A Mighty Heart by Mariane Pearl & Sarah Crichton

Author:Mariane Pearl & Sarah Crichton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2003-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

MY IN-LAWS have requested a conversation with Terry Anderson, the AP correspondent held hostage in Lebanon for seven years— seven years! —until he was released in 1991, when the Lebanese civil war finally came to an end.

The Pearls want to know everything: how Anderson managed to stay alive, how his family coped while he was in captivity, what shape he was in upon release. “What is our son thinking about?” they ask.

“Survival,” Anderson says flatly. “That’s what you think about—survival.”

He talks about post-traumatic stress disorder and gives them the name of an expert in England. “I will not kid you,” he says, “the situation is very serious.” But he adds, “If Danny is likable and can engage even one of his captors, he will be better off.”

If he is likable? “Everyone likes Danny,” says Michelle. “Nobody would ever want to hurt him. Danny can charm anyone with an ounce of humanity in his bones.” My in-laws keep themselves sane by imagining that Danny has won over his captors. They are sitting around playing backgammon. “Maybe soccer,” says Judea.

Maybe he’s composing music in his head. I once asked Danny what his dream achievement would be, expecting him to say writing an epic novel or winning two Pulitzers in a row. Instead he said, “I would love to write a hit song, one of those tunes people just can’t stop singing when they’re happy.” The closest he’s ever come is a song he wrote for a pregnant friend. She was overdue, heavy and miserable, and he pulled out his mandolin and composed a song on the spot that went, “Come out, come out / The world is not such a bad place.” Okay, maybe it’s not the song everyone will want to sing, but I like it. And it did work. The baby left the womb.

Before we came to Pakistan, Danny was on his way to becoming a local star in Bombay. We’d become friends with a singer named Joe Alvarez who has regular gigs at Indigo, one of the few Bombay bars that offer live Western music. Bollywood musicians gather there to jam when they tire of grinding out cheesy sound tracks for the massively successful Indian film industry. We’d show up, Danny with his electric violin, and settle in at a table. Danny would order a screwdriver, and a Bloody Mary for me, and from the stage we’d hear Joe let it rip: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the best violinist around…he comes from America…please applause Daniel Peeeaaarl. ”

The Bombay daily paper ran a photo of Danny wailing on James Brown’s “Sex Machine.” We’ve got that framed at home. I’ve lost track of most of the bands Danny has played with. I recall the Ottoman Empire, which he joined when he was at the Atlanta bureau of the Journal, because in our five-hundred-CD collection is an album they recorded. And I remember Clamp, which he played with in his Washington, D.C., years. I just

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