The Devil Is a Black Dog (8 page)

“I tried to ring you several times,” he said, and hopped up on a barstool next to me.

“I was unplugged.”

“You’re a reporter. You should have your phone on.”

“It’s my day off. Why, did something happen?”

“I was just thinking things over. We should do something.”

“About what?”

Alistair stared at me in dismay, but kept quiet because Omar arrived with the two whiskeys I had ordered. I looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes. He couldn’t have slept much last night. We picked up our drinks.

“We should do something in regards to the woman.”

“What were you thinking of?” I asked, and took a drink of the whiskey. “What should we do?”

“Well, we could notify the UN. About the things that are happening in Rafah.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You’d have to fill out a questionnaire of at least ten pages, and you would have to supply all your information. The whole matter would get to Amn ad-Dawla.”

“I don’t care.”

“They deported people for less just last week.”

“Then we might say something to the police.”

“There are no police.”

“Then the military.”

“The military won’t care.”

“For the love of god, something should be done,” hissed the guy through clenched teeth.

“You could put a paragraph about it in your report.”

“That’s all? They killed a person.”

“It wasn’t a murder; she was executed.”

“Murder is murder. We should do something. We’re reporters.”

“You need to rest. You’re exhausted.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“I can see that.”

“How can you stay so fucking calm?”

“I drink, work out, and I don’t give a shit.”

Alistair fell silent for a moment, then took one of my Marlboros and lit up. He had only just started smoking, and he had to make an effort not to cough. I used the opportunity to order two more whiskeys. I liked how they served whiskey at the Marriot, giving you the ice in a separate glass. Alistair tossed his drink back in one gulp. It took immediate effect; he probably hadn’t eaten anything all day.

“I can’t leave it like this,” he said, more relaxed now. “You think I should write something?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t even know the woman’s name.”

“Just write that it was a woman.”

“Would you write that?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“OK, I am going now. I need to talk with my editor.”

“Good.”

He stood and with quick steps started for the exit. His cigarette continued to smolder in the ashtray. I watched it for a bit, then picked it up and continued to smoke. I ordered another daiquiri.

He’ll be alright
, I thought.
He’ll drink a few more and fall asleep. Or find a girl.

I closed my eyes.

In Rafah a huge crowd had gathered in front of the Muhammad Ali Mosque. After the imam’s pronouncement of adultery, the men of the mosque had dug a nice little pit. In it a woman was buried up to her waist. Her hands were bound so tightly behind
her that she couldn’t move. Her torso and head were covered with a flour sack, on which “UNRWA”—United Nations Relief and Works Agency—was clearly printed. It was surprising that the woman didn’t say anything or shake with sobbing. She kept obediently still in the pit. She only screamed when, from no more than ten yards, her husband threw a stone. It was a big stone. Large enough to break a bone, but not big enough that the fun came to a quick end. A red stain rose on the sack where it hit. After her husband, the judges each took a turn; then the relatives, and, finally, the men from the mosque. She withstood a surprising amount. After the first few blows she was still lucidly proclaiming her innocence, until a stone must have broke her jaw, because after that she just whimpered, then finally went quiet. The pit was tight, so she couldn’t collapse forward. The sack didn’t tear open; it just became drenched with blood. The soldiers standing at a nearby checkpoint watched the whole thing disinterestedly. It wasn’t their business to interfere.

“Do something,” I snarled at him, and massaged my temples. I had taken a sip of the daiquiri, but found it sour. Omar had put in too much lime juice.
Do something.

I turned to look around, but the bar was already empty, even the Saudis had left. Water was gurgling in the pool; the sun flushed red on the horizon.

I took my smartphone in my hand and reloaded the saved settings on the game.

Light boats
, I thought.
If I trade my frigates, I’ll be able to take Trinidad for sure.

