The two riders took to the road, repeating the same message over and over again: Tajirika is not in the office, people should go home and come back another day. But nobody believed them; the queues showed no sign of thinning out, the game of attrition, replacement, and apparent movement in full swing, serving only to confirm that the police officers were lying.
In the office, Nyawlra remembered that an answering machine had recently been installed, and she quickly programmed it to respond, This is Eldares Modern Construction and Real Estate. Mr. Tajirika is away from the phone at the moment. She toyed with the idea of inserting the sentence Your call is important to us, but then she changed her mind and continued. But if you leave your name, telephone number, and the time you called, we shall get back to you as soon as possible. Please begin recording your message after the tone. Nyawlra felt relief and rejoined Vinjinia, who had been at the window, monitoring the goings-on outside.
They had thought that the two police officers on motorcycles would come back within a few minutes, but they were still missing even after one hour. The first to return after two hours was the one who had shadowed the queue of the rich, and he had been able to do so because, in his own words, “my line was not as long as the other one,” adding that in all his life as a police officer he had never encountered such long queues. Even so, his message had had no effect: the queue of the rich remained as it had been all day.
But shortly after five o’clock, something strange happened. The queue of the hunters of contracts vanished. Just like that. Starting apparently at the back of the queue, they had stolen away one by one, and within a few minutes their stealthy retreat had turned into a stampede toward their Mercedes-Benzes; in a short time all parking places were empty. Curious that they should refuse to heed a law enforcement officer but then flee within seconds of one another for no apparent reason! Very strange, the women told each other. Perhaps the same thing would happen to the other queue, they hoped, but no such luck: the queue remained intact with no indication that it would vanish like the other. The police rider attending it was nowhere in sight. As much as the two women strained their eyes and ears, they saw no police officer, no motorcycle.
If you had been there when Nyawlra was telling Kamltl all this, you would have wondered, just as he did, whether to cry or laugh, for, as she told him, there came a time when she and Vinjinia felt that the office had become their jail. The sun was calling it a day, but not the queuers. And the women hesitated to go home without a report from the missing police rider.
Vinjinia would now and then call to see if her husband was feeling any better, but there was no comfort from the homefront, and as the afternoon wore on Vinjinia became depressed, which did not help the atmosphere in the room.
All day long the two women had been on their feet, but now Nyawlra pulled up a chair, and, as she continued looking through the window, found herself wondering what could be ailing her boss so much as to force him to stay away from easy money, but not serious enough to make him see a doctor. Maybe it was a bad case of flu. But why would Vinjinia have been so reticent about that? And if Tajirika did not feel better soon, what was she to do about the queue? As if reading Nyawlra’s thoughts, Vinjinia herself pulled up a chair next to Nyawlra. When she spoke, her voice sounded teary
“I know what you are asking yourself,” she started. “Believe me, I am as much in the dark as you. Where shall I begin? He came back last night with three sacks full of Burl notes. Throughout the evening he kept muttering things to himself, calculating I don’t know what. Even when he eventually heeded my call to come to bed, he did not fall asleep but continued working things out in his mind. From the few words that I could make out, he seemed to be calculating the impact of Marching to Heaven on our lives. I fell asleep and left him wide awake.
“The illness itself seized him this morning. It started when he went to the bathroom: suddenly it was as if he stood frozen in front of the mirror. And every time he looked at the mirror, he could say nothing save If. If only. He would remain there, gazing hard at the mirror as if trying to talk to his shadow. Now tell me, how would I report these symptoms to a hospital or doctor? What could I tell them without sounding ridiculous? That my husband, the chairman of Marching to Heaven … ? But if he does not get better tonight, what shall we do tomorrow when we wake up to this or another queue?” Vinjinia asked, echoing Nyawlra’s concern.
Nyawlra recalled how at the close of the previous business day Tajirika had pulled a gun on her, fearing that she might be a robber. Maybe he was terrified of being robbed.
“It was unusual for someone to have so much money in his house,” Nyawlra said. “Maybe he was paralyzed by the prospect of robbers. His train of thought must have been something like this: If they find me with all this money, they will kill me. If! If only I had left the money in the office or put it in a bank?”
The sudden entrance of one of the three police officers now guarding the grounds interrupted their conversation. He wanted to know what to do next: it was getting late, the queue was still there, and the police motorcycle rider had not yet returned.
Vinjinia paid him and his cohorts off to guard the premises for the night and to wait for the return of the missing rider.
The two women then closed up the office and left through the back door. The queue of job seekers was still intact. Maybe the darkness would drive them away. Maybe tomorrow would be another day. Vinjinia left in her black Mercedes-Benz without offering Nyawlra a lift. “See you tomorrow” were her last words.
What a day! Nyawlra thought as she walked down the road to the bus stop. She suspected that there was a lot more to her boss’s illness than Vinjinia was letting on. If the police officer had not interrupted their tete-ä-tete, maybe …
She had just crossed the road when she felt a hand on her right shoulder. She turned around quickly, clutching her handbag firmly. There were so many stories of daylight robbery in the streets that it had now become second nature to hold one’s bag tighter at the slightest friction with another person.
