He wonders if he should ask to come along, but he has no energy left for journeying. Turn to the page. All right. Down to business. For several hours he writes about Afghanistan, about being holed up in a cave with the mujahedeen, among them Zakirya, a one-eyed Tajik whom Matthew had considered a friend. Zakirya died, no, evaporated in a Russian mortar assault, after which Matthew found himself terrified of confined spaces for the first time. He writes about arriving in Peshawar and spending three days and four nights in Green’s Hotel with two other reporters. They drank themselves blind with booze someone smuggled in from the United Nations Club in Islamabad. They took turns throwing shoes at the enormous but slow-moving cockroaches. They told stories about how brave they were, and special, and what important work they did. “But we’re all right now, we’re all right now,” Matthew had said, repeatedly, and prayed that by the
next morning the dread would be gone. It wasn’t, but after the fourth night of incessant drinking and talking, it did reduce to a manageable level, a sort of spiritual tinnitus.
By evening his stomach burns. He goes to the medicine cabinet and chews a few chalky antacids. The mirror rattles when he slams it. In the living room, the walls bend in, pressing on him. Dust particles filter through the light like bacteria.
“Fuck it,” Matthew says, “I’ve earned my fun.”
Forty-five minutes later, he fans his hand in front of his eyes, watching the smoke swirl like grey ink through dark water in the Bok-Bok air. There is no sign of Suzi. Jack is at his usual table at the back of the room, sitting with Anthony and a guy Matthew doesn’t recognize. The guy is of medium build, red-haired and young, probably no more than twenty-five. He wears combat pants and a bright red T-shirt. A leather jacket hangs on the back of his chair. As Matthew watches he leans back, balancing the chair on two legs, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets. He looks relaxed, which means he is probably just a guy and not a problem to be avoided, but you can never tell. Matthew lingers at the bar until he gets the lay of the land.
He does not see Suzi come up behind him. “Ah, Matthew, I missed you.” She kisses him on both cheeks, and then rubs away a smear of red lipstick. She wears her black wig and her Chinese dress. Her fingers stink of nicotine. Her nails are ragged and covered in chipped blue nail polish. The smell of cigarettes, wine and heavy, musky perfume combine in a noxious ball.
“How are you?” Matthew says. Her eyes are too bright. She looks even thinner. There are bluish smudges under her eyes that thick makeup cannot hide, although the bruise on her cheek has faded away so that it is nothing more than a reproaching tint on her skin. “Are you all right?”
She shrugs. “I have my worries.”
“Jack?” Matthew glances over to see if Jack is looking at them, but he seems engrossed in his conversation.
“Jack? No. Jack is nothing. Past history.” She pats his hand. “Things come and go, Matthew. One does not dwell.”
And with that he relaxes, slightly. Secrets will be kept where they belong.
“No. It is my daughter.”
Matthew recalls the child’s drawing on the fridge, the box of stuffed animals. “I didn’t know you had a daughter. How old is she?”
“Ten. Eleven next month.”
Matthew whistles. “You must have been a kid yourself.”
“Of course I was. And she’s like me. A wild one. She will not listen. Two months ago she goes to live with her father. He is a bastard. He will beat her, but she will not believe me. She is like her mother, eh? She has to learn the hard way. She’ll end up in the bois if she’s not careful,” she says, referring to the hookers who ply their trade in the white vans lined up along the boulevards in the Boulogne forest and its environs. “She calls last night, all tears. But when I say come back and live with me, she refuses. I begged her. Merde. But she has made her bed, now. Let her father keep her. I do not care, I tell you. It does not matter to me at all.” She puts her hand on Matthew’s sleeve. “I am thirsty, Matthew.”
“Sure. Dan, get the lady a drink.”
“Thanks, Matthew,” she says, and leaves him to sit next to a guy at the end of the bar with a huge grey beard and a belly the size of a basketball. Matthew cannot tell if he feels relieved or disappointed. A bit of both, he thinks.
The guy with Anthony and Jack says something that must be funny because both of them laugh but it is guarded, certainly not Jack’s usual sonic boom.
