“How was the reading?” Jeff asked.
“I loved it,” Jenny said. “Have you read his book?”
“The one about the Balkans? What’s it called?”
“War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning,” Tricia said, giving the title just a bit of stank.
“It’s about why war exists,” Jenny said. “People feel like their lives are directionless or untethered, but in war, life has purpose.”
“That title is hawkish,” Jeff said. “From what I hear, Hedges isn’t exactly a pacifist.”
“He has a measured position,” Jenny said. “I respect that. He urges responsibility and humility in war. But yeah, he’s not a pacifist. I bet that bothers you, doesn’t it, Tricia?”
It did bother Tricia that Hedges wasn’t a pacifist. He ignored the fact that people found meaning in all kinds of peaceful ways, some by directly opposing war, which was, at its core, the violent imposition of one people’s meaning on another. She wanted to get into it with Jenny because she knew she could win. Really, Jenny? she imagined herself saying. Is rape a force that gives rape victims meaning? But she didn’t want to be shouting into Jenny’s face when Luc arrived. The server came by, saving Tricia from having to answer Jenny’s question. Jeff ordered a Stella, Jenny Yi a glass of white wine (of course), and Tricia ordered a Scotch, neat. Jenny raised an eyebrow.
“So this Luc guy,” Jenny said, “he’s French or something?”
“He’s Belgian,” Tricia said. “He was working the crowd at the Chris Hedges reception, and a lot of people seemed to know who he was. We had a great conversation about charities and the problems of bureaucratic overhead. He’s pretty well-connected in the human rights world.”
The drinks came, and the three of them took tentative sips. No one said anything for a moment. Tricia stared at a knot in the wood paneling that reflected the dim yellow lamplight of the bar, and she thought about the wood-paneled bars across the country where privileged people like her were paying ten dollars for a glass of whiskey, trying to solve the world’s problems, thinking about a boy.
Jenny began to say, “I bet he’s—”
Tricia interrupted her. “So, I got a new housemate.”
“Oh yeah?” Jeff said.
“Strange guy. He’s super nerdy. Even has a Star Wars tattoo.”
Jenny laughed. “Is he cute?”
“I guess . . . maybe. He’s lanky. And he acts kind of dumb.”
“A dumb nerd?” Jeff said.
“I don’t think he’s actually dumb. He just likes to act that way. He’s one of those guys who probably grew up thinking he was a genius, and when he figured out he wasn’t, he decided intelligence was only cool if you were cynical about it.”
Shifting the conversation to Hal had calmed Tricia’s nerves, but they tensed again the very next second, when Luc Dubois walked through the door. He waved from across the room. He wore a tweed blazer and an English driving cap that matched his slacks. Tricia’s smile was enormous until she saw, a few steps behind him, a woman.
“Hallo, Tricia,” Luc said. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing a friend? Susan. From Iraq Body Count.”
“No, of course not! Tricia Burnham, very pleased to meet you. And these are my classmates from the Kennedy School, Jeffrey and Jennifer.”
“Hello!” Susan spoke with an English accent. A Londoner, it turned out. She looked to be in her late twenties, and well put together, although Tricia noticed (with a bit of unintentional glee) that at least this Brit’s teeth played into the stereotype. Susan sat on the other side of Luc, who had to push himself right up against Tricia to make enough room.
A wave of anxiety rippled through her. She hadn’t felt nervous around a guy since high school. It wasn’t just that Luc was handsome, that he was intelligent—she peered inward, not trying to will away the nervousness so much as understand its origin—it wasn’t just that he was respected and connected. It was that Luc Dubois represented clarity of vision.
“It’s a bit morbid to say, right? ‘Hallo, I’m from Iraq Body Count’?” Luc said.
Susan laughed. “We usually just say IBC at the office.”
Jenny seemed impressed.
