by Mark Lee
She stood and I held her and felt her grief pass through my body. Then Richard touched Julia’s shoulder and coaxed her away from me.
“Stay here and help,” he told Billy. “I’ll call you when we get to Australia.” Major Holden pulled back the tent flap and I saw that Collins and Briggs were waiting outside. “This way,” Richard said softly. “This way.”
And then she was gone.
Major Holden drove them over to the airstrip and they were given seats on the first flight out. I found out later that a doctor met the plane in Darwin. Julia had became hysterical and was given a strong sedative. Richard chartered a plane to Singapore, then another plane to London.
THE DEAD GURKHAS were flown to Nepal in three sealed coffins and transported to the hill country west of Kathmandu. It was a minor news story, with photographs. Gurkhas from the London regiment played the bagpipes during the funeral.
I REMAINED IN East Timor and tried to arrange Daniel’s burial. None of the publications he worked for knew how to find his family. I had to work backward through his various jobs until an editor at the Seattle Times searched their old personnel records and found the name and address of his father. Sergeant McFarland had left the air force; it took a dozen more phone calls before I got a number in Tulsa, Oklahoma. A woman answered and I wondered if McFarland had remarried. “Ned! It’s long distance!” she shouted and Daniel’s father came to the phone.
He didn’t seem surprised when I told him the news. “I knew Daniel was doing some dangerous things, but he wasn’t going to stop. When he called me up two years ago, I told him he should come back home and get a job with an American newspaper.”
“Daniel was a great journalist. Everyone respected him.”
“Respect don’t help you when you’re dead. He spent too much time writing about foreigners and people don’t care about foreigners. Daniel wouldn’t listen to me.”
The conversation wasn’t going the way I had planned. Daniel’s father seemed slightly pleased that his opinion had been vindicated. “What kind of person was Daniel when he was younger?” I asked.
“Well,” he said and paused for a few seconds. “Daniel never played sports, never joined a club, spent all of his time walking around town, looking at things. After his mother got the cancer he said I didn’t take care of her. That is an outright falsehood. Completely untrue. I was always at the hospital when I wasn’t busy.”
There was a tightness in his voice and I wondered what had happened when Daniel’s mother died. I could picture Sergeant McFarland in a clean kitchen with a white tile floor. He had a short haircut and military posture. A woman stood in the background, mixing a pitcher of iced tea.
“I don’t know what to do with his body,” I said.
“You could ship him to Oklahoma. Or you could bury him there. I’ll pay for everything. You just call me back and tell me what it costs.”
I hung up and decided I would never talk to Sergeant McFarland again. The confusion I had felt over the last few days had evaporated and left a residue of anger. It didn’t seem fair by anyone’s faith or morality that Daniel had lost his life in this place. I blamed every person that was connected to the murder. I blamed Daniel himself for the choices he had made. I still remembered our conversations after the airplane crash and his desire to live a good life. Perhaps that was possible in a safe society where people respected each other and obeyed the traffic signs.
I considered a funeral at Bracciano but rejected that idea. If Julia wanted to live there, then the death would always be with her. If she sold the place, strangers would own Daniel’s grave. After walking around Dili for a few hours, I decided to buy a plot at the local cemetery. I dropped by the Seria to tell Billy about my decision; he was packing up to fly back to London.
“Thanks for your help,” I said. “I can handle it from here.”
We stood on the bow of the ship and gazed out at Dili. The landing craft the Indonesians had used to invade East Timor so many years ago were still rusting on the beach where they’d been abandoned. UN Land Rovers and army trucks moved slowly up and down the waterfront boulevard.
“Take care, Nicky. Still a lot of crazies running around.”
“I know.”
I held out my hand, but Billy pushed it aside and gave me a bear hug. When I turned away, I saw that Pak was watching us. The old man nodded and winked as if we both knew the punch line to a private joke.
