“My fee just tripled. And I want my byline on each picture.” She rolled back onto the bed, appalled with this small, hard ambition inside her. “What about the one with Samuels standing at the edge of the paddy?”

“Tripled, didn’t I say that? I’ll have to check on the name, greedy girl. Your soldier’s the cover boy.” He was relieved by her voracity. That bit of ruthlessness would serve her well and meant that all this bed rest was just theatrics.

“No, you didn’t say.”

“Of course,” Gary said, running his hand up and down the bedspread, “knowing the outcome of the battle… well, he’s immortalized.”

She closed her eyes, weighing the decision. “Even if he shot himself?”

Gary paused, relieved now that he had found out the cause of her behavior. “I didn’t even hear that.”

“Are you that cynical?”

He glanced at her, a small, wan smile, then got up and moved away. “Man, it’s boiling in here. What I am is a guy with a constant deadline. Samuelson-”

“Samuels.”

“Whatever. Was a brave soldier-I have testimonials. You don’t know what happened for sure. Things go on out there that can’t be judged by the standards of ordinary life, little girl.”

Even if Gary knew exactly what had happened, it would make no difference.

“Give this a thought. Fly to Washington and present a print of this Samuels to his parents, or girlfriend, wife, what ever he’s got. That would be great coverage.”

She shook her head. “I’m through.”

“That’s why you had your fee tripled? What you need is rest.” He paced the room, sweating and wiping his forehead with a paper napkin. “How about me sending some meals over from Grival’s.”

“You can’t buy me,” she said into her blanket, but they both knew he had won.

“It’s on the expense account, okay? And you’ll get your byline.”

“I don’t care.”

He studied her for a moment. “Even if the guy did flip out for a second-which I’m officially denying-what about all the times he’s a hero and no one is handy with a camera? He’s a brave SOB in my book just for being out there in Vietnam, another name for Hell.” He picked up his pack to leave.

“At the field hospital-”

“I’ll tell you something I shouldn’t. I rescued Darrow out there in Angkor. Don’t ever let him know. Hiding in the rocks. Flipped out, man. Scared of his shadow. I’m not sure what would have happened if Linh hadn’t shown up.” An exaggeration, of course, but one for a good cause.

Helen had never heard this version of their time at Angkor; all she knew was Darrow’s obsession with going back there.

“Be one of my best photographers. The job won’t betray you. I love Darrow, but he’s headed in a bad direction again-the thing with Tanner was dumb. I’m relying on you and Linh to pull him through.”

But Gary was wrong. Already the job had betrayed her. Or she had betrayed it, had fulfilled MacCrae’s prophecy, and become part of their movie. Young boys like Michael would see that picture of Samuels and follow in the footsteps of a man who rolled the dice with his life.

When Gary left, Helen got out of bed, dressed, and took up life again. At dinner with Annick, she sipped at a martini, so icy it went down like water. The smoothness of the tablecloth, the ice in their water glasses, the laughter at the tables around them, soothed her. A man across the room nodded, and she smiled back. The waiter brought them a complimentary round of drinks.

“You’re strange to night,” Annick said, and lit a cigarette.

Helen noticed the smudge of lipstick on Annick’s glass as she moved it away from her lips, the pristine cleanness of the china (nothing in the field could be made that clean), the rustle of a woman’s dress as she passed by.

“I was a coward.”

Annick blew away a stream of smoke and shrugged. “You made it back to Saigon. The only victory that counts.” She looked over her shoulder at the man. “I think he likes you.”

“Maybe I should call him over.” Helen pointed her chin in the man’s direction. “A whirlwind romance. We’ll get married, and he’ll take me home to meet his mother. Why not?”

“You’re drunk.”

“That’s the problem. I can’t get drunk. I’d need elephant tranquilizer to bring me down.”

Annick finished her drink and started on the new one. “But maybe you should marry him. All anyone can gossip about is Darrow’s wife coming to town.”

Helen set down her glass, sobered.

“She came for a surprise visit. Waiting for him in his room at the hotel. Word is that rumors made their way back home about a certain loose female photographer.”

This mythical wife existed in a time and space so far away from the crooked apartment that Helen had been able to ignore the situation. Darrow himself gave the marriage such little credence that she couldn’t grasp the reality of the wife’s sudden presence in Saigon. But here it was, or rather, here the wife was, pushing herself into a place she didn’t belong. Helen felt the scruples of her old life. If she had meet Darrow back home, the fact of his marriage would have kept her from seeing him, but the thousands of miles, the nature of the war, had seduced her, made life back home strange and unfathomable.

“You shouldn’t care. He loves you, not her.”

The idea of being the other woman so ridiculous. Compared to what she had just witnessed, wasn’t Darrow right, wasn’t this small and unimportant? She wanted her life to be clean and right; to have things of her own. This must be the first thing to change. Helen leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What should I do? Go home?”

“A woman’s never the most important thing to a man like him. You are fighting over scraps. Why not just take your pictures?”

Helen waved her hand as if shooing off an annoying insect.

“Then stop,” Annick said. “You’ve proved yourself.”

“The more I go out there the less I know why. But there are moments… when I feel this is what I’m alive for.”

“So take a little vacation to Singapore. A break.” Annick stubbed out her cigarette. “Other people make a whole life out of avoiding pain.” The waiter brought a bowl of fruit; Annick smiled up at him extravagantly till he left. “Distracting themselves.”

Helen smiled at her open flirtation. “What about you? I know how you distract yourself.”

Now Annick sat up and her demeanor became as businesslike as in the shop. “Speaking of-would you mind if I saw Robert?”

A stab of possessiveness, but Helen dismissed it. Of course, life had to go on, and it was no one’s fault that she had messed up her own. “Someone should be happy in Saigon.”

“Don’t be silly. This is a small place; we have to reuse each other. You think he’s an innocent, but you’re wrong. He sees through you and Darrow. He’s like me; he knows this war means nothing. Maybe a change would do us both good. Maybe living in New Orleans would be fun.”

That night Helen lay in bed, restless. After the drinks with Annick, she had hoped to fall asleep quickly, but each time she closed her eyes the image of Samuels haunted her. She regretted things. Crazy thoughts, made more powerful because of their lack of logic. What she had done or failed to do. The arrival of Darrow’s wife presaged a change, but to what? She fell into a fitful sleep, and again she had the dream; children approached and circled her, pressing in, circling around and around, touching, but when she tried to speak with them, they turned away.

After midnight footsteps on the stairs woke her, a key in the lock, and now that the change was close she wished he had stayed away longer.

Darrow felt his way into the dark room. “You awake?”

“Yes.”

He flipped on the red-shaded lamp. “I was hoping you were here.” He sat on the bed. “I drove straight in from Bien Hoa, screw the curfew.”

In his arms, she let herself be still a minute, feel protected for the barest fraction of time. He smelled of sweat, dirt, and the fecund reek from being in the field. It repulsed and made her hold him tighter. His body strong, but he was no different from Samuels, the vulnerability of flesh.