M
arosh knew everything about war. In the Balkans he knew when it was safe to leave cover, on the day when some seventeen-year-old sniper was taking two shots at every yellow press vest in the city because his mother happened to have slapped him that morning. He knew how to emphasize the “r” sound, like a Muslim, in the phrase
Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah
, the “Peace be upon you” greeting, when, for fun, the jihadist in Palestine put a gun to his head. He knew what a preemptive strike was, and knew that in war everyone was considered a woman, created with holes by a god in a bad mood.

He knew everything about war, or as much as one can know without participating in armed combat. He had no illusions.

If a young photojournalist found him in a bar and the topic of war photography came up, he shouted in English or in his unrecognizable Eastern European language, “Robert Capa and so-called humanist photojournalism is just a stupid joke, probably as unfunny as the Gospel!”

“These days every corpse has a price tag,” he told the rookies. “A man shot dead is worth fifty dollars, a kid’s worth a hundred, dead women are somewhere between the two. The world won’t be an iota better if we show its horrors; at best we will give the good people something to waggle their tongues at as they empty their glass of orange juice at breakfast.”

He never brought anyone with him to the field; he worked alone. He belonged to the bygone era of old-school photographers who were contracted by international news agencies, before the editors realized that the locals are cheaper: you didn’t have to transport them to the region and they would do anything for hard currency. Furthermore, if they were killed, you didn’t have to pay for getting the corpse home.

He knew everything about war. He was tall, almost 6’2”, with a muscular neck and strong hands. He was salaried at an international news agency, where his pictures were appreciated, or at least published. He felt his life was okay, except for one small problem.

This problem surfaced in London, on a Monday morning, when he’d gone to the agency’s headquarters to get a new assignment. As he waited for his editor in one of the leather chairs in the corridor, he looked over the photography collection exhibited on the wall, the company’s wall of fame. Since the fifties, every picture that had received an award was hung there. He looked at a photo he had taken. Exactly above it was printed the well-circulated motto: “NO PICTURE IS WORTH A LIFE.”

“Bullshit,” he mumbled to himself. Then, finally, his editor Steve called for him. Steve was in his late fifties and visibly British. He leaned back in his chair and offered Marosh some hard candies before launching into a monologue.

Marosh knew something was coming, but he hadn’t expected this. He was told that the company wouldn’t send him to war again, because he was too old. “We have to give the young
go-getters a chance,” the editor told him in a paternal tone. “You can, however, participate in their training.”

First, due to the surprise, he couldn’t say a thing. Then came the anger. When Steve said that he was just “burnt out” and hadn’t sent an extraordinary piece to the office in years, he just got up and left, slamming the door behind him.

Later on, he admitted to himself that what really pissed him off was the fact that Steve was actually right. Marosh was sitting in a pub near the office, thinking about his work over the past few years. He realized that in fact he hadn’t produced any breathtaking images in some time. Not since Iraq—since the beginning of the war—when it seemed like it hadn’t even been him who had captured such images. He had a theory that the man himself has nothing to do with the really important things. Something or someone else executes the creation, gives it—in this case, the pictures—a soul. Someone else made the exposure, someone who at that time and place took control. He couldn’t explain it otherwise. How could it be that even he couldn’t spot mistakes in his best images? He came to the conclusion that perfection has no characteristics. It just happens, if you’re lucky enough. It can’t be learned.

For a while, he considered himself crazy for having this theory, until he met a huge, gangling novelist at an award ceremony somewhere over a border east of Vienna. The crowd was there to celebrate Eastern European intelligentsia. The writer—who, at 6’6”, could hardly fit into his chair—appeared increasingly uncomfortable over the course of the ceremony. The two of them were sitting in the last row and happened upon each other by the emergency exit.

By the time the master of ceremonies, whose calling in life seemed to be the handing over of prizes, reached the point in his speech where he proclaimed, “A few really great artists emerged in spite of the terrors of the former regime,” the writer and Marosh were drinking bourbon in the closest bar.

After the fourth round the writer was telling Marosh that he didn’t feel like he deserved any of the accolades. Writing a novel took him just three days, he said, when “the madness struck.” Over the course of this time he couldn’t see or hear properly, couldn’t recognize his friends, and even addressed his lover by her last name. And, when the spell ended, he hardly recognized his own handwriting: it was like reading somebody else’s manuscript. But the text was far better than any notes he had consciously produced.

