Gabriel Mafante sat behind the desk in his den, a small electric fan on the floor, the back door and windows boarded over by soldiers assigned to his arrest. The air in the house was a sticky soup, all personal effects, books and files and computer, television and radio, the couch and lowboy and standing lamp removed. Soldiers had also carried off the dining room table and tea service, silver-ware, maple sideboard and cabinet, the pictures from the walls and pillows from the bed loaded into a green government truck and driven away shortly after the ambush at the Port.
Here was the hoary core, Gabriel Mafante’s existence redacted, he spent his days drafting a narrative exposing Bamerita’s arthritic hips and knee joints. The discipline cr eated a sense of routine, his confinement interrupted only in the evening as the Chief Inspector came to talk. Dressed as always in a rumpled white suit and heavy black shoes, Warez walked past the guard at the front door, sat on the one wooden chair left over from the dining room, removed his hat and asked, “Did you get out today? They’re supposed to let you sit on the porch. Would you like to get some air?” Gabriel Mafante kept his head down and continued to write. “Look,” the Chief Inspector held up the bottle he’d brought, tried to sound cheerful, the way old friends will during a casual visit. “Let’s have a drink. Let’s not be sour.”
“Is there news?”
“Nothing to speak of,” the Chief Inspector rolled his shoulders, his usual poise replaced by tics and stutters. He patted his pockets for a cigarette then quickly got up. “Glasses,” he disappeared into the kitchen, returned with two cups which he placed on Gabriel’s desk. “Canadian V.O., not easy to come by. Here,” he handed a glass to Gabriel who ignored the gesture and asked instead about André. “No more than yester day.”
“Ali then?”
“The same.”
“Katima?”
“She’s fine. She’s looked after.” The list of people asked about since the start of the war was long, Davi Suntu, Don Pendar, Mical Delmont, Ryle Naceme among others, all bad news delivered with whiskey, sometimes sweet potatoes and canned meats. “Emilo Debor,” the Chief Inspector two weeks ago had let his voice trail off.
Gabriel pushed his papers aside, got up from behind his desk, and carrying his whiskey walked on tired legs toward the kitchen. What food he had - rice and cheese, fruits and meat - the soldiers dipped into regularly, leaving him with but a few bags of grain, some vegetables and crumbs of angle food cake. “About all this,” the Chief Inspector stood in the space where the breakfast table had been before the soldiers carted it away. As always, he tried to explain, feeling for some time the need, a regret he didn’t quite know how to let go of. “If I could,” War ez said, while Gabriel answered without expectation, his reply a summons in the form of a question, “What, Franco?”
Half drunk already, the Chief Inspector raised his glass, shook his head, started again, then stopped. Gabriel Mafante at the kitchen counter, began cutting up what vegetables he had on hand. “If you’re hungry,” he offered.
“No, no. That food is yours.”
“As you’ve left me.” The kitchen became quiet. A minute went by before the Chief Inspector said, “Yes, well, I’ll let you have your dinner.” He returned to the front room, bent down to pick up his hat, pulled the brim for ward as if securing it against a high wind, and leaving the bottle on the desk, said “Good night.”
He made three stops before heading home just after midnight. Casmola, he knew, would not be there. A week ago his wife said she was leaving to stay with relatives outside the capital where it was safe. An hour later, the officer assigned to the Bameritan Hyatt reported Casmola heading up to Leo’s room. The Chief Inspector shrugged and unlocked his front door, entered the dark. He took off his coat and hat and shoulder harness and dropped them on the couch. In the bedroom he stripped off the rest of his clothes, went into the bathroom and rinsed his arms and neck, then sat on the edge of the tub and put his face in his hands.
The buzz in his head was heavy from whiskey. “About all this,” he said as before, hoping to answer there in his own house. Unable still, he shrugged his shoulders, got up and slipped into bed, pulled the sheet around his middle and drifted off. His rest was intense, his dreams of recent history, the depth of his unconsciousness weighted like stones thrown down a well. He didn’t stir for some time and woke only to the feel of something hard pressed against his cheek.
