Free Fieldwork: A Novel by Mischa Berlinski Page B
Authors: Mischa Berlinski
"Are you nuts?" he asked. She left nevertheless.
She never finished the doctoral thesis. He never heard from her again.
Not long after my e-mails with Atkinson had tapered off, the phone rang in the middle of the night. My first thought wasn't that someone was dead or needed my kidney—I just cursed Rachel's Grandma Irene. I don't think Grandma Irene ever really bought into the outlandish notion that as the sun was rising over the Puget Sound, the same sun, harsher and so much hotter, had long since set over the rice paddies of the Golden Triangle. She called us at all hours of the night.
But I was wrong. It turned out someone
was
dead.
The fan blew hot air across our damp backs. Our first hot season in Thailand, Rachel had asked me if we were growing apart, because I didn't hold her in the night anymore. "It's got to be a zillion degrees, Rachel, are you crazy?" I said. She looked at me doubtfully. That night, I held on to her tightly, breathing hotly on her neck. She pushed me away, and now we slept, during the hot season, on far sides of the bed. I was having a dream when the phone rang, a complicated one—interpret it as you will—in which I had just gotten a job as a waiter in a French café and needed to acquire a waiter's suit with a vest and tailcoat. No tailor in Chiang Mai would make it for me. I licked my lips when the phone rang, and for a second I wasn't sure if it wasn't the tailor from the dream calling me back.
"Hello?" I think I said. I wasn't taking notes.
On the other end of the line there was a woman's voice. "Mischa?" the voice said. "Mischa Berlinski? It's Karen!" She said it like back in college, we were once best friends. "Karen Leon! Martiya's friend!" the voice added.
"Karen," I said. Karen Leon was an anthropologist from Texas to whom Joseph Atkinson had suggested I write. In my e-mail I had included my phone number and invited her to call me.
"I just got back to Austin and I read your e-mail and I had to call
right away
. How
is
Martiya? I wrote her and she never wrote back, and I wrote
again
and I've been
so
worried."
A very long pause circumnavigated the world.
"Don't you know?" I said, and then I thought: How could she?
"Know what?"
"I guess you don't know."
"No," she said. Her voice dropped a register, from trumpet to trombone.
"She's dead." If she'd called in the morning, I might have been more gentle.
"Oh," Karen said. It was almost a groan.
I didn't know where to begin. "She killed herself. In jail. She ate a ball of opium."
"
That
killed her?"
"Yes." It didn't seem like enough. "That's what I was told."
"Well, are you sure or not?"
I felt a little defensive. "Yes, I'm sure," I said. "She's dead." "Oh."
One of my neighbor's fighting cocks crowed, and from Texas, I heard a car alarm. The sounds must have crossed each other somewhere under the Pacific.
"It's hard news," I said.
"It's just so …"
"I was shocked too," I added. It seemed like the right thing to say. "Did you know … did you know Martiya well?"
"Oh, yes. I mean, no. I mean, I haven't seen her in years. But we were once close, before …" Her voice drifted off. My neighbor's fighting cock crowed again, and a dog barked.
"Would you like to talk about Martiya sometime?" I asked. In the letter I had sent to Karen I had explained that I was a journalist interested in the story of Martiya van der Leun, but no more than that. "It's just that she had so many people who admired her here, and I want to get her story straight. I mean, maybe when you've had a little time to—" "They admire her? Really? After what happened?"
"I don't really know what happened," I admitted.
"Don't you
know
? I thought that's what you were writing about."
"No, I don't know."
"I can't believe you don't know."
"I don't," I insisted.
"Martiya
killed
someone," Karen said. The intimate excitement had returned to her voice. "Martiya shot a missionary named David Walker. From a whole family of missionaries. She shot him in the back
She never finished the doctoral thesis. He never heard from her again.
Not long after my e-mails with Atkinson had tapered off, the phone rang in the middle of the night. My first thought wasn't that someone was dead or needed my kidney—I just cursed Rachel's Grandma Irene. I don't think Grandma Irene ever really bought into the outlandish notion that as the sun was rising over the Puget Sound, the same sun, harsher and so much hotter, had long since set over the rice paddies of the Golden Triangle. She called us at all hours of the night.
But I was wrong. It turned out someone
was
dead.
The fan blew hot air across our damp backs. Our first hot season in Thailand, Rachel had asked me if we were growing apart, because I didn't hold her in the night anymore. "It's got to be a zillion degrees, Rachel, are you crazy?" I said. She looked at me doubtfully. That night, I held on to her tightly, breathing hotly on her neck. She pushed me away, and now we slept, during the hot season, on far sides of the bed. I was having a dream when the phone rang, a complicated one—interpret it as you will—in which I had just gotten a job as a waiter in a French café and needed to acquire a waiter's suit with a vest and tailcoat. No tailor in Chiang Mai would make it for me. I licked my lips when the phone rang, and for a second I wasn't sure if it wasn't the tailor from the dream calling me back.
"Hello?" I think I said. I wasn't taking notes.
On the other end of the line there was a woman's voice. "Mischa?" the voice said. "Mischa Berlinski? It's Karen!" She said it like back in college, we were once best friends. "Karen Leon! Martiya's friend!" the voice added.
"Karen," I said. Karen Leon was an anthropologist from Texas to whom Joseph Atkinson had suggested I write. In my e-mail I had included my phone number and invited her to call me.
"I just got back to Austin and I read your e-mail and I had to call
right away
. How
is
Martiya? I wrote her and she never wrote back, and I wrote
again
and I've been
so
worried."
A very long pause circumnavigated the world.
"Don't you know?" I said, and then I thought: How could she?
"Know what?"
"I guess you don't know."
"No," she said. Her voice dropped a register, from trumpet to trombone.
"She's dead." If she'd called in the morning, I might have been more gentle.
"Oh," Karen said. It was almost a groan.
I didn't know where to begin. "She killed herself. In jail. She ate a ball of opium."
"
That
killed her?"
"Yes." It didn't seem like enough. "That's what I was told."
"Well, are you sure or not?"
I felt a little defensive. "Yes, I'm sure," I said. "She's dead." "Oh."
One of my neighbor's fighting cocks crowed, and from Texas, I heard a car alarm. The sounds must have crossed each other somewhere under the Pacific.
"It's hard news," I said.
"It's just so …"
"I was shocked too," I added. It seemed like the right thing to say. "Did you know … did you know Martiya well?"
"Oh, yes. I mean, no. I mean, I haven't seen her in years. But we were once close, before …" Her voice drifted off. My neighbor's fighting cock crowed again, and a dog barked.
"Would you like to talk about Martiya sometime?" I asked. In the letter I had sent to Karen I had explained that I was a journalist interested in the story of Martiya van der Leun, but no more than that. "It's just that she had so many people who admired her here, and I want to get her story straight. I mean, maybe when you've had a little time to—" "They admire her? Really? After what happened?"
"I don't really know what happened," I admitted.
"Don't you
know
? I thought that's what you were writing about."
"No, I don't know."
"I can't believe you don't know."
"I don't," I insisted.
"Martiya
killed
someone," Karen said. The intimate excitement had returned to her voice. "Martiya shot a missionary named David Walker. From a whole family of missionaries. She shot him in the back