by M L Rudolph
Facing the Son, A Novel of Africa
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
About the Author
FACING THE SON
M L RUDOLPH
FACING THE SON
a novel of africa
Copyright © 2011 by M L Rudolph.
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be used or reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means is illegal and punishable by law.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
Cover designed by Kris Rudolph, www.a.bbtdesigns.com.
ISBN: 978-1-463782-95-5 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-9837076-1-5 (e-book)
Version 2012.04.20
http://markrudolph.wordpress.com/
Note to Reader
“In Facing the Son, when a character speaks English,” author Rudolph says, “dialogue is presented in the normal fashion. With quotation marks. Like this.”
“That’s easy enough,” says main character Matt Reiser.
“Yeah. Pretty standard.”
—But when a character speaks in French, Rudolph says. —You’ll see dialogue presented like this. With a dash instead of quotation marks.
“What? I don’t understand French,” Matt says.
“That’s the point,” explains Rudolph. “This way the reader can follow what you can’t.”
“Oh, I get it,” Matt says. “But what if I understand some of the French?”
—I don’t think that will be a problem.
“What?” Matt says.
“Exactly.”
Chapter 1
Matt Reiser, from Fort Wayne, Indiana, landed in Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire, on a May evening in 1979. He woke the next morning with a cutting headache.
He rubbed his neck, his skin hot, gritty, and sticky, and blinked directly into a bright parched wall. He sat up with a jerk. “Ow!” His back. He twisted himself upright, confused, on a hard-pack street.
A group of strange people stood over him. A short heavy bald man in a horizontally striped shirt dangled a cigarette from his lips. A severe woman with critical eyes held a headless chicken by its feet. Several ill-dressed men looked on from behind.
“Get away from me!” Matt waved his arms to shoo the crowd. “What are you looking at?” He meant to shout but coughed. He was groggy. His body didn’t respond. He needed to focus. “Where am I?”
Matt struggled to his feet, felt the blood fall from his head, and placed his palms on the wall for balance. The wall felt warm, rough. He waited for the dizziness to pass before turning to see where the hell he was. The sun caught him in the face. Too bright. Couldn’t see. Shaded his eyes.
Who were these people? The bald man stared at him. Made him aware of his heavy, crumpled sport coat. Matt pressed his lower back to stand straight.
“Where is this?” He stepped away from the wall and turned his attention to the area around the building. He stumbled into the street, splashing through a curbside rivulet.
“The hell?” He looked at his wet socks. “Where are my shoes?” He looked around at tenements running the length of the street in both directions. Weeds, spindly bushes, even a short tree, poked through the broken road. Trash lay in scattered piles. An old cane chair with a busted seat butted up against a wall. A mangy mongrel rummaged through the trash at the corner of a building. Nothing like Le Grande Hôtel here. Le Grande Hôtel. The idea of it burnt brightly in Matt’s yawning consciousness with the promise of cleanliness, a cool shower, and security.
“Police,” Matt said, his anger taking shape. “I want the police!” he shouted. “The police! Do you hear me? Get the police!”
The old woman knocked the bald man in the shoulder and uttered something.
“My bags!” Coming to, Matt looked back at the empty space around the square building. “My bags were in the trunk of the car.” He slapped his pockets with growing panic. “My money!” Then he slapped his chest to feel for his passport and rammed his hands inside his jacket pockets. “I can’t believe this! They took everything!” He threw his arms out and traipsed toward the onlookers. He couldn’t imagine going home empty handed, returning to his wife’s everlasting disappointment.
A moped skidded to a halt beside the commotion. The rider, a teenage boy with an Afro wore an orange and green soccer jersey. He stayed seated, his feet as kickstand, watching. The boy looked fresh, as if he just woke up and was on his way to school, or work, or whatever it was these people did around here.
The group gave Matt space and watched him strut.
“I don’t speak French,” he asserted. “No parlez français.” The bald man blinked at the smoke curling up from his cigarette. The scruffy cur dropped his head and snarled. Matt kept the mutt in sight. Was it rabid? How much worse could this get?
A number of pedestrians sauntered into view from a side street to see what the fuss was about. A cheerful school girl with tight round braids, a dark blue smock, and white knee socks, walked over to the woman with the chicken. The woman spoke to the girl, who then smiled shyly and stepped forward.
“Do you speak Eeenglish?” she said, in a deliberate, practiced voice.
Matt heard her as clearly as if she’d fired a rifle shot in the middle of the night. “Yes, I speak English.” He threw his head back and addressed the clear blue sky. “Thank God. Yes.” He stepped toward her, resisting a strong desire to pick her up and hug her. Instead he dropped to one knee and took a breath. “Hello,” he enunciated. “What is your name?” He spent his life teaching kids only a few years older than this girl.
