Murder Considered As One Of The Fine Arts (5)
“You sound like your analyst.” “If you walk up to an enemy army, tell them they're surrounded, and demand that they surrender, is that heroic?” “It is, if you get away with it.” 53 “Then get away with it. “Makes sense when you explain it.” “Time to go.” “Yes, 5 minutes feels about right.” They stand up to go. The 2 militia Men look up from their game. “OK we finish game?” David shrugs “That's up to you.” Then looks at Amram. “Why dont they bomb the city?” “They think it's their property, they dont want to damage it. There are no military targets because there's no military. The airforce flew out this morning, the armored cavalry left last night. there's nothing left but the foot soildiers and they wont last until tomorrow.” “But the Israelis tried to take Beirut for 3 weeks and couldn't do it.” “If you're not worried about casualties, it's easy.” “I wouldn't want the to be late for his war.” He walks out with Leslie resting her finger tips on his fore arm. The 2 militia Men slam the backgammon set shut and scamper after them. There is the inevitable black Mercedes waiting with the parking lights off and the motor running. It has bullet proof glass and an air conditioner more powerful than the engine. They drive around for a strangely long time while the engine thumps and grunts. The harbor is no longer in sight and he lost his sense of direction which was never strong. The street signs are partially in English and they had passed the Corniche and the 4th RIng Road. The reached the Al Jahre Gate, gate 54 without a wall, a remnant of a medieval walled city on a modern park. The desert is in front of them and Iraqi tanks in brownish grey camoflage are coming stright at them. The air conditioning drowned out the sound of them, but it has the quality of nightmare. The brown eyed guard, the ne who is driving, gracefully changes direction. They past the 3rd Ring then the 2nd. They come to the Kuwaiti Hilton which looks like a Chinese Art Deco televsion set. “That says Kuwait. We were supposed to be in Lebanon.” “That's also true. Not instead of, but also.” “How did we get here?” “How do we get out?” COLONEL’S OFFICE-DAY- The is Bivoucaing in the penthouse. David is ushered in. Leslie is left outside the door and looking annoyed. The is younger than David. There is bazouki music coming out of a ancient hi-fi. The grey eyed guard changes the disk and it begins to play a Bach harpsichord piece. The is llooking out the window at the harbor below. Boats are trying to escape out to the Gulf. The Iraqis are having a turkey shoot, democratically killing everyone. The doesn't turn around as David walked up beside him and shared the view. A wire-guided missle off an Iraqi frigate, moving so slowly that that they could see it coming, took out someone's 3-tiered ChrisCraft. The winced “Those missles cost $300,000 a piece. They barely broke even on that one.” He half turns as he speaks, he sees David and gives him a What-the-Hell-are-you-doing-in-my-office look then percetion falls into a stable pattern. The desk is covered with a brightly colored cardboard war game. The red and blue markers are scattered across the map along with miniture tanks and multi- 55 colored flags. The slammed his boots on the able just like Leslie, knocking the toys aside. David smiles at him. The smiles back. “You know...” He looks at David. Obviously David does not know. The colonel starts over. “I dont know if armored combat is a solved game, but it is a well posed problem. Everyone is pretty much agreed on how to go about it and battles are lost or won by surprise or morale or some other aspect of psychology. But, when it comes to house to house fighting, I wonder: Is there a correct way to go about it?, has it ever been done right? Crazy as a bedbug. The evidence is against it. you know, it's paradoxical, the older buildings, the ones with wall supporting structures, offer excellent protection against small arms fire because they have thick stone walls, but they can be knocked down by one artillery shell. The modern high rises like this with steel frames and curtain wall construction, they offer no protection at all against machine gun fire, but you cant knock them down. The Beirut Holiday Inn was bombarded for months by all 10 armies and they couldn't even make it tilt. Who the Hell are you anyway?” “David Flanagan.” “You are an Art historian?” “How did you know that?” “Was it supposed to be a secret? Your passport, please. Identification.” David hands it over. 56 “David Flanagan. Irish.Why are you so dark?”