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

the fourth round the writer was telling Marosh that he didn’t feel like he deserved any of the accolades. Writing a novel took him just three days, he said, when “the madness struck.” Over the course of this time he couldn’t see or hear properly, couldn’t recognize his friends, and even addressed his lover by her last name. And, when the spell ended, he hardly recognized his own handwriting: it was like reading somebody else’s manuscript. But the text was far better than any notes he had consciously produced.
    “This is a goldmine,” commented Marosh. “All you have to do is recreate the proper conditions, and there you go, a masterpiece awaits.” But the writer explained that this is not how it works. Overcome with emotion, he told Marosh that he had been writing professionally for twenty years now, but during this time he managed to “touch God—or whatever you, dear sir,
Mr. Photographer
, wish to call it”—only once.
    “It’s pretty hard to knock on that door, you know,” the writer said with an expression that made him look like he was lifting a heavy weight. “Obviously you can fool some editors for a while with the act, but not the damnable, faceless reader. But you already know this, I guess.”
    They drank until the event organizer found them and with a confused look told the two drunk men that it was their turn to step to the podium. Before they left, the writer gave his book to Marosh.
It’s all just knocking at the door
, read the dedication.
    Marosh took a sip of his beer and was contemplating what it was that he knew in the past that he didn’t seem to know now. There were no compositional or technical problems with his pictures; no, he knew the mechanics well. Some intangible, poetic thing was missing, something that could transcend the daily dosage of horror. He knew when he caught the thing, knew the feeling. He just didn’t know how to achieve it.
    After his sixth beer in that London pub, when his ego was washed away by the waves of alcohol, he decided he would call Steve and apologize. He was suddenly overcome by a fear that others would also realize how burnt out he was, that other editors would put him out to pasture and he would never again be able to return to the theaters of war.
    It was only there, indeed, in the middle of a war, that Marosh really felt free. The world simplified to “yes” and “no,” to life and death. He liked how it clarified things, that there were no loans or credit, no competitors with better family backgrounds or better dispositions, that there were no chosen ones, and that everything was for the last time.
    In his civilian life he felt like one of those whales that washed up on the shores of Brighton almost every year: he could breathe, but couldn’t maneuver.
    It took Steve a while to answer his phone, but he was an annoyingly good guy during the whole conversation. Marosh could imagine him standing in his patterned robe in the middle of his living room, scowling.
    Marosh had no alternative but to agree to every condition. He would travel to Chad, a relatively calm African country, to escort a young photojournalist and familiarize her with the “rules of engagement” described in the company’s guidelines.
    Listening to his editor, Marosh swallowed one curse, then a second, as he felt a cold wave roll across his belly. His only response was, “What is the rookie’s name?”
    “Rachel Lynn,” said Steve. “You’ll have a hell of a time, ’cause she is quite a looker. It will be fun working with her.”
    Fuck me
, thought Marosh, after he hung up the phone. He knew that type of female war correspondent. They were much crazier than men. They didn’t heed god or man if it was about a story. They were able to put themselves at any risk, just toprove they were up to the job—and they were as good as any man. It was not uncommon for them to be shot dead or gang-raped by an entire company of soldiers if they were captured. He could clearly