It didn’t make him feel that way. Instead, it brought back a swarm of similar memories to him as well. They spilled from the flash of anger in his eyes onto the table alongside hers, sightless, odorless, and yet palpable, even to her. Condley wanted to tell her that the bombings were probably careless but never intentional. He wanted her to hear of the cruelty and wickedness perpetrated by her husband’s cohorts. Of his friend Thanh, captured by the enemy who then left pieces of his body in a dozen nearby villages as reminders of his misplaced loyalty. Of the two dozen villagers he had buried after they were ambushed and slaughtered inside a home for no reason except that they had come to a meeting sponsored by the Provincial government.

Most of all he wanted to tell her what it was like to discover the beautiful, innocent Mai lying cold and twisted on the bathroom floor with her throat slashed and the blood draining forever from her, every ounce of his own hope and happiness gurgling into the gutter along with the loud incessant stream of water from the shower. And how it felt to know that she had died for the sin of loving him.

But he could not. One story would beget another, until soon the whole war would be piled onto the table. It was over and it made no sense to continue it by fighting over who had been crueler or who had suffered the greatest loss. Her loss was overwhelming, total, irreplaceable. That was enough for him. And it had been caused by an American aircraft.

“Mrs. Pham, I am very sorry,” he finally said. “If you will take me to temple, we will pray for your children together.”

Her look gradually changed, from an angry, accusing sadness to mild disbelief and then to genuine respect. She regained her smile and slowly took his hand.

“My husband told me that you are a good man,” she said.

“I mean it. I’ll go if you will take me,” said Condley, feeling cleansed by his own words.

“I will take you,” she agreed.

“We will pray for all the dead.”

“I will do that too,” she said.

Condley glanced at the others. Colonel Pham nodded to him encouragingly, as if he had suddenly become family. Francois Petain was bored and distracted, his mind somewhere between Paris and Tokyo, fading fast from jet lag. The Frenchman looked down at his watch again, uncomfortable with this ugly business of war and loss and emotions.