The Devil Is a Black Dog (10 page)

“OK then. Let’s go.”

They walked out of the canteen, crossed the parking lot, cut between a row of dusty jeeps, then exited through the base’s steel gate.

Marosh felt a knot in his stomach when he remembered he would be taking pictures. He had to tell himself that he could get it back; all he needed was to get into the routine again. He didn’t need anything else, just the goddamned routine—the rest would be done by the programming in the camera. Over thirty this was generally
true about everything, he thought with a smile. He watched as Rachel took out her Canon 2D—the same machine he had worked with in Iraq.
Maybe the young can make it, after all. Maybe they’re not so covered in shit that God can’t see them
, he thought, as he took out his own Canon and took a photo of Rachel.

The driver was called Zeyad. He drove the car barefoot, chain-smoking Fine Bleu, the only brand sold in this country. He was going to Goz Beïda to bring back the humanitarian workers who had stayed in the field. There were three UN workers in the refugee camp, all of them locals; having received some humanitarian training, they were there to give the Sudanese women instruction in hygiene and general counseling.

Goz Beïda was thirty-seven miles from Abéché and accessible only by a dirt road. Not a single government soldier was to be seen in Abéché; they had already retreated from the advancing rebels. The jeep’s wheels stirred up the dirt as they drove on a sandy plain dotted with dark green shrubs. Rocks emerged from the horizon in red, looking like ruins under the blue skies.

“This would be such a beautiful country if it wasn’t for the war,” said Rachel. None of the men responded; they just watched the landscape go by.

They drove for an hour on the dirt road, crossing over dried-out riverbeds. The caked mud crumbled under the jeep’s wheels. They had to cross a shallow river before reaching Goz Beïda. The water splashed up between the wheels. It was a dying river, one that would dry out in days, the last remnant of the rainy season. Rachel opened her window and let her hand fall into the water, which felt lukewarm, like blood.

She didn’t feel any better. The headaches and dizziness from yesterday had returned. She wanted to keep her condition hidden from Marosh. But the man wasn’t paying her any attention;
he was busy watching the donkeys as they drank, tethered, with bowed heads.

Marosh was thinking that there was no hope:
God cared only about the young.
If God existed at all, that is, he didn’t give a damn about burnt-out photographers. He looked back at the woman and caught a look of almost unfathomable determination on her face.

Not long after they crossed the river, the refugee camp came into view. It was bigger than any city in Chad. The sandy spot where it was situated was covered with okra. The cornlike plant’s green leaves clung to the huts and tents.

When they arrived, they saw that a huge crowd was gathered in the middle of the camp. Almost two thousand people crammed in together, entire families, waiting to be evacuated. The men and women were holding their few earthly possessions on their heads, all the while shouting and swearing, as the children wailed. The air was filled with the stench of human sweat and animal dung.

They got out of the car and agreed with the driver that they would meet by the riverbed no more than two hours later. They wanted to leave Goz Beïda before the crowd.

“Stay with me,” Marosh called over his shoulder to Rachel, but she wasn’t listening, and had already gone off in the other direction. Both started to take pictures.

Rachel skirted the crowd to where the huts and okra fields began. She felt her fever burning; her shirt was soaked through with sweat. She noticed a family of three. The father walked ahead, behind him trailed the mother, cradling a three-year-old child in her arms. The girl immediately stopped crying when she saw Rachel. Rachel smiled at the kid, and then took their picture.

No one knows who started the shooting. Maybe the local militia shot at an aggressive refugee, maybe rebel scouts had reached
the camp. Chaos broke out when the machine-gun fire started to crackle. Flashes came from the okra field, the air filled with the sound of gunfire and the cries of the wounded. The point where the refugees had gathered emptied out in a minute; only the dead and the wounded remained. The camp’s militia returned fire from the riverside.

