So This Is Love

Pavilion 24
MAYBE IT WAS THE DELIRIUM, but he remembered it this way.
They had no room and no supplies, so they put the wounded and dying where they could. He was set down on a mattress and a pile of burlap on the floor in Pavilion 24. This was three hours after they'd amputated his right leg just above the knee without anaesthetic and without antiseptics.
He lay on the mattress not able to think for a long time, only dimly aware that fine snow was drifting through the holes where the high slanted roof had been shattered by random mortar fire.
The second day he felt more clear-headed and the pain was worse.
The third day the pain had dulled a little and he felt twitchings and aches in the ghostly foot. He wondered if they'd eaten his leg. He'd heard that people were eating human flesh, though he didn't want to believe it. Strangely, the idea gave him pleasure. Perhaps his leg would have made a good stew or broth.
On the fourth day the doctor brought a young woman. Her head had been shaved and her skull was tied tight inwhite bandages. She was maybe eighteen or twenty, and he could see she was very good-looking, even with the shaved head and bandages. She was badly bruised but handsome, with big grey eyes, strong arched eyebrows, a generous mouth. She could walk, though she was very weak and the doctor held her by the elbow and guided her down onto the mattress next to his. The young woman sat on the edge of the mattress, six inches away, and then swivelled around, lay back, closed her eyes, and put the back of her right hand over her face. Yes, she was a very good-looking young woman, certainly considered beautiful in ordinary circumstances. He wondered if he would ever feel desire again.
The young woman was wearing soft leather boots that must have cost five hundred dollars, faded blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a brown leather jacket. It was the sort of jacket Jimmy Stewart wore when he played a pilot in one of those World War Two movies. She must have been rich, the young woman, rich and fashionable, probably a student from one of the bourgeois families.
"She's a Serb," said the doctor, looking at him.
"Ah," he said softly, looking at the doctor, then at the girl.
The doctor went away.
For a while he just lay and stared at the roof, at the way the light straddled in sideways and struck the high cross-timbers, at the slanted, broken tiles of the roof itself. It was warm-looking light, though the air was very cold. Beforethe war, this had been a storage shed used for tractors, for tools, greasy machinery, bags of grain, not for humans.
He looked at the girl. She lay still, the hand over her eyes, its fingers curled. A bloodstain had appeared on the bandages.
He looked away. He wondered why the doctor had told him she was a Serb. Involuntarily his hand went down to where he kept his pistol, packed in the burlap at the edge of the mattress. The metal grip felt cold under his fingers. He was beginning to discover sensations again: the touch of his fingers on metal, the smell of snow in the air, sensations that were slowly fighting their way back through the throbbing frontier of pain. Maybe the doctor wanted him to kill the girl. Yes, that was it. Doctors were not supposed to kill their patients. But a wounded, mutilated militiaman, yes, he could do it. No questions would be asked. Not many anyway. He thought he would do it simply--it came to him very clearly--just shoot her.
Bang!
The Serbs had come to his village--really a middle-class suburb--when he had gone to get the car. It was a small raiding party, but they had guns and nobody else did. They went from house to house. They were drunk but methodical. They raped his wife, his two daughters, and his eight-year-old son. Then they shot them all, mutilated the bodies, and departed. When he got back, nothing remained of his family but the bodies. And the writing in large letters in blood on the kitchen wall that told him exactly what the Serbs had done. Just in case he didn't understand.
Since then he had killed Serbs. It was the only meaning he could give to his life.
Until he was too close to a mortar shell when it landed.
His fingers tightened on the pistol.
The young woman moved. He turned to look at her. Her hand no longer covered her eyes. She had big grey eyes, intelligent-looking eyes, but there was something strange about them. Maybe it was the pain.
"I'm blind," she said.
"Blind?"
"The head wound ... The optic nerve centre ... Something was severed ... They explained. But I'm not sure.
"You're a Serb."
"Yes." She turned her face away. "I heard him tell you."
"Yes." The ghostly leg throbbed. A mortar was firing somewhere; there were distant explosions, probably in the suburbs on the far side of the river. The old man at the end of the pavilion was sobbing.
"Are you really blind?" He shifted to make the pain easier, but made it worse.
