Temporary People

by Steven Gillis

  Anita tapped the table and said in answer to Charles, “I’m going home.” Nick reached and gently touched her wrist, watched her set the knife down. Charles Wyle gave a nod and pushed his own fish aside. “You’ll need connections in order to make appeals for your family.” He mentioned this to let them know his cooperation was still there if they were determined to go. “I can put you in touch with Erik Dukette, the American Consul.”

  Anita thanked him but said, “It’s probably not a good idea for anyone to know we’re there just yet.”

  “Friends only,” Nick agreed.

  “Don’t worry,” Charles waved them both off, reminded Nick how far back he and Dukette went, assured them, “On my word, Erik can be trusted.”

  If viewed from the road below, Moulane Prison has the look of an old castle, the structure large and primal, built years ago by Sir Albert Moulane just after Bamerita’s sixth revolution, the War of the Barrows. Sir Albert made his fortune in shipping, his fleet of schooners used to transport slaves, tusks of poached ivory and snuff. The main house is solid stone and rises mammoth above the hillside overlooking the water, three miles east of the capital. Following the War of the Barrows, in 1895, the property was converted into a retreat for the new prime minister who - along with his mistress and two children - was beheaded six years later in yet another coup. For many years the grounds fell into disrepair until, under Teddy, Moulane was recast as a penitentiary, the rooms turned into cages, the wine cellar a dungeon where I’m kept now.

  I sit in the dark, the cool clay of the earth beneath me. The walls are hard silt reinforced by mortar, what light there is comes through the small window cut high on the wall outside my cell, some twelve feet away. I try and gauge the hour by the sun which filters in briefly but brings mostly shadow. At night the darkness is so complete I lay in the center of my cell where, even with my eyes wide, I see absolutely nothing.

  My guards are told who I am and how to treat me. I’m routinely pushed about, struck and spit on. The food they bring is mixed with dirt and chiggers. One game they like to play involves storming downstairs late at night with lanterns lit, carrying boards and sticks. They hand me a stick and place wagers on the time it takes me to kill a rat. “Come on, come on!” I’m told to use my blanket to trap the rats which are large and swift and difficult to corner. The soldiers say I’ll be given extra food if I’m successful and treated severely if I fail. Money is bet and rules set up. I’m allowed four tosses with my blanket before I’ve lost. The light complicates matters as the rats scatter while I hunt them down. The guards scream at me to, “Go! Go!” and block the rats’ escape with boards along the bottom of my cell. Even when I do my best, it’s impossible for me to win. No matter how well I execute the challenge, there’s always a guard who’s lost his bet and quick to take his anger out on me. The winners, in turn, offer no protection. Not once have I received extra food, and no matter what, I wind up punished for my effort. Days pass. I think of Don Pendar and what he could have said to me at the Port, how “Here’s the thing you feared most, André, the faith in your heart proved wrong.” My capture is deserved, the guilt I feel worse than any physical torture, and still I’m no martyr and wish simply for all of this to be done. The hairs on my once shaved head are growing out like spikes, I tug in an effort to make them longer. Ashamed, I imagine what I look like and who could recognize me now.

  The guards stomp their feet above me, their booted strides landing heavy enough to cause bits of mud and dust to fall from my ceiling. In the dark, I listen when they talk. Sometimes I hear what sounds like women weeping, the sobs passing through the walls as if channelled from a great distance. I wonder if there are actually any female prisoners in the cages upstairs, or if the guards have brought in women for their own amusement. From where I am, I picture all the worst.

  At some point each night the guards bring another prisoner downstairs. These men are not NBDF supporters but criminals arrested and ordered to beat me. They do as they’re told, hit me with their fists, use their elbows and fingers to jab and gouge and kick me when their arms get tired. The last man here has pounded my head and chest, opened old wounds, bruised my spine and twisted my arms until ligament and bone are wrenched. The guards have told him to keep me awake, but he can’t resist the dark, shoves me into a corner, shouts at me, “Don’t move,” and lays down to rest. I wait until I’m sure he’s asleep, and once the aches in my body settle into a single pulsing sting, I try to doze as well. I wake a few hours later to the sound of the guards turning the key again at the top of the stairs. The man jumps up at the last moment and slaps me once in the ear. The guards shine their lantern in on us, laugh as I stumble against the bars, and jabbing at me with their rifles, say “Enough, enough. So early in the morning.”