“Jack, Anthony, how you doing?”
“Where you been?” says Jack.
“Downtime.”
“Matthew, meet Brian Dance. He was in Bosnia, too.” This close Matthew can see the slight narrowing of Jack’s eyes, the tight smile. Matthew’s stomach squirts acid. Brian Dance transfers his cigarette to his mouth and holds out his hand. It is a soft, small hand and Matthew does not like the feel of it against his palm.
“How are you?” Matthew sits down, fights the urge to wipe his hand against his pant leg. He risks a glance at Jack, who leans back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest. Jack keeps his clouded gaze on Brian Dance, which may mean his amiability toward the red-haired man is insincere or it may mean he does not, for some reason that does not bear examining, want to look at Matthew. Matthew’s pulse quickens.
“Matthew’s a war correspondent,” says Anthony. “He knows Christiane Amanpour. Tell him, Matt.”
“Yeah?” says Brian. “I hung out with her for a few days, in Srebrenica. Only woman I ever met who chain-smoked more than me. You know her too, huh?”
“Not really, but our paths have crossed a couple of times is all. What were you doing in Srebrenica?”
“I’m a reporter, man, like you. With FOX News—you?”
“I was freelance. AP, Reuters. When were you there?”
“I was in and out for a couple of years.”
“Matthew goes all the way back to El Salvador,” says Jack. “Nineteen eighty-three, right?”
Matthew listens intently to Jack’s voice, searching for any clue as to what he is not saying. “Eighty-two, actually. Israeli invasion of Lebanon. I was about your age.”
“I lost my cherry in Yugoslavia. Damn near lost more than that. Forty-four journalists died in that crappy little war, did you know that?”
“Yes,” Matthew says, “I know that.”
“I had some pretty close calls. I was just telling Jack and Tony here about the time in Tuzla the mortar fire came in and me and a couple of German guys were so drunk, holed up in this fleabag hotel, we couldn’t tell if it was incoming or outgoing. This guy, Dieter, he was in his room with a hooker and the goddamn wall got blown out with him in mid-fuck. He ran out in the street with his ass hanging out, tripped over his own pants and passed out where he landed. We were pissing ourselves, man. Laughing, you know.”
Jack cracks his knuckles, shoots Matthew a quick glance and says, “That so” with a wink.
It is obvious now that the cause of Jack’s displeasure is Brian Dance and not, Matthew is relieved to conclude, himself. Relief is like fresh air, and he turns his concentration on Brian Dance. With each word, Matthew likes Brian less. He has met many young journalists like him. They popped in, interviewed all the top brass they could bribe, did a sound byte and ducked out again on the first convoy back to civilization. If they had stories to tell they were just as likely someone else’s as their own, but to hear them talk they’d hung out with every media-darling from Amanpour to Arnett. Their ignorance of the real issues went out over the airwaves as gospel truth and was more dangerous than the propaganda the government tried to spit out. Some had the humility to learn. Others did not.
“So, Brian, when did you say you were in Srebrenica? What year?”
“Nineteen ninety-five.” He shifts in his chair. “You know, there was this time a Serb guy …”
“You saying you were in Srebrenica in 1995?”
“Yeah. So? What’s your point?”
“Just wondering.”
Jack snorts.
“Matthew
’s been just about everywhere,” says Anthony. “I’ll bet you guys bumped into each other and don’t even remember.”
“That’s probably true,” says Brian. “It’s hard to remember everyone.”
Matthew cannot help himself. He wants to shut up and leave the guy alone, for it shouldn’t matter to him one way or the other where Brian Dance has been and what he’s done or hasn’t, but it does. Matthew wants to form an alliance, him and Jack on the same side. “I’m really surprised I didn’t hear about you. You must be some kind of wunderkind.”
Brian looks at Matthew with outright suspicion, and he begins to sweat. Jack thumbs his nose and scowls impressively.
“No man, just trying to do a job.”
“You must be really good at it, because—you remember Tony Birtley?”
“Yeah, the British ABC reporter, right?”