“ ”As you may recall, the Spanish Armada washed up on the Irish coast. About 1580, I think.” “1588. An historian?” “Of Art.” “You dont consider War an Art?” “It can be, but usually it isn't. Like most things.” “Please sit down.” David does. “I studied Art in Paris. Now consider: Can destruction be an Art?, certainly and why not? Is cooking an Art?, but obviously it is. All arts are destructive of their material, but War and Cooking are the only purely destructive Arts.” The colonel is stir crazy. He's had no one to talk to since he left Paris. The conversation is inaudible behind the music, but it seems to be going well. The presses a buzzer on his desk and an aide comes in carrying a brass tray with 2 cups of tea in ornate brass holders. LATER The sunlight has advanced across the room. The ash tray is full. Clearly, several hours have passed. The needle has reached the end of the record, the music is over leaving behind a scratchy rasp like a snake shedding it's skin. And David is still talking. “...but all Art is based on Identification” “Not painting, not still life, surely.” “Still life most of all, because the point of view is the only human subject.” The colonel goes slightly cross-eyed thinking about that one. 57 “I suppose my objection have more to do with... Ah!, yes. with narrative. Well, consider: You can identify with a character completely and yet remain totally critical of him. Have you seen MIDNIGHT EXPRESS? or, for that matter, KING LEAR?” “Even so, too simplistic, too reassuring.” “Reassuring?” “I get tired of art that offers you refuge in a perfect world that no winter can ever quite touch. Where no one ever eats and the lovers never have to get up to piss. Where all motives are clear and all consequences are logical the way they never are in real life. And, above all, everything is foreshadowed, everything is anticipated so that in fact there are no surprises. So that if you look at reality in exactly the right way from precisely the right point of view, everything makes perfect sense. That isn't art, it's sedation!” “Would you like some hashish, perhaps?” HOURS LATER The sunlight is almost horizontal. Through the blinds, the drapes are red with the sunset. The music is hard glittering '50's bop. “But we dont got to show you no stinking message. I can say that longer, but I cant say it better. You start from the wrong constituating metaphor. You think of meaning as an object and the work of art as a container. You open the shuiny container and if there's nothing inside you feel cheated. But if you start from a different metaphor, if you think of Art as a dance or an odyssey, the problem disappears. Artaud said that the bourgeois went to the theatre like they went to a whorehouse but, if the theatre did its job that well, it wouldn't be in the shape it's in. They go to the theatre like they go to church, to be 58 bored for a few hours and come out feeling morally superior about it. That's why art needs a message, so you have legal proof that you weren't out enjoying yourself!” “Calm yourself, some brandy perhaps?” “Why yes, that would be nice.” The pours 2 glasses. It's Stock, Israeli brandy that's almost worth the 97 cents it costs a quart. “By the way, why did you try to kill 3 of my men?” “They were impolite.” “I thought it was something like that. How do you expect to get out of here alive? “Your office?” “No, you're free to go. I meant Kuwait city” “Take the bus. They're not American. They wont waste a million dollar missile on an $8000 bus.” HOURS LATER The room is almost dark and the drapes are the color of dried blood. “It's getting late. Do stop in again. Is something wrong?” “The conversation ended at an odd point. I was enjoying it”. “The pleasure is mine. Then please stop in again.” “I never will. We must return home.” “As you think best. They're sending cargo copters across the Gulf. They'll be going back empty. I'm sure you can finance a ride. Traditionally, they're reasonable men, at least, to anyone offering cash.” “We'll take the bus.” 59 “There are some hovercraft. And CH-47's, you know, the bananas with propellers on each end, bringing a regiment across at As Bida and As Salimya. As Samimya is closer. It's at the oher end of the city, the southern promitory. They will be staying the night. They cant naviagate in the dark because they cant do arithmetic. All the intellectuals went in the purge.” “We'd rather walk.” “The street is full of men with guns renegotiating old relationships. Take my car at least. It offers some protection.” “You're too kind, but I cant impose on you further.” David bolts for he door. Outside, Leslie has gone starkers and, as usual, it