CHAPTER 13
In the woods I concentrate on not getting lost. I stay clear of the roads as long as I can, tracking my travels by the stars, north and east, while keeping an eye on the moon as I near the capital. The woods don’t extend the entire way however, and there are gaps I must pass through, open areas where soldiers on patrol might easily spot me. Without shoes, I trot and stumble, enter the city and fold myself into the shadows. The thought of reaching my father’s house, All Kings, or home to Katima tempts me, but these are places I’m sure to be looked for and so I shift my focus and head elsewhere.
My hair has grown out and becomes matted with sweat as I run. I try not to think too much but it’s impossible. The door to the Chief Inspector’s house is locked tight. I check the windows, test each pane of glass, tap a stone into the corners to see if one might crack. After several failed attempts I discover if I work the wood in one particular section I can wedge out the surrounding frame. The process takes nearly half an hour, before I can push enough of the glass in to get my hand around. I wiggle the single sheet free, reach in for the latch, lift the window and climb inside.
My eyes are by this point well adjusted to the dark, and passing the couch I spot what Warez has left there. The hallway leads back to the main bedroom where I hold the gun against the Chief Inspector’s cheek, say his name and turn on the lamp. Warez squints, moves away from the gun. He looks at me, uncertainly at first, takes in the cuts and bruises, my soiled clothes, the stench of my body, the weight shorn from my frame, my beard and the dirt which clings to my flesh layer after layer. The blood on my feet stains his floor. “André?”
“Katima.”
“She’s alright. But how did you?”
“Ali? And my father?”
“Your father’s fine. He’s under house arrest. He’s a bull. He’s well. Ali we haven’t heard though,” the Chief Inspector slides up and wraps the bed sheet around his middle. “How did you get here?”
I hold the pistol out, the gun awkward in my grip, my hand trembling as I ask about Emilo, Davi and the others. My knees give and I struggle not to shout, my free hand fisted in the air as I make the Chief Inspector tell me about the Port. the “It’s not what you think,” Warez lifts his
“It’s not what you think,” Warez lifts his chin, sits up and wraps the sheet tighter around his stomach. His midsection is a pool of soft flesh. I look quickly around, having forgotten and ask, “Where’s your wife?”
“She’s not here. She won’t be coming back. Do you mind?” he motions toward his pants but I wave the gun. The Chief Inspector lets his shoulders sag as if all of everything is a tremendous burden, and breathing deeply, he sits back down and repeats, “Things aren’t what you think.” He looks at my feet, suggests I bathe and tend to my wounds, proposes fresh clothes, a razor and something to eat, but I’m not interested in any of this and let him know, “That’s not why I’m here.”
“No, of course not,” he shifts for ward once more and begins to get up. I aim the gun at his heart but the Chief Inspector says only, “If you’ve come to kill me.” He stands naked, “Otherwise, I’d like to get dressed.”
I let him go to his bureau and pull on a fresh pair of undershorts and t-shirt. It occurs to me only after he opens his drawer that he might have a weapon inside, but by then it’s too late. Warez turns and shows me the pistol before tossing it on the bed. “Come on,” he grabs his pants, signals for me as he walks out of the bedroom.
I follow him through the front room where he examines the window. “Clever. Remind me to get that fixed.” He proceeds to the kitchen, fl
ips on the low light of the stove while instructing me to, “Sit. I’m going to fix you something to eat.” He has fresh eggs in his refrigerator which he prepares in a pan scrambled with cheese. As he cooks, he keeps his back to me, speaks in a steady tone, repeats everything from the beginning, admits to telling Teddy about the Port. “I told him so he wouldn’t do what he did. Do you understand? I felt if he knew your rally was harmless he wouldn’t be surprised and send his soldiers in. I took a chance. I didn’t think. The same as you,” the Chief Inspector says this as a matter of fact, turns and glances at me, makes reference to my own mistakes, says “Hindsight’s a whore, isn’t she, André? She may seem to set the situation right, but in the end you’re still fucked.”
