Twilight (26 page)

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Authors: Brendan DuBois

BOOK: Twilight
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“You've been at it a long time,” I said.
“Ah, too long,” she said. “And soon, very soon, perhaps, I am going to give it up.”
“Go back to Amsterdam?”
She sighed again, her warm breath feeling good against my chest. “Perhaps, for a bit. But not for long. No, I think it's time for me to do something else.”
“What's that?”
“
Médecins Sans Frontières
,” she said, the French words rolling softly past her lips.
“Doctors Without Borders,” I said. “A good group. Let me guess. Tired of working on the dead?”
Miriam nodded, her chin digging painfully into me now. I ignored the discomfort. “Tired of working
for
the dead, Samuel. You see, that's always been a little wordplay for me, in what I do. I speak for the dead. For the dead woman, butchered as she protected her children. For the teenage girls, brutally raped before they were murdered. For the old men and women in the last years of their lives, cut down because of their last name
or skin color or because they were hungry and they escaped from a city that was dying. All of these dead people, on almost every continent, Samuel, I have spoken for. And my voice … my voice is getting tired. I can no longer speak for them. I can only speak for myself. And no one else.”
“And Doctors Without Borders … you'll be working for the living.”
“In a way,” she said, reaching up to tickle my ear. “I'll be working for the wounded, for the survivors. I will no longer have to speak for them. All I will do is heal them. That is all.”
I swallowed, my mouth still stinging a bit from the bite of the cognac. “When do you hope to start?”
“I'm not sure. A month, perhaps two.”
I moved an arm across her smooth back. “I'm sure they're eager to take you on.”
“Yes … but my eagerness, well …”
“Go ahead.”
Miriam raised herself and kissed me gently. “If I may be so forward, do you intend to be with UNFORUS forever?”
I kissed her in return, tasting the lipstick and cognac and her own special flavor. “As a matter of fact, Miriam, I've been thinking of a change as well. These doctors … do you think they could use someone to take photos, to write the occasional press release?”
In the dim light I could make out her smile. “It would mean a severe pay cut, you understand.”
“So?”
She laughed and rolled over on top of me, and I hugged her close. “Yes, dear one,” she said, kissing me again and again. “I am sure they can use you.”
“Wonderful,” I said, holding her tight, not wanting to let her move, not an inch. “Wonderful.”
 
 
THE SOUNDS OF
the shower and Miriam singing in her native Dutch woke me up. I was considering getting up to join her when she finished, coming out wrapped in two towels, one around her head, the other around her slick torso. She leaned over and kissed me. “Did I keep you awake last night?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Why would you?”
She laughed. “My younger sisters, they always said I snored so loud that they were afraid the local dike would be breached. The washroom is free, if you wish.”
I got up and headed to the bathroom, and then looked back at her. She was toweling her hair and said, “Is something wrong?”
“No, everything is right. It's just that …”
“What?”
“Well, you have both towels.”
“Oh, you,” Miriam said, tossing me the towel that she had been using to dry her hair.
I caught the damp fabric and said, “I might get awfully wet, you know, and I might need that second one …”
She came over to me, making shooing motions with her hands. “You get in there, and right now. I don't want to miss breakfast.”
I kissed her. “A deal.”
 
 
OUT IN THE
corridor Miriam pointed to a scuff mark on the far wall. “Look. Isn't that where Jean-Paul struck his head?”
“We can only hope,” I said.
She linked an arm through mine. “It was so strange yesterday, seeing Peter asking all those questions.”
“Why?”
She tugged at my arm. “Because, that's why. He seemed very knowledgeable, very inquisitive. Like he knew the answers to his questions before he asked them.”
Secrets, I thought. And a promise. I said, “You know Peter. Not very friendly, and an ex-cop to boot. Always suspicious of somebody or something. Or he wouldn't have been a cop.”
“Still …” We got to the bank of elevators and I punched the down button. Miriam said, “How did this all come about? Why was Peter in your room?”
“We talked some yesterday,” I said. “Peter came to me with some suspicions of who might have been betraying our unit. He asked me if anything odd had occurred concerning Jean-Paul. And the only thing I had were the missing photo receipts. If Jean-Paul had really sent those in, like he said he did, then they would have appeared on my machine.”
“All that, just to protect the identities of some local militiamen?”
I looked at her. She was wearing slightly wrinkled clothing from yesterday, and was still so very desirable. “More than just that,” I said. “Peter thought—and I found it hard to disagree with him—that there was a timely reason for Jean-Paul not to have sent along those photos.”
“Why would it have been timely?”
The elevator door finally dinged. “Because if we were all killed that day
or the next, then Geneva would have had a pretty fair idea of who might have done it, based on those photos. No photos, no direct leads. And Jean-Paul would have been the sole survivor, with a bloody tale of how he alone had managed to stay alive.”
Miriam started saying something in Dutch which I guessed was probably obscene when the elevator door slid open. In front of us were three soldiers in fatigues who immediately stopped talking when they saw us there. They were about my age, muscled and hard-edged, and as well as the UNFORUS brassard that they all wore tiny Union Jacks were sewn on their sleeves. The British, back in their old colonial stomping grounds, almost two and a half centuries later.
They made room for us and I saw that we were all heading to the basement. I said, “Is the British Army making us breakfast today?”
There were smiles and one soldier said, “Dunno, mate—why do you ask?”
“I thought that's why the British Army conquered the world,” I said. “They were looking for a good meal.”
They laughed at that. Then the door slid open, and out we went.
 
