Burridge Unbound (12 page)

“Accountability is the key,” Derrick says. “For decades the police and the military have literally gotten away with murder. No one has been held accountable. Human-rights groups have documented over seven thousand cases of extrajudicial executions, estimate there are up to twelve thousand disappearances in the last two decades. Yet there have been no convictions of police or military personnel …”

Yes, yes, Waylu nods gravely. As if considering these things for the first time. He railed against the State Department report when it first came out, was quoted in the
New York Times
as saying that these figures had been concocted by Kartouf operatives and naively accepted by governments and non-governmental organizations. I have a letter from him from last year complaining about unverified statistics – the same month his government denied Amnesty International the right to visit the island and investigate allegations of atrocities. And now he has the gall to nod sympathetically when these same numbers are put before him!

“We are also recommending the establishment of a full-powered board of inquiry to investigate past human-rights violations,” Derrick says, “in particular the campaign in the mountain regions to raze villages and persecute alleged Kartouf sympathizers. This board–”

He’s still nodding and agreeing. Waylu Tariola!

“–would have the power and authority to investigate abuses of both the security forces and the rebel groups. It would be headed by a committee of independent observers prominent in the struggle for justice and peace–”

“Yes,” Waylu says. He turns his gaze excitedly to me, then back to Derrick.

“The board members should in no way be implicated in the abuses of the former regime. They should have stature and authority and the trust of the people–”

“Precisely,” says Waylu.

“It should not be a witch hunt,” I add. “It should be fair but exhaustive.”

“–in order to allow for healing, for justice, and the establishment of democratic institutions to bring the country beyond the rule and whim of individuals.”

“No more demagogues,” says Waylu, boring his gaze into my skull. “We have been too long under the thrall of particular personalities. You are absolutely right! Our institutions have suffered, our level of civil liberties has been – well, what can one say? – deplorable.”

Derrick and I exchange glances. Waylu’s aides are reading the reports as if they’ll be tested on them later in the day.

“I have to admit, Mr. Ambassador,” I say carefully, “nothing in your record to date has led us to expect this sort of reception. In the past you have taken exception to every–”

“The past is very much in the past, Mr. Burridge. These are new times. We have a fresh spirit in the country. As you know! Our new president is intent on sweeping out the horrors of Minitzh and his cronies. It is a new land! And this is very much the time for setting things right. This is why I have called you in today. Not to disagree with your reports, but to embrace them, as we must if we are to move on.”

“Then I trust, Mr. Ambassador, that you will unhesitatingly bring these reports and recommendations to the attention of your government.”

“Already done, sir!”
he exclaims. His face is alarming in its exultation. “More than that. More than that!” he says. “Will you sit on the
Commisi vertigas?”

“Sorry?”

“The Truth Commission! There is going to be one! Will you sit on it?”

I’m speechless. My leg snaps out and jolts the heavy table. The pain shoots through my shin.

“We need
you
to sit on this Truth Commission. To investigate the past abuses.”

That heavy black mole drooping his lid, the rest of his face so twisted in a perverse look of victory. My God.

“I couldn’t possibly,” I say in a small voice.

“But you have said it yourself,” he says, opening his hands. “We
need
a board of inquiry. If we are ever to heal from the barbarism of Minitzh. We need men of stature and fair hearts, who are not cowards. Who will stand up for justice and who the people will trust.” Such hypocrisy! Throwing our words back at us. As if there was no blood on his own coddled hands.

“But you can’t ask Mr. Burridge,” Derrick says. He too is off-balance. This isn’t what we expected.

“Who would be better than Mr. Bill Burridge?” Waylu asks, not moving his eyes from me. “He was taken by the Kartouf and yet he stands up and speaks for their protection in the United Nations. He has suffered the very worst and has dedicated his life to safeguarding the fundamental rights of common citizens. He is a giant in stature! And I say this sincerely, please, you must believe–”

“You are well aware of Mr. Burridge’s precarious health,” Derrick says. “His heart–”

“We would pay you, of course, in accordance with the rates for very senior U.N. posts–”

“I can’t fucking do it!”
I say, standing up suddenly, shuddering the table again. Jesus!

