I told him
again. "I've known Wyndham a dozen years," I said. It
was the same answer I had given minutes before,
although in fact, I had known him only nine. It was a
careless lie, unintended, and only thinking about it
more closely, counting back the years, did I realize
my mistake. I wasn't sure how I had come to make it.
Violence, death: these things perhaps. They had forged
and shaped our relationship from the very outset.
Wyndham had been working at the State Hospital in
Sarajevo when I had met him, employed by the
International Committee of the Red Cross. I had been
in the city covering the civil war in Yugoslavia. Most
of our subsequent meetings had been like this, in the
arena of conflict, our professional fields of
operation. The dull, pedestrian repetitions of
friendship, the comfortable rituals which make one
meeting blur into another, over weeks, months,
years... these didn't exist for us.
I tried to
recall how he had seemed to me when I had first met
him, those years ago. It was tough to remember. All
the time between and a welter of events had blunted my
first impressions. Naive? Idealistic? Perhaps these
qualities, and a rawness too, untamed energy. But
these were easy qualities to remember, because in a
way, he had never lost them. They had simply hardened,
over the years. He had made wrong choices, believed in
wrong things, espoused wrong causes right up to the
end. His naivety and idealism had become callused by
harsh experience but they had remained within him,
expressed in those wrong choices and beliefs.
"I'm a
dangerous man to know," he had told me once. It might
even have been the first thing he had said to me, a
warning I hadn't heeded. But how little he had
changed, fundamentally: because it could very easily
have been the last thing, too. He had always been
dangerous.
"In what
way?" I had asked.
He had been
ministering to a man with a leg wound, an ugly gash
which Wyndham was having to stitch up without the use
of anaesthetic. The man was Serbian but I had an
inkling he spoke some English: Wyndham's words seemed
to alarm him.
"How should
I know?" he said levelly. "I'm just telling you so you
don't hear it from someone else first. They seem to
have a pretty dim view of me here. They admire my
dedication though."
This was
true: both parts. His dedication couldn't be faulted.
Just his desire to take risks. In only a few weeks at
the hospital, he had gained a bad reputation. It was a
wonder a sniper's bullet had never found him, his
colleagues said, or the shrapnel from an exploding
mortar shell. It was only a matter of time before he
got someone killed, probably himself. At the time I
had thought of this rash attitude as bravery - when I
had stopped thinking of it as stupidity - but perhaps
it was simply a corollary of knowing his actions were
both selfless and for the greater good. Soldiers in
action have this same blind courage, the same
unquestioning belief in the rightness of what they do,
creating a narrowness of outlook that can justify
almost any action, no matter how extreme. Moral
conviction can be a horrible thing in the hands of the
zealous, a philosopher's stone able to turn base
murder into glory.
And these
are other qualities to add to the list: Wyndham's
zealousness, his moral conviction. In all his years in
aid work, they were qualities he never lost. Had I
been older, when I had met him, more worldly wise, I
might have heeded those warnings about Wyndham - his
own warnings – and stayed away from him, and never
known him. It was only by chance that he had lived so
long, nine more years. It was only by chance that he
had got others killed, during those years, and not
himself, or me.
"You must
sign this," Inspector Prabash told me. It was a
preliminary report. "Also, you must give me address in
Delhi where you are staying. I have contacted embassy
in Delhi. Representative will be sent here. This
person will want to speak with you." He paused, looked
long at me as if awaiting a response. I was about to
thank him for his patience and understanding when he
spoke again. "You may go now," he said, "rest." He
gave his moustache a twirl, an act of indifference -
dismissal. "You are hungry? There is hotel opposite
police station, also restaurant. I have booked room
for you here. Desk sergeant will show you where to go.
I will speak with you later when I have more
information."
He didn't
get up as I left. Nor did the desk sergeant - he waved
vaguely at the muddy street outside.
I blinked
against the light as I left the station. It was
mid-morning and not raining, not sunny either, hot. It
had rained through the night and stopped at first
light. The traffic was heavy on the road. I had been
in Mahaban only a few hours, had seen nothing of it,
and already I hated the place with a passion. It could
have been almost any other town anywhere in the North,
unpleasant and overpopulated, a sun-raddled place of
noise and stink to which the rains had brought a
tolerable if temporary calm.
But nothing
was simple in India: it was a furious calm. I spent
minutes waiting for a gap to open in the traffic so I
could cross to the hotel on the other side of the
road. No gap opened in the traffic.
I hired an
autorickshaw for the ten yard journey.
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