“This is a goldmine,” commented Marosh. “All you have to do is recreate the proper conditions, and there you go, a masterpiece awaits.” But the writer explained that this is not how it works. Overcome with emotion, he told Marosh that he had been writing professionally for twenty years now, but during this time he managed to “touch God—or whatever you, dear sir,
Mr. Photographer
, wish to call it”—only once.

“It’s pretty hard to knock on that door, you know,” the writer said with an expression that made him look like he was lifting a heavy weight. “Obviously you can fool some editors for a while with the act, but not the damnable, faceless reader. But you already know this, I guess.”

They drank until the event organizer found them and with a confused look told the two drunk men that it was their turn to step to the podium. Before they left, the writer gave his book to Marosh.
It’s all just knocking at the door
, read the dedication.

Marosh took a sip of his beer and was contemplating what it was that he knew in the past that he didn’t seem to know now. There were no compositional or technical problems with his pictures; no, he knew the mechanics well. Some intangible, poetic thing was missing, something that could transcend the daily dosage of horror. He knew when he caught the thing, knew the feeling. He just didn’t know how to achieve it.

After his sixth beer in that London pub, when his ego was washed away by the waves of alcohol, he decided he would call Steve and apologize. He was suddenly overcome by a fear that others would also realize how burnt out he was, that other editors would put him out to pasture and he would never again be able to return to the theaters of war.

It was only there, indeed, in the middle of a war, that Marosh really felt free. The world simplified to “yes” and “no,” to life and death. He liked how it clarified things, that there were no loans or credit, no competitors with better family backgrounds or better dispositions, that there were no chosen ones, and that everything was for the last time.

In his civilian life he felt like one of those whales that washed up on the shores of Brighton almost every year: he could breathe, but couldn’t maneuver.

It took Steve a while to answer his phone, but he was an annoyingly good guy during the whole conversation. Marosh could imagine him standing in his patterned robe in the middle of his living room, scowling.

Marosh had no alternative but to agree to every condition. He would travel to Chad, a relatively calm African country, to escort a young photojournalist and familiarize her with the “rules of engagement” described in the company’s guidelines.

Listening to his editor, Marosh swallowed one curse, then a second, as he felt a cold wave roll across his belly. His only response was, “What is the rookie’s name?”

“Rachel Lynn,” said Steve. “You’ll have a hell of a time, ’cause she is quite a looker. It will be fun working with her.”

Fuck me
, thought Marosh, after he hung up the phone. He knew that type of female war correspondent. They were much crazier than men. They didn’t heed god or man if it was about a story. They were able to put themselves at any risk, just to
prove they were up to the job—and they were as good as any man. It was not uncommon for them to be shot dead or gang-raped by an entire company of soldiers if they were captured. He could clearly remember one woman in particular. Her name was Amanda, and she had been captured in Iraq. Marosh was sitting in the canteen when she returned from her release. It was 113 degrees in the shade, with flies all over the plastic tables. It was said that four men had raped her, but after her medical evaluation she was drinking Budweiser in the canteen, near to where Marosh sat, smiling. Marosh would never forget that smile. It was the smile of someone who knew that over the next couple of days all the news would be about her.

“Rachel Lynn,” he grumbled, then asked for another beer and a whisky. He drank for a bit longer, and then took a taxi back to his hotel.

Rachel Lynn wasn’t anybody’s favorite, nor was she a Daddy’s girl. In fact, she hardly knew her father, because when she was just five he died somewhere in the Middle East, having been beheaded by an extremist organization. In the eighties, a beheading was still a huge sensation in the media, and the press had been stationed in front of the family’s apartment building for weeks. The family had to move en masse to avoid questions like “How does it feel?” “What are your thoughts?” and “Now, how will you carry on?” The front pages of the tabloids were meanwhile filled with the images of the execution, images cut from the video at the very moment they put the knife to his throat. That moment when a person realizes he is going to be killed.