Luc had taken off his cap to reveal jet-black hair that was clipped short and definitely receding, although in a cute way that complemented his face. He spoke perfect English with a nice not-quite-French accent. He’d been to Baghdad once, he told them (an absolutely humbling experience), and he was going back in late January with a colleague from Democracy Now! to work as an unembedded journalist.
“It’s a real problem,” Luc said. “How can journalists be objective when they rely on soldiers to take them around, protect them. We’ve spoken with editors at dozens of publications, from Truthout to the IPS. Even The Guardian. They all say the same thing: they need more sources on the ground, sources not sheltered behind the fence, constantly escorted. At best, the reporters from the major networks and newspapers are seeing only one side of things. At worst, they are willing vehicles for military propaganda.”
“It’s just you and your colleague?” Tricia asked.
“William, yes. He’ll be the primary writer,” Luc said. “But we’re hoping to assemble a survey team. To help document the toll the war is taking on Iraqi civilians. We may bring one or two more people. But it all depends on funding. We’ve got a grant application in to The Investigative Fund.”
“Well, I’d love to go!” Tricia blurted out. Eyebrows arched all around.
“Tricia, what about spring semester?” Jenny said.
“I’ve been looking for an independent study, and this is perfect. I’m planning on doing human rights NGO administration after I graduate, and this would be great experience.”
“I welcome your enthusiasm,” Luc said. “But it’s in Baghdad, you know, and we won’t just be in the Green Zone. We’ll be going out into the city. Alone. However glamorous ‘unembedded journalist’ may sound, it basically means we’re doing this DIY, without monetary or legal support from a news organization.”
“I understand. But this is important work, and I bet I’ve got just as much war zone experience as anyone else who’d be interested, unless you have a bunch of ex-commandos knocking on your door.”
Luc smiled. “That’s true, my inbox is not full of commandos’ résumés.”
Tricia could feel sweat prickle on her forehead as everyone at the table watched her. “Well, I probably can’t, anyway,” she said.
Luc stared at her, appraising her face—his gaze wasn’t sexual, but it wasn’t chaste, either. “Why not,” he said. “Send me your résumé. If you’re serious. Since it’s not an official position, there aren’t any official requirements.”
Tricia brought her glass up to cover the smile spreading across her face. She inhaled, and the fumes from the Scotch burned up her sinuses. The conversation turned to European cinema, and Tricia tuned out as her mind leapt to the Middle East, she and Luc wearing keffiyehs and hurtling through dimly lit Baghdad streets. Of course, that was ridiculous. Baghdad was dangerous. It was only a year ago that Michael Kelly, the editor of the friggin’ Atlantic Monthly, had been killed outside of Baghdad. And he’d been with US troops. She and Luc would be on their own. With Iraqi civilians, their lives constantly endangered by . . . by what, exactly? IEDs, insurgents. Those were words. She had no idea what was happening in Baghdad. And that was the point, wasn’t it? People didn’t know what was going on, not even the educated. The Unitarian church near Harvard Square broadcast a running tally of dead troops and civilians in Iraq, but what did that accomplish? Images, stories, that’s what motivated people. And she could help bring them those stories, she really could.
* * *
Tricia’s phone buzzed. She set down her coffee and flipped it open. Luc returning her text from two days ago. Finally.
yes it was a fun night. and I am still in town.
whats up?
She replied immediately: I’m going to the memorial at harvard in an hour. if you’re interested.
She sat in silence in front of the muted TV, sipping her coffee, as ABC’s 9/11 coverage alternated between footage of the attack and the memorial service in progress at Ground Zero. She checked her phone. No response. She closed the phone, then flipped it open a second later.
would be great to see you.
And again.
susan too.
God, three texts in a row. Put the phone down.
Tricia zoned out to the silent image of the burning towers. She had been in Manhattan when it happened, but her experience of the actual attack was this same footage. She was in her junior year at Barnard and had even gone to her 9:10 class that morning—it wasn’t until the second plane hit that terrorism occurred to anyone. She’d gone up with a crowd of bewildered students to the top floor of Sulzberger Tower, at 116th Street. All they could see was a distant pillar of smoke against an otherwise perfectly blue sky.
