Eastman Was Here

by Alex Gilvarry

  A knock on the door and it was the room boy returning. Eastman was no longer in the jovial state he was in when he contracted the room boy to spy on Channing. Things had changed drastically after the murders in the square.

  However, the kid had earned his pay. Anne Channing was in room 53. He asked for the room boy’s name. It was Ngài, but he would never remember that name nor would he remember how to pronounce it. So Eastman just called him Nestor because he had remembered a bellhop in the Philippines by the name of Nestor, whom he liked very much. He considered the knowledge of Channing’s room and he told Nestor to come back in an hour. He’d have a letter for him to deliver. Then gave Nestor an extra twenty piastres.

  Eastman had his portable Olivetti set up on the desk by the window. Only some of the window panes were crossed with masking tape, meaning some could shatter while he was working, but he wasn’t working, so he didn’t see the sense in moving the desk away from the window. Already the typewriter had accumulated a layer of dust. Had he been there that long? He had the windows open last night during the horrible assassination in the square. The air could have brought the dust in. From his position on the bed he stared at the typewriter. Words needed to be produced. Broadwater would be asking soon enough.

  He got to the edge of the bed and stared at it. The typewriter. There it was. He sat at the desk and did have the nerve to bang out a few words. A description of Lam Son Square. When he got stuck he heard the rapping of another typist, working away at high speed. Someone had something to say and it seemed as if they were rubbing it in his face. He couldn’t tune out the sound of someone else typing and it put him off from the few sentences he had started.

  He stood up and pressed his head against the wall. It was coming from the next room. Someone working on an IBM Selectric, he knew the sound. He had one at home in his study. Sounded like the person in the next room had the Selectric pressed up against the wall so Eastman banged on the wall with a few raps.

  Eastman tore out the page and loaded a fresh sheet. This one a letter to Channing.

  Dear Anne,

  I saw what you did last night and I thought it was brave as hell. Braver than anything I’ve seen in a long damn time—in or out of a war zone. It’s becoming clearer to me that you’re the real deal and that a story follows you, somewhere, trailing behind in your dust. I’d love to have a tete a tete with you over lunch, possibly include you in my next dispatch, because bravery like that doesn’t come around very often. I watched it all from my room where I was cowering behind the flowerpot, down to my skivvies. But you were running full force toward the thing. Permit me an interview. I know we’re at the same paper and that might be a conflict of interest. This may be something I use for my book and not for the Herald. Not sure what the book will be yet so I’d like to get as many sides of this as I can. The first real bravery I’ve seen since I’ve been in Saigon and it didn’t come from a foot soldier or lieutenant, it was a correspondent running toward a story. I’m in room 73, because Graham Greene’s room was taken by Rolling Stone (joke). Give me a ring whenever you get this or have time within the next few days. I’ll be in Saigon till Friday I’m assuming, unless something comes up, in which case I’d like to catch up with you when I get back. From here I’m not sure where I’ll be catching a lift to, but maybe you can advise on some prospects when we meet. I will get back to you if things change.

  With admiration,

  • • •

  The room boy came back, then delivered Eastman’s letter to Channing’s room. He didn’t receive a phone call within the next few hours, so he assumed she was out. He checked the bureau late morning to see if she was there. She wasn’t.

  A little runt of a clerk said to Eastman, “New York sent you a telex.” He handed Eastman a slip of paper. It was from Baxter Broadwater.

  NO GO ON HANOI VISA. CALL ME AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. HOW’S PROGRESS?

  “Can I use this phone?” asked Eastman.

  “There’s the time difference,” said the clerk.

  “I’ll be sure to call his home phone. He didn’t say not to.”

  The clerk gave him instructions on how to patch a call through out of the office. It took several tries, bouncing around with MARS operators, but eventually he was able to hear the familiar ring of a United States telephone.

  “Broadwater, it’s Alan Eastman. Hope I’m not calling too late.”

  “No, I’m still up.” He heard Broadwater muffle the receiver and mumble something to his wife.

