Jean-Paul broke away from the group, came over to me and sat down. He passed me a small metal cup and I sipped it, and started coughing. “What the—”
“Some cognac, that is all,” he said. His voice had a touch of humor in it. “Everyone gets some cognac tonight, no matter what the High Commissioner thinks about consuming alcohol while we are working. We worked pretty hard today, especially you.”
“Thanks—I think.”
“What do you mean, ‘think’?”
“I’m not sure if you’re being sarcastic, that’s all,” I said. “Peter and the rest of the team look like they’d get me on the next airplane to Toronto if they had their choice. All that work this afternoon, over three dead cows. And to top it off we get to spend the night here, instead of at the motel.”
Jean-Paul said, “We had no way of knowing what was in that gravesite. We would have been remiss to drive away and leave it. And don’t be so sure that we would have gone back to the motel. Charlie might not have allowed it. So we were doing our job here today, and doing it well. You have no reason to feel bad. Tomorrow we will keep on working.”
“Site A, am I right?”
I could sense his shoulders shrug. “Among other things. We will look for Site A, sure, but we will do other work as well. We should not flit from village to village, town to town, without having better information. And the information we have about Site A is nearly nil. But unfortunately there is plenty of work to be done up here. Just be grateful we are not down south in Manhattan, eh?”
I shivered, thinking of what had happened there. “You’re right. I’m glad I’m not in Manhattan.”
“So true,” Jean-Paul said. “It is so bad down south that it is said you can smell the bodies from many kilometers away, even before you get to the new Ground Zero. Be thankful you are here. At least the air is clean, for the most part.”
I finished off the cup of cognac and passed it back to Jean-Paul. “Thanks.”
“You are so very welcome.”
SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS THAT night were standard, as when we’d camped out before. Miriam and Karen shared a tent, while Sanjay and I shared another one. Peter and Jean-Paul shared the third one, while Charlie made do on his own, like he always did. As far as tent-mates went, Sanjay was all right. He didn’t snore, though sometimes his legs did kick around a bit as if he was restless at night—dreaming, I guess, about far-off India or nearby Karen. He had an irritating habit of getting up early, murmuring to himself and then getting dressed in his sleeping bag before barreling out of the tent as though he was late for a train. But tonight we both crawled into our sleeping bags and murmured a “good night” to each other without saying much else. I curled up on my side on the thin mattress pad and tried to sleep, still wearing my pants and shirt and socks. The sleeping bag was clammy and cold, and I curled up, trying to warm myself, knowing that the darkness was out there, like it always was.
But I was too tired to sleep. My body ached and my back and my hands and my neck were stiff. All I could see in my mind was the face of that poor dumb cow, slaughtered for who knew what reason, and then probably buried by some kind neighbors who were tired of seeing the bloated bodies slowly decompose in the field. As for the people who lived here, who knew? Perhaps the documentation work that I had done today would end up helping some family in some other country, looking through the pictures of the house and the clothing, to determine what had happened to their loved ones.
I turned over in my bag, stared at the blank tent wall. I blinked my eyes and tried to think of back home, safe and cool Toronto, tried to think of something that would soothe my mind and ease me into sleep, but that didn’t work either. I wanted to think about the Star and my buds there and the nightlife on the weekends and clubbing in the John Richmond district. But instead Father barreled into my thoughts, and in my mind’s eye I saw the red face, the white handlebar mustache and gray-stubbled head, and heard the comment, always the same comment: “Screwed up again, eh, boy? Not going far in this world if you keep screwin’ up like that.” Good old Father, who had wanted his son to join the family business—the Canadian military—but the boy had disappointed him by entering journalism instead.
Sanjay moved again, then there came the stealthy noise of him trying to unzip his sleeping bag. I stayed motionless, not wanting him to know that I wasn’t asleep. With the sleeping bag undone, he loosened the tent flap and a blast of cold air blew in as he went outside. I stayed there, curled up, wondering if he was finding a tree to water or going to get something to drink. But why move so quietly? To be considerate of his tent-mate? Not likely.
