The Convict and Other Stories

“I think Americans don’t agree with losing.”

“After the bus, you were in a firefight with some soldiers. You called out their officer under a white flag.”

“Yes?”

“You shot him.”

“One of the young ones did. One whose parents were tortured. Do you want to know what they did to his mother?”

I looked away from his face.

“I’d like to photograph the Huey. I won’t photograph any of your men,” I said.

“This light isn’t good for your camera. You can take pictures at another time.”

“All right.”

“You’re angry. But why? You have everything you want—a story for your magazine, the ability to see the war in safety from both sides. I saw you through field glasses when Captain Ramos killed all those in the ditch. But I hold no grudge toward you. You should not be angry over a small denial.”

I could feel the blood in my face.

“I have only small desires and cannot satisfy those,” he said. “I would like some Pepsi Cola to drink. I don’t like beer. It gives me diarrhea.”

“Why don’t you go into San Luis and buy some like everybody else? They have stacks of it there.”

He was thoughtful a moment.

“Does the American missionary there also have medicine? We would pay for it.”

“No.”

“You are sure?”

“He’s not a doctor. He and the nuns only take care of the children.”

“What do they give them when they’re sick? Pepsi Cola? You are a very entertaining journalist.”

I found Father Larry with two Indians by the new clinic, mixing mortar in a wood box. He was a thickchested man, and white hair grew out of his T-shirt and his face was dusty and hot with his work.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“It looks like you made a couple of early bar stops today.” He looked up and smiled behind his black horn-rims.

“I drink too much. It’s one of my problems.”

“Everybody drinks too much down here,” he said.

“I think I’ve said stupid things and provoked some people, Father. I think you should leave.”

“Go to my house and fix all of us drinks.”

“No. This country is an open-air mental asylum. You should be in Boston teaching at a Jesuit college and taking in the games at Fenway.”

“Nothing you said to anybody is going to have any effect on my life. Try to learn some humility while you’re down here.”

“Father, I watched an army captain blow a ditch full of people into lasagna. He gave it as much importance as paring his fingernails. Then I interviewed a guerrilla leader who gets high sniffing cordite. Both of them have you on their minds. Good God, give me credit for some perception. These guys have you right in the middle.”

“You’re wrong about that, my friend. There’s no middle in this world. You remember when they used to sing ‘Which Side Are You On?’ down in Mississippi? That’s what it’s all about.”