 
THERE WAS A
line snaking out into the corridor, and I talked with Miriam as we slowly made our way in. I found out about the desperate hours after the shooting that had left Sanjay dead and me missing, and how Charlie had gone back with a few of his comrades to retrieve the body and look for me. I guess that little mission had ticked off the higher-ups in Albany, because with the armistice breakdown all UN-assigned forces were supposed to withdraw to the compounds and refugee camps, to await the outcome of negotiations.
According to Miriam those negotiations were still going on. Not much had happened in the country since I had caught the beautiful tones of the CBC on Stewart Carr's radio, telling listeners about the armistice still not being back in place in Michigan, New York, Vermont, New Hampshire and other states as well.
As we finally got into the cafeteria, into the large room with the cooking smells and the sounds of about a half-dozen languages bouncing off the low tile ceiling, Miriam said, “And so it goes. The men with guns try to keep on killing and stealing, while the rest of us struggle to find some kind of peace.”
I was about to reply when I noticed, sitting by himself at a tiny two-person table, an older man who was sipping a cup of tea and looking over at us. His white hair was in a crew cut and he had a thick handlebar mustache.
He wore fatigues and black boots, but with no insignia. He looked at me and I looked at him, and I squeezed Miriam's hand.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?”
Her expression was troubled. “Is something wrong?”
“You could say that,” I said. “I have to go see that old man over there.”
Miriam spotted him and said, “Why? Do you know him?”
“No, I've never really known him all that well,” I said. “But I am related to him.”
“Really?” she asked. “Who is he?”
I moved out of the line. “He's my father.”
I
went over and my father looked up at me. “Samuel, so good to see you. Have a seat.”
I remained standing. “Gee, how nice of you to come see me in my room.”
He slurped at his teacup. “Don't get your panties in a twist, Samuel. I knew you were up in your room. I knew you were safe. And this is the only place around here that serves breakfast, swillish as it might taste. So I knew you'd be coming along. Just have a seat, all right?”
I pulled a chair out, sat down. Still standing in line was Miriam, who was looking over in our direction. Father noticed and said, “Who's she? A local, perhaps?”
“Miriam van der Pol,” I said. “One of the UN investigators I was working with.”
“Aahh,” he said. “Very sweet-looking thing. A girlfriend, perhaps?”
“None of your business,
perhaps
,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, so much for father-and-son greetings, eh?” he said, putting the cup down on the dirty table. “I've been here in this miserable country for three days, ever since I got word that you'd been reported missing. I tried using some of my old contacts, some of my old friends, to see what I could find out.”
“I'm surprised anyone would be seen talking to you,” I said.
There was a bright spark of anger in my father's eyes that immediately transferred itself to the rest of his face, where the skin reddened. “That was some time ago,” he said. “And I don't need you or anyone else reminding me about it. Don't you think I'll always remember my time in Somalia, and the trial that followed? Don't you?”
I looked at that stern face, remembered all the times when seeing that particular expression would freeze me, would frighten me, would make me do or say anything to get away from that look. But it didn't look frightening, not now, not after the past few days. It just looked tired and angry.
I sighed. “Yeah, I'm sure you will.”
“Damn right,” he said. “So here I was, fighting the new war, the war of bureaucrats, trying to find out from what department something might be learned about your fate, Samuel. One office passed me off to another office, one unit to the next. Some people thought you were just missing, others thought you might be a prisoner of one of those gangs of thugs. About the only good fella I met was that black Marine assigned to your unit, Charlie something-or-another.”
“Charlie Banner,” I said.
“Yeah, Banner,” my father said. “I could talk to him, you know? Like one professional soldier to another.”
I opened my mouth to say something, thought better of it, though my father noticed right off. “Hey, I know what you're thinking, right? A
professional
soldier. Maybe an oxymoron, right? We're just trained killers with no brains, sent in to kill or destroy or blow up things. How can we be trained to do anything except that? But listen to me, young man, it's the trained ones who protect you and your friends. And it's the trained ones who are called in to clean up other people's messes, other people's disasters. Your great-grandfather and grandfather served their country well in uniform. And I did my best as well, despite what happened in Somalia. So there.”
I rested my hands on the stained table. “So there. A nice answer, Father. Look, I've heard the lectures about the military plenty of times. And I know you wished I had joined the military instead of going into journalism. Let's just leave it be, all right?”
He stared at me for a moment and I felt a twinge of regret, knowing what was going on inside his mind. His failure as a husband, as a soldier who wanted nothing more than to have the Simpson military gene passed down to another generation. A chance, maybe, to redeem the Simpson family name, which had been burnished at Dieppe and in Korea, and had forever been tarnished in a hot and dusty place called Mogadishu.
I smiled. “Look, Father. I appreciate you coming here. I really do. But seeing you here … well, it was just a start, that's all.”
He took another sip from his teacup. That seemed to mollify him some, and he looked around. “They don't know how easy they have it here,” he said, his voice lower now, like he was confiding in me. “Here they have power, hot water, hot food and pretty safe conditions, if they keep their noses clean. In Somalia we had tents, dirt everywhere, flies and other vermin, and no air-conditioning, no power, nothing. Here they have the militias. Big deal. They're a minority out in the towns and counties. A well-armed minority, but still a minority. Back in Somalia there was no government, no officials. There were clans and sub-clans, with alliances shifting from week to week. Here, negotiation is dealing with maybe a half-dozen clowns with guns. Over there, dozens and dozens of groups of crazies … Still, it doesn't excuse what happened, right?”
