Finding Moon

The Sixth Day

TO REACH THE DINING ROOM of the Hotel Maynila one took an escalator from the lobby, descended past a waterfall flowing over a granite pseudo-cliff, and surrendered oneself to an ornately uniformed fellow to be taken to a seat. Moon was assigned to a table adjoining the swinging doors from the kitchen. He explained he needed a quieter place for a business conversation. He suggested one of a row of empty tables by the glass wall with a view out into the garden. The uniformed fellow looked skeptical but bowed and made the new assignment.

Moon sat, elbows on the tablecloth, looking into a steady tropical rain and into a jungle of tropical flowers, none of which he could identify. The incident with the maître d’ had confirmed a previous Moon conclusion. He must either get this jacket and these slacks to the cleaner and his socks, shirts, and underwear to a laundry, or say to hell with it, face reality, and fly home where it didn’t matter how he looked. The opulence that surrounded him here reinforced another decision. He had to check out of this five-star hotel, whether or not he went home. He couldn’t afford it. If he was going to play out this Don Quixote role to the end, he’d find Ricky’s apartment and move into it until someone told him where to locate the baby. Or until he got sensible and gave up, a conclusion to this affair that had come to seem tremendously appealing.

Victoria Mathias had taught her sons that being late for an appointment was inexcusably rude, an arrogant declaration that you were more important than the one you were meeting. Moon, therefore, tended to be early and thus had become skilled at waiting. He studied the menu, but saw nothing to modify his decision to order bacon and scrambled eggs. Then he unfolded the Philippine Daily Journal he’d picked up in the lobby.

The banner story concerned construction of the Imelda Marcos Children’s Hospital. A headline down the page declared that Pol Pot’s new government in Phnom Penh was establishing a “national program of reeducation” to restore Khmer values to Cambodia. Moon read every word of that. It involved Khmer Rouge troops driving hordes of civilians out of cities and towns into work camps being set up in the countryside. It sounded like a hodgepodge of rumors, mostly incredible. He turned to a follow-up story on President Ford’s request that Congress appropriate more money for weapons for South Vietnam. The writer saw no sign that Ford was twisting arms to get the funds, nor any indication that Congress would agree. From that Moon turned to refugees flee highlands. A photograph of ARVN troops crowding aboard a C-13o, knocking down civilians, accompanied the story. Moon imagined himself caught in such chaos, baby under his arm. Here he was, wasting time. And if Ricky’s child was still in Cambodia, how much time did he have? He put down the Journal and glanced at his watch. In fifty-eight seconds, Mrs. Osa van Winjgaarden would be late, as people usually were.

But when Moon looked up, a woman was walking toward his table.

She was tall, slim, dark, a narrow face, a straight, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and large black eyes, which, when he noticed her, were studying him anxiously. This was not the plump blue-eyed blond Dutch matron the name had led Moon to expect, but she was walking directly toward him. He pushed back his chair and rose.

“Mr. Mathias,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

“Not at all,” Moon said. “In fact, you’re early. I’ve just been reading the paper and waiting for some coffee.” He shook the hand she offered, pulled back her chair, and signaled the waiter.

“I hope you found some good news,” she said. “We could use some good news.” She smiled at him, a rueful smile. “Certainly you could.”

Moon looked surprised.

“I mean your brother’s death. And now your mother being so ill. Mr. Castenada told me of your troubles. I hope she is getting better.”

“Oh,” Moon said. “Thank you. It’s her heart. They’re doing some tests. Maybe they’ve already done them. To tell whether to do bypass surgery. Last time I called I couldn’t reach anyone who seemed to know anything.”

“The time difference,” she said. “You can never reach anyone on the other side of the Pacific. But I want to express my sympathy. Ricky was a wonderful man. And his wife. Eleth was sweet.”

Eleth? Eleth Vinh? Wife? “I really didn’t know her,” Moon said. “We hadn’t met.” He signaled for the waiter again, waited while the coffee was poured, offered this dark woman the cream and sugar, and, when she declined, applied it to his own cup.

“You saw the paper this morning,” she said. “Pol Pot’s mad children are in Phnom Penh. How does that affect your plans?”

Plans? Moon stirred, sipped. “Actually, it doesn’t,” he said. “I haven’t any plans. Only to talk to you and find out what you would tell me. And then I will see if I can find some of Ricky’s friends and see what they know. And if the child is somewhere here in Manila, I will get her and take her home to her grandmother.”

Mrs. van Winjgaarden was looking surprised. “No plans,” she said. Her lips parted slightly as if to speak again. Then closed.

“By the way,” Moon said. “I don’t know how to pronounce your name. Is it Dutch?”

“Dutch, yes,” she said. “One would say ‘wanwingarten.’ But it is hard to say. I think it would be better if you call me Osa.”

“Osa,” Moon said.

