Finding Moon

by Tony Hillerman

  Through the doorway, Moon saw two men slipping through the gate. They carried automatic rifles and wore the black pajamas and conical hats he’d seen in war movies. Five men followed, heading for the hangar.

  “Right over here,” Moon said, pointing to the great pile of bales. “And hurry.”

  HANOI, North Vietnam, April 28-(Agence France-Presse) A spokesman for the foreign office here said today that the proposal of the new president of South Vietnam for a negotiated peace had “come too late” and that the war would be ended by “a military solution.”

  Noon, the Nineteenth Day

  May 1, 1975

  MOON SAT ON A SACK OF SOMETHING heavy but soft, with his arms hugged around his knees, wondering if it had been proper to have jammed Osa in the very back of their cubbyhole. He’d done it to improve her safety, but that was accomplished at the price of increasing her discomfort. Putting Mr. Lee in the middle in recognition of his age gave Moon the spot adjoining the sacks that closed the entrance of their cave. There it was more spacious but would be most dangerous if their Vietcong visitors detected them and decided to shoot into the cave-although Moon doubted if AK-47 bullets would penetrate whatever it was (probably rice) that filled the sacks. Would Victoria Mathias have approved of his decisions? A nice ethical question, and better than thinking about a lot of other things.

  Moon did not want to think about how the hell they were going to get out of this mess.

  By twisting his head, Moon could peer through a narrow space between the sacks and observe a little of the outside world. The most interesting thing he could see was the bottom two-thirds of the Vietcong standing beside the pile of bales across the warehouse. This person wore the traditional VC attire-loose black trousers. His were torn at one knee, wet, and muddy. He sat on one of the bales, rested a U.S. Army-issue M16 rifle against it, balanced a small bowl on his left knee, and began eating from it with his fingers. Now Moon could see almost all of this fellow. By leaning far forward and pulling down on the burlap of the bag in front of him, Moon could also see another black-clad leg. The man with the bowl was old and frail with a kindly face and a ragged mustache that he brushed aside to insert a little ball of rice into his mouth. His hair was short, in what Victoria Mathias had called a “bowl haircut” when she administered them to her sons.

  What would this old rice fanner do if Moon pushed back the sack, emerged, and introduced himself? Any impulse Moon might have had to find out died. The man turned his face toward the owner of the leg sitting beside him, revealing that most of his right ear was missing. The area was pink and rough, and from it toward the corner of the old man’s mouth ran a series of round, puckered scars. Cigarettes held against the skin, Moon thought.

  The old man stopped eating and began talking. He evoked a response. A woman’s voice responded.

  The old man produced a clasp knife from his pants, unfolded it, cut a small slit in the sack, and extracted a palmful of brown rice kernels. He showed these to someone, said something, and laughed.

  Moon felt a poke in the back: Mr. Lum Lee signaling for attention. Mr. Lee pointed to his own ear to indicate listening. Of course, Moon thought. Mr. Lee was Vietnamese. He’d understand. Moon pressed back against the sacks to allow Lee to squeeze his small, bony frame past him.

  The motion produced a fresh flood of perspiration, which dripped from his eyebrows, his nose, and his chin and ran down his back and his chest. His hair was wet with it and had been since long before dawn. When they left the blue water of the sea and entered the brown water of the Mekong they had sailed into a kind of heavy humid heat Moon had never known.

  “You must take a lot of water,” Mr. Lee had told him as they left Glory of the Sea. “You’re big. You will sweat. You must drink more water and take salt too.” They had loaded four fuel cans of water onto the shore boat, and Moon had been drinking like a camel all day. Still he felt a ferocious thirst.

  He glanced at Osa. She sat head down, eyes closed, the face of a person enduring. Even in the dim light filtering in between sacks and the warehouse wall he could see her face was glistening with sweat. He tapped her knee, produced what he hoped was a reassuring grin, and received a faint smile in return.

  The sound of a shout reached him, then more shouting, followed by laughter. Something clattered.