She did not know whether to laugh in relief or shout in anger.
It was the ubiquitous Kaniürü.
Nyawlra thought of pretending that she had not seen him, but a voice within told her, Let’s hear what he has to say, we might glean a thing or two about what’s going on in the higher reaches of government.
3
At the Mars Cafe, they again sat across from each other in barely veiled hostility. Kaniürü ordered coffee, Nyawlra a chicken and vegetable sandwich, which she proceeded to eat with gusto, as if it had been the best meal she had ever had.
From where they sat, they could see a section of the endless queue.
“What’s this all about?” Kaniürü asked.
“Is that what brings you to this side of the city?”
“No, you!”
“Stop stalking me!”
“It is not me. My heart!”
“I didn’t know that you had a heart.”
“Stop that sarcasm. I just wanted to tell you that since we last met I have now done a little arithmetic, and some of the answers might interest you.”
“You have now taken up math? What happened to the painter’s easel and brush?”
“You know what? I have come to agree with your father. Were I in his shoes, I would not let my daughter marry an artist. Art is for women and children. There is something effeminate about it. That’s why you dumped me, right?”
“Dumped you? On which heap?”
“Let’s be serious. Now, about the man we discussed the other night … When I went home I thought a great deal about him. I concluded that the man in the suit who went into the public toilets was the one who left in rags. Nyawlra, I must tell you this: he was one of the beggars outside Paradise, and we now know that the real force behind the beggars’ gathering is the so-called Movement for the Voice of the People. He must be a member, as are all these people in the queue outside your office. How do I know that? The queue begins w
here I first saw the man standing, which could mean that while he was talking to you he was actually casing the joint. These people all want to smear the Ruler’s good name by exaggerating the severity of unemployment, by dramatizing the plight of the unemployed. That man, your friend, is a threat to the stability and security of the country.”
“You’re out of your mind. You seem to have acquired the art of spinning tales! Yesterday he was a djinn; today he is provocateur, inciting anti-government activity!”
“There is no reason he cannot be both. You wait and see. The government has engaged an expert in djinns and djinn warfare. My own view is that those djinns are fake, mortals pretending to be djinns. And the policeman—what is his name? Gathere, Ariga, or something—is just a storyteller.”
“And you, of course, are not.”
“A human or a djinn, the man is a member of the Movement for the Voice of the People. He and you were together. Therefore you too could be a member. QED.”
He knows nothing, she said to herself. Still, she was not amused by his logic, however warped. She sought to distract and confuse him.
“So Grace is talking to John. John is a youthwinger. Therefore Grace is a youthwinger. QED. Your logic is impeccable, worthy of Aristotle.”
“It’s not only white people who know logic. We too have logic, black logic found in our proverbs. You know the saying that he who keeps the company of lepers becomes a leper?”
“Well said,” Nyawlra responded, laughing. “Preacherman, whose company do you keep? Crooks and looters. Therefore …”
“Listen to me. I am now the only one who can save you. Surely you’ve heard or read that the Ruler has banned the Movement for the Voice of the People?”
“An old song. Why don’t you sing a new one through His Master’s voice? Since when are you a spokes-youth for His Mightiness? Yet I have not seen you driving a Mercedes-Benz, the hallmark of arrival.”
“That’s only a matter of time. Nyawlra, you don’t seem to understand what I am trying to tell you. Let me be more blunt. Do you know what the dissidents have been doing lately? Scattering plastic snakes and anti-government leaflets all over the country. The Ruler has given Sikiokuu special powers to crush this movement: its entire leadership, membership, supporters, and misguided fellow travelers. The minister intends to mobilize the entire secret security system, including us, the youthwings of the Ruler’s Party. You see where I am coming from? I am giving you one last friendly warning. Come back to me or else …”
“That sounds more like a threat than a friendly warning; either way, you are wasting your breath,” Nyawlra said as she stood up to go.
“Nyawlra, please listen to the logic of your heart. Since you and I parted, you have not taken up with another, and neither have I. What does that tell you?”
“Exactly what you’ve just said and nothing more,” Nyawlra said, and left chuckling to herself.
“You woman. You! One day you will come back to me crawling on hands and knees!” Kaniürü mumbled to himself in frustration.
4
Nyawlra had put on a brave face in order not to show worry in Kani-ürü’s presence, but her heart was racing. She was sure that Kaniürü and Sikiokuu knew very little about the movement. However, caution would not be cowardice if she could find a way to stop Kaniürü from finding her again. Quitting her job was one option. But how would the movement be able to gather inside information about Marching to Heaven and the activities of the Global Bank mission? Changing her workplace was another. But would she always have to be on the run because of one man, Kaniürür
She thought about Kaniürü and the years they had known each other. Their beginnings had looked so promising, at least to her, and she used to conjure up beautiful images of a future together: how they would always wake up at dawn, and with their youthful eyes raised to the azure they would hold hands and boldly step out into the world to build a home, the foundation of their new tomorrow! How differently this had turned out! Both came to look at the failed dreams differently: whereas she became convinced, with each passing day, that she could never change his ways to fit her ways, Kaniürü always believed, even after they divorced, that he could convert her to his own way of looking at the world. He was the man to lead and she a woman to follow.