  Alone again, I sit with my legs extended and arms laid flat in my lap. My bare feet are covered with the blanket as protection from the rats. I try and stand but find I can barely shift my shoulders away from the bars, my aches and sores too much. I think again how Gandhi joked of his first time in prison, “It will give me a quiet and physical rest which perhaps I deserve,” and how I feel nothing like this, am convinced of just the opposite. I picture Katima, compare my decisions to those of Alina Pienkowska in Gdansk and how was it the soldiers in Poland didn’t fire on the shipyard while here at the Port every thing went so wrong? What did I miss or refuse to consider? The questions in the dark are the same each day. I sit back against the wall and wait for answers.

  The day before the rally, Ali took the money his father gave him and sent word to Evan Moore. Final preparations were made, supplies gathered and routes checked. That night, Ali and Feona sat near the ridge at the end of the playground, overlooking the northern half of the city. The moon above was split through its center like a frosted slice of white cake. “I should go with you,” Feona had her fingers spread in the dry green grass.

  Ali discouraged her, said “The others will need you here.” He ran his left hand up and down Feona’s leg. Sleeping at All Kings, they’d not made love for some time. Moments outside acquired gravity, intimacy found in small details. Like Katima, Feona had cut her hair short, straight and well above her shoulders. Ali liked the way her features stood out now, her face perfectly exposed, an elegant fish swimming closer to the surface of the water.

  Early the next morning Ali headed toward Wenlafte Boulevard as he promised his father. A huge crowd had already gathered near the main warehouse. Ali passed through the center, searching and spotting familiar faces, until he was caught suddenly in the rush and fire as the first shots rang out. Knocked down by people trying to flee, unable to find his father as more soldiers jumped out from where they were hiding, Ali’s concerns shifted to All Kings. He dashed back, arriving behind three of the older boys who were already there describing the attack.

  Several children cried, their hands in flight about their faces, while the younger ones were simply confused, ran around the playground, knowing something dangerous and exciting had happened but unsure what. Feona was trying to pull everyone together as Ali raced up, sweating and panting, bending forward with hands on knees. Everyone stopped and waited for him to say something. He stood slowly, trying not to tremble as he told them, “Ok. Alright. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  Convinced the army would raid the school as the fighting spread, the soldiers looking to use the grounds as a strategic hold, Ali sent five boys to watch the roads. He had Feona organize the children, packing clothes and loading foods into bags and boxes not too heavy to carry. “Keep everyone here,” he went inside and filled a 3-gallon container with gas from their reserve. The old school bus used before the strike was parked behind a locked fence at Demucho’s Garage a half mile west of All Kings. Ali ran as best he could with the container of gas clutched to his chest. After climbing the fence, he pitched a rock through the window of the office and took the keys.

  Scavengers had syphoned the bus tank dry. Even with the gas Ali brought the engine took
a minute to turn. He shifted and drove through the locked gate back onto the road. Feona had everyone outside again, 120 kids, four times the number originally planned to pass through Kaprischo Point. Ali pulled up, spoke with the oldest boys, told them where to go and who to contact. The remaining children were hurried onto the bus as Ali changed quickly into a dry t-shirt, boots and socks. Supplies were loaded in the aisle, the last two containers of gas dragged out and emptied into the tank.

  The quickest way to Kaprischo Point was south through the center of the capital. All the central routes were sure to be closed by now however, sending Ali north, then east, circling along the outer edge of the city until he reached the highway. The sounds of the fighting were less ominous the further they drove. Ali looked in the rearview mirror, found Feona sitting with the children playing some sort of word game. Such innocence seemed surreal, and for a moment he pretended they were on holiday, taking a leisurely drive to the country. Few cars were on the road and this, too, seemed a good omen.