I hitched a ride on the back of an army truck and went to Santa Cruz Cemetery in the southeast part of the city. A concrete wall surrounded the grounds. Its spiked entrance gates had been ripped off their hinges and dumped into the street as if a thousand evil spirits had burst out of their coffins and escaped. Most of the tombs were narrow boxes of blue tile or limestone with a stone cross at one end. Families were buried together, each name painted on the stone. The first names on the family memorials were large and significant, then more deaths had been added in smaller print. Over the years, the names and dates pushed up against each other, as parents and children had been killed in successive waves of arrests and executions.
The cemetery was overgrown with creeper vines and stalks of bamboo and there was a sloppy, haphazard feeling about the place. I was just about to leave when a young boy approached me. He made a digging motion with his hands. I nodded and he came back with the chief gravedigger, a barefoot old man called Afonso. “Posso ajudar?” he kept saying. May I help you? When I told him that my amigo had just died, he showed me two narrow patches of ground, surrounded by tottering crosses. Errado, I told him. Wrong. Very wrong. I’d look for another graveyard. Afonso nodded his head and took me to a space by the wall surrounded with hibiscus. Even in the dry season, there were red flowers and lush green leaves. It was better than a municipal plot in Tulsa, with half-dead grass and some guy on a tractor mower.
Jenkins and four Gurkhas picked me up at the hotel the next morning. We drove out to the Interfet camp, placed the body in a coffin, and went to the cemetery. Other journalists in Dili had learned about the funeral, and a crowd of reporters, photographers, and television cameramen was waiting beside the broken gates. I got out of the truck and everyone clustered around for an improvised news conference. Tristram Müller asked me the first question; then everyone else had their turn. How was he killed, Mr. Bettencourt? Did they catch the guys who did it? What was the last thing you heard your friend say? They asked me if Daniel was married and then seemed annoyed that I didn’t know his age. “Give me a rough guess,” said an Australian reporter and I made up a number. All the journalists glanced at one another as if to say, Do we agree on this? before writing it down.
Afonso and the boy approached us carrying their shovels. They guided the truck down a dirt pathway to a hole dug near the wall. The Gurkhas pulled Daniel’s coffin out of the truck, then lowered it into the ground. I heard the rapid click-click-click of an auto-advance and saw a Dutch photographer working. I had done the same thing countless times, crouching down and snapping in a new lens, bending and jumping and twisting my body around for a good shot.
Jenkins cleared his throat and glanced over at me. Obviously, he felt that the Official Best Friend should say something. When I remained silent he took a step toward the grave. Clods of dirt and a few white pebbles dribbled down onto the top of the coffin.
“I talked to Private Rai before he flew home. He told me what happened after my men were attacked in Liquica. The militia was going to kill everyone until Mr. McFarland stepped forward. He saved the lives of hundreds of people. God bless him. He was a brave one. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
Jenkins stepped back and gave me another look. An American television cameraman zoomed in on my face and his soundman extended the boom. I knew that I should say something about my friend’s death, but I felt like shouting insults. I hated the reporters and the photographers. I hated the tropical sun and the burned-brown hills and the ragged palm trees.
“Good-bye, Daniel,” I said. “I wish we hadn’t come to t
his place.”
A group of children ran toward us and I turned away from the grave. Sister Xavier was leading her parishioners into the cemetery. They were clapping and singing hymns in Portuguese. First the women would sing a phrase, then the men, and then everyone would join together for the chorus. The crowd flowed around the tombs and gravestones like a brightly colored wave.
Sister Xavier took my hand. She smiled shyly as if we had just met again after a long separation. She raised her hand and the crowd stopped singing. The refugees from Liquica had plucked flowers from the bushes and trees as they marched in from the airport. Each person stepped forward and said something in Tetum or Portuguese, then tossed their flower into Daniel’s grave.
CAPTAIN JENKINS TOLD me that the Gurkhas had begun to search for the militiamen who had been at Liquica; every soldier in the regiment had volunteered for the assignment. Jenkins had picked two teams of eight men and hired local guides at the airport refugee camp.
