Authors: Alan Cumyn
Tags: #General, #Literary, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Psychological
Burridge Unbound (7 page)
The photograph of Tinto shows up narrow and blurred on screen, a wiry man with a downturned mouth, his eyes hidden behind dark shades.
23 August 1998
Hulinga Kaliotu
For the third straight day fires raged through the shantytown of Welanto. Volunteer firemen were again turned away by gangs armed with bottles, sticks, and
toragu
blades. In all
76
people have been killed and some 600 injured in Welanto in the crisis since the assassination of President General Linga Minitzh.
According to eyewitness reports, packs of police again entered homes and raped mothers and daughters. Several bodies could be seen lying in the backstreets. Rain last night dampened many of the fires but did not put them out. Street gangs reset the fires this morning, and so far police have done nothing to stop them.
Local residents have started calling the police “Tinto’s cocks” and confronting them with homemade weapons. One man, who could not be identified, said he had fought a policeman off his wife’s back by hitting him across the shoulders with a bamboo pole.
“He drew his pistol out. I don’t know why he didn’t shoot me.”
So far the announcement of Tinto’s martial law has done nothing to stop the rioting in Welanto. “We need the army,” one local resident said. “We need someone to stop the killing.”
CNN has no coverage – it’s economic chaos in Russia and falling markets worldwide, and a special segment on the coming anniversary of the death of Diana. I flip open my e-mail.
Dear Bill Burridge,
I am writing to you now to thank you. I was in interrogation for three hours when word arrived that I was to be let go. I pressed them – let go because of my innocence? No
answer. But my lawyer Mr. I.K. Singh told me that there was high-level foreign intervention, and for that I thank you.
Three hours with the Punjab police is plenty enough. I know that you know what pleasantries they engage in, so there is no need to reiterate them here. That Sikhs can do this to other Sikhs sorrows my heart immeasurably. But I must remind myself they are not true Sikhs. True Sikhs do not fight on the side of injustice.
I thank you and my family thanks you.
In peace, Jaswant Kashmir Singh
A victory! I let the moment shine, then flip through other disasters: a Catholic priest has disappeared in Guangzhou, probably detained for running an underground church; there’s a new outbreak of riots against ethnic Chinese in central Java; in Kosovo, Albanians are disappearing at the hands of Serb police while Serbs, Roma, and Albanians are being abducted by the Kosovo Liberation Army.
Derrick calls then from somewhere in Algonquin Park. “Did you read
The Islander
today?” he asks.
“Derrick, you’re on holiday.”
“It doesn’t matter. Did you read it?”
“Of course I read it.”
“But just now–”
“Are you in a canoe or something Derrick?”
“I’m on dry land. Don’t worry about me. Just read the news.”
I flip over to the
Islander
site.
23 August 1998
Dorut Kul
Freedom Party leader Suli Nylioko is holding a massive rally this morning on Kalindas Boulevard. Joined by tens of thousands of supporters and ordinary citizens, she is standing between troops loyal to former President Minitzh’s cousin Tinto and those following the command of Armed Forces Chief Mende Kul.
The tense standoff began early this morning when a rumour spread through the capital that Kul had ordered troops to prepare for an attack on the presidential compound, where Tinto has made his headquarters. Freedom Party supporters immediately mobilized over a hundred
tritos
which sped throughout the city, horns blaring, the drivers shouting at citizens to come out on the streets. It is not clear how the party was able to convince so many independent
tritos
drivers to participate so quickly, but the effect has been one of a mass movement. Adults and children poured out of their apartments and greeted the dawn between two armies stalled for now across a barrier of innocent lives.
One startling characteristic of the Kalindas demonstration is its silence. There are no loudspeakers, Suli is broadcasting no speeches, the tanks that are pointed across the civilians are still. A light rain greeted the dawn but then was replaced by brilliant sunshine, and the civilians are now kneeling and sitting in silent prayer. Suli is in the middle dressed in a simple but brilliant blue
saftori
traditional to the Upong tribe of central Santa Irene.
Neither Tinto nor General Kul have issued any statements on the situation, which is ongoing.
Derrick calls back. “Nobody’s covering it,” he says. “CNN, BBC, nobody’s there.”