“Very good. Because Birtley’s reports almost single-handedly saved Srebrenica back in 1993. Thing is, though, Brian, the Serbs got pissed off about that and let only a handful of journalists back into the enclave in 1994, and then barred everybody the following spring. In July 1995, everybody, including Christiane and me, was in Sarajevo. The peacekeepers and the Muslims were alone out there, without any public scrutiny, which, let’s face it, is only occasionally effective anyway. One of the great fuck-ups of the war. The other, of any conflict come to think of it, is jacked-up little assholes who think they’re reporters just because they have a press badge.”
“You got a lot of fucking nerve,” says Brian, rising to his feet.
“Not nearly as much as you have, standing up like that,” says Jack. “I might mistake that move for an invitation to stand up myself. Which you wouldn’t want.”
“Gentlemen,” cautions Dan from behind the bar. He cradles his crowbar in his arms.
“Maybe you better go, pal,” says Anthony. “Might be for the best, if you know what I mean.”
Brian takes stock of Jack and Anthony. “Fuck you. You’re all fucking head cases.” He slugs back the last of his beer and, looking at Matthew, says, “You’re not even a real correspondent. Fucking stringer.”
Matthew grabs his chest. “Oh, you got me! Ya got me!”
Brian picks up this jacket and storms out. Dan replaces the crowbar behind the bar. “Matthew, drinks are on you.”
Matthew nods, bowing to tradition. He also notices that Suzi and the bearded guy are nowhere to be seen.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, and thinks, Don’t we all have our lies? Take Jack. If even half his stories are true, I’m the Queen of England.
“Done what?” says Jack, and the way he says it makes Matthew’s stomach clench. Suzi probably said nothing. Probably. But what about Anthony?
“That guy. Fuck, what the hell do I know? He might have been there.”
“It’s a distant possibility,” says Jack.
“If he was there he shouldn’t have been,” says Anthony. “Obvious.”
“Kid probably has more credentials than me,” says Matthew.
Jack slaps Matthew on the back and tells him to forget it, just forget it. “Let me buy you a real drink,” says Jack. “You look like you could use it.” And Matthew exhales, thinking everything is all right after all.
Several hours later, still feeling guilty, and on more than one level, Matthew has drunk more than he promised himself he would. He is on his sixth beer and fourth scotch back. It is nearly midnight and Anthony has left about an hour before, off to see the lovely Paweena.
Jack is talking about God, about Islam, the concept of fate, and submission to destiny. Matthew does not know how they have arrived at this subject, or why Jack seems to be making such profound sense. He suspects it is the booze, but does not mind.
Whatever it is, Matthew believes he has access to a clear window of truth. He decides they both do, that the moment is special, and should not be wasted. They need to talk about important things. It does not matter, suddenly, what happened between Matthew and Suzi, but it does matter what happened between Jack and Suzi. Matthew believes, as he views Jack through the topaz fog of whisky, that Jack must come clean, confess, make amends. “You know who knows about Mohammed?” he says. “Anthony. You know, he has got some weird pockets of learning. And insight. A very insightful guy.”
“To Anthony. The only cop I can’t seem to hate.”
“To Anthony. May he gain insight into Paweena.”
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
“Women,” says Jack. “Fucking women.”
“You and Suzi on the outs, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“Anything to do with her split lip?” In for a dime, in for a dollar.
“Who told you what?”
Matthew shrugs. “It’s a small bar.”
Jack puts his beer down, leans back, folds his arms against his chest, and for a moment Matthew thinks he is going to explode. He braces himself, all his surety of the moment before evaporating. Then, just as quickly, Jack uncrosses his arms, puts his head down on the table and bangs his forehead three times. The glasses rattle.
“Fuck,” he says, softly, once for every time his head hits the table.
Matthew realizes he has been holding his breath. He lets it out. “Yeah. Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Jack pulls his great shaggy head up from the table, intertwines his fingers and leans forward. “I had sort of an episode.”
“An episode?”
“Yeah. A fucking episode. Like the kind some people get in crowds, at demonstrations, you know?” He chews on his moustache.
“Oh. Sure. Sure.” The guilt is back then, a giant ball of grey gum in his stomach.