I sit at his table and say nothing.
“I did not betray you,” he insists. “I’d like you to believe this, but I can’t make you. Still, just stop and consider, why would I, as Chief Inspector, want to start a war when I believed all you planned was a peaceful march?”
He talks more of Teddy, of Don Pendar, Emilo and Davi Suntu. For my friends I slump and weep. When I tell him about Daniel the Chief Inspector sighs, gives me time. He serves my eggs with salt and jam. Joining me, his face is a puzzle, a calm I can’t quite make sense of, a weariness given way to something else. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, confusing me further. The gun is on the table between us now. I’ve washed my hands so that my fingers are clean but the dark dirt is there still at the start of my wrists. I eat my eggs while the Chief Inspector taps the table near the gun, and referring once more to Teddy says, “Alright then, now that you’re here, what are we going to do about all of this?”
Nick woke in the back seat of the car, the sunlight from the end of the alley rolling in through the rear window. The air was hot. He drove toward the center of the capital where soldiers stopped him twice at checkpoints and asked for ID. The camera and metal box loaded with explosives were underneath the front seat. The back of the car and trunk were searched but otherwise the soldiers didn’t bother. Outside the American Embassy the streets were crowded. Wooden barricades stood in orange rows, creating pockets of further separation. Nick parked and walked the last few blocks. The first guard asked to see his papers, patted him down, had him remove his shoes.
“Consul Dukette is expecting me,” Nick tried this. A second guard took his name, made him wait just inside the Embassy doors while the guard at the main desk used a black telephone to ring the Consul’s office. Two a minutes later a woman in a beige skirt, flat gold shoes and bone white blouse came down and brought Nick upstairs. The halls of the Embassy were long and shaded, the main lobby without windows, everything cast dimly like the inside of a cave. Nick had a yellow visitor’s pass hung from a thin chain around his neck. The soldiers stationed on each floor watched as he walked by.
“Nick!” The Consul’s office was on the third floor where Eric Dukette was waiting. “Come in, come in. I’d no idea.” He removed a mound of files from a flat cushioned chair. “When did you get here?”
He took a seat, waited as Dukette pulled the chair from behind his desk around in front and sat beside him. “I’m on assignment,” he said. “CAN.”
“Ah, yes. Not vacationing then? Ha! But things are locked down pretty tight. Someone should have told me earlier. We’re supposed to be notified about people arriving. Not that we have many these days. All the same, you should have reported in, though I guess here you are,” he turned in his seat, reached and fumbled through a stack of papers on his desk. “CAN you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Someone should have told me,” he repeated before giving up the hunt. “Ahh well, you’re here now and it’s great to see you. When was the last time?”
“Portugal, three years ago.”
“That’s it. Your father and I were banging about at some conference and you came down. How is old Chuck?”
“He’s good. He sends his best.”
“And mine in turn. Tell him, will you?” On the wall to the right was a lithograph of Ted Williams in full swing, a map of the region pinned beneath, an umbrella stand across the way inside of which were three wooden walking sticks. A full length mirror was turned for some reason toward the wall, while a spare suit and shirt hung on a single wooden hanger behind the door. Dukette reached for ward and squeezed Nick’s knee. “It’s good to see you,” he said again. “Too few friendly faces of late. So, I take it you’re here to cover our little tilt?”
“The revolution,” Nick tried to sound convincing. “My bosses want to know why America’s supporting Teddy.”
“For the record?” Dukette lit a cigarette. “Off the record I’ll tell you the General isn’t a fellow one chooses to support. It’s more complicated than that. The situation in Bamerita isn’t like a sporting event where you pick a side, sit in the stands and cheer. Its a matter of greater interests. Bamerita presents us with certain strategical advantages, sitting where she does,” Dukette emphasized. “For the moment Teddy provides a certain convenience. A bird in the hand,” the American Consul found an ashtray on the floor and flicked the end of his cigarette into the bowl.