“I’m sorry!” he says immediately, rising, Waylu’s face a mask of concern. He holds out his hand but I walk past it. Derrick rises and follows me. Which way out?

“Please, Mr. Burridge, please!” Waylu says, his hand on my shoulder. His advisers surround me as if they won’t let me leave. Just try it! Raise your hand! I’ll split your arm.

“What?” I say, whirling. “How can you even ask such a thing?”

Outside, in the taxi, I’m fuming. “Can you believe that shit?” I say. “Can you believe him suddenly pretending to accept our recommendations and then turning the knife to make it look like
I’m
the one standing in the way of justice and human rights?”

“Careful,” Derrick says.

“I have never seen such blatant hypocrisy!” I rage. “He’s a bloody murderer. He supported and protected Minitzh as much as anyone. And now to turn around and pretend to be on the side of human rights and democracy!”

“Calm down,” Derrick says softly, patting me. What am I, a dog?

“I will
not
calm down. I am
livid
. This is
my
anger and I’m entitled to it!”

“Well, just be calmly angry,” he says, then smiles nervously. He thinks I’m going to blow a heart valve right in the taxi. He might be right.

I stop flaring my nostrils, unclamp my jaw. He’s right. Diplomats. They make their living slithering on the ground. I should know! It would be just like Waylu to try to give me a heart attack with this kind of invitation. Free trip back to the
pit of hell. I can’t even make it through the night without the fear of the Kartouf terrorizing my brain. How could they ask me to go back there?

“He’s got me sweating at the palms,” I say. “Look!”

“Don’t think about it,” Derrick says, patting me again. Where’s Joanne when I need her? That’s it, no more diplomatic meetings without Joanne.

“How can I not think about it?” I ask.
“He wants me to go back there!”

“Just let it go,” he says, eyes wide. He’s scared. He doesn’t think I’m going to make it through this cab ride.

Maybe I won’t. I breathe and breathe but my heart won’t slow down.

Joanne says it as well. “Calm down. It’s all right. You don’t have to go anywhere.” I sit at the table in my apartment downing my pills.

“He had this look of triumph,” I tell her. “He’d heard this human-rights crap for so many years and had finally figured out how to stick it all back up my craw–” Derrick stays silent. There they are, the two of them, waiting while their boss cracks up. “Don’t you see? They’re going to use my refusal to discredit me, make me look like a chickenshit advocate who runs away when he actually gets a chance to
do
something.”

“Maybe,” Derrick says. But uncertainly, as if he’s only saying it because it’s what I want to hear.

“Don’t baby me!” I blurt. “For God’s sake! I don’t want to be surrounded by people who are afraid to tell me what they really think!”

I notice Derrick and Joanne exchange looks.

“I’m all right!” I say, too loud. Then softer: “I’m all right.
Derrick, what do you
really
think about all this? I need your clear head. You don’t think I should go?”

“No. Obviously,” he says. No hesitation.

“But if I don’t, are they going to discredit me? Did Waylu set this all up?”

Like talking to the walls. Derrick looks at the floor, at Joanne, anywhere but at me.

“What?”

“Obviously you shouldn’t go back there,” he says again, finally looking at me. “But you have to remember, Waylu is part of the wind faction – he changes with the political climate. He would never act on his own in something like this. He speaks for the government of Santa Irene. That’s who this invitation is from – Suli Nylioko.
She
wants you on this commission. Waylu is just the messenger.”

He stops while I digest this.

“You’re telling me this is a serious invitation,” I say.

“All I’m saying is it could be taken that way.”

“To ask a torture survivor back to the scene of his personal hell?”

“I think they see the head of an important new human-rights organization, someone who has profound personal knowledge of their little country. It’s as Waylu said – the fact that you have tried to defend the human rights of the very group that terrorized you speaks volumes for your credibility. That’s what they need for their commission.”

I let him go on while I just stare.