  Then a voice very, very close said something loud. Then came a long discourse in a loud, commanding voice. The sound of an order barked out just above them. Moon held his breath. He gripped Osa’s knee. More voices, distant now. Then a dragging, scraping sound. Then silence.

  Moon exhaled. Released Osa’s knee. Looked at Lum Lee. Mr. Lee signaled silence. They listened. Nothing. Perspiration ran from Moon’s eyebrow to the corner of his eye, causing it to sting. A bead of sweat dropped from his nose and was replaced by another. Heat and silence surrounded them.

  “They are gone,” Mr. Lee said.

  Mr. Lee was right. The dragging, scraping sound they’d heard had been produced by the Vietcong closing the sliding warehouse door behind them. Moon slid it open an inch and peered out. The muddy yard was empty of people. The APC stood at the hangar entrance, shiny with rainwater. Also shiny with rainwater was the copter landing pad, reminding Moon that George Rice had flown away with their only hope of getting out of here. He pushed the door open another inch, his fingers touching paper tacked to its outside surface.

  He detached it. It was handwritten with a felt-tipped marker pen in a language strange to Moon. He handed it to Lum Lee.

  “Ah,” Lee said. “This warehouse, the rice it contains, and all its other contents are taken into the custody of the Revolutionary Committee of An Loc. Any trespass or theft will be subject to punishment by the court of the people.”

  “Right,” Moon said. “What were they talking about before they left?”

  Lee nodded, opened his mouth to respond, and then sat suddenly on one of the sacks. He was gray with exhaustion. Osa put her hand on his shoulder. “You are not well?” she said.

  “Tired,” Lee said. “Just tired.” He looked up at Moon. “At first the man who had been tortured- the man with the ear sliced off and the burned face-he was telling the woman the mistakes they had made in getting here too late to capture the helicopter. He said the helicopter might be useful to the Yellow Tiger Battalion in holding a bridge somewhere upriver. But he said he thought the puppet soldiers who took it would use it to run away from the fight.” He offered Moon a weak smile. “I think he is absolutely correct.”

  “So do I,” Moon said. “Is that why they were laughing?”

  “They opened some of the bales,” Mr. Lee said. “One of them had opium balls buried in the copra.”

  Moon exhaled. “Opium,” he said.

  “In the raw form,” Mr. Lee said. “They tap the poppies in Burma. In the mountains. Boil it down into tar and roll it into balls. Then they wrap the balls in cloth and move it down into Cambodia. Then it is either-”

  Mr. Lee became aware of Moon’s expression. He stood silent a moment, cleared his throat.

  “I believe Mr. Rice told us that this warehouse was owned by an ARVN general,” Mr. Lee said.

  “Yes,” Moon said. “That’s what Rice told us. What else did you hear?”

  “A little bit later several people came in,” Mr. Lee continued. “A woman speaking now. She told the old man that they had heard on the Saigon radio that the Americans were evacuating their embassy building in Saigon. They talked about a big mob of city people, the ones who had helped the Americans, fighting each other and trying to get into the embassy grounds and the American marines keeping them away, and helicopters flying in and landing on the roof and flying away with the Americans.”

  “The fat lady sang,” Moon said.

  Mr. Lee stared at him.

  “It’s an American saying,” Moon said. “It means something is finished. We say, It ain’t over till it’s over. Now I guess it’s over.”

  “I see,” Mr. Lee said.

  “I had been
thinking maybe we could find a way to go north. Find a way to slip into Saigon and get to the embassy. So much for that. Not a good idea now.”

  “It was not a good idea ever,” Mr. Lee agreed. “I think what’s left of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam will be pulling back to Saigon, and the North Vietnam army and the Vietcong units will be moving there too. Gathering in close now, I think, for the last big battle.”

  “I think so too,” Moon said. “And I don’t have any other ideas. Not even bad ones.” He used the back of his hand to wipe away the perspiration dripping from his eyebrows. “Did you hear anything else?”