At the first sound of gunfire Rachel started to run with the family in the direction of the okra fields. The man was running in the lead, and his chest was torn through by a salvo of fire, his falling body knocking Rachel to the ground and streaking her face red. The mother and child lay thirty feet ahead of her. The woman had taken a bullet to the head, her belongings scattered on the ground where she fell. Her child, eyes wide open, was sitting next to her, staring at her mother. She didn’t cry. Rachel’s view was obscured by flowing blood, but not her own. She felt light as she watched the child. She took a deep breath, pushed the body off, and sat up.

Marosh had taken cover about thirty yards away. His experience had helped him to dodge the line of fire: at the first sound of gunfire he had ducked and crawled to cover. In the early chaos, he couldn’t see Rachel, so he took pictures of the fleeing, terrified people and the bullet-riddled bodies falling to the ground. When he felt he could guess the positions of the shooters, he started to search for his colleague.

At first he wasn’t able to spot her, because she was hidden under a body.
Good God
, he thought,
if this woman dies, I will get crucified in the office.
He checked the area nervously, but couldn’t see anything.
If she took the safety training, then she knows what to do
, he thought. Then she wouldn’t run into the crossfire with the others. He leaned out from his cover to get a better look.
She is my responsibility. She’s got no experience in the field. I’m responsible for her life. I must take care of her.

He noticed Rachel when she sat up, not far from the okra field. She stood and began to run in the direction of a child. He
knew he should shout, that he should yell something like “Stay down,” or “Forget the kid!” or stand up himself to buy her time, to distract the attention of the soldiers. But he didn’t do these things.

Marosh felt a familiar vibration and he was suddenly overcome by a deep tranquility. He raised his camera, zoomed in, and took a picture of the woman running toward the kid. He shot the whole sequence, as she crawled through the corpses and her shirt became stained with blood. He continued to shoot when she reached the child and gathered her into her arms.

Then the soldiers commenced their final assault.

H
e had been given a place in the trauma unit in the hospital’s new building. It was light there, warm and spacious, and smelled of disinfectant and paint. The old hospital with its flaking plaster walls and neon lighting wouldn’t be missed. If we felt trepidation out front, it passed when the elevator door slid open. The old, creaky equipment was new and strong. Balint hummed a tune between his teeth as we ascended. It was almost two on a Friday afternoon. We were going to visit a friend of ours who had been laid out there for a week. His mother said he was coming around, and the doctors had taken him off sedatives. Despite the rib and skull fractures, his young system was bouncing back.

“The whole thing is his fault of course,” said Balint, pushing his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket and checking himself in the elevator mirror. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, looking intently at his own reflection. The jacket was a really nice one. He had bought it at a hooligan store in Vienna, on Mariahilfer Strasse. He got his belt there, too, which flashed as he straightened his clothing. The leather was covered with metal
studs, so you could wrap it around your fist if you needed to hit somebody. It was practical garb: the security couldn’t confiscate it at soccer matches, and they knew it wasn’t worth trying, if you see what I mean.

“Is that how you want to kick things off?” I asked.

“Of course not,” said Balint. He looked away and began to air box. “It’s just good and clear where this stupidity is leading.”

“Try to be nice, okay?” I thought about what I would say.

“Okay,” said Balint and unzipped his jacket. I thought of Chaba. It wasn’t his fault he was this way. He was simply trying to fit in. I sometimes think Balint allowed him to hang with us out of pity: he was obviously the weakest in the group.

The door opened, letting us out on the corridor of the trauma unit. To our right was the reception area, with a computer, telephone, and white desk. Behind the counter sat a bleach-blonde girl around our age, reading the paper. When she heard the elevator bell, she looked up at us and smiled.

“Hello, we’re here for Chaba Horvath,” I said and smiled back.

“Uh-huh. The boy in room six. He’s had a busy day. This morning the police were here for him as well.”

“So he’s in six?” I asked and looked at Balint. He didn’t say anything, but it was obvious what he was thinking.

“Yes, at the end of the hall on the right.”

“Just relax,” I whispered to Balint. I hoped he wasn’t going to make a scene. Chaba didn’t need anybody to tell him how lame he was right now.

“I am relaxed,” said Balint, and we started for the door.