“I used to get them all the time, but I’ve been better. A lot better in the last few years.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Don’t look so worried. Everybody’s different.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Right.” He sighs. “Fucking French and their fireworks. I don’t even go to sleep anymore, ever, EVER, before two a.m. because that’s when they can start, one o’clock in the morning because it’s the end of someone’s freaking birthday party or some shit. Goddamn!” He knocks back the rest of his drink. “I need a shot. You want one?”
“I’m good.”
Jack nearly turns over his chair as he stands up. He moves through the other tables like a bull moose through a swamp. When he comes back, he has shots for both of them.
“To mental health,” he says, and they raise their glasses.
“Anyway. It’s like eight o’clock at night, right? We’re sitting down to dinner. Suzi made this real nice meal. But it was the day of the storm, remember?”
Matthew nods. There had been a bad storm and it had kept him pacing back and forth in the apartment, jumping at every clap of thunder.
“Okay, so that had ended a few hours before, but then these kids from next door—Suzi’s got this apartment—weird fucking place with the bedroom below-ground—it’s on the ground floor, right, with this courtyard behind it—these kids, they’re out there letting off these cherry bombs and I just about have a fucking heart attack, and I’m out yelling at them. I think I scared the hell out of them, but Christ! It was really loud. So, I drop a drink or two to quiet my nerves but I’m still wrangy, still squirrelly. And that goddamn wind’s rattling all the shutters. Spooking me out. I’m trying not to show that I’m so edgy, right? Then, just when I think it’s under control, some fucking kid lets one off right under the window and I swear the little fuck did it on purpose.” His hands grip the tabletop.
“It’s okay, Jack,” Matthew says, hoping Jack can hear him.
Jack’s hands relax their grip and he puts them to his eyes, rubbing hard. “Before I know it I picked up a lamp. Threw it through the window. I hear a kid screaming. The little snot with the firecracker. Musta been lurking ar
ound outside. Suzi flipped her nut. I slammed her up against a wall. I don’t know why. I was pissed. I don’t remember a lot after that. Next thing I know I’m in the apartment by myself, sitting in the fucking bathtub.”
“She took off?”
“Yeah. She was out in the street. Madder than fuck. I felt like crap, you know? I didn’t want to do that. I’m as bad as that ratshit of a prick, Joseph’s stepfather.”
“Saida’s ex?” It is Matthew’s turn to discover his hand gripping his glass tighter than is safe.
“I’ve never done that to a woman before. Never-ever.” He shakes his head slowly and his eyes keep moving after his head stops.
Matthew sees how bad Jack feels about it, but he also knows that, given his size, a good wall-slamming by Jack could kill somebody. Especially somebody as tiny as Suzi.
“You know, I’d moved my stuff into her place.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Jesus, what the fuck’s wrong with me?”
“Where you staying now?” Matthew hopes he has a place. He does not want to have to offer Jack a spot on his couch. He likes his windows and prefers not to have any lamps thrown through them.
“I got a room by the week, rue Veron, near Pigalle. For the time being, anyway.” He grins sheepishly. “You never know, we might get back together. Could happen. Yessir.”
This takes Matthew off guard. “She was here tonight. You talked to her?”
“Nah. What am I gonna say?”
“You might try an apology.”
“Think that’d do it? Ya think? Well, maybe. But I don’t know if I wanna start it all up again. You know what I mean? Maybe it’s better. Yup, better this way.”
Matthew says nothing.
Jack takes the tinfoil from the inside of his cigarette pack, folds it into a tiny square, then smoothes it out with his fingernail and folds it again.
“You ever think about death?” he says after a few minutes.
“Of course. Yes.” With all the bodies piled up in his memory, how could he not?
“No, no! Not somebody else’s death,” says Jack, reading Matthew’s mind. “Your death. The real death that’s a-coming, the one you absolutely are going to have to deal with. I mean that second, man, those last few fucking minutes when it’s coming down, coming at you, it’s going to happen. Do you consider that? Con-tem-plate it?” He waggles his head as he says the last word, broken up into three syllables, mocking himself.
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