Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes - Jan David Blais - Страница 3

SOMESVILLE, MT. DESERT ISLAND, MAINE. SEPTEMBER 2003. The old man replays the tape for what, the tenth time? The twentieth? Bright sky and desert plain, blue and beige, plumes of dense smoke in the distance. Pan left to a reporter holding a microphone. In khaki pants and open shirt, he is hatless in the brutal mid-day sun. As the camera closes in the viewer is drawn to the eyes, dark as the behind.

“To wrap up,” he is saying, “another insurgent attack. How many fill-ups did the desert take back today? How many SUVs will run dry? Not long ago George Bush assured us a rejuvenated Iraq would pay for this trillion-dollar adventure of his, but like many of his promises, this one’s fading fast and will be forgotten unless we ask the tough questions.” The reporter’s head and shoulders now fill the screen, a faint smile crossing the familiar face. “Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, we will continue to ask them. Paul Bernard, ETVN News, reporting from the desert outside Basra, Iraq. So long for now.”

The man jabs the remote and the VCR whirs to a stop. He slips in a second cassette and the screen fills. Vehicles at crazy angles, the smoldering carcass of a Humvee, a light truck with a red cross, an SUV, more Humvees, a med-evac helicopter. Uniformed personnel stand around. Two choppers hover above the scene, heavy with dust.

“All but one person in the Humvee were killed,” a voice is saying, “airlifted out within minutes of the attack. DOA on arrival at the medical facility in the Green Zone. Paul Bernard was one of them. Unbelievable. I can’t find the words. ETVN’s Middle East Bureau Chief survived but is in critical condition with burns over eighty percent of his body. They say he has a remote chance of pulling through. An officer riding in the lead vehicle told ABC News the attack came from over that hill,” the screen shows a rise behind the road. “Most likely a rocket-propelled grenade commonly used by the insurgents, it made a direct hit on the third Humvee in line. Military personnel spotted a vehicle taking off and gave chase. Choppers were called in but the attackers had too big a lead. At last word, there’s been no contact. From the Baghdad Airport Road, Ed Barkley, ABC News.”

The man tosses the remote at the sofa. It bounces off and clatters to the floor. Leave it, he says, cursing softly. He shuffles across the darkened room and bumps against the desk at the far wall. He snaps on a lamp. The study is cluttered – books, awards, diplomas, photographs, residue of a life of scholarship. He settles heavily into his chair, shiny, creased leather, impetuous purchase the day of his appointment a half a century ago to the History faculty. The desk is cluttered – books, folders, work in progress, work abandoned. Looking around the room, his gaze settles on the television, now dark, and he begins to weep. “These next days,” he whispers, “must rally, must make it through.”

ST. ANN’S CEMETERY, CRANSTON, RHODE ISLAND, TWO DAYS LATER. The storm didn’t rate a name, yet how the heavens opened. The second I get out of the car, up comes the wind, people wrestling with their umbrellas and now it’s coming down in buckets. Invitation only. TV trucks outside the gate here, police keeping them out. But for the weather, those damned news choppers would be following us around, too. The memorial next month in New York, that’ll be big, but you won’t find me there.

Climbing a small rise I hear the ropes groan, the canvas flap. Inside the tent, rain drowns out the priest as he commits Paul to the earth whence he came. Dust thou art and so on and so forth – more like mud today. Cronkite is here, Peter Jennings too, Dave Carney who I greeted earlier. Next come the pallbearers – his son Peter, spitting image of his father, old friend Pat, others I don’t recognize, maybe from the newspaper or the network. No sign of Hamid, or of the French woman either, a class act, that one. My eyes are full as they take hold of the tape. Hand over hand, down it goes. Now the daughter has the shovel and the wife comes forward, former wife that is. Have as little as possible to do with her. Others go up but not me. Need to know your place – all too rare, these days.

Now the group is breaking up. There’s a reception at the sister’s but I won’t be going. Volvo’s letting me know it wants to go north and I couldn’t agree more. All of a sudden I feel this tap on my arm – a young man, at least under that stupid hat he looks young.

“Professor Flynn?” he says.

“None other,” I reply.

He sticks out his hand. “Jonathan Bernstein.”

By now, I am getting soaked trying to put my umbrella back up. He reaches for it. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

I pull it back. “The day I can’t put my umbrella up they’ll be putting me in the ground.” I am thinking water’s gotten in the works, with the wind and all. Finally, he gets it up. The name is familiar but I’m still trying to place him.

“Jonathan Bernstein, The New Yorker. We’re on for Thursday, your place – right?”

Well he doesn’t have to belabor the point, of course I know who he is now. I wonder how he managed to get an invitation. Everyone is leaving so I cut this short.

SOMEHOW I MAKE IT THROUGH TO THURSDAY. With all that’s happened, the last thing I need is a visitor, but I did agree to this. First impression, he seems all right, though I do not feature that little recorder he carries around. Never liked the damn things. Way I see it, if you can’t write fast enough to get something down it isn’t worth getting down, plus they sap the memory. It is mid-afternoon by the time we settle down and a bit cool on the deck, but he says he wants to start out here. Joseph, my able helper, has cleared the remains from a late lunch. “Ready to begin?” I say.

He is sitting back in the chair, looking pensive. “Everything’s changed. I’m not sure how I deal with it.”

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head. “I was counting on interviewing Paul, but now...”