Then, from the tent nearby, came the low sound of laughter, followed by a giggle. Oh. But why not? Even in the midst of death and destruction, life—such as it was—went on. I rolled over and got a small battery-powered lantern, which I switched on. It emitted a small beam of light, just enough to read by, and I felt around in my rucksack for one of my two books. Not being in the mood to read Orwell’s essays about the foibles of mankind, I decided to read instead about humanity’s adventurous spirit and found myself flipping through the pages of The Green Hills of Earth.
Just after I’d finished a short story about a couple from Luna City who decided to return to Earth to live—with disastrous results as they reacquainted themselves with smog, overcrowding and poor plumbing—the tent flap suddenly opened and a woman’s voice said, “Samuel? Still awake?”
I dropped the book, moved the lantern about. There was Miriam, her hair hanging loose, wearing a blue down vest and red flannel nightgown, on her hands and knees.
“Sure,” I said, sitting up. “What’s going on?”
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
She said something in Dutch and came in on all fours. I glanced sheepishly away from her suddenly exposed cleavage, and then she rolled over and laid down. “There. Sorry, Samuel, I am a grumpy woman tonight, that’s what’s going on.”
“What’s … oh, I’m sorry.”
Miriam rested the back of her head on her hands and looked up at the ceiling of the tent. “Working with such a small team, when you’re one of just two women, you try to look out for each other. Men have different ways of working, different ways of looking at things. So if you’re one of a pair of women, you help each other out and do little favors for each other. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I do,” I said. “Like asking you to be out of your tent for a while, so that … well, so that someone can come by for a visit.”
Miriam laughed. “That’s a polite way of saying it. A Canadian way, perhaps. Coming by for a visit. No mind, for what you said is true. Earlier Karen had asked if I would leave the tent at a certain time, for bathroom functions perhaps, so that she could entertain a guest. But now he has been there for over an hour, and I’m cold and tired and I think they’ve fallen asleep in there, and I’ll be damned if I’ll go knock on that tent to ask permission to go back in to my own bed.”
“Then why don’t you stay here and take his bed?” I said.
She rolled over. “Thank you. I was hoping you’d say that.”
So Miriam threw open Sanjay’s sleeping bag and rolled herself in, and when I was sure she was settled I put my book away and switched off the lantern. I lay still there in the darkness, listening to her breathing, so close to me. I wondered what her hair would feel like in my fingers, what her flesh would taste like against my mouth. Miriam stirred and said, “It was a long day today, wasn’t it?”
“That it was,” I said.
She sighed. “You think we’d be happy, finding three dead cows in a field and not a mother and a father and their children. But no, we’re not happy. A hell of a thing, isn’t it, to hope to find dead human bodies in the mud? But that’s what we do. Even here, in this place. This is what we do.”
“So far, it doesn’t seem like we’re doing much.”
“True. But we do what we can.”
It was comforting to lie there in the darkne
ss, talking to Miriam. “To what end? To deter future gunmen from slaughtering their neighbors during bad times? It hasn’t happened yet, either in this century or the last. And if it can happen here, in the homeland of the sole superpower …”
There was a rustling noise as she rolled over on her side. “Ah, but how do you know? True, there have been killing fields aplenty these past decades, from Cambodia to the Congo to here. But if we hadn’t taken the time to prosecute the criminals, identify and bury the dead, and comfort the living, perhaps more gunmen would have risen up to kill their neighbors. In England. In France. Perhaps in my own country.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But sometimes it just seems futile.”
Another sigh. “You’re getting too cynical, Samuel. Too cynical for such a young man.”
“I’m not that young.”
Another rustle of cloth. “You’re right. You are not too young, chronologically. But in everything else, compared to what I and the others have seen, you are still a young man.”
It was my turn to shift in my sleeping bag. “Give me time. I’ll grow up.”
“Ah, this is true. You will grow up here, so fast. So fast.”
Then she yawned. “Thank you for allowing me in here. Please, I have to get to sleep, all right?”
“That’s fine, Miriam. Just fine.”