“The airport’s closed,” I say.
“And the stock market is imploding.”
“How are you getting all this stuff in the bush? You’re supposed to be paddling around.”
“And I am,” he says. “But I bought a few toys. Don’t worry, the budget can handle it.”
I don’t ask Derrick about money and he doesn’t tell me. It’s better that way. Dollars come to him naturally – he waves my name around and money arrives. If he wants a few toys it’s all right with me.
“Derrick,” I say, “you’re brilliant but sick. Turn it all off. The world will still be here when you get back.”
“Yes, yes. I can turn it off whenever I want.”
I try calling a contact at the State Department, but just get his voice mail. So I wait by the screen, watching for an update. Newswatch isn’t covering it,
AP
isn’t there, no word from Reuters. A strangely invisible event. I call the reporter from the
BBC
who phoned me before – not at his desk. Same with the
CBC
reporter who was interested before.
Late afternoon turns into evening. No new report. Joanne has tried to get me out for a walk but I won’t budge. It’s already tomorrow in Santa Irene. The event has happened, whatever it was. The event has happened but I haven’t heard the shouting.
“You didn’t visit your son,” Joanne says, and for a moment I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“He’d be home by now,” I say finally.
“You should call him.”
“Yes,” I say without conviction. I feel like I could call the prime minister of India but not my son. “My brother Graham was constantly getting concussions,” I say. “He rode his bike like
a kamikaze. Eventually he fell off a building. He was all right.”
“The voice of compassion!” Joanne says. “The conscience of the nation!”
I click on the screen.
Los Angeles Times –
nothing.
Christian Science Monitor –
nothing.
The Independent –
nothing.
Joanne is right of course. I need to get out of this chair. I should do some animals. Take a walk. Call my son. Write a letter to my wife.
Dear Maryse. Dear Maryse. Words and words and words together. Down the page. One thought after another. My dear Maryse. I have loved you so much and so badly. My dear. Dear Maryse. Dear wife. Dear. My wife. I have meant to write. I have meant to start. So many times I’ve started this letter. Dear Maryse. Do you know when I started writing this letter? I wrote this letter in the molecules in the air when I was stuck in the lower regions of hell. I had a way out and it was through this letter. My dear Maryse. For so long the sound of your name was my mantra. Ages upon lifetimes. Maryse. My dear Maryse. The sound of your name was sweet nourishment in the very worst moments of my life. Maryse. The very worst? Who could predict? The worst would fall away as I stepped off the plateau and headed for the abyss. And still falling. Maryse. My dear wife. I wish to God I could let you go and know that somewhere, at least, far above in the bright blue sky, someone is flying. My dear. Dear Maryse
.
CP has nothing, although I do get sidetracked by a story about a gigantic Canadian weather balloon that has gone astray and is now threatening commercial airspace over the Atlantic. Canadian fighter jets pumped over a thousand rounds into the balloon but couldn’t bring it down. Perhaps this could add a new chapter to aviation history: intercontinental ballistic balloons. Don’t tell India or Pakistan.
My dear Maryse. Just a few thoughts I meant to share. We have journeyed so far into bitterness and yet are still both standing. I am
sorry for it and yet somewhat in awe, too, of what we can do to one another. In the name of love? Survival? I keep moving my house back from the edge but then more parts of me fall away. Is that sick or what? My leg jerks up and I get up and walk around. I sit down again until it jerks up once more. I talk on the phone and send off letters and wait and wait to hear – about what? About the country that returned the empty skin to you saying it’s okay, it’s still your husband, here he is, just bring him back to life
.
Tell your son I’m sorry. Tell him to wear a helmet. Keep his head up. Some people bounce and some people don’t
.
At ten-fifteen a flurry of new stories is posted:
24 August 1998
Dorut Kul
The stand-off between unarmed supporters of Freedom Party leader Suli Nylioko and armed factions supporting Armed Forces Chief Mende Kul and self-proclaimed President Tinto Delapango continued into the heat of the day today on Kalindas Boulevard in downtown Santa Irene.