  “The man with the scarred face asked someone if he had completed an inventory of what was here, and they talked of how many sacks of rice, and sandalwood, and charcoal, and barrels of gasoline and diesel fuel. And what was in the kitchen and the bathroom. And a pistol found in the office was mentioned, and handed to the old man. Then someone who must have been out at the hangars came in and told the old man that Big Minh, the new puppet president at Saigon, was broadcasting a speech. He was telling the puppet army-”

  Mr. Lee paused and gave Moon an apologetic glance.

  “The Communists always call ARVN that,” he said. “I merely quote. The new president told the army. to continue the fighting. To defend Saigon. Not to run away. And then another man came in. I think he had been running. I mean, the way he was breathing.” Mr. Lee demonstrated the sound of panting. “This one, he said that the commander wanted them to move up along the river and that the old man was needed at the radio to receive their orders.”

  “So they left,” Moon said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Lee said. “But they~ will be back. Or someone else will come.”

  “Is that something you heard?” Moon asked. “Or is it just a good guess?”

  Mr. Lee’s face was shiny with perspiration, but Moon saw no signs of dripping. Maybe it was because he was so thin and frail. Maybe it was because he was used to this sort of heavy wet heat. But how could anyone ever get used to it?

  Mr. Lee chuckled. “A guess. In a hungry country one does not walk away from food.”

  “We don’t have much time then?” And, as he said it, thought, Time for what?

  Mr. Lee shrugged. “Again, I must guess. What is the movement of their wind and water? What is the movement of our own? How can we know what that holds for them? Or for us? Perhaps the Yellow Tiger Battalion will be fierce and chase their Vietcong brothers into the Mekong. Or perhaps the Vietcong will chase the Tigers all the way into the Gulf of Thailand.”

  “Do you have any ideas?” Moon asked. Osa was sitting beside Mr. Lee now, looking thoughtful.

  Mr. Lee said, “Probably the same ones you have. The alternatives. We could stay here. The Vietcong will come back for the rice, or perhaps the Army of North Vietnam will come to collect the aircraft and the other equipment. Then, perhaps, we will be shot or taken into custody. Or perhaps we will not be shot. if all is well we would be returned to our countries or held for questioning. It is all very problematic. Or we could seek some means to escape to the sea. Or we could seek some way to continue our mission.”

  “I am remembering what Mr. Rice said about the River Patrol Boats,” Osa said. “Some people in that ship must have escaped. Ran away in the boats that were missing. Where would they go? We didn’t hear such fast boats when we were coming up the river. Where could they be? We should try to find one of those. We should try to get out the way we came in.”

  To Moon that seemed awfully close to hopeless. But he could think of nothing better. “What do you think of that?” he asked Lum Lee.

  Mr. Lee pulled idly at his gray goatee, considering.

  “How do we find the boat?” He made.a wry face, shook his head. “However, one with no horse must walk. One with no helicopter must try to float.”

  Mr. Lee laughed at his own humor. Osa produced a weak chuckle. Moon didn’t even try.

  “I will go now and see what I can see,” Mr. Lee said. “But first I must find something to make me look more like a Communist. More like a Mekong Delta Communist.”

  “I think you are too tired for that,” Moon said. “Rest awhile. Have some food.”

  Mr. Lee studied him, tugged at his goatee. “I am remembering what Ricky told me about you,” he said. “I think you plan to do this yourself. But you are too big, and too white, too American. You would be caught, and then we all would be caught.”

  “I know,” Moon said. “I thought about that. Let’s see if we can find anything useful.”

  The door at the far end of the warehouse opened into an office: two desks, one small, new, and gray metal, and the other big, old, and oak; a tall old-fashioned five-drawer filing cabinet; a small safe, its door standing open; and a long wooden table with four folding chairs beside it. Moon sat in a swivel chair at the bigger desk, felt the smooth wood under his fingertips. Wood polished by Ricky’s hands. In front of him, just over the desk, he could see through the rain-streaked window the open door of the hangar from which George Rice, the Huey copter, and all his hopes had flown away.

  Mr. Lee had disappeared through the door behind him into the living quarters, followed by Osa. After a while he would go there himself. He’d see Ricky’s nest. See whatever Ricky’s friends had left when they collected his things to send back to the States. But not now. It could wait a minute while he would simply think.

