Max's Folly

by Bill Turpin

  The ranks are four across on average, Max thinks. He counts the ranks as they enter the plaza, 40 of them — so maybe 150 people or so. Max tries to make notes, but his hands shake.

  As the last batch of demonstrators crosses into the sunlight, another police APC blocks the street behind them. All but one of the six exits from the plaza are now blocked. Max sees the trap; the remaining exit will be allowed to fill with fleeing students and then sealed off at both ends.

  Max points to it. “Do you see it?” he shouts to the Photog.

  “Yes. It allows the police to beat their captives at a leisurely pace before arresting them.”

  The line turns right, marches up to Max’s side of the plaza and then wheels left in a spirited but poor imitation of a military drill. They stop a few feet from Max’s café table. Still shaking, Max begins making notes: Bass drm . . . 150, teens, erly 20 . . . wl drssd . . . 1/3 girls . . . no wy out . . . 2 police APC . . . wtr cann Merc–troops . . .

  The Mercedes’ water-pumps start spinning. Someone among the demonstrators blows a bugle and they all sprint for the palace gate. The Photog has somehow manoeuvred in front of them. On one knee, he’s taking pictures as they stampede past him.

  But instead of following, the Photog runs, hunched over, to a spot behind a balcony post.

  “Gotta keep the cameras dry,” he bellows, looking at the water cannon.

  The cannon lurches forward and lets loose. Its power is stunning. The kids tumble like stick-men. The water knocks the feet out from under them and they land hard. Max thinks he can hear bones cracking on the paving stones. The lucky ones are screaming and running. The water cannon operator gets the bass drum in his stream and sends it hard into a cluster of fleeing kids.

  Cops move in, swinging black batons as if they are clearing jungle. Some kids fall, others run in spite of bruised muscle and shattered bone. A motorcyclist with a sidecar is cutting through the throng while the passenger whacks their victims on the backs of their thighs with his baton.

  Max tries to make more notes but realizes, a moment too late, that smart reporters keep their eyes up during riots. An explosion in his head brings everything to a halt. The only sound is a loud hissing somewhere in his skull. He sees a swirl of sunlight, shadow and cobblestones and struggles to pull it into a picture of where he is and why. He gets that done just in time to see the ground rushing toward his face. He twists and lands on his shoulder.

  Max dimly concludes that he has been hit by a baton. But that doesn’t explain why his eyes and lungs feel like they’ve been bathed in acid. He tries to take a deep breath to douse the fire in his chest, but that makes it worse. Great gouts of mucus in his nose and throat make it hard to breathe, so Max just lets himself sink the rest of the way down and lies on the side of his face. From his worm’s-eye view, he sees the Photog near the café door, curled around his camera bag.

  “Tear gas!” the Photog yells. These are the first words Max hears since being hit. He searches for something sarcastic to say, but comes up empty.

  His head feels like someone has driven a spike between his eyes, but he manages to crawl under a table. He peers through the pain into the plaza.

  Tear gas canisters smoulder everywhere. A girl holding a bloody hand over the ruins of her mouth stands frozen. Another girl and a boy grab her elbows and usher her away. Some of the shop owners have opened their doors, and a few demonstrators make it inside. The rest run toward the trap. One of the APCs seals it off.

  Empty transports arrive in short order to haul prisoners away. The water cannon begins sweeping the blood and debris toward a drain. Max can only watch while he waits for the pain and fire to let go of him. He cannot understand how quickly and easily chaos conquered the sunny plaza. He is shocked, not by the power of the police but by their willingness to use it against the bones, skulls and faces of unarmed students.

  The truth of this story is in the details, he thinks, not the big picture.

  When Max finally achieves something like full awareness, he realizes that he and his friend are surrounded by four men in cheap grey uniforms bearing plastic Policia badges. They point their Uzi sub-machineguns at the “foreign correspondents”.

  The Photog is the first to stand. Max, who is close to throwing up, can’t find the strength to join him. Besides, the ground is shifting beneath him and his lungs are still burning. He can hear the Photog and the cops arguing, but has no idea what it is about. Finally, a cop gestures with his gun to suggest it’s okay for the Photog to help Max stand up.

  “Stay calm,” the Photog mutters. “I’m putting two rolls of film into your jacket pocket. They want us to get into the APC. We can’t do that. No matter what.”

  “Why? The bureau will get us out, won’t they?”

  “If they know where to look. But once the police brass realize they’ve arrested a foreign journalist, they’ll do anything to avoid trouble. These are stupid men. That could mean dumping us in some backwater prison. After that, anything is possible.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yup.”

  Max vomits with force and conviction before falling to the ground again. The cops back away a little.

  “Great idea,” says the Photog. “Keep it up.”

  The initial eruption was spontaneous, propelled by nausea and fear, but Max now puts his heart into it and manages two more upheavals. When the cops finally venture closer, Max convulses wildly, being careful to spray the vomit around with his flailing arms. They back away again.

  “Excellent!” whispers the Photog, hoarsely. “Nobody wants to be the cop closest to you if you croak in public. Bad for the career.”

  “These idiots have careers?”