She smiled. “Your name is Malcolm, I know. But Ricky always called you Moon. Would it be impertinent to ask?…”

“It’s my nickname,” Moon said. “When I was little they used to have these little things they sold in a cellophane sack. Moon Pies was the name. A round cookie on the bottom, then a layer of marshmallow covered with chocolate. Two of them for a nickel. I always spent all my money on ’em. So they started calling me Moon Pie Mathias. It got shortened to Moon.”

Mrs. van Winjgaarden smiled politely, willing to change the subject. “Mr. Castenada told me that Ricky’s daughter never reached here. You think not so?”

“That’s what he said,” Moon agreed. “But I hope he’s badly informed. Maybe something went wrong with whoever was bringing her. Maybe somebody else completed the trip. Maybe they delivered her to one of Ricky’s friends here. Mr. Castenada didn’t have any recent news.” Even as he was saying it the theory sounded inane. If the child had reached Manila, Castenada’s man checking the flights would have known. If she had been brought in some other way, surely Castenada would know.

Mrs. van Winjgaarden’s expression suggested she thought so too.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I think they would have got in touch with Mr. Castenada. You think not true?”

The waiter spared Moon the need to respond.

Mrs. van Winjgaarden ordered toast and melon, Moon his bacon and eggs. He was trying to match this self-assured woman with the small shy voice he’d heard yesterday on the telephone. The difference of a night’s sleep, he thought. Yesterday’s trip must have been exhausting-getting to Manila from Timor.

“You’re from Timor, I think,” Moon said. “I’m not sure I know where-”

She was smiling at this. “No one ever does.”

Moon realized the smile was wry; the amusement was at herself, at the obscurity of her homeland. Not at his ignorance. He found himself thinking he would like this woman.

“People know it’s an island,” she said. “It’s the last large island in the Indonesian chain. Southeast of Borneo. North of Australia.” She laughed, her expression apologizing to Moon for underestimating his education. “Of course, north of Australia. Everything is north of Australia. Say halfway between Australia and the Celebes.”

“Oh,” Moon said. “Sure.” Pretending to remember, flattered that she’d presume he could place the Celebes.

“But I don’t live on Timor. I was there arranging to buy things. To buy folk art for the export business. I live in Kuala Lumpur.”

“Oh,” Moon said. That’s somewhere in Indonesia too, he thought. Or perhaps the Malay Peninsula.

“And you, of course, are from the United States. I think Ricky said from Colorado.”

“From Colorado,” Moon agreed.

“So,” she said. “Today you intend to talk to

Ricky’s friends here. And you will learn if someone brought Lila to them but didn’t tell Mr. Castenada?”

Moon nodded.

“And if Lila is not here, you will find out if they know where she would be?” she suggested. “Whether she was taken to Saigon. Or perhaps to Ricky’s place at Can Tho?”

Moon nodded. Can Tho? Yes. He remembered the sound of that. Ricky had mentioned something about that place when he’d visited at Fort Riley. Halsey had turned the name around and made a joke out of it. And it was mentioned in Ricky’s papers. “A town in the Mekong Delta?”

“Can Tho? Yes. Near the river’s mouth. Where Ricky had his repair hangars. What are your plans if you find out Lila is there? Bow will you get there?”

He thought. “I guess the airports are closed.” He tapped the newspaper.

“They were this morning, except for Saigon,” she said. “I think getting into Saigon is still possible.” She smiled wryly. “They say the planes are pretty empty going in. Getting out?” She shrugged. “And how do you get from Saigon down to the delta?”

“The rich folks leaving the sinking ship,” Moon said.

Their breakfasts arrived. They buttered their respective slices of toast. Moon sampled his bacon. Excellent. The eggs tasted fresh. He savored them. Mrs. van Winjgaarden was looking down, toying with the melon. An interesting face, but her short hair looked as if she’d combed it with her fingers, and her jacket was rumpled. Like his own.

“Why did you want to see me?” Moon asked.

She looked up from the melon and down again. “I want to ask for your help. My brother is at a little place in the hills in Cambodia. With some of the Montagnard people. He has a medical station at Tonli Kong, a tribal village. I want you to take me there.”

Moon’s face showed his amazement. “Me? How?”

“I had called to talk to Ricky about doing it,” she said. “That’s when they told me he was dead. So I called Mr. Castenada. He told me you were coming to get Ricky’s daughter. So I thought I would ask you to help me.”

Help me. Always that. Why not the other way around? Why not, How can I help you, Mr. Mathias?

“I don’t see how I can do that.”

She looked up from the melon, surprised. “I thought you would be taking over Ricky’s company. I thought you would fly us up to the hills and we would pick up Damon, and-”

“I’m not a pilot,” Moon said. “I can’t fly a helicopter. Or anything else.”

Mrs. van Winjgaarden stared at him numbly, melon spoon frozen in midair.