  “Is that Elaine? Tell her I’m sorry. She’ll know what I mean.”

  “Quit it. How’s it going out there, Alan? I haven’t heard from you.”

  “It’s been a slow start. The great staff of the Herald here isn’t the least bit helpful, so I’ve sort of been on my own. Also, why can’t your numb nut office get my damn visa north squared away? I don’t know how in the heavens I’m going to get up to Hanoi without it.”

  “We’re still working on that, Alan. It’s been rather hard to do it from here. We’re checking to see if we can get it expedited through our bureau in Paris, so that’s where we are now. What do you have going? Husskler wants an update.”

  “He’ll get an update when I’m good and ready. No one said anything about you hounding me.”

  “We’re paying you, Alan. As well as your expenses.”

  “So far I haven’t received a dime and what you’re paying me isn’t good enough to stress over. You’ll get updates on a need-to-know basis. But here’s a little something for you that I’m considering, only I can’t speak freely at the moment.” Eastman looked at the clerk whose desk he made sure he was sitting on. “Fear of getting scooped. But I’ll keep this short,” Eastman said in a low tone and cuffed over the receiver. “Anyone writing up the assassinations that took place last night outside the Continental? I saw the whole thing from my window. Two ARVN soldiers killed in cold blood by a young man, a teenager. Couldn’t have been older than sixteen. That’s not the story I’m bringing in. That’s only the backdrop.”

  “You’re better off asking the Saigon bureau.”

  “Then what can you tell me about Anne Channing?” said Eastman.

  “She’s ours,” said Broadwater. “Good correspondent. Reliable. Precise.”

  “She’s a hell of a brave woman. Saw her put herself into certain danger last night, a situation I wouldn’t get close to. Heroic stuff. I can’t say any more as you probably want her story, not mine, but I’ve been thinking about the correspondents out here as a possible story. The press has been getting killed constantly. You should hear what they’re up against still. What if I get to know what it’s like to cover this war through the eyes of not me, but another correspondent. Plus Saigon. Plus the feelings on the ground. What do think about that?”

  “Can I make a suggestion?” asked Broadwater.

  “Please.”

  “How many women have been covering the war and how many are out there presently? Could you slant it toward gender politics, since I know you have some thoughts on the subject. Women and the war. I think people would want to read that from you.”

  “I’m not going to turn it into feminist propaganda, Broadwater.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easy, though. I could cull together all the names of major women correspondents from over here and send them to you. Let me do that at least, and you think on it.”

  “There’s nothing to think on, I’m not a damned sociologist writing a pro-woman bra burner.”

  “Just think on it, Alan. I’ll cull something together.”

  “You can cull all you want, I’m not writing any such thing. You made your suggestion, just be happy that you made it and that I listened. I’m going to get together with Anne Channing and see if she’ll have the time.”

  “When can we expect copy?”

  “Broadwater, I just got here. I don’t even have a translator yet, though
I’m supposed to secure one today or tomorrow. I’ll get on this story and get back to you in a few days. But I can’t promise anything for another two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? You’re kidding. Let’s do better than that.”

  “You do better. I’m going to hand you the best thing you’ve ever read on the war, and I’m working as fast as I can. What more can I promise beyond that?”

  “Just try to keep me up to date on your progress. Send me an update end of the week.”

  “Fine. And Broadwater, one more thing. Did you know that Norman Heimish is here in Saigon?”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. Aren’t you two friends?”

  “It’s a fraught relationship. But that’s the kind of thing I need to know from you. Who is he working for? Find out for me.”

  “I don’t see how it affects us, but I’ll ask around.”

  “Please do.”

  Eastman hung up and turned to the clerk whose desk he was sitting on. “Did you get all that?”

  “How could I miss it? You’re using my phone.”

  “Do you know where Norman Heimish is?”

  The clerk looked at him incredulously. “New York Times would be my best guess.”

  “Mine too. That’s what I’d be doing if I were him. Instead, here I am stuck with you.”