Tricia’s friend Tamara was freaking out because she couldn’t reach her father, who worked near the World Trade Center. Tricia tried to calm her down, but it was no use. Tamara took off running toward downtown. Tricia and a dozen others turned their confusion and their anger to helping in whatever way they could. They went down to St. Luke’s to donate blood, but the hospital was already filled to capacity, the line of donors stretching out the door. They tried to take the subway to a different hospital, but the trains weren’t running, so they walked three and a half miles to Harlem. They were greeted along the way with nods and hellos, as if the massive city had become a rural village. But even the Harlem Hospital was full. Up at this end of the island, they were powerless to help. On their walk back to the dorms, a guy in an Access-A-Ride handicapped van asked if they needed a lift. When he let them out at 116th, he said, “How much would a taxi be? Twenty dollars? You can just give me twenty.” And Tricia had hated him for taking advantage, for being venal while lower Manhattan was burning. That was the first time she’d ever felt like punching someone in the face.
In her macro-econ class the next day, some people sat in gravid silence, while others left halfway through, quietly sobbing. Tricia simply couldn’t focus. She made her way downtown after class but could get only as far as Fourteenth Street. She stood behind the police barricade and watched the crowd of manic citizens blocked off from access to their homes. Buzz. Flip.
susans left for london already. I may be able to go. have a few mtgs later. not going to be one of those god bless america things is it?
Hope not, Tricia typed, but she hesitated over the Send button. Didn’t want to seem too eager. She set the phone down and looked back to the TV.
In the days after 9/11, she’d grown annoyed at the flurry of American flags and crisis patriotism in New York and across America. Even her friends were raving about Ani DiFranco’s WTC poem, which Tricia could only interpret as angry, unthinking, and, well, stupid. Not that the “blame America” response didn’t resonate with her. She was all too aware that she lived in a nation that clothed itself with the work of sweatshops, that drove SUVs powered by gas pipelines secured by propping up dictatorships. But it was ridiculous to say that bin Laden was justified by American imperialism. As if he were some modern-day Che Guevara. It wasn’t that the US should have expected the attack. It wasn’t that the flag wavers were sheep and she was justified in sneering at them. It was that she felt deeply, deeply complicit in it all—the comforts and satisfactions of her life had been built on America’s shining successes as much as on its failures, failures ignored by the average person because they were uncomfortable to think about.
She hit Send.
Then there were the anthrax scares in October. Tamara forwarded her an e-mail just before the Halloween parade, saying there would be another terrorist attack—and this information was supposed to be trustworthy because it came from Israeli intelligence, and the Jewish community knew about these things. Tamara had been her best friend through their first two years at Barnard, but she’d changed that Tuesday, and their social interactions had become awkward. Her father hadn’t been killed, but not being able to contact him that morning, when the cellular networks and landlines had been overwhelmed with traffic, knowing he was mere blocks from Ground Zero—Tamara had never escaped that fear. As a result, she hadn’t ridden the subway since. It was beyond reason. And frankly, a little narcissistic, though Tricia could never have said that to Tamara. Tricia was grateful for how lucky she’d been, that she’d known only futility, unable to help a soul that day, that she hadn’t been infected by that paralyzing fear. That she’d emerged determined to do some real good in the world, to fight the cause, not the symptom. But it still saddened her that she and Tamara had grown distant.
Buzz. Flip.
just checked my schedule. mtg on other side of town at 11. can’t make it. Sorry.
No prob. Maybe next time.
Next time? Next 9/11 memorial. An entire year from now. Tricia sighed. She was about to close her phone, but instead she navigated to Tamara’s name.
Never forget.
Tamara replied almost immediately. Never forget.
Tricia typed out, How are you?, then stared at her blinking cursor and deleted the message.
