Backward Sonata

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Here's how the story

I am not who I was then.

For years I lived the life of the dissolute writer, traveling from place to place, imbibing the native brews as I absorbed the few facts I needed to sell a piece to Esquire or The New Yorker. That experience taught me that alcohol is the great equalizer, facilitating comradery and fostering trust in situations that might otherwise turn ugly. I drank absinthe with skinheads in Berlin, ouzo with poets on Corfu, and Irish whiskey with the Real IRA in Belfast—all in the interest of my work, I told myself as I worked my way around the globe with glass in hand.

Eventually I drank simply because I wanted to, then because I needed to. When I reached the point of uncorking the vino even when holed up by myself in a seedy flat in Paris or in a cave in Afghanistan, times when there was zero comradery to facilitate or trust to foster, I began to worry, though not enough to stop my steady pace toward self-destruction. My liver never protested, nor did my various editors .

I would detox myself on herbal teas and mega doses of the B vitamins prior to those few weeks of each year when I tapped out the stories that earned just enough money to finance my ongoing alcoholism.

In the late '80s, a few friends stormed my rented cottage in Maine to attempt a formal intervention. I called the police and had the interlopers removed.

Over a decade later, a more forceful intervention would cause me to reassess my intransigence. I was at Heathrow, ticketed for Boston. In my stupor, I stumbled forward to board a flight to Mumbai. A minor customs functionary observed that I was in no condition to fly.

"I assure you I have been airborne since my youth," I told him.

Failing to appreciate my humor, he summoned two more uniformed agents. They escorted me to a small office where they examined my papers and peppered me with questions. In minutes the issue of my intoxication was moot. My two interrogators were joined by a casually-dressed third gentleman. After listening to their whispered briefing, the newcomer dismissed them, then he settled into the chair opposite mine and smiled.

"Harry Ash," he announced by way of introduction.

I could have said, "Dov Shattuck," but why bother? He already knew my name. The only secrets in that room were the ones he chose to keep.

"Tea?" he asked.

My stomach knotted at the thought of English tea.

"I might be able to find some coffee, if you prefer," he offered.

"Thanks, no."

That is where the small talk ended. "You are returning from Islamabad?" he asked.

I nodded.

"You are a journalist?"

"Freelance."

"You traveled from Islamabad into Afghanistan. May I ask why?"

I entertained the notion of refusing to answer, of citing ambiguous journalistic principles and rights of privacy. Harry’s smile, suddenly reptilian, cut through my mind fog and rendered me malleable.

"For an article I’m writing."

"Ah, I see. And this article deals with what?"

"The fundamentalist Islamist movement."

"You conducted interviews?"

I nodded.

"With whom, if you don’t mind?"

Whether I minded was irrelevant. Harry was a man accustomed to getting answers to his questions. He did not seem the rubber-hose type, more the sort who can out-wait eternity if necessary. But while Harry had all the time in the world, and then some, I did not.

"My flight," I said.

"There will be other flights."

"My luggage is on that one."

"We have your luggage."

We sat in silence for several moments.

"Do you tape your interviews?" he asked.

He had my luggage, so he knew the answer. "Always," I said.

"Excellent practice," Harry told me. "You were about to tell me the names of the individuals you interviewed."