“When you’re back in New York I want to take you to lunch.”
“I don’t know how much writing I will have done by then.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll take you to lunch anyway.”
Meredith handed her a pen and Channing wrote down her information on Meredith’s manuscript. “You can reach me through the Herald when I’m back,” Channing said. “I don’t have a phone or even an address anymore. I’ve let all of that expire.”
“Oh, the Herald! You must know Alan. In fact, I think he mentioned you yesterday. He said wonderful things.”
Channing pretended not to recognize his name right away.
“Alan Eastman,” Meredith clarified.
“Oh, yes,” said Channing. “Of course. I’ve met Alan.”
She wanted to ask about their relationship and it was her hesitation that gave her interest away.
“You’re wondering why on earth I’m here,” said Meredith. “I’ve come to visit my dear friend. But I can’t seem to stop working. Why not meet a few swell reporters while in Saigon and maybe find a book to publish?”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” Channing said.
“Darling, please. I’m not so secretive. Alan and I are old friends.”
“I’m not interested in him in the way you mean. I’m sorry if I’m giving you that impression.”
“I didn’t take it that way and it would be an insult to you had I assumed it. He’s so old! When he was younger, though . . . my, he was fun. And not too bad on the eyes. Always married to someone else, of course. Men like him will do anything to be near you and when you start to want something they suddenly have too much going on to give you attention. You know the type. Great flirts with poor timing.”
Channing politely smiled. “If only I’d met you sooner,” she said. “You see, I’m off this morning and won’t be back for several days.”
“Well, then we’ll see each other in New York, won’t we.”
Meredith was warm and Channing decided that she did indeed like this out-of-place woman from New York. She would give her a call when she returned home. Eventually, once she had a little more of a book to speak of.
After breakfast Channing exited the courtyard, leaving Meredith to return to her manuscript. From the hotel she walked into Lam Son Square to the steps of the National Assembly, where the two ARVN men had been killed. There were still faint spots where the blood had settled. A guard outside regarded her with contempt. She was so used to this she barely gave it any thought and continued to think about the night of the shoot-out. She went from one kill scene to the next, across the square, through the parked cars to where the boy assassin had been taken down. Here the blood on the ground came through the sand that had been poured over it. You couldn’t seem to get the blood out, no matter how many days passed. And she wondered about this place, what it would be like when all the men and women in the hotels were gone.
When she arrived at the American Embassy, there were crowds of Vietnamese waiting in a long line outside along the embassy walls. She was able to bypass the line; the MPs had her name on a list and let her through the gates. She walked along the shaded path to the main building and went inside. She gave her name to one of the receptionists and waited in the cool air. When Davis came out to meet her he was in a hurry and waved her over, then started down the hallway that led out to the grounds.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
He turned around and put his finger over his mouth. Then he suggested they go outside.
She hated being silenced more than anything, but she needed a favor from him. She followed him outside into the heat and they walked across the lawn in the direction of the embassy pool.
“What is it you need?” he said.
“Nice to see you, too.”
“Look, I’m sorry to be curt with you but I’m having a hell of a week. I’m not even supposed to be here. I was supposed to be home with my kids this month.”
“Thank you for giving me Lin. It was a good lead.”
“Is that what you came here about? To thank me? Send me a thank-you note.”
“It was you who told me not to put anything in writing.”
“Not anything that we discuss.”
“I’m off to Cambodia in a few hours,” she said. “I don’t have much time either.”
They walked around the tall hedges and reached the pool, where they could be out of sight of anyone inside the embassy. Davis began to pace. He was nervous about something that didn’t involve her. Not wanting to waste any time, she took a paper out of her purse and unfolded it and handed it to him.
“I need another favor.”
He regarded it with little interest then handed it back to her. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” he said.
“I thought I could give it to you. It’s a list of names.”
“I can see that.”
“They’re Vietnamese who’ve either worked for the press or were employed by Americans. I had them checked out. Can you do anything for them?”
“Who are they to you?”
Channing hesitated. She knew what a long shot this was, to get Davis to use his connections at the embassy to secure visas for these strangers. The cook hadn’t done anything for the Americans except talk to her, the press. But it had been weighing on her since she accepted the list of names. She shouldn’t have, it was a mistake. But she’d wanted the interview. She had them vetted by the bureau and learned they were mostly secretaries and translators, young men and women.
“I got them from a source I met through Lin. I don’t know his name,” she said, “but he’s a spook. He talked to me on the basis that I would pass along this list of names to anyone I knew who could help. I said I would.”
“You should never have taken it. I can’t do anything for these people. You know what kind of trouble I’d get into?” he said. “You don’t know them, what do you care?”
“I don’t, but I said I’d do something and so I’m asking you if you can help or if you know anyone here who could take a look into it.” She handed the list back to Davis. “Just a look.”