Temperatures reached 42°C and several civilians were taken to hospital with heat exhaustion. A row of tanks supporting Kul parted to allow
tritos
to transport civilians to Kolios and Wengata hospitals. It was a tense moment: soldiers at first refused to allow the
tritos
to pass, but relented finally when Suli herself arrived to plead on their behalf.
Tinto publicly called on Kul to stand down his troops and disband his “rebellion.” Kul, on the other hand, announced through Island Radio that Tinto’s declaration of martial law
was unconstitutional and that Third Battalion soldiers were only protecting the country. The Freedom Party supporters and civilians who flocked to Kalindas Boulevard early this morning were technically in breach of the curfew proclaimed by Tinto yesterday. However, no one has been arrested as yet and so far the stalemate has remained peaceful.
Suli, while remaining most of the day in prayer, released a statement late in the afternoon calling on both Tinto and Kul to stand down their troops and allow free and fair elections.
24 August 1998
Islander
staff
Despite the tense stand-off in the middle of Santa Irene today, or perhaps because of it, a curious festival atmosphere enveloped much of the capital. Citizens mingled on the streets in a way they’ve been too afraid to do ever since the Minitzh assassination and the outbreak of violence. In Welanto the last of several fires set by roaming gangs was put out. According to reports, the gangs themselves helped volunteer fire brigades douse the flames.
Ritaga music could be heard on many streets, and some people even returned to work.
“I don’t know,” said Kati Tulungota, a shop clerk in the exclusive Wexfords mall, which has suffered looting in recent days. “My brothers have gone to help Suli and somehow today I feel really happy. It could all end badly but I don’t think so.”
Such spirit was evident was well in the Fort district, where street parties formed spontaneously as people listened
for news on Island Radio and danced and drank between announcements.
“We are so happy that Minitzh is dead,” said 89-year-old Lori, a former labourer who sat in the shade and watched his great-granddaughter dance with other members of his family. “It’s like the end of a long bad dream and Suli is leading us out. If they are still there tonight I will go stand with her.”
Several others also said they would join “Suli’s army” this evening when the heat cools down.
“They can’t shoot everyone,” said Desu, a clerk with the Ministry of Labour and Industrial Relations. “If they did, then there wouldn’t be any country left.”
In a grainy picture Suli kneels in the middle of an ocean of people, wrapped in her blue cloth
saftori
with white trim, one small shoulder bare, her black hair short, hands clasped, eyelids closed. A waif in the midst of great forces. The people around her are also kneeling or sitting but most are looking at her.
24 August 1998
On Kalindas Boulevard this morning time stopped for Santa Irene and it remains stopped as I write. We are caught in a moment of historical import that will be discussed and debated for years afterwards in our country.
If we have a country, that is.
In this fraction of a moment no shells have left the muzzles of any tanks. No soldiers have launched any grenades, no mortars have been fired, no blood has washed
the hot concrete of this boulevard built by Minitzh as the approach to his great palace.
No flies swarm around limbless and headless corpses. No wounded parents feel their life ebb into mud while their children wail. There is no stench of death, although a crowd of a hundred thousand bodies doing what healthy bodies must do in the heat of day is not odourless. It’s alive, as alive as any of us have been in recent years. It moves as one animal, thinks, prays, sings as one body.
The singing especially has been remarkable. It began with Upong harvest songs, then turned to celebration songs from the Telde and Iluny tribes, one song turning into another into another. How did a hundred thousand different people decide which song would follow which song? No one seems to know. This is unscripted, happening bit by bit. We have come together as one and it is the fraction of a moment before any shell has left its casing, any more life has been separated from an earthly body.
It is the fraction of a moment before a country slides into chaos, and the more people who sit and sing and pray the longer the fraction might last.
Suli Nylioko
I
used to love wearing a suit. Stepping out of the shower, fitting a firm, healthy body into a fine set of clothes that tells the world this man has a purpose, a career, a proper place. All those wonderful illusions. Believe them and it’s just as good as if they were true. Now I feel like a stick man in a sack, throttled at the neck. My blue tie with pink splotches. Maryse will remember. Her sister’s wedding. A hundred lifetimes ago. Maryse’s father bringing that young thing, what was her name? Mercedes. With the drug problem. She kept ducking out to the washroom and then drifting back, enlightened.