“You can’t? I assumed-”

“No,” Moon said. “I’m no pilot. I took a few flying lessons once.” He shrugged. It was one of the things he wasn’t good at.

Mrs. van Winjgaarden put down the spoon, expression puzzled. “Then how did you hope to get out? How did you hope to get the baby out? Getting in would be, I think, fairly easy if we don’t wait too long. But getting out…” She let the sentence trail off. Why say it?

Moon found himself taking a perverse pleasure in this; in defeating this overconfident woman’s overconfident expectations.

“If you don’t go in, there’s no problem getting out,” he said.

Mrs. van Winjgaarden picked up the spoon, put a bit of melon in her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully, looking at him. She reached a conclusion, swallowed.

“Oh,” she said. “You’ll go in. Alone.” She nodded to herself. “You don’t want me along. You’ll have enough problems without excess baggage.”

Moon’s pleasure went away, replaced by irritation.

“Look,” he said. “I will check with whichever of Ricky’s friends I can find. if they know where the kid is in Manila, I collect her and take her home. if they know she’s somewhere I can get to, I go get her. Otherwise, I go back to the States. Back to minding my own business.”

Mrs. van Winjgaarden listened carefully to every word of this, smiling slightly. Moon’s irritation edged toward anger.

“Believe what you like,” he said. “What makes you think I’m so eager to risk my neck?”

The smile broadened. “I know about you,” she said.

“That I’m crazy? Who told you?”

She shrugged. “Ricky. Ricky’s friends. Mr. Castenada.”

That stopped him. He sipped his coffee, remembering what the lawyer had said. Remembering Electra. Remembering old Mr. Lum Lee.

“What did Ricky tell you?”

“That you were marvelous.”

Her face was dead serious as she said it, and Moon realized that he was being teased. Victoria had teased him sometimes when he was a child, when he was angry or moody. And the woman who taught calculus when he was in high school did it. But no one since then.

“Ricky told us about your football playing. About knocking the other players down so he could run. About throwing the shotput when your back was hurt. About beating the big man who was drowning the dog. About the time-” She was ticking them off on her fingers when Moon stopped her.

“That was a little brother talking,” he said. “In our family, in our town, Ricky was the star.”

“And modest,” she said. “Ricky told us about that too. He said when you played football, he just followed behind you. He told us, ‘Moon knocked them over and I got the credit.’ That’s what he told us about you.”

Moon felt his face flushing. He forced a grin. “More little brother talk. The scouts from the colleges recruited Ricky. They didn’t offer any scholarships to me.”

“Because of your knee,” she said. “A knee was hurt. You had to have an operation to fix it. And you could always repair things. The car you boys bought. The machines at your mother’s printing place. The-”

“Why can’t your brother just come out by himself?” Moon asked. “Why do you need. to go get him?”

Mrs. van Winjgaarden looked down at the melon. “Because he won’t. He is a stubborn man. He wants to stay with those people in the mountains. With his tribe. He thinks of them as his responsibility.”

“How about the Khmer Rouge? From what I read they’re rough on Americans. On Europeans.”

“Rough?” she said. “Yes. They kill them. And their own people too. We hear they usually tie them to a tree or something and beat them with sticks. Not using up their ammunition that way. They say Pol Pot’s children kill everyone who is well dressed. Or well educated. Or wears glasses. Anyone who has soft hands.”

“Surely your brother must know that.”

“Yes.” She looked directly into his eyes now, as if she thought he might have some explanation for what she was saying. “But you see, Damon wants to die.”

Moon had nothing to say to that.

“He told me he wants to be a saint. Like the martyrs who died for their faith,” she said. “I think that is true. Damon is a minister. A Lutheran missionary. He wants to give those people some proof that he believes the Gospels he has been teaching them. A demonstration of self-sacrifice.” She said it all matter-of-factly, in a voice devoid of emotion. Then laughed. “Greater love hath no man,” she said. “Do you play Monopoly? GO DIRECTLY TO HEAVEN. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS. Damon wants to go directly to heaven.”

To his surprise, Moon found he was feeling disapproval. “You don’t believe in that?”

“Oh,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh, “I suppose I believe in the abstract idea. But I love him. Damon is my brother. When he was little I looked after him. I don’t want Pol Pot’s crazy children to beat him to death.”

She attempted a smile but didn’t quite make it. Her expression was forlorn.

Moon thought, Here it is. Here is what always overwhelms me. Pity. Always pity. How do people sense that? How do they read me so easily? And Mrs. van Winjgaarden seemed to read even the thought.

“I wish I could help you,” he said. It’s just-”

“But first you must find Ricky’s friends here. To learn about the child. Yes. I understand.”

And so they went to find Ricky’s friends

BANGKOK, Thailand, April 17 (Agence France-Presse)-A blackout of customary news channels wrapped developments in Cambodia in uncertainty today amid rumors that the new government had ordered an evacuation of the capital and reports that some government army units were still resisting in the south.