The Death of a Journalist
(Page 9 of 11)
September/October 1996
Lynda Schuster, Granta (www.granta.com)
I could not spend the night there. I could not stay in the city where Dial and I were so lately married. I could not sleep in the hotel where, on our wedding night, we had turned off the lamps and opened the curtains and gazed at the hills aglitter with thousands of little lights. I furiously communicated this to Chris in whispers, trying not to cry; I didn't want to break down in front of the ambassador.
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The embassy's consular officer appeared, asking for our passports. Chris walked to the terminal with her and the ambassador. She returned a few minutes later, saying that the ambassador would try to arrange something. In the meantime, we needed to go to the embassy to collect Dial's belongings and sign documents. The consular officer directed her driver to a back entrance, knowing that I didn't want to talk to the press. What, after all, could I say to them? True, they were colleagues; some of them were friends. But now, seen from the other side, they were contemptible. Our common profession made me no better disposed toward them.
The consular officer brought me the worn leather carry-on that Dial had left in his hotel room; alone, I buried my nose in every shirt, every pullover, trying to detect his scent, so precious to me. She returned a while later to say that the ambassador had managed to get the rule about the casket waived; I could take Dial home in a body bag. I signed papers, stuffed Dial's clothes back into his carry-on, and joined Al and Chris in the consular officer's car. When we reached the aircraft, the sun was already casting long shadows across the runway.
A hearse drew up, and two men pulled something out of the back that looked like a sleeping bag; the realization that Dial -- or what remained of him -- was in there caused me to break down, my face in my hands. 'The TV crews are filming you,' Al whispered, gently leading me around to the other side of the plane, out of sight. After a few minutes, when the hearse had gone and I had regained my composure, we walked back around. A producer I knew and her cameraman pursued us across the tarmac. This was beyond my tolerance. 'Jesus Christ, he was your friend too, Viviana,' I exploded. 'Can't you be human for once?' She motioned to the cameraman, who snapped off his equipment.
The pilot helped me onto the plane. The body bag was on the floor in the aisle, and I virtually had to step over it to get to my seat. I was dazed by the sight: To behold your husband stowed on the floor is a shocking thing. The pilot started the engines and taxied to the end of the airstrip. I stared out the window at the fast-fading light, blinking hard to hold back the tears. The plane gathered power, then raced down the runway and rose, leaving behind the hovels, the swaying clotheslines, the children wildly waving good-bye.
Once we were airborne, the stewardess filled enormous tumblers with vodka and a splash of tonic for Chris and Al, which they gulped like soda. I couldn't stop looking at the bag; every curve, every projection, was outlined under the thin material. I was astonished at how little there seemed to be inside. And it took all the restraint I could muster to keep from getting down on the floor, putting my arms around whatever remained of Dial, and holding him one last time.
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