I nodded. My father toyed with his teacup. I glanced over at the line, saw that Miriam had moved ahead. My stomach grumbled, wanting breakfast, but something was going on here. I wanted to wait.
“We were frustrated, cooped up like that. Day after day, under hot canvas, hardly anything to do. We had warriors there, Samuel, highly trained and eager warriors. You can't keep them penned up for days. I asked, I pleaded, I begged the powers that were to either send them home or to give them missions. Anything to get out of that blasted tent city. But I was turned down, always turned down. Negotiations were at a delicate stage, they said. Local sensibilities can't be offended, they said. So keep your boys confined to base until further notice. Jesus Christ on a crutch. Still … no excuses. They did an awful thing, and I did a worse thing, trying to cover it up.”
“Why did you do it, then?” I asked gently. We had never had this kind of conversation before, and I was desperate to take it as far as I could.
It was like my father couldn't look at me, so he kept his gaze focused on his teacup. “By the time I got back home, I was exhausted, Samuel. I had some intestinal bug that was chewing me up from the inside out. Our intervention had been a failure, no matter what glowing stories your friends at the
Star
or
Globe
or
Mail
had written. Your mother had packed up and gone to Florida. I felt as though the UN, the all-bloody and all-powerful UN, had screwed us over pretty good. I had argued and fought for my boys, to give them good quarters, to keep them busy, and I had failed. I had failed pretty badly. So when the rumors started that a couple of them had done bad things back there, had tortured and killed a couple of young thieves … Well, no excuses, Samuel. No excuses. But what was I going to do? Go out of my way to help those who had screwed us? Give the UN the benefit of the doubt? Hell, no. My first reaction was to deny everything, to protect my boys. That's what I did. And we all paid the price.”
I took a breath. “You did what you thought was right.”
A brief smile flickered across my father's face. “Thanks—I think. Though the Chief of Staff and a jury and a bunch of newspapers disagreed with you. So here I am, a disgrace and cashiered out.”
“So here you are,” I said.
He finished off his tea with a satisfied slurp. “When can you get packed up?”
“Excuse me?”
He put the cup down with a loud rattle. “Come along, Samuel. I said, when can you get packed up? I'm not done here yet. I'm here to take you back home.”
Our moment of bonding, it seemed, had just passed. “No.”
“Samuel, be reasonable. You've been through a lot, right? Captured and beaten up and escaped, finally getting out free and safe. Shit, boy, you've done everything the blue helmets have asked of you and then some. Give yourself a break, get on back home while you can.”
“What do you mean, while I can?”
My father looked around him for a second. Then he said, his voice lower: “Look. The Yanks have a real sense of pride and honor. How do you think they're feeling, having the UN and foreign armies trooping through some of their territories? They only got here during a moment of weakness, after the Manhattan bombing, after the balloon strikes, after the uprisings and the killings of the refugees. A good chunk of the country that doesn't have militias, that doesn't have armed gangs terrorizing its people, well, they probably didn't give a crap at the beginning. Anything to stop the killing. But now that most of the killing has stopped, that majority still sees Ukrainians and Germans and Hungarians trooping through the countryside. A lot of people are getting pissed, Samuel. Oh, there may be a new armistice soon, very soon, but just as certain as that is that one of these days the U.S. Army or the Marines are going to take matters into their own hands and kick everybody out. And I know the Americans. When they kick someone out, it's sure to be bloody. So come on home, Samuel. That's where you belong.”
I shook my head. “No, I belong here.”
“Samuel, you're being unreasonable, you're being—”
“Father, it's over. All right? I'm staying here, doing my job, because it's important. As important to me as being in the army was for you. All right? Discussion over. I'm staying with the UN and staying in the States, if they want me. And if you want to have a discussion you'll have it by yourself, because I'll get up and leave. Right now.”
My father's face reddened some more and then he surprised me for the first time in a long time. He actually laughed. “Damn it, boy. Good for you. I can't say I agree with you and I don't, but damn it anyway, good for you. I always wondered if you had the balls my father and grandfather had, and I'm glad to see that you do.”
He leaned over the table, gently punched me on the shoulder, which was about as emotional as I'd ever seen the old man. “OK, stay here. Do what you think's best. And if your young ass gets lost again, I'll come back to look for you. Deal?”
I found myself actually smiling. “OK. Deal.”
“Hello there,” came a lovely voice. I looked up and my father turned round in his chair as Miriam approached, bringing a tray overflowing with dishes and saucers and coffee cups. She smiled at me and said, “It took some convincing the nice servers but I've got all of us some breakfast. May I join you?”
“Absolutely,” I said, and my father joined in, stepping up to help her with the tray and then retrieving a chair for her. Smiling all the while, he said, “Young lady, if Samuel hadn't said yes, I surely would have.”
She smiled back at that and I said, “Miriam, I'd like you to meet my father, Ronald Simpson, lately a colonel in the Canadian Army, who's been here for the past few days looking for his lost son.”
They shook hands and Miriam said, “What a wonderful father you are, to come look for Samuel.”
My father just blushed at that. I looked at Miriam and said, “Yes, you're quite right, Miriam.”
“Excuse me?” she asked, and even my father looked a bit confused. I went on, looking at them both. “You're absolutely right. He was a wonderful father, to come find me.”
Miriam started talking but my father, speaking gruffly, said, “Come on, kids, let's eat, before it gets cold.”
Which was what we did.
 
