by M L Rudolph
The pretty girl, clearly upset, slapped at the young man, who laughed, leaned back, and effortlessly fended her off. Matt saw a boyfriend-girlfriend falling out, not unlike many he’d refereed during his years as teacher and coach at Harrison High.
The elegant man in the navy suit stepped between the young quarrelers, just as a short rooster-like man, silky red shirt tucked into his high-waisted slacks, strutted through the entrance like he was used to people giving ground at his appearance. He drew the attention of the young couple who immediately stopped fighting, and he walked right up to the boy, slapped him on the back of his head, and shoved him toward the windows. There the boy stood wearing a sullen smirk.
The elegant man took responsibility for the pretty girl and maneuvered her backwards into a nearby chair, where he stood over her in an unsuccessful effort to quiet her.
With the young quarrelers separated, the elegant man and the rooster met by the windows where they spoke with heads lowered over the top of a small desk as if they were reciting something written on its surface. Maybe they were the fathers of the two kids and they’d been through this before?
At one point during the paternal pow-wow, the rooster turned and stared directly at Matt for a long moment, revealing something not quite right with his face. His nose appeared crooked and flat, as if crushed, giving him a mean and vengeful look. The elegant man rapped the desktop to get back the rooster’s attention, then slid open a drawer and returned to the pretty girl, now standing with her arms crossed.
The rooster shoved his hands in and out of his pockets then in one smooth motion closed the drawer. He turned to gather his son, if that’s who he was, and gave him another vicious cuff. The boy raised his arms too late; his father easily overpowered him and shoved him stumbling toward the door leading to the drive.
Among the lobby activity of bellhops carting luggage, loading guests into elevators, and gathering in tips for smoothing departures, the elegant man and his daughter, if that’s who she was, disappeared through a door behind the small desk bringing down the curtain on this local show.
The little spat went unnoticed as far as Matt could see. He slumped back into his chair, and after a glance to the reception desk where he hoped to see the manager coming toward him, he closed his weary eyes.
Matt’s first wife Melanie came back to him on a frigid February night. Huffing from the cold trudge up the unshoveled driveway, her cheeks flushed and her eyes watery, she pushed her way past him into his living room.
“Stage four lung cancer,” she blurted, tore off her stocking cap, and threw it at him. “If it’s true, which I don’t think it is by the way, it’s just not fair.” She smacked him on the shoulder and glared up at his incredulous face.
She smacked him again and again, her head down at his chest, her hair a mess of static electricity. Weaving back and forth, she attacked Matt’s broad shoulders, hitting and missing with her head down.
Matt stood immobile and received her body punches because if this was what she needed, he’d take it all night long.
“It’s just not fair,” Melanie said, catching her breath, fatigue driving the air out of her rage. “Is it?” She turned her teary eyes up at Matt, as if by getting him to agree with her he could somehow make a difference.
But though he did agree, because it wasn’t fair, he couldn’t make any difference other than to open his arms and welcome her into a once familiar embrace for the first time since their divorce.
“But if I’m dying,” she whispered into Matt’s chest, “we need to find Karl.”
“Monsieur Reiser, is it?”
Matt opened his eyes and looked up, befuddled, taking a moment to gather his wits. The elegant man in the navy blue suit stood over him. His nametag said M. Djédji. Was he the hotel manager?
Matt checked his wrist and—damn!—his Timex. A narrow abrasion where someone ripped off the Twist-o-Flex band. Not that knowing the time was going to matter. But still. The loss of his watch reignited his anger and resentment at being violated.
Matt sat up ready for a fight, girded for a discussion which he feared would be a mere formality before he was sent packing.
“I am Jean-Louis Djédji, the concièrge of this hotel. If you’ll let me, I would be happy to assist.” The concièrge smiled with disarming friendliness. Long, sharp face, closely trimmed hair, the man was of average height and displayed a confident readiness to help.