My face suddenly feels hot. “Don’t tell me your problems! Paul did you a favor. You’ve got a better story than you did a week ago.”

He looks kind of sheepish. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just, the job I have to do just got a lot harder.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “Young man, that is the least of my concerns. Deal with it.”

He is quiet for a moment. “You’re right.”

I swallow hard, trying to be civil. “I’m here to help. Ask me questions. Do something.”

He opens a notebook, folds it flat and stares at it a moment. “There’ll certainly be an investigation. You were in the military, you know about investigations.”

“Indeed I do. And count on the Army keeping it close to the vest.”

“I can’t understand how that could happen, not with all that security. They’re saying it was random. Do you believe that?”

“How do I know? All I know is Washington’s deluding itself. There is still a war going on over there.”

“Obviously somebody dropped the ball,” he mutters. “All right, let’s begin.” He thumbs the recorder on. “When did you and Paul first meet?”

“That’s better,” I say, “more sequential. Sixty-three. He took a room for a year. He was starting a program in Political Science.”

“Your field is History.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“Describe the scene for me.”

“We kept a very sociable house, Akiko and I, somebody always coming or going, and those discussions! Many an evening we talked right through the night, no two opinions the same, and Paul always right in the middle of things. Passionate young people caught up in great events. Amazing combination. Civil War’s my field, mainly the slavery aspect, but I wrote a fair amount about the Sixties too. The war, turmoil on the campuses, people at each other’s throats, worst shock to the nation since the Depression. Until now, that is.”

“You think we’re heading for something like that again?”

“Too soon to say. Even in hindsight Vietnam is tough to read. I’ve been meaning to ask, if I’m not mistaken you’re a New Yorker.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“No offense but yes. What I’m getting at, we had plenty of students from New York but Paul was one of the few Rhode Islanders I knew, which made for a special bond, my being from Boston and all. Even after he left we stayed in touch, letters, cards, the occasional visit, and when I moved back East we really caught up.”

“Is it true you two were sometimes on the outs?”

“Not at all. Paul and I were friends and friends we remained, despite anything you might have heard. At any event, one day I had this idea of organizing his papers. Someday they’ll be worth something, I thought to myself.”

“Tell me more about the papers.”

“I have some here and there’s a batch in New York I’ve never seen.”

Jonathan brightens. “They’ll help me fill in the gaps.”

“That’s the whole idea, plus what I can contribute. I’d advise you to take a fast run through them, get a feel for what’s there. I’ve spent a fair amount of time organizing, indexing even. What shape the New York material’s in, I have no idea.”

“I’ll look through them tonight.”

“You’ll find it pretty rough in spots, and don’t expect perfect accuracy. Some of it Paul set down in a hurry – it’s remarkable they’re as good as they are. But back to Paul,” I say. “Twenty-one he was, a serious young man, steady, reliable to a fault. I used to tell him, lighten up, take up surfing – something! Of course right away everybody noticed the eyes. Dark, almost black. Felt like they were boring right through you, as if he saw things nobody else did. Excellent quality for a journalist, though in those days he had these awful glasses. At first I thought he was Mediterranean stock, the olive complexion, black hair and all. As it turns out, the Bernard line can be traced back to southern France.”

Jonathan nods. “The Nice area, possibly Marseilles. That’s what I’ve found.”

“And on the mother’s side Irish, of course, but don’t get me started on them! You seem restless – here, take the wicker. It’s more comfortable.”

“I’m fine,” he says, crossing his legs. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“You don’t really want to talk about me.”

“I need to understand how you two fit together, your influence on him.”

“Well, all right – if you insist.” I am starting to feel better. “For starters, let me say I surprised a lot of people when I left Berkeley, but it made perfect sense. For me this is where the world started. Not here, precisely – down past Portland and Kennebunkport, all the way to Boston. Southie to be precise.” I look out across the water. “Here,” I say, handing him my binoculars. “Have a look. That’s where the sun comes up, over the shoulder of Cadillac mountain across there.”

“Quite a hill,” he says, looking through the binoculars.

“Hill! You try climbing that hill! I used to do it every week until my knees gave out. First comes the aura then the sun appears over the ridge. You can’t always count on seeing it, what with the fog we have, but it’ll be clear tomorrow. Five-thirty should about do it.”

“Five-thirty! You’re joking.”

“Best part of the day, Jon. But if you walk the shore, take a flashlight – those steps can be slick. On a hook inside the back door, can’t miss it.”

“Actually I prefer Jonathan.”

“You don’t impress me as a Jonathan, but as you wish. You’re doing one of those long articles, I take it, four parts?”

“Three, but we may go to four now.”

“What’s your deadline?”

“Everything’s in flux at the moment, and as you said I’ve got to work around what happened. That makes you even more crucial. By the way what should I call you?”

“Professor Flynn will do, or Gus – I answer to either. By the way, we need to cut it short tonight – Pedro goes against the Yankees. They’d be your team, I take it.”

“Hardly. I grew up in College Point, next to Shea.”

“Ah. We have an unhappy history there as well.”

“People forget there was a Game Seven. I was there with my father.”

“I beg your pardon, some of us remember,” I say. “But I often wonder, what would happen if we ever won it all? That delicious frustration, it’s kept our brotherhood of misery warm for many winters. Well, enough. Tomorrow we begin. As I believe I mentioned, my memory is a finely tuned instrument, so when you leave here, Jonathan, you’ll have Paul Bernard’s story, in his words, just as he told it.”