Excerpt of The Distance Between Us by Masha Hamilton
(Page 4 of 7)
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"You still here?" The shirtless man speaks in English.
"I need my identification card." Marcus enunciates as if to a
child. "What a fashla," he says to Caddie in an aside, using the
Arabic for "mess-up."
The young tough squints. "What you want?" he asks in English, in a
tone that convinces Caddie the best answer would be "nothing."
Marcus chuckles. "This guy speaks pretty good caveman."
Caddie speaks sharply, quietly. "Shit, Marcus. Shut. Up."
Yes, this sleepy-eyed militiaman is a fool, made silly by the handful of
power he holds over a hut and two armed men. But Marcus, it’s clear, has a
case of Superman Disorder, the disease that worms its way into journalists,
fooling them into believing they’re so seasoned, their instincts so developed,
that every risk is manageable. That even the clouds and the dirt will back off
in their presence. That a little cockiness will simply give them Ggod-speed.
She’s avoided that pit of overconfidence. So has Marcus, until now. She shoots
him a pointed look. He seems to need reminding that this is not a disciplined
army. These are thugs led by a man who smuggles and kidnaps and kills. They let
mood- swings, and a very personal interpretation of Allah's will, dictate when
and where they fire their guns.
"C’mon, Marcus. Let’s get out of here," she says.
"I don’t go without my card." Marcus takes a step forward and
speaks in one long breath. "We’re more than happy to scoot, you bloody
bloke, but first, it would be brilliant if you could go peek under your pillow
and see if you can find a little card, one with my face on it." He finishes
with an ersatz smile.
The shirtless boy fighter surely can’t understand much of Marcus’s
racetrack sentences or clipped accent. But he leans forward attentively as if
examining vermin, then pushes closer to their Land Rover, bringing with him the
scent of barbecued onions. He glances in Caddie’s direction, then grips
Sven’s arm. "Go," he says in English, shoving Sven and motioning at
their driver. "Go!" The word comes out guttural.
"Bit testy, aren’t you?" Marcus remains jaunty, but he’s
finally edging back toward the jeep.
"Still, I think it’s a good suggestion," Sven says, sounding
strained.
The baby-faced guard, gratingly calm, lets off a shot into the dirt that
produces a pregnant swell of dust. He levels his gun and jerks it to motion
their driver forward. The driver shifts into gear. Caddie grabs Marcus’s arm
and tugs him back into the vehicle as the driver punches the gas pedal.
"My card," cries Marcus mock-meekly, raising his arms in an
empty-handed gesture. Having lost, he’s clearly decided to treat this as good
fun. "Why my card?"
"Why my wife?" Rob speaks over the engine noise. "Life is
arbitrary."
"Why do we always end up talking about your divorce?" Sven asks
over his shoulder.
"Right," Rob says. "Who cares? Let’s just get the interview.
We’ve got to be almost there. When we get back, Marcus, you can tell the press
office your card went through the wash."
"What wash?" says Marcus. "Who’s holding out on me? Is
anybody using anything besides the sink?"
He’s too jovial, considering this nonsense could have caused them to be
detained for hours—or worse. Caddie jabs him. "You won’t even need the
damn card in a couple days."
"Right you are. A whole month in New York." Marcus, oblivious to
the edge in her tone, is gratingly cheerful. "I’m overdue. So
cheers-ciao-salaam," he says, running the words together.
She twists slightly away from him, reminded now that as irritating as his
reckless behavior was, it doesn’t bother her nearly as much as the fact that
he has more or less spontaneously booked this flight to the U.S. He insisted he
needed a break, had to get out, even yesterday was too late. She argued for days
to get him to postpone it long enough to make this foray into Lebanon. Once they
are done here, he’s taking off. She only hopes that he doesn’t miss any huge
stories—major flare-ups of violence or government collapses. Nobody based in
the Middle East takes photos as good as Marcus’s.
From The Distance Between Us by Masha Hamilton. Copyright
2004. All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced
without written permission from the publisher, Unbridled Books.