  Perhaps it was the size of the bus and possibility of what they might be carrying, but when three military trucks appeared on the opposite side of the road, the driver of the lead truck cut across the median and force Ali to brake. Six soldiers jumped out, beat their rifles against the sides and ordered everyone out.

  Ali tried to pocket the keys but the first soldier pushed his way through the door and grabbed them. Feona and the children were herded together to the shoulder of the road, the bus then driven across the highway. The sergeant in charge had a pear-shaped head, his cheeks pockmarked and eyes deeply darkened. Ali presented his wallet, said “We’re from All Kings. I was told to drive the children out to Terbulune, to work on the General’s farms. Is there a problem?” For his effort he received a blow hard across the flat of his back.

  His ID was kicked through the dirt. The children wailed and were shouted at in turn by the sergeant. The woods ran parallel to the road, up a wide incline, some eighty yards from the highway, separated by a stretch of grass and weeds. At the top of the rise trees extended back. The sergeant ordered the children and Feona to move in a line facing him. Ali was lifted and shoved in the center. Feona held three of the smallest boys behind her as the soldiers came and raised their rifles.

  When the first volley of shots hit and echoed in the road, two of the soldiers dropped while the others dove down. Ali spun back and began pushing the children sideways, screaming for them to, “Run!” More shots from the woods landed in the dirt before the soldiers rolled and returned fire. The trucks on the opposite side of the highway raced across the divide, the children in the tall grass sprinting for the trees as the men gave cover.

  Ali found Feona and ran with her through the weeds, his hands on her hips all but lifting her from behind. He did not let go even as his side flashed hot, the jolt causing him to stumble for several strides. Feona felt the shift in his grip and called out, her voice giving him something to float upon as he struggled to regain his balance, resetting his hands while telling her not to stop.

  Deep over rock and weed, shrub and brush and dirt gone dry in the heat, the children scattered from the soldiers’ fire. As they reached the woods, the wound in Ali’s side was a fist hole breach. Feona helped lay him down. How strange he felt, so pleased and sad and tired. He stared at her features, terrified and lovely. His heart pounded, his fingers and feet passing from warm to cool. Laid out on bristle torn from the brush, the sky through the branches a silver-blue, he stared, nearly smiling, curious and wistful, surprised he never noticed before how much Feona looked like Tamina.

  CHAPTER 10

  From Madeira, travelling with false papers and the passports Charles Wyle provided, Anita and Nick entered the Port by way of a ship delivering canned goods and flour. They waited until dark then left the deck and walked down Wenlafte Boulevard, past buildings boarded and damaged by gunfire. A smell in the air not of the sea but sulphur and waste. Teddy had lifted the cur few, creating a false sense of normalcy as more shops and restaurants opened and public transportation was provided on the hour. Soldiers manned checkpoints and marched on patrol. Anita and Nick were asked for ID, made to unzip their duffle, the soldiers taking the cigarettes Nick left on top before letting them pass. They caught the first bus west toward the University, Anita sitting by the window, Nick holding her hand.

  Last summer, standing in line for tickets to see Alice Coltrane, they struck up a conversation. Three months later Anita moved into Nick’s apartment on the west side, a short subway ride from Columbia and her graduate studies. The celerity of their affair seemed at times ripe for flaring out, like one of those silver sparklers lit and briefly glowing. Such velocity also provided its own adhesion, a sort of emotional centrifugal force. Anita did not speak at first of love, her focus on finishing school and returning home. Nick knew better than to force the issue, the effort like trying to pull puffs of smoke from the air and stuff them in one’s pocket.