“So you can have it off your conscience? When the shit hits the fan here it’s every man, woman, and child for himself. We have people who’ve gotten married here. They have families in Saigon. They’ve inherited relatives. We’re talking thousands of people. This is what happens in an occupation. And when we leave we have to take a hell of a lot more people with us than we brought here. There’s no room for cousins of some North Viet spy who gave you a story.” Davis handed the list back to Channing. “And you shouldn’t feel bad about it either, Anne.”
Davis was right. She shouldn’t have taken anything from the cook and she was letting her conscience get the best of her.
“Think of it this way,” said Davis. “You made a mistake. You don’t know these people. You had them vetted? Bullshit, they get around that. We have a line of Vietnamese outside who’ve been vetted. What if we do take all these refugees? Put them on a plane to Manila and then where? San Diego? What if they are spies? Spies are made to deflect suspicion. There’s no way of knowing.” Davis turned around to check if anyone was listening in. “Look, I understand how you feel. I have my own list of friends. We all do. You’re just trying to do something that feels right. Something you think will matter. And if it makes you feel any better I’ll take the list. Get it off your conscience.” Davis put his hand out. “Here. Give it to me.”
Channing handed it over to him, knowing that Davis would do absolutely nothing.
“I’ll take a look,” he said, for her sake. “Be careful.”
• • •
Not knowing if it had been ten minutes or ten hours he woke up. In his dream he was already on a plane somewhere out of Saigon.
Eastman got himself together, put on a hotel robe, shook his hai
r out of its mussed helmet, and went out into the hall. There he found Nestor, wheeling a cart full of toiletries. He called for the boy, told him to keep an eye out for Meredith were she to return while Eastman was out. Then he hurried down the stairs to the second floor and ran to Channing’s door. He’d made a mistake last night that he was sorry for. He knew that kissing her the way he did was completely ill timed and the thought of it was burdensome. He needed her to know that he wasn’t a complete bastard. He wanted to tell her the things he realized about her when he was writing his dispatch. He wanted to make it clear to Channing that he thought she was the real deal. A major talent. The bravest he’d seen. He knocked on her door. No one came. Was he too late? He knocked harder, again and again. He pressed his ear to the wood and heard shuffling in the room. “Channing,” he called. “It’s me, Alan. Open the door.”
But it wasn’t Channing who came to the door. It was a young man, a Vietnamese with no shirt on, just a pair of blue jeans.
“Who the hell are you?” Eastman asked.
The young man didn’t answer, just rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
“Where’s Channing? You speak English? Français?”
“English.”
“Where’s the woman whose room this is?”
He didn’t have the time to waste, so Eastman pushed past him, rushing into the bedroom expecting to find her there under the sheets. It would pain him to see this, but when he reached the bedroom there was no one. And the young man had been taking a nap on top of a made bed. There was the impression of his body on the comforter. Eastman looked around and was a touch relieved. All of her things were still in place. The stack of paperbacks by the green chair. The ashtray balanced on top of Thomas Mann. Little bottles of feminine products on the bureau. Silk scarves, a carton of cigarettes.
“Channing?” he called.
He went into the bathroom to see if she was in there and came up empty. She was gone. He went back over to the bed and sat down.
The young man joined Eastman by the bed, dragging his leg behind him. He had to adjust it in order to stand up straight. He came close to where Eastman was standing, reached for his cane beside the bed.
“She went away,” the young man said. “I am her friend Lin. She is allowing me to stay in her room while she’s gone.”
“Well damn, why didn’t you say so?” He was angry that Channing wasn’t here, that he was too late. “I didn’t mean to pry into whatever it is you got going. What happens between you two is none of my business. You hear me? It’s neither here nor there.”
The young man put on a shirt and moved around the bed to sit in the green chair by the window. He looked down at his feet. He was telling the truth. Channing had let him stay in her room while she was away in Phnom Penh and Eastman had come barreling in like a jealous ex-boyfriend.
Eastman had talked to so few Vietnamese that he found it hard to talk to Lin. In the corner on another chair were some uniform greens neatly folded. Beneath that a pair of standard-issue boots, next to what looked like a bag of groceries. He figured Lin for a soldier in the ARVN.
“What happened to your leg?” Eastman asked. “Were you hurt in the war?”
Lin nodded.
“Is it permanent?”
Lin shrugged, not wanting to answer.
“Stupid question,” Eastman said. “Forget I asked. I’m a writer, like her. Only not like her. I wouldn’t go to Cambodia. I have kids, you know. You married?”
“No.”
“That’s good, you’re young. Where you from?”
“Hoi An.”
“Which battalion?”
“Fifth Division. Quang Tri.”
“Infantry?”
“Yes. But I’m stationed now in Saigon.”
Eastman recalled reading about the Fifth as a hard-hitting division of the South Vietnamese Army. They’d been punished in some offensive battle the previous Easter.
“Were you in that battle at Quang Tri last year?”
Lin indicated that he was.
“Is that where this happened to you?” Eastman looked at Lin’s leg.
