hair was cut shorter, and streaked with blond tips. She even looked relaxed.
A waiter approached with the wine list. Webb looked at her.
‘I’m sticking with yuppie juice,’ she said, and pointed to the Perrier water.
‘I’ll do the same,’ he said.
After he left, they just stared at each other. ‘So,’ she said eventually.
‘So.’
‘How have things been with you?’
‘Fine.’
‘A celebrity author these days.’
‘Doing the P.J. O’Rourke thing.’
‘I saw you on the talk shows a couple of times when I was in San Diego. You’re a big shot now.’
He grinned. ‘I’m a little-shot with pretensions to grandeur.’
‘Working on another be
stseller?’
‘And working on a mid-life crisis at the same time. Busier than a one-armed paper hanger, as Sean would have said.’
The mention of Sean brought a chill to the conversation. The waiter brought their Perriers. She studied hers with the sort of passion she might once have reserved for pure vodka. ‘Have you heard from him?’ she asked.
‘No. You?’
‘We got officially divorced about five years ago. End of story.’
‘Suddenly there’s a draught,’ he said.
She gave him a wan smile. ‘He was not really the problem but he certainly was not part of the solution.’
‘Well, you look like you’re over it,’ he said. And she did; nails perfectly manicured where once they were bitten down; make-up, expensive perfume, no stray ends of hair in her face. She was sure taking better care of herself these days.
‘What are you staring at?’
‘You.’
‘Counting the wrinkles.’
‘I was just thinking how beautiful you’re looking.’
‘Thank you.’ The old Mickey would probably have thrown an old wound dressing at him, he thought.
‘How did we get on to me? We were talking about you.’
‘Were we?’
‘Your books.’
‘There’s not much else to tell. I live on Long Island in a little cottage in Lincoln Cove, where I spend the days pining for lost loves.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic. And I’d hardly call it a cottage.’
His eyebrow arched in surprise.
She clearly hadn’t meant to let that slip. She looked down at the tablecloth, flustered. ‘I was out your way last weekend. I was going to look in.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘You had company.’
It look a moment for Webb to realize what she was talking about. ‘You actually got that close?’
‘You can see the deck from the road. I didn’t want to interrupt anything.’
‘Interrupt anything?’
She gave him a look. ‘You had a girl with you.’
‘Little young for me, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t that close.’
‘She’s twenty years old and she’s a rookie journalist at the New York Times.’
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