The Distance Between Us (21 page)

It’s the pounding that finally wakes her.

She’s in Jerusalem. In her apartment. She must have fallen asleep over Marcus’s journal.

But what is this hammering? It goes on as though war has broken out. And then she realizes it is her own door.

Someone is knocking, urgently.

“Just a second,” she manages. She struggles to sit up on her couch, rubs her eyes. “All right,” she calls more loudly, more clearly. This isn’t Ya’el, who would use her spare key, and even if she’d lost it, would never pound on Caddie’s door. In fact, none of her neighbors would do this. Goronsky. Damn Goronsky. Damn him for coming here so early and being so loud. Damn him, most of all, because she wants him, even now. She tugs on her jeans and yanks open the door.

A form stands in the dim hallway, smaller than Goronsky.

“Hell,” says a male voice, “you look awful. Let’s go to lunch.”

“Rob!” She steps back, dizzy suddenly. “Rob,” she says as she moves away and reaches to straighten her shirt.

“Yeah, your clothes
are
a bit off-center.” He looks past her into the apartment. “What are you, throwing raucous parties, then sleeping on the couch? You’ve kicked yourself out of your own bedroom? That’s extreme, Caddie, whatever nastiness you’ve done.”

She’s too tired, too just-awakened and surprised, for repartee. “No, I—I was working last night late so I—” She waves her hand vaguely. “What are
you
doing here, anyway?” It’s Lebanon, she remembers. That’s why he’s here. He’ll want them to go together. Which makes so much more sense than going with Goronsky.

“I called.” He walks past her into the apartment. “You didn’t get my message?”

He sounds like sandpaper. What has happened to his smooth radio voice?

Then she remembers the coffee table is still on its side in
the living room, and Marcus’s journal is on the floor. “Message?” she asks as she moves to the couch and scoops the journal into her arms, giving up subtlety for expediency. “What message?” He is watching her with a quizzical half-smile. “Oh yeah, there was something, but only a couple words and then it broke off.”

“Hey, maybe
you
should do heavy coffee intake while
I
have lunch.”

She shrugs and hustles down the hall to shove Marcus’s journal under her bed. Then she returns and slumps into the couch. He’s still standing, watching her.

“I was up late,” she says. “Working.”

He glances at his wristwatch. “It’s
eleven
.”

She smiles. “Well, let me at least splash some water on my face.” But she doesn’t move. Now that she’s starting to wake up, she notices he doesn’t look too good. The burlap bag that holds his radio equipment is smeared with something the color of absinthe that seems to have texture. His shirt looks like he wadded it up and stuck it under a rock for a week. His shoulders are pointy, as though he’s lost weight. His face is gray.“You here to work?”

He shakes his head. “Passing through. I’m headed to New York for a break. I’ll be out of here by tonight. So let’s go. Up, up, up. Don’t have all week.” He tries to gesture her to her feet.

She laughs. “Oh yeah. I remember you. You’re a cup of boiled impatience.”

“I’m hungry,” he says. “Couldn’t stand that crap the airlines call food.”

“Give me a sec. You woke me out of a dead sleep, you know.” The blood rushes to her cheeks at her choice of words. She looks at her knees as she rises. “Okay, we’ll go. Okay.”

M
IA
C
AFÉ IS A BLOCK AWAY
. It’s open air with a few Formica tables and some folding chairs. Caddie orders a croissant and coffee, Rob a
shwarma
and a Maccabi. She feels more alert with the first sip of caffeine. He keeps studying his palms and dusting them off on his jeans as though they’re dirty. She wonders when he’s going to mention going back to Lebanon.

“So what are you on to these days?” Rob asks.

He’s pallid and his eyes are unfocused. Well, he’s changing time zones. And he’s probably downed a miniature on the flight in this morning. At least one. Maybe already smoked a joint in a bathroom somewhere, too.

But it’s more than that. He reeks of chaos.

“I’m not supposed to be covering the spot stuff now.” She shrugs.

“So what are you doing?” he repeats.

“Violence. I’m trying to do a feature about the effects of violence.” Her voice sounds tentative, untruthful. But Rob doesn’t seem to notice.

“That fits,” he says in an oddly satisfied tone that leaves her uncomfortable.

She doesn’t want to ask what he means. “And you? Where you been lately?”

“Hell. Otherwise known as Chechnya.”