Then I was surprised by her touch, just a feather glance with her fingers across my brow, as she whispered, “Good night.” I wish they had reached a few inches lower, to touch my lips at least, but luck or whatever wasn’t with me tonight. I wanted so much to return the favor, maybe by gently stroking her cheek, but the events of the day crowded in upon me and I could all too easily imagine reaching out and poking her in her eye or ear. So I lay still.
I wished I could say that the rest of the night was magical, that Miriam’s scent and gentle breathing relaxed and quietened me, but that didn’t happen. Dear Miriam was an even more restless sleeper than Sanjay, and she snored loudly for most of the night.
But I didn’t think of leaving the tent, not once.
IN THE MORNING the lousy weather returned, penetrating drizzle accompanied by another heavy fog. By some unspoken agreement we stayed out of the house and the barn again, and ate breakfast standing up, wearing our yellow rain slickers, except for Charlie who was dressed in his Marine camouflage gear. Karen and Sanjay made a point of ignoring each other as we ate the hard rolls and drank the lukewarm tea. Peter stood beside me and said, “Who the hell do they think they are fooling?”
“Each other, maybe,” I said.
“Hah.” He slurped noisily from the metal teacup and said, “I think people up on the ridge heard those two, they rutted so much.”
“Yeah,” I said, wishing that Peter would just go away.
Then he said, “Hey, I saw who tumbled out of your tent this morning. Good on you. Just sleeping, or something more?”
I tossed the tea on the ground, as close as I could make it to his feet without looking too obvious. “Piss off, will you?” I grunted and walked over to the tiny fire to try and warm up some, as Peter’s laughter followed me.
Within minutes of our sparse breakfast Jean-Paul was on the satellite phone again, speaking in low tones in French to whoever was on the other end, either at the UN compound down south or to Geneva. I was impressed by how refreshed he looked. The rest of us, with the exception of Charlie, looked like we had spent a week hitchhiking along the Trans-Canadian Highway in the middle of a thunderstorm. But Jean-Paul looked like he had gotten a solid eight hours of sleep and a hot shower. He talked and smoked and waved his hands about as the rest of us packed away the gear, and I wondered how come his tent-mate Peter looked so much like us and not like him.
As I slung my rucksack into the rear of our white Toyota Land Cruiser, I looked again at the house and thought that I hadn’t taken a photograph of the entire farm. I had taken dozens and dozens of photos of bloodstains and bullet holes and clothing and even of some dead cows, but not a single one showing this farmhouse and its buildings standing alone. I got my digital camera out of my bag and was setting up the shot when Peter’s voice called out, sounding strained: “Charlie, we’ve got visitors, coming up the driveway.”
I turned and saw Charlie standing by the hood of one of the Land Cruisers, his M-16 in his hands, looking down at the driveway. A black pickup truck was grinding its way up, its tires and sides muddy. Karen, who was at my side, whispered, “Oh, shit, this doesn’t look good, doesn’t look good at all. That’s a militia truck if I ever saw one.”
I saw what she meant. The truck had a powerful engine and fat tires with thick treads and the windshield was gone, as were the side windows, the easier to fire weapons from inside the cab. Three guys were in the front of the cab, all wearing clear-glass goggles to protect themselves from the wind while driving fast. Four other guys were in the back of the truck, leaning out to look up at us, all of them with their own goggles pushed back up on their foreheads. They seemed to be in their twenties or early thirties, they had on blue jeans and fatigue coats, and the only thing that reassured me—besides the presence of Charlie—was the fact that there were no weapons visible.
Sanjay stood behind Karen, looking over her shoulder. “I thought this place was pacified. What are they doing out in the open? Don’t they know Charlie could call in some helicopters, some backup?”
I said, “Weather’s too bad for helicopters, and they know that. Maybe they’re just on a scouting trip. Maybe they’re—”
“Jean-Paul,” Charlie said, keeping his voice even and his gaze focused on the truck. “Get your crew behind some cover. Now. And why don’t you get on the horn and start talking to your people?”