Matt opened his mouth but drew a blank.
“I must truly apologize, monsieur,” M. Djédji continued. “For the way my country has welcomed you, or rather has mistreated you.”
The concièrge’s unexpected English fluency, kind tone, and apparent appreciation of his situation threw Matt off stride. He wasn’t sure what to make of the well-meaning man. “How do you know what I just went through?”
“Unfortunately, monsieur, I know too well about the rogue taxi drivers at our airport which our government refuses to control. I suppose you could not read the signs warning you only to take orange taxis.”
“What signs?”
“Exactly. All the signs are in French which doesn’t help someone who cannot read French, does it?”
Matt looked up, incredulous. “You warn people but you still let it happen?”
“Unfortunately, it does happen, yes. Very rarely to our guests, I am glad to say. Which is why I had to do some checking. I am sorry you had to wait,” he explained. “You have to report your stolen passport at the US Embassy—I assume you are American, not Canadian. Am I correct?”
Matt nodded.
“Next, you can contact your bank in America and have them wire your money to one of the banks, or if you prefer, you can courier a money order to the hotel and we will cash it for you.”
Though he needed the help, now that it appeared before him in the form of this efficient concièrge, Matt wasn’t sure how to accept it, or if he should trust it.
“For your short term need of money, clothes, food, a place to sleep.…” The concièrge handed Matt a pair of simple flip-flops. “I guessed your size. If they don’t fit, exchanging them is no problem.” The concièrge next presented a bulging hotel envelope. “I have also arranged for this emergency package. You can consider it a loan. After you feel like it, come see me at the concièrge desk.” He pointed beyond the reception desk to the station where Matt had earlier watched the lovers’ quarrel. “I will arrange transportation to your embassy.”
Inside the envelope Matt discovered a bundle of clean new CFA notes resembling those he received from the airport bank, plus a heavy brass hotel room key.
“I won’t expect to see you until sometime tomorrow.” The concièrge spread his palms in front of Monsieur Reiser. “I am confident I can help you work this out. Then you can pay me back, plus, if you wish, a small gratuity in appreciation of my efforts on your behalf.”
Matt held the envelope uneasily, puzzled by the concièrge’s good deed, especially after having been so thoroughly victimized upon arrival then stonewalled by the receptionist. He’d feel better if he could find an American, someone he could relate to in the hotel, or certainly at the embassy.
He looked around the still busy lobby. He hadn’t yet heard a word of English. This Jean-Louis Djédji, the elegant and empathetic concièrge of this hotel, was offering him a lifeline and he had no choice but to accept.
Anyway, what’s the downside? He could put the chain across his room door, get out of these grimy clothes, wash off the filth of the street, and stretch out to sleep on a clean bed for as long as he wanted.
The concièrge interpreted Matt’s grip on the envelope as acceptance of his offer and took a polite leave to return to his station by the grand picture windows at the entrance.
Chapter 3
After a shower, a simple room service meal of cheese omelet, French fries, coffee, and orange juice, Matt fell into a fitful sleep that lasted until late afternoon. Then after staring into the ceiling trying to figure out what he did wrong, he slept
again well into the night.
Sometime before dawn he sat up naked, snapped on his bedside lamp, and eyed his sport coat humped over the back of an armchair. It looked as beaten and betrayed as he felt.
He’d got in the habit of popping a malaria pill first thing each morning but they were gone with everything else. One more goddam thing to worry about. He checked the room for signs of mosquitoes buzzing about or smashed on the walls. Checked his arms and legs, his belly, felt along his back and butt for any signs of bites. He slept overnight in that filthy street. Who knew what kind of microscopic chiggers burrowed into him while he dozed? He had to get malaria pills as a priority. But where? He’d ask the concièrge.
All his trip preparation felt foolish now as he looked at his pants and shirt and tie in a heap on the floor. That tie, Melanie’s favorite powder blue, lay twisted in an angry snarl.