“Oh yeah, I heard. I keep thinking that war is already over.”

“It was. Now it’s not. Now it makes the head bashing in
this
part of the world look like a playground tussle.” He sounds taunting. He takes a slug of his beer, starts to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, but picks up his napkin and looks away.

“How long you been in?”

He scowls. “Went there right after.”

“That’s tough,” she says.

He doesn’t respond for a minute, his attention seemingly centered on his food. Then he looks up. “Want to hear about it?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. “The incessant barking, that’s the first thing you notice. Wild dogs everywhere—the sign of people dead or fled. It’s all over my tapes. That and the wind shooting through abandoned farmhouses.” He takes a slug of beer. “But I did find villagers, too. Starving, freezing and saving every cent to try to pay off the Russian soldiers so they won’t be bombed. How’s that for
corruptzia?
”

He pushes back his plate, picks up the salt, shakes a little into his right hand and tosses it over his shoulder. He seems unaware of his gesture.

“The Russkies try to make everything sound benign,” he says. “When they question a Chechen, they use what they call ‘children’s mittens.’ Cute name, huh? You know the string that slips through coat sleeves to hold two mittens together so kids won’t lose them? In this case, they attach live wire to their victims’ fingers, both hands, and connect them with another wire slung across the back. Then they flip on the current.” He
takes another slug of beer and smiles. “Does a good job of encouraging the tongue.”

If he’s pushing for some response, she’s determined to disappoint him. Caddie feels certain—though she couldn’t say exactly why—that it’s important to show no emotion. “And you?” she asks. “You got what you wanted there?”

He shrugs. “Great material. No doubt about that.” He studies the palm of his right hand as though he is reading it like a fortune-teller, then stares at her. “You remember how Marcus looked afterward?” he asks. “Vacuous eyes and a neat hole in the back? That’s heaven compared to the way these guys in Chechnya are going.” He drinks again, a big gulp like a long-distance runner. “Think rare meat loaf,” he says.

She puts down her croissant. She takes two drawn-out breaths, trying to think of a response. “Hey,” she says, finally, “you ever think about doing something to balance that out?”

“What out?”

“What happened to Marcus.”

“What do you mean?”

Why is he being so obtuse? “Maybe you know someone from Chechnya,” she says. “Someone who, for some money, would go into Beirut and . . .” She lets her voice trail off.

“What are you talking about, girl?” Rob says. “That’s a place you don’t even want to go.” He leans back in his chair and stares at her. She sits up straight. If she has to endure this inspection, if she has to be the only one who sees the importance of responding to what happened, then okay. After a minute, a drawn-out grin contorts Rob’s face. “Nothing
matches the shock of seeing one of your own go down, does it?” he says. “Guess that’s why we’re doing what we’re doing now, the three of us.”

His way of catching up is starting to make Sven’s remote telephone manners seem charming.

“Look at
me
,” Rob says. “I used to cover the diplomatic scene, remember? Analysis pieces. Now all I want is
bang-bang.
A moth to the flame. Sound familiar?”

“No,” she says. “You—” She hesitates. She and Rob were never close. But, what the hell, she’ll ask anyway. “You using?”

“And you would too, filing from there,” he answers.

She looks out the window. That’s not true. She’s never been much interested in drink or drugs, although Rob doesn’t know her well enough to realize that.

“Why don’t you stop, then?” Caddie asks after a minute.

“And do what? Go to London and become some bored old fat fuck covering cricket matches, like Sven? I’ll pass. Hang around this less-than-Holy Land like you because I can’t bear to leave the scene of the crime? No thank you.”

“That’s not me,” Caddie says. She keeps her voice cool.

“Yeah?”

“This is a perennial good story,” she says. “Great action, great quotes, front-page stuff. That’s why I’m here.”

“It’s Jews and Arabs fighting and plenty of random slaughter,” he says. “You get your bloodletting on a regular basis. There’s the key.”

“Hey, listen,” she says. “Did Marcus ever, by chance, say anything to you about wanting to leave?” The question comes
out bitterly, and she flushes even as she asks it. Damn, she’s revealing her ignorance, and to
Rob
. But she’s after a change of subject.

“No, but I can believe it,” Rob says. “Anybody who’s sane has got to decide it’s enough after a while. And that’s everybody except you and me, right?” His smile is distasteful. “I’ll bet you’re out there every day, taking the risks. Making sure you’ve still got the devil’s luck. Am I right?”

