Read Online We Are Now Beginning Our Descent by James Meek - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Meek
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itching to tell the one joke they know. It’s a deadly, final, no-comeback joke, they’re longing to tell it, and they know they can’t.’
‘That’s good. You go with that when the Indians come over the ridge there,’ said Astrid. ‘You go with that philosophy of yours because I am not coming to your aid.’
The next day, after spending the night in a village where men reached inside the folds of their clothes and brought out lumps of lapis lazuli to sell, the convoy took a noon break in a marketplace outside the walls of a warlord’s fortress. They ate kebabs tasting of petrol. Cloud cut off the peaks of the mountains and the air was dank. It smelled of winter. The grazing was thin and muddy. The traders, and men who were not traders but squatted and watched, looked at them as if reckoning the worth of their valuables, and their party’s strength. The walls of the fortress were twenty feet high, flush with the sheer rock they rose off, and pierced with slits.
While they were eating, a convoy of three cars arrived, heading back towards Faizabad. They halted close to the Swiss team’s Uaziks and the occupants got out. Kellas recognised Miriam Hersh from Reuters. She came over to him and Astrid. Kellas kissed her on both cheeks and Miriam told them how squalid it was down in Jabal osSaraj, how overcrowded, how little was happening. She was going home. Kellas asked where she was based now and she looked at him with tired, watery eyes.
‘That’s it, finished,’ she said. ‘When I say home, I mean home. London. Reuters is bringing me back for good.’ The wind blew her wispy brown hair across her face and she tossed it away and pulled the cuffs of her fleece down over her hands. She was beginning to shiver. ‘It’s time. I’ve been abroad long enough.’ She sniffed and shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘I don’t want to be a professional expat when I’m fifty.’
‘Miriam and I met when I was based in Warsaw,’ said Kellas to Astrid.
‘Based?’ Miriam laughed. ‘When were you ever based anywhere?’
Kellas blushed. ‘I was,’ he said.
Miriam smiled at Kellas, although her shoulders were shaking with the cold, and turned to Astrid. ‘Adam was famous in eastern Europe in the 1990s for never living in one city for more than six months. And he was there for – how long? Ten years?’
‘Nine,’ said Kellas. ‘Two of them in Prague.’
‘They weren’t consecutive years in Prague, though, were they?’ said Miriam. ‘It was like a king rotating his residency through his dominions. Six months in Budapest, four months in Kiev…’
‘I think it sounds like a good life,’ said Astrid.
‘You know how it is,’ said Kellas, looking from face to face. ‘You stay in one country for more than a few months, you start to know so much about it that the editors aren’t sure what you’re talking about any more. They want you to get some of your ignorance back. You’ve moved too far from the readers.’
‘What he means is that he was never satisfied,’ said Miriam to Astrid.
Kellas laughed and denied it.
‘You’re a good reporter, but you were short of staying power,’ said Miriam. ‘You were the opposite of those TV reporters who think that because they’re somewhere, that place must be where thestory is. Wherever you were, you were sure that place wasn’t it . Whatever it was, it was somewhere else.’ ‘
And a woman in every port?’ said Astrid. ‘
Those were landlocked countries,’ said Kellas.
Miriam was jumping up and down. She’d thrown a bag on the wrong truck when she was leaving Jabal and lost her winter gear.
‘I’ve got an extra pair of gloves,’ said Astrid. ‘I don’t need them.’
‘If you’re sure. It might save my fingers.’
Astrid unzipped the pocket. A finger of one glove had caught in the trigger of her pistol and when she took the gloves out the gun followed. It thumped onto the grass. Astrid handed the gloves to Miriam and picked the pistol
‘That’s good. You go with that when the Indians come over the ridge there,’ said Astrid. ‘You go with that philosophy of yours because I am not coming to your aid.’
The next day, after spending the night in a village where men reached inside the folds of their clothes and brought out lumps of lapis lazuli to sell, the convoy took a noon break in a marketplace outside the walls of a warlord’s fortress. They ate kebabs tasting of petrol. Cloud cut off the peaks of the mountains and the air was dank. It smelled of winter. The grazing was thin and muddy. The traders, and men who were not traders but squatted and watched, looked at them as if reckoning the worth of their valuables, and their party’s strength. The walls of the fortress were twenty feet high, flush with the sheer rock they rose off, and pierced with slits.
While they were eating, a convoy of three cars arrived, heading back towards Faizabad. They halted close to the Swiss team’s Uaziks and the occupants got out. Kellas recognised Miriam Hersh from Reuters. She came over to him and Astrid. Kellas kissed her on both cheeks and Miriam told them how squalid it was down in Jabal osSaraj, how overcrowded, how little was happening. She was going home. Kellas asked where she was based now and she looked at him with tired, watery eyes.
‘That’s it, finished,’ she said. ‘When I say home, I mean home. London. Reuters is bringing me back for good.’ The wind blew her wispy brown hair across her face and she tossed it away and pulled the cuffs of her fleece down over her hands. She was beginning to shiver. ‘It’s time. I’ve been abroad long enough.’ She sniffed and shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘I don’t want to be a professional expat when I’m fifty.’
‘Miriam and I met when I was based in Warsaw,’ said Kellas to Astrid.
‘Based?’ Miriam laughed. ‘When were you ever based anywhere?’
Kellas blushed. ‘I was,’ he said.
Miriam smiled at Kellas, although her shoulders were shaking with the cold, and turned to Astrid. ‘Adam was famous in eastern Europe in the 1990s for never living in one city for more than six months. And he was there for – how long? Ten years?’
‘Nine,’ said Kellas. ‘Two of them in Prague.’
‘They weren’t consecutive years in Prague, though, were they?’ said Miriam. ‘It was like a king rotating his residency through his dominions. Six months in Budapest, four months in Kiev…’
‘I think it sounds like a good life,’ said Astrid.
‘You know how it is,’ said Kellas, looking from face to face. ‘You stay in one country for more than a few months, you start to know so much about it that the editors aren’t sure what you’re talking about any more. They want you to get some of your ignorance back. You’ve moved too far from the readers.’
‘What he means is that he was never satisfied,’ said Miriam to Astrid.
Kellas laughed and denied it.
‘You’re a good reporter, but you were short of staying power,’ said Miriam. ‘You were the opposite of those TV reporters who think that because they’re somewhere, that place must be where thestory is. Wherever you were, you were sure that place wasn’t it . Whatever it was, it was somewhere else.’ ‘
And a woman in every port?’ said Astrid. ‘
Those were landlocked countries,’ said Kellas.
Miriam was jumping up and down. She’d thrown a bag on the wrong truck when she was leaving Jabal and lost her winter gear.
‘I’ve got an extra pair of gloves,’ said Astrid. ‘I don’t need them.’
‘If you’re sure. It might save my fingers.’
Astrid unzipped the pocket. A finger of one glove had caught in the trigger of her pistol and when she took the gloves out the gun followed. It thumped onto the grass. Astrid handed the gloves to Miriam and picked the pistol
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