The Gurkhas found one of the killers right away, then tracked down the others as they tried to reach West Timor. Some people said there was a final shoot-out near the border. Others heard that Cristiano’s militiamen surrendered and begged for mercy. Each story had the same conclusion: there were no prisoners.
All I know is Captain Jenkins showed up at my hotel room five days later looking like he’d been sleeping in the jungle. He opened an envelope and dumped out Daniel’s wristwatch and passport.
“We also found your friend’s shoes, but they were covered with blood. I dug a hole and buried them.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“The suspects died resisting capture, but we managed to interrogate one of them before he bled to death. You know what that little bastard bragged about? He’d raped nine women.”
According to Jenkins, the militiamen had waited near the wharf for a transport ship to appear. Daniel talked to a few of them and took a nap in the shade of a banyan tree. When the ship didn’t arrive by sunset, Cristiano became worried about a counterattack and told Daniel they were going to hide. A large plane with lights on its wings passed over the town as they were walking past the mercado. It was probably one of the C-130 transports returning to Darwin, but Cristiano assumed that the plane was carrying paratroopers who were going to land in the darkness and capture them. He ordered Daniel to stand beside the drainage ditch and told his followers to shoot. It was over in a few seconds.
LATER I HEARD a different story about Daniel’s murder when Sister Xavier wrote me from East Timor. In her version the transport plane passed over Liquica and Cristiano become frightened. He told his men to take Daniel over to the ruined marketplace. Daniel looked calm when he was ordered to stand beside the ditch and the improvised firing squad became nervous. They whispered among themselves that this killing was bad luck and it would cause them to be punished by the island spirits. The men lowered their weapons and Daniel extended the palm of his right hand, as if he was offering them a gift. Furious, Cristiano grabbed a rifle and fired the entire clip.
“THIS STORY’S OVER,” announced a British reporter in the hotel hallway. The foreign journalists were sending out their final sum-it-all-up articles, then flying home. Julia was gone, Daniel was buried, and I still remained. I felt like one of those windup toys that marches across the living room floor and hits a wall.
The wet season was only a few weeks away and the air felt stagnant and heavy with moisture. Interfet command had transferred out to the airport and I moved over to the Turismo Hotel. Water began to dribble out of the faucets. It was enough to take a shower, but you had to keep your mouth shut because of typhoid. The UN shipped in four electric generators and power flowed through the city. I touched a switch in my hotel room and a lightbulb went on. The ceiling fan above me squeaked and shivered, then spun around with an awkward, wobbling motion as if the wooden blades might break off. I stayed up late that night and woke up when a soldier knocked on the door.
“Mr. Bettencourt? I’m sorry to bother you.” It took me a few seconds to recognize the young Australian lieutenant who had taken me down to Liquica.
“What’s the problem?”
“We’re cracking down on people selling stolen property. This morning we found this old Indonesian selling a lot of expensive medicine down by the harbor. We told him to hand it over, but he was as mad as a cut snake. He said you gave it to him.”
I leaned against the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The lieutenant swallowed and looked embarrassed. “He’s a bad-tempered old man. He just said ‘Nicky, Mr. Nicky.’ Then he pretended to shoot a camera.”
I pulled on my socks and shoes, then grabbed my camera bag. “All right. I’ll talk to him. Let’s go.”
We got into a Land Rover and drove through the city. More Timorese had come down from the hills in the last few days and they drifted around the city staring at the destruction. None of the burned-out buildings were being rebuilt, but women had started to sweep up the ashes with homemade brooms.
Out at the Interfet camp, the Australians had built a jail using an empty cargo container and a chain-link fence covered with razor wire. Two young militiamen sat beside the open container and drank from water bottles. They looked like schoolboys picked up for throwing rocks. Pak squatted near the fence and guarded a cardboard box filled with antibiotics and chloramphenicol tablets. Globs of red spit were splattered on the dirt in front of him. Pak reached into his leather bag to get some more betel nut, then grinned when he saw me. The guard let him out of the cage and we shook hands.