has infected the people around her. One of the militia men is naked except for her bra and panties. The other one is wearing her dress. She's wearing one of the militia men's uniforms. She's carrying the British edition of ELLE and is tearing it up to make origami, to the amazement and delight of the militia men. She stands up and tears her clothes off an whispers. “Ask him to give the hashish back.” “Bon chance.” The militia men stand and smile. “Take care, Baby.” Leslie seems ready to restart the converation. David gently, but decisively, pushes her down the hall. They take the stairs down. The way things are going, the power could fail at any time and the elevator would be the wrong place to be when that happened. He gallops down the stairs, his legs recalling the rhythm they had used in high school when the few moments saved in getting from floor to floor would be the only moments he'd have to himself. Leslie is following, falling behind then leaping the last half staircase with surprising grace. He hits the red lever of a door that says EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. A bell goes off. he stops and tries to reset it, but cant. The bell continues to ring as they as they reach the street. The city looks deserted, the look of a low budget movie with no extras. 60 STREET -DEEP TWILIGHT- Leslie is smiling chesirely. David is in shock. "Feel like a hero?" "I dont feel a thing. How do you feel?" "Like a god." She's laughing. He's beginning to look worried. From the front of the city, the edge that faced the dessert, mirror colored smoke is rising. It looks like the tinsel balloons they give away at catered birthday parties. To maximize panic, nerve gas has to be colorless. It has to hug the ground to be cost effective. This is billowing above the line of high rises that front the desert. It has to be anti-heat sensor and there's a lot of it. It starts to block out the sun and reflects the city back on itself with an aquarium glow. Sniper fire starts up. He cant tell the direction or even the volume of fire. The echoes off the buildings are crisp and continuous. The concrete starts to screech and spurt dust around them, but with no particular pattern. The snipers are trying to make them run before they kill them. She goes skipping through the sniper fire while David walks casually behind her trying to project the status conscious martyrdom the Hamptom crowd reserves for occasions when a consumer servive isn't quite up to par. The snipers decide that they're crazy and lose interest. It looks like twilight when they get back to the hotel. The mirror colored clouds are overhead and the trapped light is gradually being absorbed. The sky is silver as the surface of a lake seen from below. HOTEL BAR -NIGHT- David and Leslie drinking and watching the fireworks. Amram is still there and looking like a very old man, which is alright. He cant expect to live much longer and he may as well use up everything he has. They sit watching the Gulf. The sky is full of copters playing WWI fighter pilot games. One of the gunships peels off with dreamy slowness and turns broadside to the bar window. David raises his glass in a theatrical toast. there's nothing else to do. Smile. Act natural. The gunship jerks away. Islam has this thing about holy fools. Now that it's over, he's beginning to get scared. She sees it and begins to act motherly. 61 He's getting nervous and indicates that it's time to go in. They cross the lobby and take the stairs to their room. Fortunately, it's on the 2nd floor, a short hike and too low to have been commandeered by snipers. HOTEL ROOM -NIGHT- She's doing her imitation of the colonel in a leather bondage costume, boots on the desk. She's wearing a black hood commandeered from one of the militia men. She has added arched sequin eyebrows and a full pouty mouth in red patent leather The remains of a sequin bag and a pair of red pumps are beside her on the floor. "I have your dossier here, somewhere." She picks up a fashion magazine and opens it. "Ah. Yes. While embarking at the airport you were discovered to possess a bomb in your luggage." "There must be some mistake." "They all say that. Guards!" with eerie bad timing this is followed by a stampede of footsteps in the hall. Someone is screaming in Arabic, the same words over and over. The scream is interrupted by the hammering nails sound of an assault rifle. Then there is silence. "You misunderstand." "Really?" "Yes. I called the ministry and asked about the chance of there being a bomb on board. They answered, not more than 1 in 10,000. Good, but not good enough. called back. I enquired of the chance of there being 2 bombs on board. They answered, quite correctly as it turns out, not more than 1 in 100,000,000." "So? "Isn't it obvious?, I was simply trying to reduce the chance of there being a 2nd bomb on board." 