Free The Devil Is a Black Dog by Sandor Jaszberenyi Page A

tag,” he told the rookies. “A man shot dead is worth fifty dollars, a kid’s worth a hundred, dead women are somewhere between the two. The world won’t be an iota better if we show its horrors; at best we will give the good people something to waggle their tongues at as they empty their glass of orange juice at breakfast.”
    He never brought anyone with him to the field; he worked alone. He belonged to the bygone era of old-school photographers who were contracted by international news agencies, before the editors realized that the locals are cheaper: you didn’t have to transport them to the region and they would do anything for hard currency. Furthermore, if they were killed, you didn’t have to pay for getting the corpse home.
    He knew everything about war. He was tall, almost 6’2”, with a muscular neck and strong hands. He was salaried at an international news agency, where his pictures were appreciated, or at least published. He felt his life was okay, except for one small problem.
    This problem surfaced in London, on a Monday morning, when he’d gone to the agency’s headquarters to get a new assignment. As he waited for his editor in one of the leather chairs in the corridor, he looked over the photography collection exhibited on the wall, the company’s wall of fame. Since the fifties, every picture that had received an award was hung there. He looked at a photo he had taken. Exactly above it was printed the well-circulated motto: “NO PICTURE IS WORTH A LIFE.”
    “Bullshit,” he mumbled to himself. Then, finally, his editor Steve called for him. Steve was in his late fifties and visibly British. He leaned back in his chair and offered Marosh some hard candies before launching into a monologue.
    Marosh knew something was coming, but he hadn’t expected this. He was told that the company wouldn’t send him to war again, because he was too old. “We have to give the younggo-getters a chance,” the editor told him in a paternal tone. “You can, however, participate in their training.”
    First, due to the surprise, he couldn’t say a thing. Then came the anger. When Steve said that he was just “burnt out” and hadn’t sent an extraordinary piece to the office in years, he just got up and left, slamming the door behind him.
    Later on, he admitted to himself that what really pissed him off was the fact that Steve was actually right. Marosh was sitting in a pub near the office, thinking about his work over the past few years. He realized that in fact he hadn’t produced any breathtaking images in some time. Not since Iraq—since the beginning of the war—when it seemed like it hadn’t even been him who had captured such images. He had a theory that the man himself has nothing to do with the really important things. Something or someone else executes the creation, gives it—in this case, the pictures—a soul. Someone else made the exposure, someone who at that time and place took control. He couldn’t explain it otherwise. How could it be that even he couldn’t spot mistakes in his best images? He came to the conclusion that perfection has no characteristics. It just happens, if you’re lucky enough. It can’t be learned.
    For a while, he considered himself crazy for having this theory, until he met a huge, gangling novelist at an award ceremony somewhere over a border east of Vienna. The crowd was there to celebrate Eastern European intelligentsia. The writer—who, at 6’6”, could hardly fit into his chair—appeared increasingly uncomfortable over the course of the ceremony. The two of them were sitting in the last row and happened upon each other by the emergency exit.
    By the time the master of ceremonies, whose calling in life seemed to be the handing over of prizes, reached the point in his speech where he proclaimed, “A few really great artists emerged in spite of the terrors of the former regime,” the writer and Marosh were drinking bourbon in the closest bar.
    After