War Baby by Colin Falconer Read Free Book Online Page A

at his bandaged shoulder.
    ‘This? You can’t help bad luck. I only got this because the bloke I was with was new, and didn’t know how to duck.’
    ‘You do not mind if you are killed for a photograph?’
    ‘If there’s no one here snapping away with a camera, how will anyone outside Vietnam know what a shitty little war this is? Pardon my French.’
    She did not seem disturbed by this mild obscenity. She leaned in: ‘You think photograph can stop this war?’
    ‘Yeah, I do.’
    ‘I will pray you are right.’
    ‘Yeah, well, it won’t happen overnight. Look, I’ve answered your question. Will you answer one of mine?’
    ‘You wish to know why I am in the convent?’
    ‘You said it wasn’t a proper question to ask you. But I never ask proper questions. That’s why I’m a journo.’
    She sighed. ‘You must understand. I am not Vietnamese, I am not French. It makes life ... difficult.’
    ‘So, you’re saying ... it’s like a ... sanctuary?’
    ‘Perhaps. Yes. But also, I have great faith.’
    ‘What came first? The faith - or the sanctuary?’
    She studied her hands, one thumb stroking the other as if it were a small, wounded bird. ‘My mother wish it.’
    ‘Religious, was she?’
    ‘How long do you live here in Vietnam, Monsieur Ryan?’
    ‘Three years.’
    ‘Then you will know that here we have very conservative, very formal, society. A woman has her place, n’est-ce pas? ’ No Vietnamese man will marry me, because I am not Vietnamese. Un Americain looks at me, he sees a “gook”. Yes? A prostitute. So my choice is the Church or the Tu Do. Before she die, my mother prefer I go to the convent. Me also, I think.’
    Ryan leaned forward. ‘When I look at you, I don’t see a “gook”. I see a very lovely young woman.’
    She stood up, abruptly, as if he had slapped her face. ‘I must go now.’
    ‘Sorry. That was the wrong thing to say, right? I seem to be making a habit of it. Please. Sit down.’
    ‘No, really. I must go.’
    ‘You don’t have to do what you don’t want to.’
    She looked at him as if he had just told her the world was flat. ‘Perhaps not in your country, Monsieur Ryan. But in Vietnam only the men do what they want.’
    ‘You have to listen to your heart. You’ve only got one life.’
    She stared at him. She had that look on her face, the look he had seen countless times before on the faces of other women just before he kissed them for the first time. If she was any other woman he would not have hesitated.
    She turned away. ‘I must go.’
    ‘You’re lovely,’ he whispered.
    She looked stricken, as if it were the most terrible thing anyone had ever said to her. ‘I hope you are well soon.’ She held out her hand. It was soft and cool.
    ‘Goodbye, Sister. Thanks for coming.’
    She stopped at the door. ‘Monsieur Ryan, there is something you should know about me.’
    ‘Yes, Sister?’
    ‘I am not a nun. Not yet. I do not yet take my final vows.’
    ‘You’re a novice?’
    ‘Yes. A novice.’ She gave him a look that could have meant anything, and then she was gone. He heard her footfall on the concrete stairwell.
    He stared at the open door, wondering.
     
    * * *
     
    The Cercle Sportif was on Hong Thap Tu Street, a handsome French villa whose gardens served the recreational needs of the American and European community. General Westmoreland played tennis there. Men played boules under the tamarind trees, while their wives, their bodies glistening with Ambre Solaire, sunbathed by the swimming pool.
    Ryan signaled the waiter for two more gin and tonics. ‘Christ, the Frogs know how to host a war,’ he said.
    Webb shifted in his wicker chair. He hoped this was on Ryan’s tab, he was almost broke. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he said.
    ‘Well, you are. Relax. Enjoy yourself.’
    The waiter arrived with their drinks and set them on the table. Webb pulled at a piece of wicker on the arm of his chair.
    ‘Christ, you’re like a cat with a cracker up its