“Oh yeah,” she says with heavy sarcasm. “That’s it.”

“C’mon, admit it, Caddie. To me at least.” He starts talking machine-gun fast. “It’s intoxicating. Russian roulette. Whose name is written on the bullet? Someone you’ve passed on the street, shared a joint with, or maybe a bed? In this game, there’s no thrill like survival.”

He takes another hit of beer. He’s wired, and the beer isn’t mellowing him out.

“You’re no healthier than I am,” he says. “I wanted to see, and I have. Those moments on that Lebanese road are going to brand us for the rest of our fucking lives. Nothing will ever be the way it would have been if Marcus hadn’t bit it. There will always be shadows at the edges of our internal screens. And we’re always going to be trying to punish ourselves.”

“C’mon, Rob.”

“That’s right. Punish—and maybe you especially.”

She makes a scoffing sound. “Me? For what?”

He laughs, low and mirthless. “For starters, for not doing anything about that guy talking on the walkie-talkie at that checkpoint.”

“What guy?” she asks. “
What
walkie-talkie?”

“A bunch of armed militants not known for mental dexterity got pissed at Marcus,” he says, “and used that walkie-talkie to set up the hit. I see it now. I think I even suspected it at the time. But I brushed it off. I mean, I spent weeks arranging that damn interview. I didn’t want
anything
to interfere.” He makes a sound a lot like snorting. “And then I never
did
get to Yaladi. A big zero.”

“I don’t remember any walkie-talkie,” she says. “But even so, Rob, what could we have done?”

He spreads his hands, open-palmed, as if to signal the inanity of the question. “Go another way. Make the driver change his route.”

“The driver, yes.” Caddie feels a rush of interest despite her distrust of Rob. “The driver. I always thought he was somehow connected.”

Robs stares at her a moment, then nods. “Makes sense, you thinking that,” he says. “Another reason for you to feel guilty.”

“Guilty?”

Rob wipes his mouth with a napkin. “After all, you chose him,” he says.

“What?” she says. “
You
chose him.”

Rob laughs.

“You were in place in Beirut before us, you and Sven,” Caddie says. “You—not we—knew these people. You—not we—chose the driver. I was worried about him from the start.”

“You don’t remember that I brought you two guys and you picked that one? You called him the lesser evil.”

What the hell is he talking about? She’s aware of an inner din, a chewing noise like broken gears. “I don’t know why—” she says. “But—”

“Most of all, though, I’d suspect,” Rob interrupts, “you feel guilty for pushing Marcus into Lebanon.”

“What?”

“Because he should have been, of course, in New York.”

She feels the blood rush to her cheeks, her stomach tighten.

“Maybe you’re not aware of it,” Rob says. “You always had a gift for denial. I admire you for that. Wish I did. But watch out, Caddie girl. You’re as done in by the past as the rest of us.”

“That’s a load of crap.”

“You aren’t moving on. And if you keep the pause button pressed long enough, eventually you’ll run out of that luck of yours. You’ll end up buried here, smack between some furious Jew and a mad Shiite.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Get close enough to violence,” he says, “and you’ll get burned in the end. That’s the lesson of Marcus. Burned.” He spits the word out, then takes a breath. “But of course, you know that by now. It’s not really about survival anymore, is it?” He’s talking slowly, as though to make each word count. “It’s about self-destruction. About hating yourself enough to want to do yourself in.”

She’s having trouble finding air. “You’re full of shit,” she manages.

Rob shrugs. “A little too much honesty for your taste, Caddie girl?”

“You’re drunk, worn down, stoned, I don’t know what.”

He takes another gulp of beer. Then he grins. He has the nerve to grin, and somehow that, coupled with him calling her “Caddie girl,” gives her strength.

She stands. Concentrating on keeping her hand from shaking, she pulls too large a bill from her pocket, drops it on the table and turns to go.

“Thanks for the illuminating talk,” he calls after her as she leaves the café. “We’ll call it even, by the way. One lost story for one lunch.”

C
ADDIE TAKES LONG STRIDES
, putting distance fast between herself and Mia Café, trying for deep breaths to mask the echo of Rob’s voice. She hasn’t forgotten, no. Rob is totally screwed up. Caddie is the one who remembers.