"Yes," she said. "Maybe it won't last." Her face was inches away. Big grey eyes, bruises, a few cuts.
He pulled out the valuable box of wooden matches. She winced slightly when she heard him strike the match against the side of the box. He held the flame close, in front of her eyes, moved it back and forth--no contraction of the pupil, nothing at all, just big immobile grey eyes staring at him.
She blinked. "Satisfied?"
"I guess so." He put the matchbox back under the mattress.
"What happened to you?" The eyes were still staring at him.
"A mortar. Lost my right leg. Above the knee."
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks." He paused. "I'm sorry about your eyes."
"It may get better." She was very young.
"The doctor couldn't say. He's ..."
"He's a Muslim. You're a Serb."
"Yes."
He thought for a minute. "I don't think he would do that." He wondered if he would have done that, if he'd had the chance. Would he have blinded the girl? A slip of the scalpel? An extra incision? No, he wouldn't have done it, he wouldn't have blinded her; that was the sort of thing a Serb would do. But he would have killed her, let her die, let her rot. He turned away, so he didn't have to look at her eyes.
"No, you're right. He wouldn't have done that," she said. Her eyes were staring at the ceiling.


The moonlight lit up snowflakes drifting in under the shattered rafters. It was bitter cold. The pain in his leg was clearly defined now, cutting like a knife, up his thigh, snaking into his belly, into his testicles, and clear up to his shoulders, branching like a tree.
He wanted to shout, to cry, to scream, but he knew it would do no good. He wanted to stuff his mouth with burlap and sob, but he had a clear sense of himself, of his dignity. He held himself in stiff silence. If only he could have a drink of water!
"It's bad tonight, isn't it?" She spoke in a whisper.
"What do you mean--bad?" His voice was thick with pain.
"The cold. The pain."
"Does it hurt?" He tried to turn to her and grimaced. The blood had welded his amputated stump to the mattress.
"No. Your pain. I meant your pain."
He didn't say anything.
"I can feel it from here. You're trying to hold it in."
He didn't say anything.
"Do you want a glass of water?"
He sighed. He waited. The pavilion was silent. No one had come for hours and hours. Where were the doctors? Where were the nurses? Finally, he said, "Yes." He hesitated. "How are you going to get the water?"
"You guide me."
So she stood up, finding her balance, and he told her to walk straight ahead to the opposite side of the pavilion, to touch the wall with her left hand, to walk along the wall, to turn the corner, then to stop, then to bend down and touch the bucket, to grope for the faucet with her fingers.
"I've got it," she said.
"Turn it," he said.
"I know how to turn a faucet," she said.
He heard the gush of water but could not see it.
"It's freezing," she said. Her voice carried the strange resonance of invisibility, making the empty spaces of the pavilion seem tactile, audible. He was the one who was blind, he thought. He blinked upwards. Snow was still drifting through the holes in the roof, but it melted and disappeared before it reached the debris-cluttered floor.
The water stopped gushing. The silence suddenly seemed very large.
"Here I come," she said. "Watch for me." Her voice was hollow, echoing from around the corner.
He twisted his head to watch her. She was a shadow, but he could see her clearly. Her right arm was outstretched and her fingers were touching the wall, while the fingers of her left hand were curled around the bucket handle. She looked like a dancer or an acrobat. Her jeans were so tight her legs looked like they were encased in dancer's tights, and the jacket, with its collar turned up, made her shadow look like that of an Elizabethan courtier. Shafts of moonlight struck the rough stuccoed wall--in the blue metallic light snowflakes slowly drifted.
"Stop after a couple of steps," he said. His voice sounded like a stranger's: a man talking to a blind woman he didn't know and whom he intended to kill, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe later. His leg started to throb. God, it was cold!
"Here?" Still touching the wall, she had stopped.
"Yes." He winced. "Turn to your right."
"Three o'clock," she said.
"Three o'clock?"
"A quarter turn to the right. That's the way they talk to blind people."
One foot at a time she turned, until her back was to the wall.
"I see." He winced. He would have to cut himself loose from the mattress.
He saw her press her shoulders to the wall to make sure of her bearings. She was not stupid, this young Serb, not a peasant barbarian like so many of them.
"About five steps," he said. "Straight ahead."
