Therefore, she was giving him guilt for his trips to the toilet. So was that pushover Cameron. One evening Eastman decided he would do the dishes with complete vigor. His bowel movement would wait until after the stupid chore. A number of items slipped out of his hands, glasses broke in the sink, some plates cracked. He was no longer complaining or huffing by the sink when Sylvie walked by. Still, she treated him as if he had defiled her youngest daughter.
First, he approached Heimish about the Sylvie situation and Heimish told him to leave it alone. “Just do your work. We all want you here, Alan.”
On one of his afternoon walks, chewing on a tumbleweed, he saw Sylvie out by the grazing cows in the far meadow. He went out to see if he could remedy whatever was ailing her.
He shouted her name from a good distance and she gave him a startled look, then turned away from him, continuing to fiddle with a cow.
“Can I help you with that?” he said.
She ignored him, as if he were an invisible man. He felt quite foolish, wearing a pair of shorts with no shirt on, a piece of tumbleweed in his mouth. Sylvie continued about her business, checking the cow for something as the fine animal grazed.
“Sylvie, it’s come to my attention that you don’t like me very much.”
“Whatever made you come to such a conclusion?”
“The way you walk past me like I’m invisible. The way you scowl and roll your eyes anytime I say something at dinner. And just now, ignoring me when I was calling you.”
“You think a woman should come when you call her?”
“I think someone should respond when their name is called, yes.”
“You think a woman should be doing dishes, is that a woman’s place? While you get fat and drunk with Norman, eat our food, fuck our women, take what you want.”
“You see, this is the kind of thing I’m talking about. You’re doing it again.”
“What is it that you think is wrong with me?” she asked.
“Your attitude, for one. But I’m here to make amends if I’ve wronged you in some way, because you’re my friend’s girl. And I’m your guest.”
“I’m no one’s girl, you pig shit. I’m a woman of forty, is that a girl in your stupid head?”
“C’mon, don’t be such a cunt. I’m trying to appease the situation.”
“How dare you.”
“You called me stupid first. You wanted to get nasty, let’s get nasty.”
“I’ve seen you on television. We all have. I’ve been utterly offended by your remarks, particularly those made on the subject of sex and the woman’s role in society. You do not consider women writers to be of any worth, do you? Of no value whatsoever. To you they are all girls, aren’t they? Waiting for a man like yourself, a pig of a man.”
“Is that what this is about? A fucking TV show? I’ve said a lot of stupid things, some of it I’ve said on national television, but that’s entertainment, Sylvie. That’s why they have me on. Half the time I’m spouting out things because of nerves, stepping over my own words from having cameras on me. I say what I say at the moment, and yes, sometimes that ends up biting my ass. So drop the wounded bird act.”
“You are unchangeable, you see. It is built into your point of view, your speech. You can’t be changed because you think you have ultimate authority. We’re all cunts to you.”
A rage bubbled up inside of him. He spit out the tumbleweed and his hands tensed as blood rushed to them. He choked the air in front of him. “I ought to come over there and give you a good smack,” he said.
“I dare you to try” was Sylvie’s reply.
The woman had ruined a perfectly good attempt at redemption, as well as a perfectly good afternoon. Though she had a point, and that’s what got to him. She had pegged his behavior square on the nose. He went back to the farmhouse in total disrepair to put on a shirt. The teenage artist was home in the kitchen frying bacon in a cast-iron pan. “Where do you people get off?” he said, simply because she was the only person around to take his rage.
“Fuck you, square,” she said.
He would be gone by dinner and not by choice. Complaints had been piling up since the day he arrived, and Sylvie had just put the case against him over the top. Eastman took a walk along a dirt path that took him through the brush forest behind Heimish’s house. At the end of the path was a small clearing of green where, by late afternoon, the sun came through the trees and warmed a cold patch of grass. When he got to the clearing he was already beginning to feel a sense of calm. The cicadas and the gnats, the tall grass, all those summer elements he was now attuned to. He found the patch of grass, the same one he had found a few days before, just as the sun was beginning to sprinkle through the branches of the pitch pines and American larches. Soon, the sun would be on his body and all would be forgiven. And just as he was about to rid his mind of Sylvie, queen bitch of the manor, Heimish came barreling down the dirt path like a battering ram, all two hundred pounds of him, and he tackled Eastman into the ground. Heimish had played football in high school, offensive tackle, and what he may have lost in athleticism he had gained in size. Looking back at it now, Eastman knew what was coming. A man like Heimish was too similar to him in temperament. He knew Heimish wouldn’t allow his lover to be slandered. He knew Heimish wouldn’t allow him to linger on the property, picking berries in the Illinois brush. And he knew, sensed even, as he picked out that little patch of grass, that something was coming at him from the side and there was nothing he could do. Once on the ground there was a quiet struggle as if the two men were wrestling underwater. How could he come up on top when Heimish had flanked him? It ended with Eastman’s head pressed into the earth, his face stained with green moss, while Heimish said into his ear that he wanted him off the property by nightfall.
