Mark Lee - The Canal House

We made love as the final light disappeared, then lay together in the dark room. It was colder now and I pulled the scratchy blanket over my body. Daniel stood up, walked over to the window, and pushed back the curtains. I could see part of the moon and thousands of stars. Someone was firing an automatic rifle in the distance—two short bursts, then silence, then a longer burst that exhausted the clip.

“Victor Zikowski was always teasing me about being an American,” Daniel said. “He said we were a cheerful culture, obsessed with happy endings. That’s why America stayed so long in Vietnam. We didn’t want to win the war. We just wanted to feel good about leaving.”

“Happy endings aren’t always possible,” I said.

“No. Time keeps pushing us forward. You might be happy at one particular moment, but the world keeps changing.” He came back to the mattress. “No matter how much we wanted, we couldn’t stay in Italy.”

Daniel kissed the palm of my hand and lay down beside me. He went to sleep a few minutes later. I drank some water from one of our bottles, then watched a moth as it fluttered in through the open window. Oh God, I thought. Protect us, please. Daniel’s legs twitched and his hands reached out as if he was fighting demons in some dark place.

THE NEXT MORNING Captain Jenkins came to our room with one of his Gurkha soldiers. Sergeant Santbir Gurung had a broad, smooth face and carried his kukri knife in a custom-made sheath. Gurung looked tough and disciplined, but there was an alert intelligence in his eyes. He stared at Daniel and me as if judging us, searching for our weaknesses.

“I spoke to my senior officers about your situation,” Jenkins said. “We all agree that the UN could be a bit more aggressive in a situation like this, but we’re supposed to obey General Bates.”

“And you can’t just drive to the village on your own?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. We can confiscate weapons, return fire, things like that, but military escorts need to be cleared through Interfet.”

“So you can’t help us.”

“We can’t officially escort you to Liquica. Nevertheless, I’ve been ordered to take a platoon down the coast road, on a reconnaissance mission. We’re supposed to evaluate the situation and see if anti-independence forces are in the area.”

“And what if we followed you?” I asked.

Jenkins nodded slightly, like a teacher who had been waiting for the right answer. “Your actions would not be authorized by Interfet and we couldn’t provide you with a vehicle. However, no one would stop you from coming along.”

“When do you plan to go?”

“We’ll drive past the Igreja Motael at fourteen hundred hours,” said Gurung. “Perhaps you’ll be there and perhaps we’ll travel together. As I said, it would just be a coincidence and not an official decision.”

Jenkins nodded to the sergeant and they got ready to go. “Have a very pleasant day, Dr. Cadell.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“There’s no need for that, ma’am. We came here to do our job, not sit around a hotel like a bunch of wankers.”

I closed the door and Daniel began to pull on his shoes. “So Jenkins is going to Liquica and you have an unofficial escort. It’s all very diplomatic.”

“I think it’s quite brilliant, actually.”

“You’ve got just five hours to find a vehicle and fill it with supplies. I’ll help you.”

“Nicky doesn’t think you should get involved in relief work.”

“It’s a news story with good photographs,” Daniel said, looking up at me. “Even Nicky can’t argue with that.”

DANIEL LEFT THE HOTEL to find Sister Xavier while I returned to the wharf. My helpers had already shown up and one of the women had brought along her cousin. Pak and the crew unloaded pallets of food and we divided everything into different piles. I told them how it should be distributed: people who had a red ink mark on their arm could get additional food and water while anyone showing up for the first time received the basic supplies. Cooking fires were burning in the churchyard and a bluish-gray haze drifted through the air. A man was building a shelter with blackened pieces of roof sheeting while a woman braided her daughter’s hair. It was a small moment, but it made me feel hopeful.

I hadn’t seen Richard and Billy all morning. Perhaps they were exhausted from the interviews. As we began to hand out food, Collins and Briggs came down onto the wharf. They seemed happy to sit in the shade and watch the Timorese do the work.

“So where did you go last night?” Briggs asked.

“I stayed with friends.”

“Your special friend,” Collins said.

“That’s right.”

“I’m special, too. You just don’t see my good side.”

I left the wharf and walked down the street to the bishop’s residence. Inside the gates, there were several white buildings with red-tile roofs. The militia had looted all the buildings, smashed every window, and set the main house on fire. The bishop had fled to Australia, but hundreds of Timorese had come down from the hills and were living in the compound. There was a safe feeling about the area; it was home, a refuge. Everyone believed that the bishop would eventually return to his people.

I kept saying, “Ando à procura de Sister Xavier,” and finally a boy led me to a patch of dead grass behind the house. Nicky and Sister Xavier were both there, watching Daniel work on the engine of a Toyota pickup truck. The Indonesians had tried to steal the church truck, but the bishop’s servants had removed the alternator, the battery, and the carburetor. Now Daniel was trying to put it back together with a screwdriver.

“It’s going to work,” he said.

Nicky shook his head. “Twenty minutes ago, you said it wasn’t possible.”

“God will help us,” Sister Xavier announced.

“I’m sure he will,” Nicky said. “But perhaps you could ask God to fix the carburetor.”

DANIEL MANAGED TO GET the truck started though it wouldn’t go past second gear. That was good enough. I drove us back down to the wharf and bought petrol from some Portuguese soldiers. Food distribution was going on in a slow but organized manner while Collins and Briggs drank beer. I told Daniel and Nicky to load the truck with water bottles and emergency food rations, then climbed back onto the ship. In my cabin, I quickly gathered up medical supplies. The villagers in Liquica would be dehydrated and there probably would be cases of infant diarrhea. I needed IV tubes and needles and sealed bags of saline solution. I needed syringes. Two boxes. No, three. Tinidazole. Bactrim. Surgical gloves.

I had filled one bag and was starting on the second when Richard came in. He looked as calm as if he were back in England. I felt frantic and disorganized. We had to load the truck and meet Captain Jenkins in just twenty minutes.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Down the coast road to a village called Liquica. The militia is holding four hundred people on a wharf there.”

“They’ll kill you, Julia.”

“I hope not. A platoon of Gurkhas is traveling with us.”

“And you arranged this?”

“Basically.” I broke open another box of saline packets.

“You should stay here and do your job.”

“Everything is going quite well here and there are four hundred other people who need some immediate assistance.” I pointed to the felt pens on my desk “Yesterday, we put a red mark on people’s arms. Today, it’s blue. I recommend green for tomorrow.”

“Are you angry because you weren’t interviewed?”

“You know I don’t give a damn about that.”

“I’m helping our organization. You know how it works.”