  With nothing much to do for the day except wait for Wheeler on word of a translator, Eastman went down to the terrasse for a cold beer. They brought it to him with a glass of ice. He took a seat in the front, looking out onto Lam Son Square. The day’s traffic proceeded as normal. Bicycles, rickshaws, Hondas. There were more ARVN guards out today. A cleanup team was scrubbing the blood out of the street in front of the National Assembly, where the two soldiers were killed. Across the way a portion of Tu Do Street, where the boy had been shot, was sectioned off. Otherwise everything seemed to go on as usual. Maybe this was usual.

  He left his beer and told the waiter to hold his table. He would be back. The waiter brought him a pack of cigarettes instead. Miscommunication, it seemed, was part of getting on in Saigon, and so Eastman took the cigarettes rather than argue and put them on the table next to his glass. He went out through the lobby and crossed the street. He got close to the men cleaning the pavement from the steps of the National Assembly. But it would take more than soap and water to get the blood out. Eastman recorded some of the details in his notepad, then crossed the square toward the Caravelle, retracing the steps the assassin took before he was shot. He walked the killer’s path. Although the boy’s body had been removed early in the morning, the blood remained on the pavement, dry and sticky. People went by, students and regular hardworking people, not recognizing what had happened less than twelve hours before. Pickpockets were out; he saw a young boy patting the pockets of passerby. With nothing left for him to observe, Eastman went back to the terrasse.

  No sign of Channing.

  Early afternoon Wheeler found him still sitting by himself. Eastman was on his third or fourth beer already and he had a pretty good buzz going. He was writing in his notepad a sad letter to Penny on the subject of trust. Trust is an entity that must be guarded in our marriage. I trust that you agree with me. I am willing to overlook the boundaries we’ve crossed and to slowly rebuild that wall of devotion. Only it can’t be done alone. It is also true that even if we were to split we would need to reestablish our trust, because we are attached for the rest of our lives, with Lee and Toby, our boys. You didn’t grow up in a broken household and neither did I, Penny. Think about what you want for them, because they, too, need to know that they can trust us.

  Wheeler sat down and said, “May I? I have some people I want you to meet.” He called over a young woman and a man following behind her. “Eastman, this is my new girlfriend, Lieu. And this is her brother, Tang.”

  Eastman stood up to shake Tang’s hand and knocked over an empty beer can in the process. He was appearing drunk, though that wasn’t really the case. He was just feeling out of sorts, being taken away from writing a personal letter. The two joined them at the table and ordered water. Wheeler, a “33.” He put his arm around Lieu. The poor girl looked so uncomfortable that Eastman didn’t know if they were really together or if Wheeler was just kidding about her being his girlfriend. Perhaps he had a different one every night, judging by the number of pimps he seemed to keep employed at the Continental. “Tang here is quite an accomplished translator,” said Wheeler. “You should use him.”

  “I will,” he said. “I may be putting together a trip to Dak Pek. Are you familiar with Dak Pek?” he asked Tang. “It’s possible that I’ll get a chance to go there, but that wouldn’t be for a few days. If I go, maybe you want to come with me?”

  Tang said he couldn’t leave Saigon.

  “I’ll pay you well,” said Eastman. But Tang shook his head.

  “You’d have to get a lift to Pleiku, first,” said Wheeler.

  “General Burke said he could help with that.”

  Wheeler looked at Lieu and said something that made her laugh. Then he snuggled himself into the crevice of her neck and put his hands on her bare stomach, feeling her up. She was Helen’s age, and Tang looked not much older. Eastman was certain now that Lieu was a prostitute and he felt sorry for the brother who had to witness his sister making out on the lap of an American. That is, if he was, indeed, her brother.

  Wheeler took out a vial of white powder and a tiny spoon and snorted a little under the cover of Lieu’s neck. He shoveled out a little for her and she snorted it. “It’s a partay,” she said.

  “That’s right, baby, it’s a party,” said Wheeler. “You want some speed?” he asked Eastman.