“From our point of view,” Derrick continues, “if you
could
go, it might be very good for the organization. It terms of coverage, profile. Repairing the damage.” Of my meltdown on television, he means. “Suli is sexy right now. Politically,
internationally. She’s Corazon Aquino just after ousting Marcos and before she turned out to be so mediocre. Suli might be Nelson Mandela with a beautiful face. God knows. But she seems to want to do good things for her country. She’d love to drape her commission in your flag. That’s what this is about. It could be good all around.”

He shifts in his seat, looks away in discomfort. “I know how awful this could be for you, and for that reason, of course, I’m advocating that you refuse this invitation and stay home. Of course. But just look at another side. If you went, and if it worked out, this could do a lot for our funding.” He clears his throat nervously. “I’m the
only one
thinking about money here,” he says, still not looking at us. His face so red. “I’m sorry!” he says, rising, pacing. “Money is an evil word here, I know, no one wants to think about it. You’re the organization, it’s your face everyone knows, but I’m the one who signs the cheques and I’m the one who has to troop off to the bank to explain why so much is going out and nothing’s coming in. I don’t mind it, I can do it, I’m good at it. But I’m just reminding you, I’m the only one thinking of these things. I’m telling you,
don’t go back to Santa Irene
. But if you
could
it might not be such a bad thing. For starters they’ve offered senior U.N. rates, right? I assume expenses would be included–”

He stops, sees the way I’m looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’d rather not worry about finances. I know. And this is about much more than that. But you asked me to be candid.”

“Nothing in this life obligates you to ever go back there,” Joanne says.

“Obviously,” I say.

Obviously
. It echoes in my mind long after they’re gone. As I sit by the window watching the city settle into sleep. I’m not supposed to go back. I was never supposed to go in the first place. I was never meant to be a diplomat and I paid for my bad luck – with my health and my family, my sleep and the great solid middle of my sanity. I
paid
. I owe no dues to Santa Irene.

Nothing.

And there will be other ways to rebuild my reputation.

This is all obvious. But why can’t I just dismiss it? My mind doesn’t work that way any more; it seizes on certain thoughts and plays them over and over obsessively. I wait for it to hit the press.
BURRIDGE REFUSES POST ON TRUTH COMMISSION
. The thought won’t leave me alone. I don’t have to go, but what if I did? What if going back to clean out the shit of that country helped me wipe this virus from myself? What if I could lie down and sleep the night through without dreaming of cut glass and burning flesh and being back there in the hood and the darkness and sweat and fear?

“Obviously you’re not going to go,” Joanne says to me. Days later and still I’m obsessed with this. “Put it out of your head.” We’re walking beside the scummy surface of the canal. A noisy paddle-wheel contraption churns past us, scooping up the masses of weeds that grow now that the water has been cleaned up.

“But it would be something,” I say. “To be part of the healing.”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“To be in on a society that’s making this kind of transition. Especially there.”

“Bill!”

“I know!” I say. “I’m just talking. Just for debate.
I
could never do it. It would kill me. But somebody really pure of spirit. Gandhi. Mahatma, not Indira or Rajiv. It’s something he would do. Be a torture survivor who returns to the scene and does something positive for that country.”

“You don’t have to be Mahatma Gandhi. Bill Burridge is good enough.”

“But what if I did, what if going back to the valley of the shadow–?”

“The what?”

“To the heart of my own personal darkness. Maybe that’s what I need.”

“You need time and you need therapy,” she says.

Churn, churn, churn
. The boat struggles under the bridge, barely going faster than our shuffling walking pace. This is what happens when you clean things up. A new kind of murk descends. Nothing stays clear.

“I’m just talking. You told me it would be good to talk.”

“With a therapist, Bill. You need specialized help.”

I’ve tried three already. I thought we were done! I thought I’d never have to talk to another therapist–

“I could set it up,” she continues. “I heard of this excellent woman. She does a lot of work with refugees and with battered spouses. She is booked for months ahead of time, but I know from a contact that she would make time for you.”