62 "I see that I am dealing with a man of taste, but I am undecided as to what course of action to take". She takes her boots off the desk and slings her knees over the arm rests of the chair. She clasps her hands behind her head and sighs. "Perhaps I can help you decide." "Perhaps." He kneels in front of her, mouth forward. "Why do you like intellectuals? "They give good head. That's what they're for, didn't you know? She grabs his head and pulls him to her followed by the ear ache bang of heavy ordinance. He looks around for the source. somone has tried the standard city fight stunt of blowing a hole in the door with a shotgun and poking a grenade through after. Only, he'd let go of the grenade lever 1st. WIth the arming hammer out it doesn't fit through the hole in the door. Whomever is trying to wheedle it through at an angle, but it still wont fit. They get their ears covered in time. Slamming of a door as big as the sky, a haze of plaster floats down and the lights flicker, but nothing else happe HOURS LATER She's laying face down on the bed, immobilized in a chain harness. David is standing over her with a riding crop. "You're really going to get it tonight." "You always say that, but you always stop as soon as I start to cry." "That may not be the shrewdest thing you ever said." "Ha!" HOURS LATER David is licking her welts, crazy with tenderness. 63 "You wont be going to beach for a few days." "No, let's get the hash and get out of here." "Why dont you just kill me?" "You dont get off that easy. Talk to what's his name at the bar." "After today, he doesn't know me." "That's silly. you're best friends with the colonel. then how do we get the hash?" "We go to a hash store. They have them all over like coffee shops. It's perfectly legal here." She stares at him. "Then what was...You were putting on a show for me. That's rather sweet. You wanted me to think it was dangerous." As he gags her. HASHISH and TEA SHOP (AFTERNOON) They're seated around the communal hookah stoned out of their gourd. They're not used to hash and even the mild Gulf Coast variety knock them out. The waitress comes by to refill the hookah. There's urgent whispered conversation.David and Leslie wandering through the crazy twisted streets. They come to a street overlooking the harbor. It's on a 45 degree angle. The land side are tenements leaning at least 15 degrees away from upright. David consults a slip of paper. he stares at the house in front of him. The door is laying in the street. He turns it over and checks the number. "This is it. 2nd floor." They climb the shattered stairs, hanging on to the broken bannister, to the 2nd floor. There is only one door. David bangs on it. "Miryam sent us." But there is no reply. he bangs again andthen kicks the door open. 64 The room is empty. The building has been stripped and abandoned. "What now?" "We leave." They walk downstairs and come to a floor with a long hall and many doors. At the end of the hall is a creature, a very tall hunchback. Without the hunch, he'd be at least 8 ft. tall. he has a huge long face and his posture, bent over and looming forward, makes it look even bigger. his head is twisted to one side and he is drooling, eyes wide and burning. He is gesturing frantically, pointing to a side door and pantomiming holding something in his hands. Leslie harumphs. "When we came in, we walked up one flight. We have now walked down one flight and we should be on the street." “I know.” Leslie is majestically calm. “We are not and that creature at the end of the hall is beckoning to us. He seems to know you. What is he trying to say?” “He's saying that he has what we're looking for. Hang on to my hand very tight. We are going to walk down the stairs. “ They walk down another flight of stairs, holding hands very tightly. But the next floor down is the same floor with the same CREATURE at the end of the hall, gesturing and shouting in his private language. “I begin to sense a trend.” “Nothing slows you down, does it? You'll stand up in your coffin to make one more smart ass remark.” “We're standing up in our coffin right now.” “You're going to need something heavier than East Hampton cuteness.” “Why?” 65 ‘Wittgenstein argued convincingly that there is no such thing as a private language so, there are a lot more like him.” ‘Name dropping, that's pathetic.”
Copyright © 1999 Angel Obregon |