She stood straighter and said, “My name-uh ees Tana.”
“Very good, Tana. My name is Matt. I’m pleased to meet you.” He reached out his hand, but she looked uncertain what to do with it.
Matt continued. “I need to find Le Grande Hôtel. Can anyone tell me how to get there?” Matt decided to forget
about the police and simply get to the hotel where he could access his reservation and pull himself together. He’d find someone there who could translate for him, figure out what to do, how to engage the police, how to contact the Embassy, how to make sense of it all.
Tana maintained her eager smile and said, “I study Eeenglish een the school.” The group of onlookers paid attention. The dog sat to watch.
“You speak very good.”
“I speak very well,” Tana said with a clever smile, as if she’d answered a trick question.
“Very good,” Matt said, and blinked into the sun, his headache protesting. “Very well then. Do you understand hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Do you know Le Grande Hôtel?”
She turned and before she could say anything the old woman laughed at her, or rather laughed at Matt. He couldn’t tell. Why was she laughing? Then the bald man instigated some conversation among the group. After a moment, Tana translated for Matt, “Yes.”
“You know Le Grande Hôtel?”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me directions?”
“Yes. Mon père can tell you,” she said, turning to the bald man who was already motioning up the street.
Tana’s father gave a short speech with confident hand gestures. When he finished, two or three other men responded with their comments. The woman pointed the chicken at Matt’s feet.
“What did they say?” Matt asked.
“No shoes, monsieur,” she said. “It is a long walk with no shoes. And the bridge is not safe for walking alone.”
“Shoes are the least of my worries right now. Just tell me where it is.”
“Que…? I don’t understand.” Tana looked pained. She wanted to shine in front of her parents, but Matt spoke too fast for her.
“I’m sorry.” He slowed down. “Which way do I go?” Matt pointed up the street. “Do I go this way to Le Grande Hôtel?” He pointed the opposite direction. “Or do I go this way?”
Tana’s father spoke again and waved up the street in the direction Matt first pointed. If he turned right at the top of the street, Tana translated, he would see Le Grande Hôtel across the lagoon on the other side of the General Charles de Gaulle Bridge.
Chapter 2
“I am sorry, monsieur, but without a passport and a credit card we cannot register you.” The willowy Grande Hôtel receptionist wore a cobalt blue collarless jacket with matching neckerchief. She wasn’t unkind in appearance or demeanor. In other circumstances, she may have been the most helpful person in the world, but as things stood with Matt she had other guests lining up behind him, and he was starting to annoy her.
“I was robbed,” Matt explained again. “I don’t have a passport or a credit card. They took everything. What am I supposed to do?” Matt spread his arms, throwing himself on her mercy. “Sleep in the street?”
He presented a sorry picture in contrast to the immaculate and airy reception area. His jowls sagged. Dark stains marred his sport coat and slacks. He blinked frequently, his eyes irritated from the thick traffic fumes and humidity he encountered crossing the Charles de Gaulle Bridge, then the baking city streets along the briny lagoon leading to Le Grande Hôtel. His feet burned from the pavement. Half way across the bridge he stepped on a piece of glass and leaned on the railing to peel back his sock, a trickle of blood his only guide to the clear sliver lodged in his heel.
“They even took my shoes.” He turned up his bloodied foot for emphasis, the skin showing through where the sock had worn away.
“But you can’t take possession of a room without a credit card, monsieur.”
“I was robbed, madam,” Matt raised his voice. “I can recite my MasterCard number from memory, if you’d like. Run me through your system. I guarantee I’ll check out.”
The receptionist remained kind but firm. “I am sorry, monsieur. Perhaps you can try le banque, or,” she motioned to the other end of the long reception desk, “you may use the phone to call your embassy, if you wish. Or, le concièrge might help you. But I’m sorry. There is nothing I can do.” She finished with Matt and turned to the businessman behind him. “Bon jour, monsieur,” she said, reaching for the man’s credit card.
Matt took this disappointing news about an hour after he set off to follow young Tana’s directions. He had hoofed it across the bridge, passed by dozens of orange taxis. Occasionally a stern Mercedes sped by and he peered at the tinted windows for any sign of the damned driver who created this mess. If he found that wormy little guy in his Mercedes 300SD Turbo, he’d tear his goddam head off…but wait…didn’t the driver say he worked for an American company. If he told the truth, and if he did work for an American company here in Abidjan, wasn’t that something Matt could look up at the US Embassy? Contact every American business leader on record until he tracked down that Mercedes? Get his things back. Wouldn’t a fellow American want to know if his car was being used to mug people?