She advanced carefully.
"Stop. Put down the bucket."
"There!" She put down the pail and then edged forward until she could feel the mattress. She sat down, grasped for the pail, and slowly, very carefully, pulled it towards her.
"You learn fast," he said.
"I was scared."
"I have a glass," he said.
"The water's freezing," she said.
He handed her the glass. She turned it in her hands, dipped it into the water, and reached out, giving him the first drink.


Later the water in the bucket developed a crust of ice. She had moved her mattress against his. She was sleeping,beside him. For a long time he lay awake. Her breath and his breath were both visible in the frosty air. He felt her warmth through the jeans and the jacket. He had pulled some burlap over them both. Animal heat was the only heat they had. Her breathing was even and slow. His leg throbbed. "How can she sleep?" he wondered. Perhaps she was not suffering pain; perhaps she had brain damage and that made her sleepy-though she was certainly not confused when she was awake. Of course, she was young. Well, it was a mystery.
Here he was, a Muslim, condemned to be her enemy. Her people had killed everything he loved, and he wanted to kill her--why? Revenge? Some abstract sense of justice? What?
She stirred, turned on her side. Her arm went up over his shoulder, behind his neck. It felt warm. She was still asleep, her breathing unchanged. Gently, he moved some of the burlap and left her arm where it was, her smooth skin warm against the nape of his neck.


"So what happened to you?"
"I was hit on the head." She didn't say anything for a long time. He could see her breath.
Somewhere there was a burst of machine-gun fire. Somewhere an old woman stopped screaming.
"Don't want to talk about it?"
"No. No, it's not that. I mean, I don't want to talk about it. But it's not that. I'm ... They were Muslim--Muslim, like you. I was at my grandmother's ..."
A burst of mortar fire. Not too far away. Dust and flakes of paint fell from one of the walls.
"Where are we now?" she said. She reached her hand out in front of her face, brought it back, touched the tip of her nose, her forehead, her lips.
"Nowhere."
"Nowhere," she said. "Yes, that's where we are." She shifted so she could face him. She smiled. She had a beautiful smile, made even more intense by the empty, wide-eyed stare. "You want to kill me, don't you?" she said. "You've been thinking about it. You were thinking about it when I was bringing the water. Arrogant Serbian bitch, you were thinking. I'm right."
"You're clairvoyant."
"I thought so." The smile was far away now, frozen like the blind eyes.
"But maybe I can't."
"Ah."
"No one has come."
"Yes. It's strange."
"It's as if we've been forgotten."
"Yes."
"We're alone. I can't move. Not yet. So I need you."
"I can't see. So I need you." She smiled again and sat up. She fumbled for the bucket, broke the ice crust with a quick rap of her knuckles, and scooped up a glass of water. She held it out to him. He took it. "I think this is very funny and maybe somebody is laughing somewhere," she said.
He gave her the glass. "Thank you," he said.
"There were five men." Her eyes were staring straight ahead, at the wall opposite, or at some place in empty space. Snowflakes drifted down from far above. The sunlight was blue like summer dust. "Five men. One of the men was crying. His family had been killed--his whole family. I knew that. He was a lawyer. I had met him. I knew his son. His son was dead, and his wife, and his other children, five children. I knew it already, but he told me. He told me again. He wanted to be sure I knew.
"We were the only Serb family. There was no danger. They could take their time. They beat Grandmother and raped her. And then they shot her. They'd tied me to the kitchen table. Me, they wanted to keep to the last. That's what they said. His friends said he could have me to himself. I would be his ..." She shrugged.
"Revenge."
"Revenge. Yes, revenge. I suppose. You know, she was sixty-eight years old. A retired schoolteacher. She had lots of Muslim friends."
"We all had lots of friends."
"Yes."
"What are friends? What is love?"
"Yes." She turned to him. The blind eyes caught reflected sunlight. "What is anything?" She shrugged again. "Anyway, they left us alone, him and me, in the kitchen. He untied me, spit in my face, slapped me, tore off my clothes. He tried to rape me. But ... But then ..."
"But ... ?"
"He couldn't."
"Couldn't?"