 
MIRIAM HAD GOTTEN
the three of us bowls of oatmeal, with some toast and sausage links on the side, and coffee and orange juice. As we ate I felt this odd calmness come over me, as though things were finally making sense, were finally coming together. All through breakfast my father was a charming gentleman, something I found hard to believe, though I had memories from my childhood of how, maybe at Christmas time, my father would smile and joke and even sing. He told a few tales of when I was
younger to Miriam, stuff about falling down a heating vent when it was open for repairs, or going door-to-door trying to sell discarded cigar butts, and even I smiled at the old stories.
When breakfast was finished, Miriam said, “Colonel Simpson …”
My father shook his head. “Please, call me Ronald. Or Ron.”
Miriam smiled, nodded. “Very well, Ronald. Can I ask you something?”
“Ma'am, the time when I cannot answer a question from a beautiful lady such as yourself will be the day I'll hear dirt falling on the lid of my coffin. Go ahead. Ask away.”
Miriam said, “In the time you've spent here, have you heard anything about the armistice talks? Are they proceeding?”
My father wiped his fingers with a paper napkin. “Yes, they are proceeding.” And he shot me a look as though he was reminding me of our previous talk. “And I'm sure they will succeed eventually. Perhaps today. Perhaps next week. But in the long run … as I've told Samuel, I don't think in the long run that being here with the UN will be healthy. I sense bad times coming, once the people—everywhere, not just in the states with active militia—once the people decide the UN has been here long enough and must go.”
Miriam reached under the table, squeezed my leg. “Thank you. And I'll tell you, in the long run I don't intend to remain in the UN. And perhaps neither does your son.”

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