Chaba had been very proud of his new viper baton. He’d pulled it out a number of times in the high school bathroom where we used to go to smoke, to show how fast he could strike with it. It even had a leather holder. He’d always been a nervous kid. He’d stood in the bathroom with a cigarette in his right hand,
the viper in the left, and explained that if he hit anybody with it, it would definitely break a bone. He’d only had it for a week, but he carried everywhere. “Here’s how I’d bash those dickfaces’ heads in,” he said, and struck the wall. Indeed, the tile shattered where it hit.

Balint didn’t like the thing, and he let it be known. He’d told him: “Chaba, you’re not the type to bash a guy’s head in straight away. It would suck if somebody grabbed it from your hand. Better to give it here before somebody beats the shit out of you with it.” Chaba didn’t say a thing, but you could see he was hurt that Balint didn’t trust in his skill. He took it with him every time we went partying, but he never had the chance to prove himself.

We arrived at door number six. Balint paused, then turned the knob. We found ourselves in a four-bed ward, with little tables next to the patients. The room was painted a genial eggshell color. Chaba’s mother had put roses on her son’s bedside table. She came every day to fold his light green blanket at his feet and put his brightly colored pajamas in the dresser.

Our friend’s bed was by the door. An old man was in the bed by the window, wearing a cast that came up his thigh. He was asleep. The other two beds were empty. Chaba really
was
awake. His torso was totally encased in plaster. His head was swaddled with bandages. What was visible of his face was purple: his two black eyes were also bloodied. The doctors had fastened his left hand to the bed, and it had been screwed in multiple places so it would set correctly.

“Hey Chaba,” said Balint in a chummy voice.

“Hey guys,” came the raspy, faltering answer. His ribs were broken. Every word looked like it hurt.

“You don’t look so shitty,” began Balint, adding, “under the circumstances.”

“Yeah,” answered Chaba. “The doctors say I’ll be alright.”

We went quiet for a few moments and gazed down at the boy lying on the bed. We didn’t know what to say.

“What did you tell the police?” asked Balint, breaking the silence as he leaned against the wall.

“Well, not that they fucked me up with my own viper.”

“Then what?”

“That it was
unknown assailants
behind the Colosso.”

“And?”

“Now they are looking for unknown assailants.”

“You didn’t mention us?”

“No, of course not.” He wheezed when he exhaled.

“Okay then.”

“Sorry we weren’t there that day,” I said, avoiding his gaze. Instead I had fixed my eyes on a point in the cast, talking to that.

“Yeah, me too,” said Chaba. His voice betrayed no feeling.

“But you know who they were, right? Do you know who did this, Chabi?” asked Balint.

“Not by name. But the leader was a kid from the boonies, I think.”

“What did he look like?”

“Big and bald.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. Except he had a tattoo on his neck.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Yeah.”

The conversation was obviously wearing Chaba out, because he began to gasp and sputter. We didn’t want to push him. We gave him the porn mag we had brought as a gift. We said we would come again tomorrow, and before stepping out of the room we coaxed a smile out of him by adding that in the meantime he should hang in there, because without him we were one player short on the field. We walked wordlessly to the elevator at the other end of the hallway. We waited a little, and then got in.

“This isn’t right,” said Balint, when the doors closed.

“No, it’s not,” I said. “They got him good.”

“He didn’t have a snowball’s chance.” I saw a vein swell on Balint’s neck.

“What now?” I asked.

“Now we get ourselves together, and tonight we go and take the fuckers out.”

“Yeah, but you know, it’s obvious Chaba fucked up. He whipped out his viper and fucked it all up.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t that matter?”

“What matters is that they fucked with one of us.”

“And?”

“Now we are going to fuck with them right back.”

“Why?”

“Because the whole is pointless without the parts.”

“And if one part was stupid, does that still hold?”

“It holds.”

We got off the elevator and strode from the hospital, then cut down the path between a row of willows. Patients were sitting on the benches, smoking or strolling with their visitors. It was one of the last warm days of autumn; the leaves had already fallen and were piled in the streets. Neither of us spoke.