“I will call you every day,” Matt promised when he finally let her convince him to make the trip. “And you have to promise to tell me how you’re feeling. Because if you take a turn for the worse—and I mean it, Melanie—I’m taking the next plane back.” He gently squeezed her, feeling her ribs through her terrycloth robe. “Whether I’ve found him or not.”
“Well, Matthew Reiser, I can’t, I won’t, I refuse to die until you bring Karl home.” She popped her head up to reveal a mischievous smirk. “But if you don’t go, I just might, you know….”
“Stop. That’s terrible. Don’t even finish that sentence.”
She kissed him to stop him from growing agitated.
“You have to go. It’ll only take a week. And I’ve got Annie.” Annie Perry, the next door neighbor, was Melanie’s childhood friend.
“But that’s the point. You should have me, not Annie.”
“I do have you, Mattie. But I need Karl, too.”
Melanie continued encouraging Matt as she got dressed, and as they drove to his house where she helped him pack. She picked out his powder blue tie, her favorite color, and tied it for him like when they were newlyweds, adjusting the knot just-so at his throat. “I love you for this, Mattie,” she whispered. “I’ll be waiting. Just don’t you worry about me.” And kissed him like she did when they were married.
Melanie. He should call her.
He checked his wrist. Shit! Never mind the time, he wasn’t even sure what day it was. He checked the bedside alarm clock but it was one of those new digital readouts and blinked twelve, as if the power had failed.
He grabbed the bedside phone and dialed zero. After some linguistic gymnastics with the operator, he determined it to be about five a.m., which would be eleven at night for Melanie. She’d be asleep, but she’d have an ear cocked for his call. He pictured her fumbling with her reading glasses next to her bedside lamp, then stretching for the phone. What should he tell her? How would she take his news?
He tried to dial the US but got strange clicks and complaints from the phone line. How maddening was that? Couldn’t even call home without asking for help.
He redialed zero and asked for “America. USA. Telephone.” But the operator answered in French and it took Matt several awkward back-and-forths to understand he couldn’t dial direct. He gave the operator Melanie’s area code and number then hung up, still foggy as to what to expect. Should he wait by the phone? He was already behind on his promise to call home daily.
He stepped into the bathroom, frowned at his haggard reflection, and threw water on his face. He kept his lips pressed firmly as he dried off, careful to keep the tainted moisture from his mouth. He read about all the water borne diseases such as diarrhea and schistomiasis, not to mention the malaria he already worried about. Then there was cholera, hepatitis A, typhoid fever, and dengue fever plus a longer list of diseases he couldn’t remember much less pronounce. Water. He’d spent his entire life never giving it more than a passing thought, drinking from public water fountains outside his classroom or from the hose he used on his yard, but here he wouldn’t let a drop pass his lips unless from a bottle he personally opened.
Personally opened. That was it.
“Limo, monsieur?” A shiny-browed man in a crisp short-sleeved shirt and smart gray slacks rushed up to Matt after he passed through the bedlam of customs. “Which hotel you go? I take you first class.”
“Not interested,” Matt turned his back, distrustful of this man so intent on selling.
“Come. I take you. I carry….” He grabbed for Matt’s Samsonite.
“No!” Matt barked. “Listen to me. No! Not interested.” Matt’s face puffed with anger and fatigue.
The wannabe chauffeur followed Matt as he battled the confusion in the hall, forcing him more than once to stop and stare at the complete lack of anything he recognized. Matt gripped his luggage tightly, worried that someone would make a grab for it. Not sure why he felt so insecure.
He kept his suitcase and valise between his legs as he stood at a teller window and changed money. The people, their clothes, their language, the smells, the speed with which everything was passing him by, made him distrust everyone.
Outside the exit, night had swiftly fallen. A row of compact orange taxis threw weak headlights across the airport road into a mob of impatient passengers and their luggage. Matt looked at the throng of passengers fighting for position in the shadows and imagined an unruly line and a tediously humid wait.
