The Death of a Journalist
(Page 7 of 11)
September/October 1996
Lynda Schuster, Granta (www.granta.com)
'Hi, Eloy,' I said.
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'Lynda, has anyone phoned you this evening?'
'No -- I've been out.'
'You need to call the Los Angeles Times.'
'What's happened?'
'Just call them.'
'Eloy, you know how hard it is to make overseas calls from here. What's happened?'
'It's Dial.' Eloy was practically weeping. 'He's had an accident.'
'Is he alive?'
'No, Lynda, he's dead.'
Four words, and the earth shifts 90 degrees beneath your feet. Had Eloy said, 'Yes, Lynda, but he's hurt,' my world would have remained essentially intact, my life continuing on the same trajectory. But he didn't, and everything was changed.
I somehow reached the Los Angeles Times and was connected with the managing editor, who read me the paper's press release -- something about a rocket-propelled grenade being fired from the Nicaraguan side of the border (the Honduran government's initial explanation of what happened), killing Dial and the photographer. He was startlingly laconic. After reciting the statement, he told me that the foreign editor was trying to get to Honduras, then he hung up. I was left in the stillness of a Mexico City night, not knowing what to do.
The telephone rang again. It was the duty officer from the State Department in Washington, informing me of Dial's death. He said that the Honduran government was intending to bury him in Tegucigalpa if the body had not been claimed by three o'clock that afternoon. This was too much. 'But there are no commercial flights to Honduras today!' I screamed at the man. 'I can't get there by three o'clock! Stop them! You must stop them!'
The rest of the night was a delirium of telephoning. I called every foreign correspondent I knew in Mexico to see if anyone had a way down to Honduras. I called the television correspondents based in Miami to try to hitch a ride on one of their small planes, but no one could land in Mexico. One reporter paged through several U.S. directories, reading off the telephone numbers of air charter services in Miami, Dallas, Houston, and Los Angeles; I called them all and finally found one open at that abandoned hour, to hear that the company didn't have permission to land in Mexico. I called the press attaché from the U.S. embassy and insisted that he wake up the ambassador to get me landing rights. I called the Los Angeles Times again to demand -- from a junior copy editor, the only person still on duty -- the use of the corporate jet. I called the U.S. consular officer in Tegucigalpa to beg her not to let Dial be buried there. I called Jordy and Chris, who were very sweet and brave -- no easy thing; their mother had died of cancer two months earlier. I called my parents. I called my sisters. I called and called, unable to stop the mad frenzy of dialing, afraid of being alone in my silent apartment.
The weird gray-green light of a Mexico City dawn began to filter through the windows. On that first morning of Dial's death, I realized I would never again see a sunrise with him; from now on, my life would be a series of small subtractions from what had amounted to a glorious fullness. It was an unbearable epiphany. I went outside to look for a taxi; I needed to talk to Lilia, my secretary, who didn't have a telephone. The cab driver shuddered when he saw my swollen face.
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