  But the Photog isn’t listening. He’s watching the soldiers, who have driven their truck up to the police APC.

  “Ola, ejercito! Soldados!” says the Photog.

  Max’s “convulsions” ease enough to allow him to take things in. The mountain boys seem to be interested.

  Max hears the Photog say something like “these city pigs want to take us to jail” before the Spanish becomes too rapid to follow. He pauses and turns to Max.

  “I am telling them I was an officer in the reserves providing relief during the big earthquake in the mountains. It was a terrible thing,” he tells Max before resuming in

  Spanish.

  Max picks up the words food, water and medicine, but that’s all.

  However, it’s evidently enough to win them over. One soldier, with tears in his eyes, chambers a round in his rifle and swings it toward the cops. The sound causes the cops to turn their Uzis toward the soldiers, which causes more Army rounds to be chambered, which finally brings a sergeant out from the passenger seat of the truck. The Photog displays his plantation-owner smile. “Things are looking up.”

  The sergeant and the cops begin arguing furiously over who will arrest the foreign correspondents. The cops beckon their own sergeant. The Army guy gets on the radio. The rival sergeants stare silently at each other for a full minute before two more Army trucks arrive. A captain hops out.

  “We are saved,” says the Photog.

  “Ola! Hermano!” he yells.

  To Max: “He’s wearing the patch given to those who served during the earthquake. Everybody agrees it was the best thing the Army ever did in peacetime.”

  Everyone is watching the captain, who is instantly recognized by all as the most competent person on the plaza, cops and foreign correspondents included. Max can hear Photog establishing his Army credentials.

  They talk for a minute or so before the officer turns to what are now three trucks of mountain boys.

  “This man,” he says, extending his arm toward the Photog, “volunteered to serve during the earthquake. He worked for days without sleeping. He brought food, medicine and water.” His troops nod enthusiastically.

  Now he turns to the
police. The Photog translates: “If you attempt to arrest these men, my soldiers will kill all of you. I will have to explain the incident, of course, but I will think of something.” His troops adjust their rifles and nod matter-of-factly.

  Another argument breaks out. The cop is demanding the Photog’s film.

  The Photog says something that provokes another round of swearing and gun-cocking.

  The Photog says to Max: “I told him I left it in his mother’s ass. It is a very bad thing to say in this part of the world.”

  “Not surprised,” Max managed through the sour taste in his mouth.

  “Give it to him,” says the captain.

  The Photog hands over a roll of film from his pocket and another from his camera. The cop triumphantly unspools the film from the canisters, tosses it on the paving stones and strides off with his men.

  The Captain takes the Photog aside. Max and the soldiers, out of earshot, can only nod encouragement to each other.

  The Photog walks over to Max. “He says we have to go. He says this operation was ordered by a Secret Police commander called El Mago and there’ll be a battle right here if everyone doesn’t clear out.”

  “Not that I’m complaining, but why is the Army even here?” Max asks.

  “They are not yet ready to throw out El Presidente and his thugs. They pretend to be co-operating, but they are really ensuring things don’t get out of control — arresting or killing foreign correspondents, for example.”

  So Max and his friend hobble out the way the Army came in and head for the wire service bureau.

  “You got the film?”

  “Right here,” says Max, patting his pocket. “That’s a great trick.”

  “I learned it in your country. The cops always want your fucking film.”

  • • •

  Forty minutes later, Max is pounding out his story when the Bureau Chief comes by, glances at Max’s six-take story and keeps the first page.

  “This’ll do,” he says. “But you can’t say the cops attacked children. It’s editorializing.”

  “But they were children,” Max says emphatically.

  “Like I said, this will do. You smell like vomit, by the way.”

  “But I’ve got five more takes already written.”

  “I see that, but this is all I need. It’s just a brief for the Latin America wire.”

  “Christ, we almost got killed out there,” Max says, his voice still rasping from the tear gas.

  “Bullshit,” says the Bureau Chief. “Nobody from this bureau has ever been killed. Furthermore, nobody who’s seriously hurt can type six takes in 20 minutes. More importantly, people want to read about the riot, not about how you almost got hurt. Do you see the distinction? It’s important in this business.”

  “Sarcasm? That’s what I get?”

  The Bureau Chief looks like a nice guy; early forties, ancient tweed jacket and wide-set eyes. His hair, though, is the colour of a nicotine stain, and his soul is not gentle.

  “Yep. And I’ve got more sarcasm: cover riots, yes; but don’t stand in the middle of them. That space is reserved for cops and rioters.”

  “I gave you 600 words and you’re only taking three paragraphs?” Max says.

  “It doesn’t take long to write about a riot, especially when no one dies,” the Bureau Chief says. “A riot is just a riot.”

  “But the cops were going to kill us.”

  “See? THAT would have been a story. But they didn’t. So it’s a brief.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “On the other hand,” he says thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll get the teletype guy to paste in the political background —something that you omitted — and put a longer piece on the regional wire.”

  “Background?” Max says, instantly wishing he could take the word back.

  “Yes,” the Bureau Chief says, relishing the moment. “You see, riots are not like spontaneous combustion. They don’t just arise out of nothing. Typically, rioters are upset about something. In this case, they don’t like the repressive government of El Presidente and his police henchmen. Torture and killings, that sort of thing.”