  Moon heard voices, something clattering. The monsoon wind rattled the window with a fresh barrage of rain. Sweat ran down his back, made his shirt slick against the plastic of the chairback. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Today was what? The end of April. Victoria Mathias would be sleeping in her bed in her hospital room.

  Mr. Lee emerged, dressed in loose and slightly dirty cotton trousers and an even looser dark blue smock. He was carrying a conical fiber hat.

  “Not perfect, but a lot better,” Mr. Lee said. “I go now. Mrs. van Winjgaarden said she will take a shower.”

  “I think you would fool me,” Moon said, “but are you going to fool these local Vietnamese? Are there any Chinese around here, do you think?”

  “You forget that I, too, am Vietnamese,” Mr. Lee said. “And there are Chinese everywhere in Asia.”

  “But how the hell-? Just what are you going to do?”

  Mr. Lee stopped at the door. “I tell anyone I can find that my son was a cook on the U.S.S. Pott County. I came to visit him. I learn the ship has been sunk. Someone told me he got ashore on one of the motorboats.”

  “Um,” Moon said.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No,” Moon said.

  “Remember that I am an old man. Remember that the Vietnamese respect their old.”

  “Like the old man with his ear cut off,” Moon said.

  Mr. Lee stared at him. “The scar was old. Somebody in your CIA was collecting ears that year, I think.” With that, Mr. Lee disappeared through the doorway.

  Another gust of wind rattled the window. From the living quarters behind him, Moon heard a shower running. Odd, he thought, how we believe that water through a pipe gets us cleaner than the warm rain. Then a shout. Something between a shout and a scream. Osa’s voice.

  A half dozen running steps to the door, jerk it open, the bedroom; large, mostly bare, a bed, a chest, a chair. No sign of Osa.

  Then, through the doorway into the next room, he could see part of Osa: the back of her head, her right shoulder, the right side of her back, right buttock, right leg, the bare suntanned skin glistening with perspiration. She was standing stock still, facing directly away from him, holding a bundle of clothing against herself, looking down, listening to someone.

  Moon pushed past her. A small young man was sitting on the floor in the bathroom closet, matted black hair, the side of his face black with clotted blood, holding a grenade launcher pointed at Osa.

  He shifted it to point at Moon.

  “Hello,” Moon said. Not Vietcong, he thought, or he wouldn’t be hiding here. An ARVN de
serter. He might understand some English. Would he understand the grenade launcher? if he shot it in here, they were all dead. Moon bent forward, reached his hand back, felt his palm press against Osa’s bare stomach, pushed hard, was aware she was falling out through the doorway, heard her body hit the floor.

  “You’re hurt,” he said to the man.

  “You are an America,” the man said. lie said it very slowly, mouthing each word carefully, not sure of his English. He grinned at Moon a pained grin, carefully put the grenade launcher on the closet floor, leaned against the doorjamb, and coughed.

  Through his open shirt, Moon saw more dried blood, part of a tattoo, and dark bruises.

  “There’ll be a first aid kit around here somewhere,” Moon said. “What happened to you?”

  “Yes,” the man said, and something else which Moon didn’t understand.

  Moon picked up the grenade launcher. The same model, he noticed, that they’d trained with at Fort Riley. He leaned it in the corner of the closet.

  “Can you stand?”

  The man looked puzzled. “Stand?”

  Moon helped him up, helped him into the bedroom, helped him sit on the rumpled bed. Mr. Lee was standing in the bedroom door. Osa reappeared beside him, still barefoot but wearing her khaki pants now and a bra, with her shirt over her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she said to Moon, looking slightly embarrassed. “I guess neither of us have any secrets now.”

  “No,” Moon said.

  She smiled at him. “But you didn’t have to push me so hard.” She went into the bathroom, turned off the shower, and came out with a wet towel.

  “First we need to clean off the cut places,” she said to the man. “Mr. Mathias here will go and find the medical box, and then we will see what we can do for you.”

  He found four of the kits the U.S. Army issues to its aid men in the kitchen cabinet over the sink. Mr. Lee was standing behind him, looking pleased.