For once, Peter didn’t argue, and for once, Jean-Paul didn’t have to repeat Charlie’s orders. We all scattered but I stayed close to Charlie, who was still keeping his gaze directed down toward the driveway. Karen was whispering something to Sanjay and I looked over to see that Jean-Paul had the satellite phone in his lap, talking low and urgently. I couldn’t see where Peter and Miriam were. There was a faint click and I wondered what the noise was. Then I clasped my hands together as I realized it was Charlie, switching off the safety on his M-16. His voice still low and casual, he said, “That you, Samuel?”
“Yes.”
“Think you can get in the rear seat of this Land Cruiser, without raising your head, and get something for me?”
“Sure I can,” I said, feeling reassured just a bit, like I was contributing something.
“Good. On the floor there’s two black duffel bags. Bring me the largest of the two, all right? That’s very important. The largest of the two.”
“You got it,” I said, and I crab-walked back to the door and opened it up. I looked inside, at the jumble of gear and bags and equipment, and saw the two duffel bags. But which one was the largest? It was impossible to tell from where they were situated. I looked at them, trying to decipher which one was largest, when Charlie said, “I need that bag now, Samuel. And I’m not fooling.”
Shit. I pulled the bags out, both of them heavy, and saw instantly which one was the largest, I dragged it over to Charlie. He stepped away and said, “Unzip the top, will you?”
I pulled back the heavy zipper and said, “It’s open.”
“Great,” he said. I gaped in awe at how fast he moved now, plunging down, one hand holding the M-16, the other burrowing deep into the bag and coming out with a small satchel and a tubular weapon with a handle, both of which he threw on top of the hood of the Land Cruiser. His hands moved in a quick blur as he opened up the satchel, brought out a metal cylinder about the size of a small egg and slid it into the now open weapon, which I had finally recognized as a grenade launcher.
Then whatever sense of professionalism I had kicked in. This wasn’t the time to keep an eye on Charlie; it was time for something else. Keeping low, I scuttled back to where I had started and picked up my Sony camera. I went to the rear of the Land Cruiser, still staying c
lose to the ground, and I ignored the whispers of my teammates. I got down on the cold dirt, crawled past the left rear tire and looked down the driveway. I got the viewfinder up to my face and started taking photographs of the pickup truck as it finally slowed down. The guys in the vehicle were talking to each other and I zoomed in a bit with the camera, catching all their faces. Click, click, click. I took the pictures as fast as my fingers would allow. I started out with a group shot of the truck and its passengers, focusing first on the three men in the cab and then on the four guys in the rear. Then I took close-up shots of each individual face.
I tried not to think too hard as I was taking the photos. But still, I was struck by the similarity of the faces, how they looked like they were all related and had come out of the same polluted gene pool. They all had raggedy beards or mustaches, their complexions were rough and scarred, and when they smiled I saw plenty of signs of poor dentistry. I saw them talking among themselves, some of them laughing and smiling, and it seemed like the guy in the center of the cab was in charge. He talked first to the driver and then to the guy closest to the passenger-side door. Then he turned back and said something through an opening in the rear cab window.
Voices. No, just a voice. Charlie murmuring, “Just a bit closer, darlin’s, and I’ll show you some serious fucking hurt.”
I pulled my face away from the camera and looked over at Charlie who was now leaning across the hood of the Land Cruiser, the grenade launcher looking tiny in his big hands. I went back to my camera work and took yet another set of group photos. Then I paused as my breath caught and my hands suddenly started shaking. The driver of the pickup truck had said something to the guy in the center, who now seemed to be looking right at me. He laughed and held up a hand, waved in my direction, then raised his middle finger in the classic gesture of insult and threat. I could not take another photo. I could not move. The only thing I could do was to understand the terror a small creature feels when faced with a snake slithering up to eat him. This man was a member of one of the local militias, no doubt about it, pacified zone or not. I knew down to the frozen marrow of my bones that only a handful of meters separated the two of us and if he got close enough he would shoot me or stab me or bludgeon me with about the same amount of emotion that I would have about swatting an irritating mosquito that had come into my tent. Death squad, I thought. This was a death squad. “Militia” was just too bland a term.
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