Nick nodded his head as if taking mental notes. “And the Port?”
“What of it?” Dukette blew smoke. “There’s an ongoing investigation into that affair and that’s all I can tell you. How the war started, when it started, at the Port or in the hills, who fired first, he said, she said, none of it matters. Politics is worse than business. At the end of the day its all bottom line, who’s scratching whose back and who owes whom what.”
Nick said, “I understand.” He told Dukette, “I’ll keep that in mind,” and asked again, “About the General. I’ve a favor. I was hoping you’d help me get a shot. Something exclusive.”
“Were you now?” Dukette smiled at this. “There are a good many people who’d like to get a shot at Teddy.”
“On film. I need something new. Some current footage,” Nick wiped his hands on the side of his jeans. “If you could arrange this.”
“You assume the General and I are close?”
“Off the record?” Nick tried a joke. “If Teddy’s scratching your back I figure you’ll know where to find him.”
The American Consul laughed, considered the request, weighed the possibilities, complimented Nick on taking advantage of his connections. His square face was creased by a series of deep sun baked lines. He reached and slapped Nick’s leg for a final time, said “Well then, young Nick, if that’s all you’re asking, let’s see what might be done.”
I eat my eggs, wipe clean every last trace before going with the Chief Inspector back to the bedroom. Of our plan we say nothing further, all of it still but a rough outline, the equivalent of stage directions. I make clear, “Before we go, I’d like to see Katima first. And my father.”
“We can do that,” Warez has received phone calls this morning, has gotten word that Everett Doyle has been killed, informs his men that he’s handling a different matter and tells me then, “No one’s mentioned you as yet, André. I’m not surprised,” he says. “Those at Moulane will want to keep things quiet for now. My guess is they’ll order up a search on their own first, but word will get out soon and they’ll have to make an official statement. Until then,” he goes to his dresser and removes a fresh set of underclothes and socks. “A little big but they’ll do. First, let’s get you in the shower.”
I’ve brought the gun from the kitchen, but toss it now beside the other on the bed. In the bathroom I turn on the tap, strip off my clothes and enter the flow. The warm water rinses me, the cuts on my arms and legs and feet sting, the bruises and bumps old and new still painful. The mix of dirt and blood and flakes of flesh swim down and disappear in the drain. Warez stands just outside the bathroom and tells me more about the revolution, all the news I didn’t know. I come from the shower and dry myself with a towel, my body shrunk and bony. At the mirror I trim the whiskers from my face with a scissors, then wet the hairs again and apply shaving
cream, drawing the sharp edge of the razor down my cheek. My hand shakes and twice I have to stop and collect myself, thinking of Daniel. I do not shave my head.
The Chief Inspector brings me a shot of whiskey which I sip in the hope of steadying my hand. When I finish in the bathroom, I begin to dress in the pale blue shirt and brown slacks Warez has provided. The pants are too big, but we make them work with a brown belt. The shirt fits better. The Chief Inspector goes to his closet again and pulls out an old beige sports coat, holds it up for me, taking measure, saying “When I was a few years younger and a pound or two lighter.”
It’s now just after six in the morning. Exhausted, I have no interest in sleep, stand for a moment and try to compose myself. The Chief Inspector, too, seems anxious. He collects the guns from the bed, slips on his shoulder holster and hands the second pistol to me. In 1948, Gandhi wrote: “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” I don’t want to think of this, believe it’s best now if I don’t think at all. In my run through the woods, I stopped at one point to catch my breath, and sitting on a rock, panting and sweating beneath the moon, I saw on the ground several hundred red harvester ants marching toward me. I looked closer, startled and unsure how they noticed me there, whether it was the fresh cuts on my feet or if by accident I’d stumbled into their nest. I moved my legs but the ants veered with me, proceeding in unison, determined to reach me until I bent down, and spotting the largest ant in the front of the pack, I crushed it dead. Instantly then the other ants scattered.
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