Eastman detailed all of this in his letter to Adrien McClure, exaggerating the actual fight in his favor. Eastman might have placed Heimish’s rifle into the scene he described for McClure, in order to illustrate that he hadn’t a choice in the matter. It was leave and take his life with him, or stay and take a bullet.
He drove back to New York, sucked up his hurt pride, finished his proofs and sent them back over to McClure. Penny returned from London in mid-September, flew in one evening just past eleven. He was hurt and playing it up, so he didn’t offer to pick her up at the airport. She took the subway home. They were both exhausted from their travels. He didn’t want to talk much more about what she did or didn’t do in London, as long as she was back and it was over. He could understand her wanting to get something out from under her skin; if she’d had to know something, whether there was some type of future with someone else, and she saw nothing, that would satisfy him. He didn’t question whether this behavior of Penny’s was something that would recur biennially. How does one judge somebody for things they haven’t done yet? And how could he anticipate behavior that would be more akin to his nature than hers? When she returned from London he was trying his best not to be judgmental. From their talks on the phone, she made it clear that she would not be judged by him, she would not come home to be shamed, and if that was what he wanted she’d rather not come home at all. Then fine, he had said. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine. In November, they were married.
As for Heimish, they never met in person again. They had exchanged a few letters after Heimish left Sylvie. Eastman apologized but added that he thought Heimish the most idiotic and brilliant man he had ever met, and if those two agencies weren’t at work within his soul, Heimish wouldn’t be as good a writer as he was. The artists’ colony in Marshall folded. Sylvie left her husband, Gerd Dietrich, and the writers were replaced with ostriches. Ostriches Gerd raised all by himself.
• • •
Now that he knew Heimish was in Saigon, Eastman began to feel the riptide of competition pulling away at him. He had never backed down from a fight, especially a fair fight. It seemed as if his whol
e life was up in the air in Saigon, and as he walked home from the Rex Hotel, up Le Loi and through the square toward the Continental, he couldn’t help but sense a kind of fear. He saw it in every odd and foreign face he passed, the faces of people he didn’t understand. He had lied to himself getting here. The size of the job was beyond his capabilities. Yet he was a product of the protest era, he knew the issues, what was at stake. How could he, and quickly, devote himself to this country and dig in deep? He would have to, to get the story he wanted. And to square off with Heimish. Now he had to get out and talk to people. Find a translator and hit the city. That’s where he would start. The various pockets where the people gathered. He thought, yes, that’s a start. But first a translator. Maybe he could get one at the bureau.
In the lobby of the Continental he went up to Mrs. Nguyen. He wondered if she could find an “old friend” of his staying at the hotel. “Norman Heimish. He might be with Rolling Stone magazine.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Nguyen. “I know Mr. Heimish verrry well. He’s a very handsome man. He’s staying here many times. Eat on the terrasse, drink, talk to everyone. But I have bad news for you.”
He anticipated the gruesome details of Heimish’s death and began to feel bad about how he had left things years ago. He even felt guilty about his intent to scoop Heimish.
“Oh, dear, what is it?” said Eastman with great concern.
“You must not have heard from your friend,” said Mrs. Nguyen.
“What happened to him?”
“I hate to tell you this, Mr. Eastman, but Mr. Heimish . . . he left. He’s not staying here.”
“Oh, Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m very sorry. He was here many days before you arrived.”
“Did he leave a forwarding address?”
“No.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No. It is not my place to inquire about where he goes.”
“What can you tell me of his whereabouts?”
“You may try the New York Times foreign office.”
“Of course.”
“Have I offended you, Mr. Eastman?”
“No, darling. Careful with the term ‘bad news.’ When you throw it around like that you’re gonna kill a few people yourself. If I get any messages, ring me immediately.”
Eastman went up to his room. He tried to nap under the loud air conditioner, but sleep evaded him. He was still slightly jet-lagged and knew he should try to stay up through it so he wouldn’t have a repeat of sleeping most of the day, worrying at night. Maybe this news of Heimish was good for him. He was having trouble getting his ass moving. He still needed a translator, a fixer, a lead. He gave up on the nap and went down to the second floor to check out the news bureau for the first time and meet some of the staff of the Herald. He dreaded asking the bureau for help. He wasn’t staff and didn’t want to be humiliated, the way stringers and freelancers were. While he was down there, he thought he would call New York and check in with Broadwater as well. Let him know that he had made it over.
He walked to the end of the hallway, past a few other foreign offices operating out of hotel rooms. A little makeshift news machine. This was where all the stories were being dispatched. Gulf of Tonkin, Tet Offensive, My Lai. Those stories were filed in these halls, sent back over the wire to America. Stories that made reporters. He passed a plaque for Rolling Stone and thought of Heimish. Heimish had covered the Republican National Convention for the magazine. It was great reporting, Eastman had to admit. Though on a sentence- to-sentence level he felt he had Heimish beat. But what did that matter when he hadn’t been writing about anything worth a damn lately? You were only as good as your latest work. And Eastman’s had been a soft piece of fluff on Mayor Lindsay for Parade magazine, and the article stank to high heaven.
When he entered the bureau he noted their silence. No one said anything to him. They were defending their territory; he was trespassing. He knew it was a waste of time and that he wouldn’t get anything through here. He turned to a man who was typing at the closest desk.