So absorbed was she in her thoughts that Nyawlra hardly noticed anything about the bus and matatu ride. Not that it mattered. She had taken the route so many times that she knew almost by instinct where to get off and her way home.
And that was why, suddenly, Nyawlra halted a few yards from her house, her mouth agape. Moonlight supplemented poor street lighting. She was baffled: in front of her house stood a queue.
At first she thought that she had lost her way. Perhaps she had taken the wrong bus. She should not have wasted so much time at the Mars Cafe, leading her to miss her regular bus and matatu. Or maybe she had gotten off at the wrong stop or taken a wrong turn! Maybe the job seekers had seen her leave the office and had followed her home. But she could have sworn that at the time she left the Mars Cafe, the queue that began at the billboard outside her office was still there. Looking more carefully at the men lined up before her, she saw that they were all dressed in suits, a far cry from the patched-up, worn-out vestments of the job seekers. But she could not make out their faces; the men wore hoods and wide-rimmed hats.
Nyawlra thought of approaching one to ask what this was all about. She took a step and stopped. What if they were the newly activated eyes and ears and noses of the Buler? Suddenly she thought about Kamltl. What had happened to him? Her fear deepened as she recalled how Kaniürü had told her that Sikiokuu had been given special powers to crush opponents of the regime. Kaniürü was obsessed with Kamltl, and he may have directed the state security forces to her home. Or had A.G. returned with a police squad? A.G. had hinted that he would do as much, and now that he seemed to have been entrusted with the task of capturing djinns, he might be intent on bagging the Wizard of the Crow.
She walked briskly to the house of one of her neighbors to find out what was going on. But on her way, she saw a man come out of his house and go to the back, where he pissed against the wall. She approached him just before he reentered his house.
“What is all this about?” she asked nonchalantly, gesturing toward the queue without revealing that she was the occupant of the house under siege.
“Those? Leave them alone!” the man said. “It is all because of the witch doctor—what does he call himself?—the Wizard of the Crow. The ways of witch doctors are strange. Two days have come and gone since he put up the notice outside his door announcing his nefarious business, and at first no more than ten clients came to consult him. Now look at this. All of a sudden, today, well, this evening. I’ve no idea what this is all about. Lady, go your way and I’ll go mine; it’s never good to ask too many questions in the dark.”
Nyawlra had seen many wonders in Santalucia, but this topped them all; she did not know whether to laugh or cry. She went to the back of her house and knocked at the window. There was no immediate response. She waited for a little while and knocked again. At the third attempt the curtains parted. She saw a human silhouette. At the sight of Kamltl, Nyawlra felt relief. He helped her climb through the bedroom window and he gestured to her to be quiet and not budge, and then he went back to his business.
5
From the bedroom where she sat, Nyawlra could not see the actors, but she heard every word between Kamltl and his clients. The whole thing seemed like ritual theater.
“What ails you?” she heard Kamltl ask the man on the other side of the kitchen pass-through.
“My enemies.”
“Your enemies?”
“Yes, my fellow businessmen. You might see us dining and wining each other, and laughing and slapping one another on the back, but this is all a lie. Now it looks as if the Global Bank is about to release funds for Marching to Heaven. Do you know what that means? A contract to supply even tea, butter, cigarettes, or the smalles
t necessities could make one wealthy for the rest of one’s life. You see my point? If we are always scheming against one another even when the stakes are low, imagine what’s going on now. I own many quarries. All I want is to become the chief supplier of cement, stone, and sand for Marching to Heaven. But believe me, Sir Wizard, my enemies are many, they are everywhere, they are ruthless, and they want what I want.”
“So what are you after at the shrine of the Wizard of the Crow?”
“I want you to add firmness to my hands, smoothness to my tongue, and power to my eyes, so that when I meet Chairman Titus he and I will bond immediately. I want to mesmerize his eyes with mine, soften his heart with my tongue, and seal the deal of friendship with a warm handshake. At the same time, I want you to take away all powers of persuasion from my competitors. Make their hands limp and wet with sweat so that when they shake those of Chairman Titus, they will only piss him off; roughen their tongues so that when they roll them out to sing his praises, they will produce rasping noises worse than the screeching of metal on metal; cause their eyes to run with filth so that when they try to make him captive to their wishes they will only disgust and repel him. Do you know the story of the great battle between the Sun and Wind over who could make Man take off his coat? Wind made Man only cling more to his possession. Sun made him surrender it willingly. Wizard of the Crow, make my enemies the Wind. Make me the Sun. Put me at the head of my class, first among equals in guile and venom.”
“Do you know your enemies? Who they are?”
“Not that well. And that is why I have come to you. We have heard of your amazing powers, that you can tell one’s enemies long before one even knows that one has enemies; and that you can capture the shadows of these in a mirror and scratch them out of this world. Now I am not asking you to kill them—I am a good Christian and I believe in forgiveness—but I want you to do that which only you can do.”
Wizard of the Crow Page 17
