7

He also remembered this:

“And you, you have nothing to say?” asked the Italian woman journalist.

Terrier shrugged his shoulders.

“I have nothing interesting to say.”

The other two white soldiers had just been going on about their origins, their taste for combat, and also, after a certain amount of persuading, their ideological convictions and the fact that someone really had to oppose the communist penetration of Africa. One of the fellows was English, the other German. They and Terrier and the journalist, along with the bearded black man with the cultivated look who was accompanying the journalist and wearing a government uniform without insignia, were in the devastated lounge of a solid-looking hotel. The ventilators were out of order, and the windows were broken; there was a lot of excrement behind the bar, even though the john was only two meters from the counter. Beyond the broken panes, the dusty street was deserted and bleached by the sun. In the middle of it lay the corpse of a fifteen-year-old rebel in shorts whom government troops had beaten to death just before the journalist arrived. Sporadic firing could be heard a kilometer or two away.

Since the journalist was looking at him with interest, Terrier said with embarrassment that he had the same kind of past as the other two, except that he had done his normal national service, in France, in the paratroops.

“And you like to fight?”

“Not especially.”

“Why are you here? Out of conviction?”

The journalist took notes on a small pad. She had short blond hair and black eyes. She was rather tall, plump, dressed in combat fatigues, desirable. You could see her tongue move between her white teeth when she spoke.

“No,” said Terrier, with embarrassment. “I do it only for the money.”

“That’s interesting,” said the journalist, looking interested. “You and your colleagues always begin by saying it’s only for the money. But if you scratch the surface, you discover things. In fact, I would love to find someone who is here only for the money.” She spoke impeccable French. “But I don’t believe it. Still, I would like to. I mean, risking your life just for the money, is that possible, you know what I mean? I wonder.” She tapped her white incisors with her pencil.

“What I was saying is, I have a life plan,” mumbled Terrier.

“A life plan?” The Italian arched her eyebrows.

“Drop it. Uh, drop it,” said Terrier.

He caught the eye of the bearded black man whose uniform carried no markings. The black man smiled slightly.

“No,” said the Italian. “A life plan?”

“Shit,” said Terrier. “I want to build up a fund. I’ve given myself ten years. Then I’ll hang it up and go into something else.”

“Go into what?”

“That’s none of your business, madame.”

The Italian looked at him with a smile, and her black eyes were laughing, too, and perhaps enticing. The door of the john slammed open. A thirteen-year-old black male dressed only in khaki shorts and a red helmet jumped out howling as he opened fire on the group.

In five seconds, there were some fifteen, maybe seventeen shots. When silence returned, the German, the Englishman, and the Italian were flat on the floor. The adolescent sniper was sitting against the doorjamb of the john, dead; he had lost his red helmet and had holes through the heart and face. Terrier and the black man with the cultivated look were standing, still tightly grasping their warm automatic pistols in both hands. They looked each other over and exchanged slight smiles. The people who were flat on the floor began to get back up, their faces ashen. The black man in the uniform with no markings relaxed, gave Terrier a tap on the shoulder, walked over to the corpse, and picked up the gun.

“I’d like to know just which fuckers are supplying them with Armalites,” he said. He, too, spoke perfect French.

Terrier wanted to say something in reply, but his right leg collapsed under him. He found himself sitting on the floor. He shook his head. His thigh hurt. Blood spurted from it.

“Pressure dressing,” he managed to say.

Later, he was in a hotel bed, swollen up and feverish. The shutters were closed behind the open window. There was artillery fire in the distance, perhaps ten kilometers away. Stanley, the black man, was sitting at his bedside with lemons and a bottle of vodka; smiling, he studied Terrier. Stanley’s skin was very black, to the point where he was almost invisible in the darkness when he wasn’t smiling. Between the artillery reports dreadful wailing could be heard. It sounded like a prisoner under torture. But when one listened more closely, it turned out to be only the Italian journalist getting it on with some guy.

“The war’s over for you,” said Stanley. “That thigh will take a good month. So do you have any plans?”

“No.”

“I have a proposition for you,” said Stanley. “I really liked the way you reacted this morning.”

“What?” Terrier didn’t really understand.

“All the others, on the floor,” said Stanley.

“Oh, yes,” muttered Terrier. “Yes.”

“I have a proposition.”

And that was where and how Martin Terrier was recruited.