  He declined. For the boy’s sake, Eastman thought he should distance himself from Wheeler. Tang just sipped his water and pretended not to care about anything.

  “Relax,” Wheeler said. “He’s not really her brother.”

  The fallout of a war wasn’t pretty. Isn’t this what Broadwater wanted? It made him uncomfortable and he thought this was good. This was something he could write. In Saigon he saw a place that had been disfigured, a mangled history, people living beyond repair. He lost interest in the general’s proposition to take a trip out to the boonies to see fighting in Dak Pek. Hell, he heard he could see bombings galore from the roof of the Caravelle. He was more interested in the city. It had it all. Refugees, prostitutes, assassinations, death. Plus he wasn’t made for the field anymore. He wasn’t half the correspondent Anne Channing was. Even drugged out Wheeler was more capable than him. He saw no reason to leave now.

  • • •

  It was now evening, and in his mind he thought Channing would have gotten back in touch with him, perhaps they could have had dinner. He wanted to ask her about what she saw up close last night, what she knew about the situation, and if she had any thoughts on his proposal to follow her around for a few days. He knew he had to be careful, because he was attracted to Channing and he could be flirtatious. Penny knew how flirtatious he could be when he met a woman he liked at a dinner or party. She never seemed to mind, or she would ignore it and only mention it in passing as a joke later in the evening. Besides, he never let it get out of hand, at least not in front of her. In fact, sometimes he didn’t even realize what he was doing. People were drawn to other people. He was even attracted to some men, not in completely sexual terms, and the only difference was he would joust with them instead of flirt.

  He was in his room for a while, finishing his letter to Penny as his buzz receded.

  He mentioned the events of the previous evening in the square and he was trying to get her sympathy. Not to worry. I’m fine and what I’ve learned is that all is relatively safe. One can’t really prepare for random acts of violence. And this one seemed to be planned, a planned assassination and I just happened to be witnessing it. The hotel reminds me of a place we stayed together in Bangkok. Eastman and Penny had been to Bangko
k for a few days en route to Manila. It was the ten-year anniversary of American War and it was being celebrated at a literary festival. This was during their first year of marriage, and Eastman took Penny along to show her that it would be exciting to be with him. I wonder if you remember those few days we chartered a boat to a near island. Ko Samet? Maybe it was only a day or two, we were on a pretty strict schedule. But I think of those days now. Swimming out as far as we could, our toes unable to feel the bottom. You were in love with me then. Swimming transported you into childhood. I remember you took off your top in the water and wrapped yourself around me, which gave me the best hard-on of my life. We made love in the ocean. When was the last time we did something like that? Thailand? How could I let us get far away from that kind of excitement? That passion? He might have forced the word and the memory here to directly impact Penny’s concern about his being impassionate. I can’t change the way things have gone recently, it has happened because it was bound to happen. I want to know where things went bad for you, exactly where, and if I could adjust them now, I’d do everything in my power.

  There was a knock on the door and a note slid quickly underneath across the tiled floor. Eastman got up from the desk and picked up the envelope. It was from Channing. She would meet him tonight at the Jerome and Juliette, the rooftop bar of the Caravelle. The good news provoked a jolt of panic, electric and terrifying at the same time. He put Penny’s letter away in a journal to be finished later. He had to get dressed. Wear something comfortable and cooling. He went to take a cold shower first, quickly dried himself and shaved. He laid out an outfit on the bed and then switched the top several times. For some reason he couldn’t decide on a proper shirt, the brown or the light blue. He tried the light blue on and then took it off. It wasn’t a dignified blue, but a circus blue. Then he tried the brown and back again to the first shirt. Soon he was sweating profusely and would have to take another shower in order to cool down. What was happening to him? Why was he so nervous? Of course, he was meeting a woman at a set time, and he was separated from his wife. It wasn’t a date, it was a professional meeting, but his body was reacting as if it were a date. Channing hadn’t specified a time on her invitation so he didn’t know when he should go over there. He could check to see if she was downstairs first before he left.