"No. He was crying. He couldn't. So he zipped himself up and pushed me back on the table and put the barrel of the gun up inside me and it tore me and I thought now he is going to pull the trigger and kill me and I said, 'Please don't do it, you don't want to do this,' and I told him I was sorry about his family but that I had nothing to do with it, and I had been a friend of his son, we'd studied math together, I'd even been to their house. 'You don't want to do this,' I said. I tried to be very calm. I was surprised at myself. I felt sorry for him. He was looking at me and tears were coming down his face. He took the gun out of me and started to hit me on the head with it. From side to side. Like he was slapping me. I shielded my face, but he hit my head again and again. Then he stopped. I couldn't move. The butt of the pistol was covered in blood, bits of hair. I was conscious, I could still see, but I couldn't move. He fired the pistol three times. Close to my face. He looked at me and nodded. Like we would meet again. Then he walked out of the room."
"And they didn't come back."
"No."
"But you're blind."
"Yes. It happened later. I got up. I went to my room. I got dressed. Then I started seeing double. I was bleeding too much. I couldn't stand up. Then I was blind. I went outinto the street. Someone took me. Someone helped me. A Muslim, I think."


That night she had a fever. She lay close to him and she was sweating heavily. The head bandages suppurated a black, sweet-smelling liquid. Why had no one come to change the bandages? He shouted. But nothing happened. No one answered. He'd feared infection; he'd feared it more than anything else. There were no antibiotics, so once an infection started you were ... Well, you were almost certainly dead.
She shivered; sweat poured off her. She was like a furnace. He held her close. Through layers of burlap and their clothes--her jeans, sweater, jacket, his military pants, underwear, oiled-wool mariner's sweater (a gift from his wife during a holiday in Italy) --he felt her heat. He wiped the sweat from her forehead. She shivered and nodded her thanks, bit her lip, shivered again. "I'm going to die," she whispered.
"No."
"It doesn't matter." She shivered. Her arm was under his neck, her heat entering him like love. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm sorry for what happened to your family. For what happened to you."
"Sorry? I thought you Serbs were all paranoiac: everybody's guilty but me."
"Not all of us." She paused. "Not me. Not now."
He felt her forehead. She moved. For a moment her lips touched the palm of his hand.
Later she fell into a deep sleep.
He lay watching the moonlight. It made strange designs on the broken beams, the shattered wall.
He reached down and took the pistol, the warm, smooth metal, the well-used grip. Smooth metal is so simple, so simple. It's a solution to everything.
He put his arm around the girl and held her. She murmured, stirred, bit her lip. Her teeth gleamed, but she didn't wake. Her cheek was next to his, her breath mingled with his. He wondered if she would ever wake. He wondered if he would ever wake. It was a nightmare, an unending nightmare.


Fresh snow dusted the frozen ground. The sunlight was almost too bright. Both men blinked.
"And what's in there?" The young United Nations officer had a clipboard. He was trying to be helpful, trying to be thorough, poor fellow. But it was useless and there was nothing more to be done.
"There?" Dr. Nadal squinted and pointed at Pavilion 24.
"Yes. There." The United Nations officer squinted from behind his clipboard. He was tired and frustrated. It was an impossible mission. Look and report, but don't do anything. Don't give them supplies. And don't offend anybody. Neutral, neutral, neutral. Dr. Nadal and his staff had no supplies, no equipment, and yet ... well, they did work miracles. But not even miracles, in this godforsaken country ...
"There's nothing in there," said Dr. Nadal. "Pavilion 24--that's where we put the dead. A natural freezer."
"I see," said the officer. He made a check on his clipboard.
"Well, I guess that's that," said Dr. Nadal.
"Yes," said the officer. "That's that."
Dr. Nadal accompanied him to the UN jeep.
He watched the jeep disappear: an inspection, a friendly couple of words, but no supplies, no help, no hope. Dr. Nadal was tired, so tired he was indifferent to the cold, indifferent to the searing light, indifferent to the mortars and snipers, to the fact that, smeared with blood, he looked more like a butcher than a doctor. Indifferent. There was, he knew, no hope. No hope at all. Not from anywhere. Not from anybody. "Yes," he said, "that's that."
SO THIS IS LOVE. Copyright 2004 by Gilbert Reid. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.