"Wicked to be back in the Mideast," Snyder says. "I am so exhausted, you have no idea. Just got back from the AIDS conf."
"The AIDS what?"
"The AIDS conference in Bucharest. It's so dumb-I hate getting awards. And journalism is not a competition. It's not about that, you know. But whatever."
"You won an award?"
"No big deal. Just for the series I did for the paper on Gypsy AIDS babies. You saw that, right?"
"Uhm, I think maybe. Possibly."
"Bro, where have you been? It got suggested for a Pulitzer."
"You've been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize?"
"Suggested," Snyder specifies. "Suggested for one. What pisses me off is that the international community refuses to act. It's like nobody cares about Gypsy AIDS babies. In terms of the Pulitzer." He points to his carry-on bag. "You mind lugging that to the car? I've got serious vertebrae issues. Cheers." He snaps open his cellphone to check the screen. "I'm totally paranoid-keep thinking I'm gonna call someone by mistake while I'm talking about them. This thing is off, right?" He snaps it shut. "I love Kathleen," he continues. "Don't you love her? She is so great. When she was at her old job, Kath was always trying to hire me as, like, Washington 's main national-desk writer. But I was deep in Afghanistan at the time, so I was, like, 'Appreciate that, but your timing sucks.' She's still kicking herself. Missed ops. Whatever. You dig her?"
"Kathleen? I don't know her that well-I only met her once, actually, at a conference in Rome."
Snyder continues snapping his mobile open and shut. "Entre nous," he confides, "she's a bitch. Those aren't my words. That's what people say, entre nous. I myself hate the word 'bitch.' But I'm a feminist." He checks his phone. "Keep that entre nous, 'kay?"
"That you're a feminist?"
"No, no-tell people that. I'm saying, entre nous, Kathleen is out of her league, according to some people. Some say 'affirmative action,' though personally I find that term offensive." He walks out to the airport parking lot. "Feel that heat, bro! Which ride is us?"
"I thought we could share a taxi."
Blinking in the sun, Snyder turns to Winston. "How old are you, anyway? Seventeen?"
Winston gets this a lot-puberty left little trace on him; he still can't grow stubble. He attempts to age himself by wearing a suit, but in this muggy climate the most salient effect is sweat; he walks around wiping his face and fogged glasses, generally looking like a panicky congressional page. "I'm twenty-four."
"Little baby," Snyder says. "When I was your age, where was I? In Cambodia reporting on the Killing Fields? Or with the rebels in Zaire? I forget. Whatever. Get the cab door? My back is a mess. Appreciate that." Snyder stretches across the backseat of the taxi. "Dude," he declares, "let's commit some journalism."
Winston compresses himself into the smidgen of backseat not occupied by his rival. The cabbie swivels around, restlessly awaiting instruction, but Snyder continues chattering.
Tentatively, Winston interjects, "Sorry, which hotel are you in?"
"No worries, bro-we can drop you at your place first."
Winston recites his address to the driver.
"Ah," Snyder remarks, an eyebrow raised. "You speak Arabic."
"Not perfectly." He only started studying the language a few weeks earlier, having learned about this stringer position via an email exchange with Menzies. Previously, Winston had been studying primatology at grad school in Minnesota. But, suffering grave doubts about a future within the confines of academia, he made a radical shift, quitting the program to remake himself into a foreign correspondent.
"I'm sure you're awesome at Arabic," Snyder insists. "I remember when I was in the Philippines during People Power back in the 1980s, and everyone's all, like, 'Oh, man, Tagalog is so hard.' And I'm, like, 'Bull.' And within days I'm, like, picking up chicks in Tagalog and stuff. That was after two days. Languages are totally overrated."
"So your Arabic must be excellent."
"Actually, I never speak foreign languages anymore," he explains. "I used to get so keyed into cultures that it was unhealthy. So I only talk in English now. Helps me maintain my objectivity." He squeezes Winston's shoulder. "I'm dying to work out, bro. Where's your gym? You got a gym out here, right? I'm into extreme sports myself: ultramarathons, kitesurfing, tennis. I still got buddies on the tennis circuit. Back in the day, they kept bugging me to turn pro and I was, like, 'I got nothing to prove.'" He gazes out the window, flexing a pectoral muscle. "Where did you come from anyhow?"
"Near Minneapolis."
"Dude," Snyder interrupts, "I mean, where were you working before this?"
"Ah, right, right. Uhm, I freelanced mainly. A bunch of local Minnesota publications." This is a lie: his last piece of writing was a college essay on teaching monkeys sign language (a bad idea, it turns out).
But, thankfully, Snyder isn't interested in fact-checking. "How many places have I reported from now?" he says. "Can't remember. Like, sixty-three? I'm including countries that don't exist anymore. Is that allowed? Whatever. It's just a number, right? How many you up to?"
"Not that many."
"Like, fifty?"
"Ten, maybe." Winston hasn't even visited ten countries.
"Ten versus sixty-three. I doubt they'll take that into consideration when filling this job." He smirks.
"This is a full job, then? Menzies said in his email that it was just a stringer position."
"Is that what they told you?" He snorts. "Sonsabitches."
They arrive at Winston's apartment in Zamalek. Snyder gets out, too, rolls his neck, and jogs on the spot. "Stops blood clots," he explains. "Could you get my bag? Hey, thanks."
"But are you staying nearby?"
"Was just gonna grab a quick shower chez toi, if that's cool.'"
"What about your hotel?"
"Look, bro, it's just water-if you don't want me to use your precious shower, say so. I did just get off a massive flight. But whatever."
The cabdriver thrusts out his hand.
"Only got Romanian currency, dude," Snyder tells him.
So Winston pays.
An hour later, Snyder emerges from the bathroom, one of Winston's towels wrapped around his midriff. He climbs into a pair of camouflage cargo pants and lets the towel fall to the carpet, briefly baring his bushy loins. Winston turns away but is not quick enough, condemning himself to the sight of Snyder tucking his penis down the left trouser leg. "Commando style," he says, buttoning his pants. "Always go commando style."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"So," Snyder goes on, "how long you been in this place?"
"A couple of weeks. This woman called Zeina, who went to my college, works here as a wire-service reporter. I found her through the alumni list. She's renting me the place short-term."
"And you got Internet access?"
"Yes, why?"
"Need to check something." He settles in at Winston's laptop. As he reads, he exclaims constantly: "Can you believe that!" or "That is wild!"
"How long do you think you'll be here?"
"Do you not want me here or something?" Snyder says, spinning around.
"Just that I might need the Internet later."
"Awesome." Snyder turns back to the laptop.
By early evening, he is still at the computer, rising only to gorge himself on Winston's food and spread his possessions across the floor. Various items of Snyder's-a hairbrush, Kevlar messenger bag, sports socks, deodorant spray-appear on the carpet around him in a widening radius. The baboon is marking his territory.
"Sorry," Winston says finally, "but I really need to get going. I have to log you off."
"What's the big rush, man?"
"I need to eat."
"I'm totally finished here. Gimme a sec. Let's go to Paprika together. I love that place." A half hour goes by. "I'm done now. Totally done." Another half hour passes.
"Just join me when you're finished," Winston says, clenching and unclenching his fists.