David Mitchell - The Bone Clocks

The question generated a buzz; the U.S. doesn’t, and probably couldn’t, keep a record of Iraqis killed in crossfire, so even to ask the question is an act of criticism. “The Coalition Provisional Authority,” Klimt lowered his head bullishly at Dole, “is not an office of statistics. We have a counterinsurgency to prosecute. But I say this: Whatever innocent blood has been spilled in Fallujah is on the insurgents’ hands. Not ours. When a mistake is made, compensation is paid. Thank you.”

I did a piece about compensation for Spyglass: Blood money payments had fallen from $2,500 to $500 per life — less than a visit to an ATM for many Westerners — and the untranslated English legalese of the forms was as comprehensible as Martian to most Iraqis.

“General Klimt,” said a German reporter, “do you have sufficient troops to maintain the occupation or will you ask Defense Secretary Rumsfeld to supply more battalions for these widespread revolts we are seeing all over Iraq?”

The general swatted away a fly. “First, I dislike this ‘occupation’ word; we’re engaged in a ‘reconstruction.’ And these ‘widespread revolts’—have you actually seen them with your own eyes? Have you been to these places yourself?”

“The highways are too dangerous, General,” answered the German. “When did you last tour the provinces by car?”

“If I was a journalist,” Klimt smiled on one side of his face, “I’d be careful about confusing hearsay with reality. Security is returning to Iraq. One last question, before—”

“I wanted to ask, General,” veteran Washington Post man Don Gross got in first, “whether the CPA now concedes that Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction were imaginary?”

“Ah, this old chestnut.” Klimt drummed on the side of the lectern. “Listen, Saddam Hussein butchered tens of thousands of men, women, and children. If we hadn’t toppled this Arab Hitler, he would’ve slaughtered tens of thousands more. To my mind, it’s the pacifists who would have done nothing about this architect of genocide who have the case to answer. What stage had his program of building weapons of mass destruction reached? We may never know. But for the ordinary peace-loving Iraqis who want a better future for their families, it’s an irrelevance. Okay, we’ll wrap it up here …” More questions were called out, but Brigadier General Mike Klimt exited in a snowstorm of flashlights.

“And the moral of the tale is ,” I smelt hash browns and whisky on Big Mac’s breath, “if you’re after news, avoid the Green Zone.”

I switched off my recorder and shut my notebook. “It’ll do.”

Big Mac sniffed. “For an ‘Official Bullcrap Versus the Facts on the Ground’ piece? You still planning a little drive out west?”

“Nasser’s got the hamper packed, ginger beer, the lot.”

“Likely there’ll be fireworks to go with your picnic.”

“Nasser knows a few back roads. And what else can I do? Recycle these pasteurized tidbits from the Good Soldier Klimt and hope they get mistaken for journalism? Try to get Spyglass back on the approved list so I can trundle around in a Humvee for six hours and wire Olive another identical marine’s-eye-view piece? ‘ “Incoming!” yelled a gunner as the RPG ricocheted off the armor cladding and all hell broke loose.’ ”

“Hey, that’s my line. And, yes, I am joining our gallant warriors this afternoon. If you’re six foot four, a hundred and eighty pounds, and blue-eyed as Our Lord Jesus Christ, a Humvee’s the only way into Fallujah.”

“First one back to the hotel buys the beers.”

Big Mac clamped a shovel-sized hand on my shoulder. “Watch yourself, Brubeck. Tougher men than you get burned out there.”

“Tasteless pun referring to Blackwater contractors intended?”

Big Mac looked away, chewing gum. “Kinda.”

“BEFORE SHARON AND Peter tie the knot, I’d like us all to consider for a moment what they’re getting themselves into …” The Reverend Audrey Withers has a puckish smile. “What is marriage, exactly, and how could we explain it to an alien anthropologist? It’s more than just a living arrangement. Is it an endeavor, a pledge, a symbol, or an affirmation? Is it a span of shared years and shared experiences? A vessel for intimacy? Or does the old joke nail it best? ‘If love is an enchanted dream, then marriage is an alarm clock.’ ” Mostly male laughter in the congregation is shushed. “Maybe marriage is difficult to define because of its array of shapes and sizes. Marriage differs between cultures, tribes, centuries, decades even, generations, and — our alien researcher might add — planets. Marriages can be dynastic, common-law, secret, shotgun, arranged, or, as is the case with Sharon and Peter”—she beams at the bride in her dress and the groom in his morning suit—“brought into being by love and respect. Any given marriage can — and will — go through rocky patches and calmer periods. Even within a single day, a marriage can be stormy in the morning, yet by evening turn calm and blue …”

Aoife, in her pink bridesmaid’s finery, is sitting next to Holly by the font. She’s holding the velvet tray with the bride’s and groom’s wedding rings on. Look at them both. About two months after our Northumbrian sojourn, I called Holly from a phone kiosk in Charles de Gaulle airport, with actual francs. I was on my way back from the Congo, where I’d done a lengthy piece on the Lord’s Resistance Army’s child soldiers and sex slaves. Holly picked up the phone, I said, “Hi, it’s me,” and Holly said, “Why, hello, Daddy.”

I said, “It’s not your dad, it’s me, Ed.”

Holly said: “I know, you idiot. I’m pregnant.”

I thought, I’m not ready for this , and said, “That’s fantastic.”

“On marriage,” continues the Reverend Audrey Withers, “Jesus made only one direct remark: ‘What God has joined, let no man strike asunder.’ Theologians have debated what this means down the ages, but it profits us to consider Jesus’s actions as well as his words. Many of us know the story of the wedding at Cana, as it’s trotted out at most Christian wedding sermons you’ll ever hear, this one included. The banquet at Cana was down to its last drop of wine, so Mary asked Jesus to save the day and not even the Son of God could refuse a determined mother, so he told the servants to fill the wine jars with water. When the servants poured the jars, out came wine — and not your mediocre plonk, either. This was vintage. The master of the banquet told the bridegroom, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first, and then the cheaper stuff after the guests are legless, but you have saved the best until last.” How human of the Son of God — to make his debut as a miracle worker, not as raiser of the dead, a healer of leprosy, or a walker on the water, but as a good son and loyal friend.” The Reverend Audrey gazes over our heads, as if watching a home video of Cana. “I believe that if God cared what size and shape and form human marriage should take, He would have given us clear instructions, via the Gospels. I believe, therefore, that God is willing to trust us with the small print.”

Brendan’s next to me. His phone, set to silent, buzzes. His hand goes to his jacket, but a glare from Kath in front aborts the mission.

“Sharon and Peter,” the vicar carries on, “have written their own wedding vows. I am a big fan of self-penned vows. To get the job done, they had to sit down, talk, and listen, both to what was said aloud and to what wasn’t , which is where the real truth so often hides. They had to compromise — a holy word, that, as well as a practical art. Now, a vicar isn’t a fortune-teller,” I see Aoife prick up her ears, “so I can’t tell Sharon and Peter what awaits them in the years ahead, but marriage can, should, and must evolve. Don’t be alarmed, and don’t resent it. Be patient and kind, unflaggingly. In the long run, it’s the unasked-for hot-water bottles on winter nights that matter more than the extravagant gestures. Express gratitude, especially for work that tends to get taken for granted. Identify problems as they arise, remembering that anger is flammable. When you’ve behaved like a donkey, Peter,” the groom smiles at his toes, “remember that a sincere apology never diminishes the apologizer. Wrong turns teach us the right way.”