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Authors: Graham Greene
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. . look after her damned interests.” He said, “Oh,” in a weak voice, in the dark.
I went on, “If it’s only her interests you care about, for God’s sake leave Phuong alone. Like any other woman she’d rather have a good . . .” the crash of a mortar saved Boston ears from. the Anglo-Saxon word.
But there was a quality of the implacable in Pyle. He had determined I was behaving well and I had to behave well. He said, “I know what you are suffering, Thomas.” “I’m not suffering.” “Oh yes, you are. I know what I’d suffer if I had to give up Phuong”
“But I haven’t given her up.”
“I’m pretty physical too, Thomas, but I’d give up all hope of that if I could see Phuong happy.” “She is happy.”
“She can’t be-not in her situation. She needs children.” “Do you really believe all that nonsense her sister . . .?” “A sister sometimes knows better. . .” “She was just trying to sell the notion to you, Pyle, because she thinks you have more money. And, my God, she has sold it all right.” “I’ve only got my salary.” “Well, you’ve got a favourable rate of exchange any-
way.”
“Don’t be bitter, Thomas. These things happen. I wish it had happened to anybody else but you. Are those our mortars?”
“Yes, ‘our’ mortars. You talk as though she was leaving me, Pyle”
“Of course,” he said without conviction, “she may choose to stay with you.” “What would you do then?” “I’d apply for a transfer.”
“Why don’t you just go away, Pyle, without causing trouble?”
“It wouldn’t be fair to her, Thomas,” he said quite seriously. I never knew a man who had better motives for all the trouble he caused. He added, “I don’t think you quite understand Phuong.”
And waking that morning months later with Phuong beside me, I thought, “And did you understand her either? Could you have anticipated this situation? Phuong so happily asleep beside me and you dead?” Time has its revenges, but revenges seem so often sour. Wouldn’t we all do better not trying to understand, accepting the fact that no human being will ever understand another, not a wife a husband, a lover a mistress, nor a parent a child? Perhaps that’s why men have invented God-a being capable of understanding. Perhaps if I wanted to be understood or to understand I would bamboozle myself into belief, but I am a reporter; God exists only for leader-writers.
“Are you sure there’s anything much to understand?” I asked Pyle. “Oh, for God’s sake, let’s have a whisky. It’s too noisy to argue.” “It’s a bit early,” Pyle said. “It’s damned late.”
I poured out two glasses and Pyle raised his and stared through the whisky at the light of the candle. His hand shook whenever a shell burst, any yet he had made that senseless trip from Nam Dinh.
Pyle said, “It’s a strange thing that neither of us can say ‘Good luck’.” So we drank saying nothing.
CHAPTER V
(I)
I had thought I would be only one week away from Saigon, but it was nearly three weeks before I returned. In the first place it proved more difficult to get out of the Phat Diem area than it had been to get in. The road was cut between Nam Dinh and Hanoi and aerial transport could not be spared for one reporter who shouldn’t have been there anyway. Then when I reached Hanoi the correspondents had been flown up for briefing on the latest victory and the plane that took them back had no seat left for me. Pyle got away from Phat Diem the morning he arrived: he had fulfilled his mission-to speak to me about Phuong, and there was nothing to keep him. I left him asleep when the mortar-fire stopped at five-thirty and when I returned from a cup of coffee and some biscuits in the mess he wasn’t there. I assumed that he had gone for a stroll-after punting all the way down the river from Nam Dinh a few snipers would not have worried him; he was as incapable of imagining pain or danger to
I went on, “If it’s only her interests you care about, for God’s sake leave Phuong alone. Like any other woman she’d rather have a good . . .” the crash of a mortar saved Boston ears from. the Anglo-Saxon word.
But there was a quality of the implacable in Pyle. He had determined I was behaving well and I had to behave well. He said, “I know what you are suffering, Thomas.” “I’m not suffering.” “Oh yes, you are. I know what I’d suffer if I had to give up Phuong”
“But I haven’t given her up.”
“I’m pretty physical too, Thomas, but I’d give up all hope of that if I could see Phuong happy.” “She is happy.”
“She can’t be-not in her situation. She needs children.” “Do you really believe all that nonsense her sister . . .?” “A sister sometimes knows better. . .” “She was just trying to sell the notion to you, Pyle, because she thinks you have more money. And, my God, she has sold it all right.” “I’ve only got my salary.” “Well, you’ve got a favourable rate of exchange any-
way.”
“Don’t be bitter, Thomas. These things happen. I wish it had happened to anybody else but you. Are those our mortars?”
“Yes, ‘our’ mortars. You talk as though she was leaving me, Pyle”
“Of course,” he said without conviction, “she may choose to stay with you.” “What would you do then?” “I’d apply for a transfer.”
“Why don’t you just go away, Pyle, without causing trouble?”
“It wouldn’t be fair to her, Thomas,” he said quite seriously. I never knew a man who had better motives for all the trouble he caused. He added, “I don’t think you quite understand Phuong.”
And waking that morning months later with Phuong beside me, I thought, “And did you understand her either? Could you have anticipated this situation? Phuong so happily asleep beside me and you dead?” Time has its revenges, but revenges seem so often sour. Wouldn’t we all do better not trying to understand, accepting the fact that no human being will ever understand another, not a wife a husband, a lover a mistress, nor a parent a child? Perhaps that’s why men have invented God-a being capable of understanding. Perhaps if I wanted to be understood or to understand I would bamboozle myself into belief, but I am a reporter; God exists only for leader-writers.
“Are you sure there’s anything much to understand?” I asked Pyle. “Oh, for God’s sake, let’s have a whisky. It’s too noisy to argue.” “It’s a bit early,” Pyle said. “It’s damned late.”
I poured out two glasses and Pyle raised his and stared through the whisky at the light of the candle. His hand shook whenever a shell burst, any yet he had made that senseless trip from Nam Dinh.
Pyle said, “It’s a strange thing that neither of us can say ‘Good luck’.” So we drank saying nothing.
CHAPTER V
(I)
I had thought I would be only one week away from Saigon, but it was nearly three weeks before I returned. In the first place it proved more difficult to get out of the Phat Diem area than it had been to get in. The road was cut between Nam Dinh and Hanoi and aerial transport could not be spared for one reporter who shouldn’t have been there anyway. Then when I reached Hanoi the correspondents had been flown up for briefing on the latest victory and the plane that took them back had no seat left for me. Pyle got away from Phat Diem the morning he arrived: he had fulfilled his mission-to speak to me about Phuong, and there was nothing to keep him. I left him asleep when the mortar-fire stopped at five-thirty and when I returned from a cup of coffee and some biscuits in the mess he wasn’t there. I assumed that he had gone for a stroll-after punting all the way down the river from Nam Dinh a few snipers would not have worried him; he was as incapable of imagining pain or danger to
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