Determined not to be fobbed off by this receptionist, Matt butted back in line, bumping aside the man checking out. “I want to talk to your manager.”
The receptionist gave Matt her iciest stare. “Monsieur. S’il vous plaît.”
The interrupted gentleman stepped aside, visibly annoyed, and possibly repulsed by Matt’s shabby appearance and ripe smell. —After you, monsieur, he said in French, with exaggerated kindness.
Matt didn’t understand the man but he read him well enough, and he didn’t care how annoyed he was. The man just enjoyed a warm shower and a hot breakfast on top of a good night’s sleep. He could wait five minutes.
“Okay. Back to me. I want to talk to the manager. I have a reservation. I’ve been mugged. Left with nothing. It’s your country. I think you owe me a little help here.”
The receptionist looked apologetically at the guest Matt interrupted. —My excuses, monsieur, she said. —This will only take a minute.
She punched a button on her phone and held the receiver to her ear.
—I have a problem at the front desk with a guest, she said. She listened. —He says he has been robbed of his passport and money. I cannot verify.… She listened. —Yes. She listened. —Yes. She listened. —Very good, monsieur. She hung up.
“He can see you in a moment. If you will please take a seat.” She motioned to the spacious lobby. “I will very much appreciate it.”
“How do I know what you just said, and that you’re not just moving me out of the way?”
“Monsieur,” she beseeched. “S’il vous plaît.” She looked to the lengthening line of waiting guests. “The manager is coming.”
Matt considered the stares of the businessmen behind him, figured he’d got all he could expect from this woman, and reluctantly nodded assent.
He stepped aside and studied the bright capacious lobby, floor-to-ceiling windows at the entrance with a view to the horseshoe drive, bullet-shaped lamps hanging over various lounge and work areas.
A naïf mural dominated the main wall opposite the elevators, bar, and restaurant. The mural depicted an idyllic setting: circular thatched huts beside a gentle stream where duck-like figures and simple pirogues floated. Small birds suspended mid-air between broad-branched trees throwing shade. Tall, thin women with babies strapped to their backs balanced pots on their heads; other women rammed head-high pestles into wide mortars; still other women tended a smoldering fire. In the distance, a pinkish glow suggested that day was either beginning or ending. A different Africa, maybe the past, the distant past, or maybe the never-was, Matt thought, because everything he’d seen so far was traffic-jammed urban slum, teeming with pedestrians and scooters and cars and busses. And here the lobby bustled with well-heeled foreign guests tipping the natives.
Matt dropped his weary frame in a lobby armchair, back to the wall to keep an eye out for the manager, while watching the entrance with its flow of arrivals and departures.
Outside, three orange taxis stopped in quick succession and disgorged their passengers. The lo
bby grew instantly crowded with well-dressed men, their luggage handled by bellmen, their payment taken with easy efficiency. Matt should have arrived like these people, jumping out of an orange taxi, tipping a bellhop, and slapping a passport on the reception desk. That’s who he was supposed to be: one of them. Not some slob slouched in a chair, off to the side. An irritant to the receptionist. A problem for the manager.
He came all this way to be stripped of his possessions, and—Melanie’s letter!—left for dead. All he had now was this hotel reservation, and that was clearly worthless without passport and credit card. But what the hell—the hotel had to have some record of him. Plus he had money in the bank at home he could access, somehow, to get back on his feet.
Feet.
Shoes.
He felt like punching somebody.
In front of him, a pretty girl in a peach peasant blouse, jeans, and tennis shoes bumped shoulders with a gray-suited businessman. The pretty girl apologized and hopped sideways stepping on Matt’s toes.
—Excuse me, sir, she said, breathless and disturbed.
A fresh scent of lavender blossomed from her as she looked straight into Matt’s tired eyes. Maybe it was a reaction to his victimization, but the sight of this fresh young girl revived him. Her exuberant apology and troubled expression compelled him to sit up eager to help, but he couldn’t think what to say other than, “Oui?”
The pretty girl hopped swiftly back and hurried through the crowded lobby.
His attention drawn, Matt watched the girl approach a small desk by the bright-windowed entrance and speak rapid fire to an elegant, fine-boned man in a navy suit and silver tie. The elegant man received the girl with kindly concern to the exclusion of all activity about him.
The acrid stink of stale tobacco drew Matt’s attention away from the pretty girl to a vaguely familiar young man wearing a baggy orange football jersey, a pic comb wedged into the side of his Afro. This oafish man knocked his way through the crowded lobby to stop directly behind the pretty girl. The elegant man in the navy suit looked up, causing the pretty girl to snap around.