“Hey, young fella,” he said. “You the bureau chief? I’m looking for Bob H.”
The man kept on, ignoring Eastman.
“Maybe you didn’t hear. Said I’m looking for a Bob H., he’s the bureau chief here, young fella, and I just rolled into town.”
Either the little twerp was deaf or he was playing games and Eastman hadn’t the time. He reached for the paper in the man’s typewriter and tore it out. The man shouted, “What the fuck? I’m not the bureau chief. The bureau chief ain’t here!” When Eastman glanced at the paper in his hand, the man told him not to read it. Suddenly he had everybody’s attention. Work stopped, all eyes were on him. He gently dropped the paper on the man’s desk.
“As I asked my friend here, I’m looking for Bob H. Where can I find him?”
“Alan Eastman?” a man in the far back said. “You were expected days ago.”
He was a zombie of a man and he got up from a desk by the window. This was David Wheeler, a man who had spent more sleepless nights in Vietnam than anyone he would meet while in Saigon. Wheeler informed him that Bob H. was in Manila and wouldn’t be back for another week, but he could show him around and get him anything he needed, within reason. Wheeler was impressed that Eastman had met with General Burke, the former head of MACV. Said the general had been after him since he got to town and had been calling the office, looking for him. The bureau had never gotten so much interest from MACV or a general of Burke’s stature in the entire time they’d been in Vietnam. Everyone at the bureau assumed Eastman was connected up the chain of command and didn’t need any help from around here, so this was one of the reasons he was just treated like a pile of shit. Wheeler cooled off the hothead Eastman had fucked with, a reporter by the name of Sykes, and Wheeler and Eastman stepped outside into the hallway for some fresh air. The upper floors of the Continental were open in the French Colonial style, with little rooftop courtyards opposite the rooms. Wheeler lit a cigarette and asked Eastman about his situation. He offered some resources and said he’d call a friend over at Newsweek who had to lay off a good translator recently, and thought he could get him over to the Continental. Where did Eastman plan on going? He didn’t know. Eastman wasn’t sure if he would be following the general’s advice, hopping transport somewhere deep to see some fighting, or whether he would hang about town for a little and talk to some locals. Besides, fighting was covered by the real newsmen, and he hadn’t felt like one of those in a long time. Wheeler brought him up to speed by saying that Eastman wouldn’t get how this bureau worked because everything was so dysfunctional, so he shouldn’t bother figuring things out. Things couldn’t be understood around here because they didn’t make sense. The only reason Wheeler was in the office was that he was asked to stand in for Bob H. while Bob was in Manila. Otherwise Wheeler felt the place could burn. Get what you need and get the hell out, he said.
Eastman thought Wheeler was honest enough, and though his way was off-putting, Eastman wasn’t getting anywhere with anyone else inside the bureau. Wheeler told him about the press briefings, every day at 4:15 P.M., what the correspondents called “the follies,” and invited him for a drink on the terrasse later in the evening.
The only other thing Eastman wanted to know from Wheeler was whether he knew the whereabouts of Norman Heimish.
“The other famous writer in our midst,” said Wheeler. “If you don’t bump into him on the terrasse I’d be surprised. Better yet ask Monsieur Francinni, the owner of the Continental. They’re friends.”
“Mrs. Nguyen said he was staying here on and off.”
“I wouldn’t trust a single word that anyone here tells you. Including me.”
Wheeler went back into the bureau and Eastman no longer saw any reason to follow him. Knowing that everyone was aware Eastman had been up in his room
and meeting with Burke just this afternoon made him feel confident. It also told him that Saigon was a loose-lipped hooker who swore you had just popped her cherry, meanwhile everyone behind your back knew you’d been the sixty-seventh man inside her. Eastman was proud of that metaphor and made a note of it in his pad.
12.
If you walked along Tu Do Street from the Continental in the year 1973, you would pass the New York Times bureau and dead-end into Notre-Dame Basilica. A left on Duong Nguyen Du would take you past Independence Palace, then the American Embassy, bicycle-repair shops, rickshaws and noodle stands, street kitchens and soup stalls. There was the steamy smell of something good in the air. Bones and broth, prawns, shrimp paste and fish sauce. Pot of soup burning over a wood fire. A bar and restaurant here and there that catered to Americans. He didn’t eat what the locals ate, he was afraid of it. So he stuck to heavy Italian food, pasta, burgers. American food was ubiquitous. To say that the city wasn’t thrilling would be dishonest. You could get everything around the corner from the Continental, including grass, hash, heroin, acid, and young women. He found himself on another street named Nguyen, Nguyen Thai or Nguyen Tri, and he walked past the open-air parlors with eleven beautiful women sitting cross-legged, done up in a way that enticed the senses. He had half a mind to visit one of them one night, but he wasn’t about to go there yet. How could he? You’re here to get your wife back, not drive her further away. So he swore off prostitutes, women, sex of any kind. He wouldn’t be having it. Not while he was here. He was still a married man, even if Penny was acting the divorcée. He fingered his wedding band each time he passed one of the parlors. Women waved at him politely.
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