  “Why are the police running the country?”

  “Another question that your six takes didn’t answer. The junta should be the Army which, although reasonably popular, was run by incompetents when their moment came . . .”

  “The basket of eggs?”

  “The kid does have a brain!” he says. “When their moment came, they hesitated because they had too many troops in the wrong places. But the policia, which is really a militia, had all kinds of people in the capital and took the Presidential Palace without firing a shot. Correction: one shot — into the head of the democratically elected incumbent.”

  “But . . .”

  “But people put up with them for a while, hoping they could clear the back-country of wild-eyed Maoists who, just to pass the time, will cut your dick off and stuff it in your mouth.”

  Max just stares at the guy, struck dumb by the realization that through bovine stupidity he has travelled thousands of miles to cover a story without understanding it.

  “Just the same, not a bad job,” the Bureau Chief says, scanning the copy again. “Too bad I can’t use much of it. Let’s go for a beer and wait for your buddy to finish in the darkroom — he’s printing up some great shots of the kids coming right at him with a water cannon in the background. And dinner’s on me. I want you guys to go to the mountains, where the real action is. El Mago’s home turf.”

  “You gonna pay us?”

  “I’ll buy your train tickets and give you a byline.”

  “I heard about El Mago. How much for an exclusive on him?”

  The Bureau Chief sticks his forefinger in Max’s chest. No one has done that since he was six years old.

  “He’s out of your league, sonny boy. Stay away. I shouldn’t be sending someone like you up there in the first place. If something happens to you, I’m finished.” The Bureau Chief thinks for a moment. “Tell you what. You leave that El Mago prick alone and I’ll find a way to pay you.”

  “You mean you’ll pay me if I don’t get a story,” Max says.

  “Exactly. What does that tell you?”

  It tells me I’m going to do a story on El Mago, Max thinks, and all the vicious fuck-heads who work for him.

  1983

  The Nature of Horse

  SPRING HAS ARRIVED late in Halifax, but is no less welcome for it. In a downtown park, tall oaks, beeches and maples sway in the breeze. The sun has shaken off its veil. Its warmth is stronger, but still mild. Winter is forgotten and everything is soft. The leaves are a light green that yields easily to the eye, the breeze as gentle as a lover. Even the concrete sidewalks seem soft underfoot. Max and the Son sit close together, munching fries. Max is surprised by the growing muscularity of the Son, who stops eating occasionally to nuzzle his dad’s arm. The boy inhales his father’s scent and snuggles closer.

  They’ve been staring at a huge chestnut-coloured horse harnessed to a tourist buggy across the sidewalk from their bench. The animal is peaceful, but not oblivious.

  Max says: “Watch! Watch! He’s going to do it again.”

  The horse snorts and shakes its head, sending a great string of snot arcing into the traffic, to the delight of the Son. And then, seeming to use the clamour as cover, the animal subtly pulls the carriage ahead until its head emerges from the shade into a patch of sunlight. As the beast executes the movement its hooves, big as dinner plates, land on the asphalt as delicately as flower petals.

  “Oooh!” the Son hollers, apparently overcome by the controlled power of the animal and his father’s omniscience. They have been watching the animal edge toward the sunlight for a quarter of an hour.

  “The driver hardly noticed, did he?” Max says.

  The boy sha
kes his head for emphasis. “No!”

  They continue to observe in silence.

  “What are we going to do with this apple?” Max asks.

  “Mommy gave it to us,” the boy replies, as if that’s all that needs to be said.

  The Wife had packed an entire lunch for them, but it was supplemented when Max spotted Bud the Spud’s french fry truck, so neither of them has any appetite left.

  “But horses like apples, too,” Max says.

  “They do,” the Son says gravely, as if he has known this all along.

  “We can give the apple to the horse.”

  “Yes!”

  They hear leather creaking as the animal turns its massive head toward them. Bizarre, Max thinks, it’s as if it knows it might get the apple. But the Son takes it in stride: “He wants the apple, Daddy.”

  The horse is edging toward middle age, but still on the right side of it. Strong, straight, and alert. He returns his calm gaze to the human parade in front of him, but his posture suggests he has not forgotten the apple.

  Max and the Son walk toward the carriage owner. The horse watches closely.

  Max asks the driver if they can give the apple to his animal. They talk. Max wants assurance that the horse is gentle. The driver wants assurance that Max knows how to feed it safely. Max and Son walk forward and the horse lowers his head toward the boy who, with a little help, holds the apple out with his fingers awkwardly splayed to ensure they aren’t accidentally caught. The animal makes a near-circle with his lips, like thumb and forefinger, and carefully plucks the apple from the boy’s hand. There is a satisfying “pop” as the big jaws crush the fruit.

  The horse, his head now fully in the warm sun, closes his eyes as his jaws begin grinding the apple into pulp. Juice flows from the animal’s mouth as Father, Son and carriage owner look on intently. They are captives. For just a moment, they can smell the horse’s oaty odour, feel him savouring the apple, and see the bright force that binds together the countless molecules of his body.