“Morning, Pak. What’s going on?”
“Hello, Mr. Nicky.” The old man glared at the Australians and gestured to the box of medicine. “Small trouble. They no believe me.”
I crouched down and the lieutenant left us alone. “What don’t they believe?”
“You and Mr. Billy are good friends.”
“Not exactly friends. What does that have to do with the medicine?”
He nodded at the box. “Pak did what Mr. Billy said. This is what you pay me.”
I felt as if I’d been carrying my camera all day long, dealing with bad light and missed opportunities. Suddenly the world had rearranged itself and if I took one step, just one more step around a corner, the right image would appear. Look away, I thought. Act like you don’t care. I scratched a mosquito bite on my arm as if it was the most interesting problem in my life.
“Yeah. I was wondering about what happened. Did someone help you?”
“No! It was just me!” Pak made a fist and tapped his bony rib cage. “When the Seria goes out of the harbor, Mr. Billy comes down and tells me. ‘Break the engine.’”
“Right, and then there was an explosion.”
“No explosion. That was me. I take a beer bottle, fill it with petrol, and attach a rag. I set it on fire and bang!” He slapped his leg with the palm of his hand. “It looked very bad.”
I smiled as if I was pleased. “And you told us that the fuel line had burst.”
“Yes. That was easy to do. Mr. Billy was happy. Captain Vanderhouten get the money. I get the medicine.”
I wanted to make Pak repeat his statement in front of witnesses, but I knew that the old man would sense trouble and deny everything. Even if a police force and a judicial system had existed in Dili, no one would have arrested Pak and prosecuted him for a crime. Pak hadn’t killed anyone. He was the first mate on a ship. Everyone knew that the militia had murdered Daniel McFarland.
I pulled out my camera and took the old man’s picture. He gave me a black-toothed smile as if we were fellow conspirators, then I stood up and walked over to the lieutenant.
“So you know him?”
“Of course. Thank you for your help, Lieutenant.” I turned away from him and headed back to the road.
“But what about the medicine? Do we confiscate what’s in the box?”
“No,” I said. “He earned it.”
20 LIGHT
I boarded the plane
to England filled with rage and elaborate plans of revenge. I would hold a news conference, demand that Richard be prosecuted. Perhaps I’d write a defamatory article and force him to sue me. Most of my fantasies involved courtrooms and barristers and people pointing fingers at each other. Of course, it was all nonsense. By the time the plane passed over Pakistan and Central Asia, I realized that I had no options at all.
I couldn’t hurt Richard or demand his arrest; he was too wealthy and influential, protected by lawyers and his political friends. East Timor was a long way from Britain and it would be difficult to prove Richard’s involvement in what had happened. Even if I could have figured out some kind of legal strategy, I didn’t have the confidence to push it forward. Daniel would have known what to do, but now I was on my own.
Back in London, a cold autumn rain was falling and wet leaves filled the gutters. Alex, the night clerk at the Ruskin Hotel, said a Mr. Seaton had left several messages asking me to contact him as soon as I arrived. He wanted to know if the caller was the famous “I Bought My Home with Richard” Seaton, and when I nodded he hummed the tune that went with the TV commercial.
I slept for about ten hours, then woke up and ordered some toast and a pot of tea. When the breakfast-room waitress showed up with the food, I searched through my pockets for a tip, then rummaged through my camera bag. Tucked in a side pocket was a single roll of black-and-white 35mm film. I had attached some medical tape to it and written the words Canal House. This was ancient history, shots I had taken of Daniel and Julia the first time they invited me there.
I didn’t want a stranger touching the negatives so I went out that afternoon and bought developing chemicals, photographic paper, and three plastic trays. I sealed off the cracks around the bathroom door with duct tape, processed the film in the darkness, and hung the negatives from the shower rod. After the film dried, I covered the light over the sink with a sheet of red cellophane. I taped the negatives to a sheet of photographic paper, then gave the paper a burst of light with a desk lamp held in my hand.