• • •
Corderoy stood in his bedroom, his ear to the door. He’d been avoiding Tricia since the art show last week. In fact, he’d been avoiding everyone. Everyone except characters in novels. He’d started reading Ulysses and found that he much preferred immersing himself in the “mind” of Leopold Bloom to actually interacting with other humans. For Bloom was, by virtue of being fictional, fixed in time, no matter how dynamic and lifelike he seemed. This made him easier to grapple with than real people. And Corderoy grappled with Bloom to such a degree that there was no room in his mind for Maria Sardi or even for Mani. It was a kind of isolation that left him stimulated and focused on his schoolwork. And he was beginning to like it. Satisfied that the living room was quiet, he opened his door.
There was Tricia sitting in front of the muted TV. She turned to him and for a split second her face slackened as if disappointed he wasn’t someone else. “There’s a memorial service at Harvard soon. You want to go?”
Go join a crowd of people. Fuck. No. He didn’t even want to be talking to Tricia. “Memorial for what?” he said.
“Duh.” She unmuted the TV. They were replaying footage of the Twin Towers billowing smoke, only this time with patriotic music in the background.
“I don’t go in for that praying stuff.”
“If you don’t want to go, don’t go,” Tricia said. “But don’t be disrespectful.”
Corderoy went into the bathroom and drained his bladder. When he came out, he threw on a jacket and slipped into his shoes. He felt socially bound to say something, so he said, “I’m going to the store.” Tricia glanced at him and shrugged, a response he was grateful for. He sauntered down the steps and outside, still wearing his flannel pajama pants.
After meandering through the aisles of the 7-Eleven, Corderoy bought a twelve-pack of Diet Coke and a can of Pringles. When he got back to his stoop, he realized he had forgotten his key. He rang the bell, but Tricia had apparently left. He stared at the door as if his frustration with his own stupidity could will it open. Then he collapsed on the stoop and cracked open a Diet Coke. As the sun warmed his face, he began to feel that the stoop was his stoop, his own small island, that the pedestrians passing by were distant ships on the horizon that had no intention of challenging his sovereignty.
A man in overalls walked up to the trash cans outside Corderoy’s apartment and began to move them about, peering behind them.
Corderoy caught his eye, then looked away. Don’t walk over here. Just don’t.
“You live here?” the man asked with a noticeable Boston accent—live heah.
&n
bsp; “Yep,” Corderoy said.
“Seen any rats?”
“Nope.”
“Good,” the guy said. He maneuvered a trash can back into place. “I trouble you for a Diet Coke?”
His hand extended casually toward the box of soda. The hand was calloused and dirty, though the nails were well manicured. A pattern that, on closer inspection, recurred in many aspects of his appearance. His greasy brown hair, held back by a stained bandanna, only seemed to emphasize his high and noble forehead. His eyelids drooped down over his eyes in what would have indicated a stoner’s disposition were it not for the eyes themselves, which were bluish-green and peered out with a brightness and curiosity emphasized by the polished wire frames of his glasses.
Corderoy handed him one in defeat. The guy sat down on the stoop next to him and, after a long gulp, said, “You remember where you was on 9/11?”
Corderoy focused intently on a manhole cover, wishing the guy would leave, but he just kept talking.
“I was at the dentist, had my mouth wide open with one of them rubber dams. And the dentist and all his assistants flicked on a TV somewhere and left me in the chair for five minutes. I couldn’t see nothing but that overhead light, listening to that smooth jazz on the sound system and all them people behind me gasping and saying my God this, my God that. Never forget that dentist appointment.”
“I guess that’s our Kennedy moment, huh. Imagine how many people were taking a shit when it happened, and they’ll remember that shit for the rest of their lives.”
The man scrunched his mouth and rocked his head back and forth. “Not necessarily,” he said. “They call ’em flashbulb memories. People tend ta remember where they was that day that best fits their personal narrative of the event. Say you was taking a shit. Would you remember that or making an omelet that morning? Depends on your personal involvement. And on what makes a betta story. Right?”
War of the Encyclopaedists Page 10