“No. Near Pleiku.”
“I can’t imagine. Being stationed in Saigon must be a hell of a lot better than Quang Tri.”
“It is.”
“Did you know any of those boys who were killed out here in the square?”
“No.”
Eastman felt as if he’d taken too much from the young man already and moved to excuse himself from the room.
“Can I ask you one more thing?” Eastman said. “What do you think she wants? You think she’s happy out there, risking her life?”
“It’s not my place to say. She has been very generous to me. It wouldn’t be right to speak about her like this.”
“You guys are all so polite.” Eastman walked to the door, then turned back to face Lin once more. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said to Lin. “I didn’t know who you were. I don’t know what I thought. I’m sorry. Would you tell her that?”
Lin looked down at his feet again.
“Tell her I’m sorry.”
III
The Phantom
19.
For history to be made it must be witnessed. And the correspondent’s duty is to witness and record history so that sense may be made of the historical. Eastman saw himself as a type of historian, as someone who could chart the importance of an event within the course of the American narrative and the collective memory. This recent history, the history of America in Vietnam, was composed of so many poor decisions and miscalculations that they made for tragedies. Vietnam was the whore who had been smacked around by a succession of pimps—Chinese, French, American. Now she was out on the street, a woman divided on the inside, not knowing which way to turn. She was a casualty of modern stupidity and of outsized delusions.
By the time he was getting these thoughts down into his second dispatch, apropos the party at the presidential palace, Eastman was far gone. There were rumors that the city would soon fall and it was only a matter of time. He was too fearful for Meredith’s well-being, and too guilty to just put her on a plane to somewhere, so he got on a plane with her. They took a Pan Am flight to Honolulu, where the Herald had a satellite office and where Eastman could finish up his work while Meredith browned by the pool and healed from her split with Lazlo. It was a fifteen-hour flight, and when they got in they slept for what felt like a day and a half.
All of this, of course, was given the green light by Baxter Broadwater, who reluctantly agreed to Eastman’s demands for an extension on his deadline and some R&R in Hawaii. “We’re not paying for the room,” said Broadwater over the phone to Honolulu. “We’ll pay for the flight home to New York. But this wasn’t a part of our initial deal.”
“Let’s make it contingent on how large a spike in papers you get when my dispatch hits the stands,” Eastman said.
“It doesn’t work that way, Alan. We have a contract, which you signed.”
“I know I signed it, it’s with my lawyer right now being reviewed to see if there’s any negligence on your part. You might have taken advantage of me.”
“Taken advantage? Are you trying to kill me?”
“Yes. Taken advantage. You took advantage of a man who had visible signs of distress. You manipulated me. Think back. I seem to remember you putting a contract in my hands when I was on the floor having a psychological episode.”
“Are you mad? You called me that day, remember? You needed my help. And what psychological episode? You had thrown out your back.”
“Which you then thought could have been psychosomatic, and I hate to admit this, but you were right. It was a near-fatal episode of panic. If my lawyer finds negligence, then you’ll hear from him. As of now, the deal remains in place and you’ll get your final dispatch. I got a real scorcher for you, Broadwater. President
Thieu makes an appearance in this one. So does my fair-weather friend Norman Heimish.”
“I can’t tell if you’re kidding about the lawsuit stuff or not.”
“Broadwater, I’m fucking with you. I’ve been fucking with you for a while now. Why should that have changed?”
He could sense that Broadwater was suddenly filled with relief by his confession, however juvenile it was. Eastman was admitting something real, which he had not yet done in their relationship. Sincere moments were hard to come by in a friendship such as theirs. In truth, he believed that both of them deep down liked battling, the back-and-forth, the slinging of insults. Broadwater was a masochist and Eastman the sadist. When they were students at Harvard it had been the same.
“I’ve rewritten what you sent. And if I have your approval we’re ready to go to print.”
“It’s approved,” said Eastman.
“You haven’t seen the changes.”
“Read them to me.”
Broadwater explained some of the inconsistencies the fact-checkers had flagged in Eastman’s first dispatch. “Pencil-pusher stuff,” Eastman called it. Broadwater then read to him the last few paragraphs, which composed the bulk of the editorial changes. Broadwater had toned down the assumptions, the melodrama, the self-aggrandizement, the phallic imagery, and had replaced these with solid facts—Eastman’s weakest area. This new version was better. Broadwater had done a good job.
“It’s fine, print it,” said Eastman.
“You don’t want to run it by your lawyer?” Broadwater was sparring again. Things were back to normal.
“Don’t press me. You’re a good editor, and you made it better. That’s all I ask in an editor. To keep me from sounding like a jackass.”
“I’m sorry? Could you say that again, Alan? You’re breaking up.”
“You’re not bad, Broadwater, once somebody applies a little pressure. You seemed to have shed whatever had been lodged up your ass at the Advocate. We’ll talk in a few days.”
“When are you back?”
Eastman Was Here Page 27