Finding Moon

“If something goes wrong,” Moon said.

Mr. Lee nodded. “Just in case the wind and water have not been right for us.”

And then the motor on Mr. Suhua

Special to the New York Times

BANGKOK, Thailand, April 28-In an implicit warning to both North Vietnam and international relief organizations, the new government of Cambodia served notice that no “foreign intervention” would be allowed in the country.

The warning was broadcast over Phnom Penh radio and came as refugees flooding into Thailand reported mass executions by Khmer Rouge troops of those accused of being “exploiters of the people.”

Morning, the Nineteenth Day

WITH THE MORNING LIGHT UPON it, the Mekong was busy despite the rain. Little boats were everywhere, being sailed, rowed, poled, pushed along with outboard motors. Moon sat on a bundle of something wrapped in burlap, hungrily eating a sticky mixture of rice and pork with his fingers and thinking about the bodies he’d seen floating past in this morning’s darkness.

“It’s no use trying to be neat,” Osa said. “Eating with your fingers neatly, it is simply not possible.”

Osa was sitting on the next bale, eating exactly the same rice mixture neatly.

The rain pattered steadily on the tin roof above them, dripped from the warehouse eaves, splashed in the puddles formed on the dock. Moon heard a thumping sound, far away but too regular to be thunder. He recognized the sound of artillery fire, or perhaps heavy mortars. According to Moon’s map, the only major town upstream was Can Tho, where Highway One bridged this arm of the Mekong. Perhaps they were fighting for that. Anyway, it must be a lot quieter here than around Saigon. The radio Rice had turned up loud in the hangar was full of bad news. The Tan Son Nhut air base had been bombed. That was next door to the capital, and apparently the planes that bombed it were U.S.-built fighter bombers-either turncoat pilots of the Vietnam Air Force or planes captured on the ground up north when Phan Thiet and its air base were taken. It didn’t seem to matter much. One radio report said ARVN marines had seized a C-130 trying to take off from Nha Trang with a load of refugees, forced the civilians out, and flown away. Big Minh, the new president since yesterday, was on the air. The reporter on Rice’s wavelength said he appealed to all citizens to be courageous, not to run away, not to abandon the tombs of their ancestors.

Everything was coming apart. Moon didn’t want to think about it.

What time would it be in Los Angeles? Evening. if she was lucky, if Dr. Serna had made no mistakes, his mother would be recovering now. Her heart pumping blood through unclogged bypasses, her surgical incisions healing. She might be out of the intensive care unit, in a regular room, reading the L.A. Times about disaster in Southeast Asia, watching television news, perhaps thinking of how alone she was, wondering what had happened to her unreliable elder son. Had Dr. Serna given her his promise? And what would she think of it?

Or the other possibility. Messages awaiting him at the hotel in Puerto Princesa and the embassy in Manila regretting to inform him that Victoria Mathias Monck had not survived the operation.

That would release her, at last, from her burdens.

“You look sad,” Osa said. “I think you are remembering something unhappy.”

“Oh, no,” Moon said. “Just thinking.”

“Of your mother,” Osa said. “I remember today is the day you said they would have her in the surgery. She is all alone. Of course you worry about her.”

“There’s nothing I could do if I were there.”

“You would hold her hand,” Osa said.

“I should finish here and go back and help Rice,” Moon said. Actually there wasn’t much he could do right now to help. Rice was stripping the heavy stuff out of the copter he had chosen for their rescue project. There had seemed to be plenty to choose from in the R. M. Air repair hangar, ranging from a little Cayuse too small for their purpose to a huge banana-shaped Vertol Chinook with its twin rotors, which was obviously too large. In between were four Hueys, familiar to Moon from his days with the Armored, an ugly Cobra in camouflage paint, and a Bell Kiowa. All stood on wheeled dollies. Some were obviously in the throes of repair, with panels removed and parts missing. The Kiowa seemed ready to go, but Rice had picked one of the Hueys. It had apparently been left behind by the U.S. Navy, and its original Marine Corps markings showed through the Vietnamese paint job.

“I remember this one,” Rice had said. “The radar’s off waiting for parts to come down from Saigon, but we won’t need radar, and these navy models were modified to increase the range.”

Moon had said he hadn’t thought they would need the range either. Weren’t they just hopping over the border thirty minutes into Cambodia?

“You hear that artillery upriver a while ago?” Rice had asked. “We may not be able to get back here to refuel.” What then? Moon had said. And Rice had shrugged and said the best bet would probably be to try for Thailand. So now Rice was removing the machine gun mounts and, as he put it, “everything else that us peace-loving neutrals don’t need to get us the hell out of here.” The less weight, the more miles, Rice had said.

Now Moon was aware that Osa had been staring at him. “Or maybe you were thinking of your sweetheart,” she said. “You must be missing her.”

“No,” Moon said. He chuckled and shook his head, thinking how Osa, who often was so unca

“Not missing her?” Osa was looking surprised. He guessed she hadn’t expected his amusement.

“It’s not the kind of relationship you’d normally expect. I own a house. The bank and I own it. I rent out two of the rooms: one to a man who works with me at the newspaper and one to Debbie. Well-” He couldn’t think how to finish this explanation. How much had he said when he had that fever?

“Just sex then?” Osa said, looking very wise. “I don’t think so. When you were so sick you talked about when you would get married. You talked about love.”

Moon found himself embarrassed. “Did I?”

Osa too. Her face was flushed. “I apologize,” she said. “I am sorry. This is not my business. Why am I prying into your private life? This is terrible of me. Don’t answer any of my questions. I am terribly sorry.”

“No, no. It’s all right.”

Osa wasn’t saying anything. Moon suspected she might be crying. Or trying not to cry. Why not? Fatigue. Fear. Dirt. Discomfort. Worry about her brother. Too damn much stress for a woman. Too damn much stress for Moon too. He wasn’t going to look at her. What was her last question?

“Sometimes love and marriage don’t go together,” he said. “Sometimes other things have to be considered. For example, my mother married a man she didn’t love. Her second husband.”

“Oh,” Osa said. She made a sniffing sound. Trying not to cry, Moon thought.

“How about you?” he asked. “You ever think about marrying somebody you didn’t love? Or not marrying somebody you did love? Or any combination of the above?”

“Yes,” Osa said.

“Which one?”

“I guess it was a combination of the above. I was going to marry him, but he went away.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t come back.”

Well, at least she wasn’t crying anymore. But Moon didn’t know exactly how to stop this.