Brief Encounters With Che Guevara_ Stories - Ben Fountain [45]
“Excellent,” announced the architect. With the binoculars at his eyes, sunglasses atop his head, he had a buggy, mutant look. “Is mined?”
“No mines that I’m aware of,” Hayden answered.
BOOM BOOM, the next bundle of mortar rounds left a tingly, empty feeling in Sonny’s balls. The helicopters were strafing the ridgeline now, guns nattering in the distance like band saws. Smoke drifted across the hilltop in rags and tatters, leaving a bitter aspirin taste in Sonny’s mouth.
“Merrill,” he observed with all the calm he could muster, “there’s a war going on out here.”
Hayden laughed. “You mean this never happened when you were on the Tour?”
“Well,” Sonny began, but he lacked the heart to finish.
“Relax, Sonny, everything’s under control. The good guys have the situation well in hand.”
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
Sonny would have given all his hair for a beer just then. Instead he trailed after Hayden and Dr. Maung as they tramped around the hilltop surveying the country, Hayden expounding on the big-picture themes while Dr. Maung supplied the details. There would be dhoob grass on the fairways and serangoon on the greens, Harrison bunkers, Old Course hummocks and swales—they seemed to be working off a design anthology of golf’s greatest hits. “Tanks,” Maung kept saying, driving Sonny to despair until he realized that the doctor was talking about ponds. Or was he? Reality was doing a taffy-pull with Sonny’s brain, twisting his mind into gooey tag ends and strings, but something was happening here that went beyond mere madness. He could accept that either he was nuts or they were, fine, but this wasn’t how you went about designing a golf course. You brought in engineers, you brought in surveyors, you slogged through the muck of the forest primeval and mapped it out yard by tedious yard, but to stand up here and conjure holes out of thin air—no, this wasn’t real, this was a joke of some kind.
BOOM BOOM.
But maybe that’s what being crazy is, Sonny thought, it’s when everybody gets the joke but you. And if you slipped and let them know you didn’t get the joke, what then? A phalanx of helicopters thundered low overhead, stuffed to the skids with government troops. Flare smoke fumed around the crest of the hill, a candy-purple cloud with a toxic glow. Somewhere a two-way radio was ranting to itself.
“So what do you think?” Hayden had turned and was smiling at him.
“By God,” Sonny gushed, “it’s just gorgeous up here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better place for golf.”
“Sonny, I’m so glad you agree. What do you think about Maung’s idea for saucering the greens?”
“Hey, it works for me.”
BOOM BOOM BOOM. Sonny grinned, even made a suggestion or two. He might be nauseous and faint with nervous shock, but he could maintain, absolutely he could maintain, he could fake like his life depended on it. Presently they made their way up to the crest of the hill, where the generals and their aides were surveying the battle. General Myint lowered his binoculars.
“Are you happy, Mr. Hayden?”
“Yes, thank you, General, very happy. We’ve accomplished what we came to do.”
Billows of smoke were rising off the hills to the east, blotting the jungle like clumps of dirty soap suds. The helicopters kept making runs through the valleys, their heavy guns chattering in dense counterpoint. The rebels, whoever they were, were getting slaughtered—Sonny pulled himself together for a careful face-check, noting the bland, almost bored expressions of everyone around him. So maybe that was the joke, not being horrified. Pretending that all this was not simply good, but normal. Maybe you felt the urge to scream and rage around, maybe you even felt like that would be the normal thing to do, but you sucked