  He left for five days on assignment, sent to film the evacuation of 11,000 residents living near Mount Merapi in Yogyakarta, Indonesia as the mountain neared eruption. Anita remembered the shifts in the ground from her childhood, as Bamerita beneath her seemed to roll at times like a great fish. Two hours before Nick’s flight was due to land back in New York, she went and sat at the airport, surprised by her need and how eager she was to tell him. That spring they discussed Nick’s moving to Bamerita. He suggested to CAN that he work for them full-time based overseas, a possibility taken under advisement.

  The bus left them near Seventh Street, in front of the student apartments where Anita lived her final year as an undergraduate. The buildings were dark, all the students having scattered after the rally. Anita stood with Nick, counted up to the window of her old apartment. The lobby was black and filled with dank, fusty air, the apartment empty and unlocked. Nick found a flashlight in their duffle while Anita opened the window and leaned outside. “It isn’t what I expected,” she said. The gunfire heard earlier in the distance had stopped, the silence itself unsettling.

  The first time Nick was sent to film a war he’d felt the same, having anticipated infinite carnage, riots and explosions and finding then how much of war was waiting. Anita could see the black shapes of buildings on campus, the angle from the window cutting off her view of the old neighborhood to the north. “Here,” she moved from the window, lifted her shirt so Nick could peel the tape on her back. He kissed the spot where they’d hidden their money before leaving the ship, the tape turning Anita’s flesh pink. She shifted behind him, knelt on the bed, raised his shirt and stripped off a similar pack. After this, she slid beneath his arms and into his lap. Reaching, she touched the side of his cheek. He kissed her fingers as they came near his mouth. She thought of her father, her brother and grandfather, said of her friends, of Tobias Pemu whom they managed to contact from Madeira, “We should call now. He’s probably waiting.”

  “We just got here,” Nick held her hips. “They’re supposed to find us. That was the plan. We don’t know what their situation is. Let’s get our bearings first.” “What bearings?” Anita leaned back. “We’re here.”

  “I’m only saying,” Nick watched her stand, catching and losing her in the glow of the flashlight. “If you want to help your dad,” he gave her this to think about, said “We need to be careful. We have to consider the things we do now. Making phone calls when we don’t know the lay of the land is dangerous.”

  “The only way we can know what’s going on is to get in touch with people,” Anita went back to the window.

  Nick mentioned his father’s suggestion. “There’s always Dukette. Maybe the American Consul’s not such a bad place to start.” He turned on the tap in the bathroom, hoping for water but getting nothing more than a hollow echo from the pipes. Anita on the floor, fished through their duffle in search of the cell phone Charles had given them. Nick’s camera was also hidden inside, a Canon ZR50 MC with SD memory cards the soldiers missed when stealing the cigarettes. Nick came back in
to the bedroom, saw Anita remove the phone and start to dial. “I thought we were going to wait.”

  “I’ll just let it ring once, to let them know we’re here.” Her face was lit in profile as she sat beside the duffle. “Will it work with the electricity off?” she asked about the phone.

  Nick saw the way her shoulders rolled, beautiful and smooth, her arms and legs loose, their stretch and curl tempting him to forget everything and see if she’d make love to him there on the floor. He touched her neck, tugged gently at her hair, was about to tell her how the phones ran on a different electrical line than the lights when he heard sounds from the stairs, and then in the hallway, footsteps closer still outside the door. He grabbed the flashlight, thinking soldiers had spotted the glow from outside, while Anita dropped the phone back in the duffle and hurried to the front room. Expecting Tobias, she found Kart instead, standing with hands out. “Anita Mafante. A.M. radio,” he called her as he used to, said “Aren’t you a sight for everything sore.”

  The window on the far wall outside my cell is never opened. The soldiers as they come downstairs curse the smell, yell “Shit!” then laugh at this before holding their breath and making me remove my own bucket. The only chance I have for fresh air is on days I’m brought into the yard and ordered to run. The grounds are unkept, with thorns and thistle. The hillside in the distance is beautiful. My bare feet are bruised and brittle and bleed over the stones. As best I can, I concentrate on the warm sun against my skin, the smell of the water just beyond the walls, and the clean air I pull into my lungs.