The driver came back to him. “You go by limo, monsieur,” the man said as if it was a secret. “Not by taxi. You big man. Long legs. You can relax.”
Matt laughed as a wave of fatigue washed over him. Adrenaline, caffeine, alcohol, and two days of eating on the move combined to wear him down, no longer determined to fight every little battle.
“How much does it cost to le Grande Hôtel?”
“Le Grande…uh…okay, I give you good price. I work for American company. My president, he’s in New York. He let me use the society car when he goes. He like that I work.” He flashed a nervous smile.
“What kind of car?”
The pest grew energized. “Mercedes 300SD Turbo. You see. You like.”
He led Matt in the opposite direction of the taxi rank and out a poorly lit entrance across from a parking area at the far end of the terminal. Within the aureole of a fluttering parking lot bulb, the driver eagerly unlocked the trunk of a new model sedan. “Let me, monsieur.”
Matt watched as the driver stowed his suitcase and valise and waited until he saw the trunk slammed shut.
The back seat was better than Matt expected and allowed him to relax just like the chauffeur promised. Neatly inserted into the pouches behind the seats were French magazines and newspapers. One paper displayed a photo of Idi Amin atop a tank. African news never caught Matt’s eye before. It all seemed so extremely far away, unrelated to anything he cared about. But this story, here, drew his attention. How far away was Uganda? What if Karl was there? He pulled out the paper determined to decipher some French on the way to the hotel.
“You want a drink?” From the driver’s seat, the chauffeur popped open the center console displaying a Perrier, a Coke, and an Orange Fanta. “Please. For you.” He motioned to the selection. “The water is cold. People always take the Perrier. I keep it in my frigo until I leave home.”
The driver opened the Perrier and handed the bottle to Matt. “Please. I take good care of you.”
Matt put the bottle to his lips, drained the lightly carbonated water in one long swig, then set the empty on the carpeted floor. He leaned back into the firm leather seat, took a fresh breath as the air conditioner kicked in, and watched the silhouettes of date palms glide by outside the tinted windows.
Beyond the airport, the car’s headlights probed an overwhelming darkness, flashed past the corners of warehouses and homes, illuminating tree stumps, peering into the broad spaces at the outskirts of Abidjan.
The shadows betrayed hints of pedestrians and bicyclists, street signs for unknown places, a city teeming with life behind the veil of night. The immensity of the str
angeness overcame Matt and for a moment he regretted he came. He could never find Karl in this cultural quagmire.
He needed sleep and energy to make sense of it all. He leaned his head back to watch lights dance across the ceiling and closed his eyes for a second.
It was the Perrier, damnit. Probably only pretended to open it, and Matt had been foolish enough to take it. He narrowed his eyes onto his bathroom reflection which now looked stupid, so very, very stupid, as well as haggard.
He hadn’t shaved in two days. His teeth looked dull, felt fuzzy. He’d need to buy a toothbrush. He rubbed his head vigorously trying to give his hair some life, massage his brain. He looked awful and felt like a fool.
Getting dressed after a shower felt like a return to the street. His clothes stank and showed the marks of his mugging. When Matt stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, he looked homeless and penniless, which was exactly how he felt. His shirt showed the effect of his work with hotel soap and water. His sport coat had turned a duller shade of taupe after a vigorous brushing with a hand towel. His big toes peeked from under his pant cuffs—sandals with dress pants, that was a first.
The flap of his flip flops on the broad marble floor emphasized his hollow sense of failure. He looked terrible. Felt worse. He’d lost everything, including Melanie’s letter.
The low light was early morning but Matt felt like half-past midnight. His head buzzed from anger and two days of engine drone, or was it the hum of some hidden hotel appliance? The murmur of conversation drew him to the lobby restaurant where he shut his eyes and sucked the coffee aroma deep into his lungs.
