by M L Rudolph
Matt first asked after her health.
“Annie and I walked around the block this morning. There was a light mist.” She sounded well. “It was fresh and a little chilly. You would’ve loved it.”
“So your strength? You sound good.”
“Every day a little better. I’m thinking about the marathon in Chicago this fall. I hear they’re moving it back to October to beat the heat,” she said. That Melanie could walk around the block was huge progress from a month ago. That she felt good enough to joke about making October told Matt what he hoped to hear.
“You must be sleeping alright.”
“I am. I’m just so excited to hear your voice. So tell me, what’s it like? How’s your marathon going?” she asked eagerly. “I want to hear all about it before this line goes dead.”
Matt took a breath and stuck to the facts, starting with the embassy visit. “No progress on Karl, but I go back tomorrow to arrange Bamako.”
“What do you mean arrange Bamako? What’s there to arrange? We already did that.”
“Well, we did, but.” Matt delivered a tame summary of the robbery, the Perrier from the console, waking up on the street, and the kindness of the concièrge and his niece. “Tomorrow I’m probably going to need your help to transfer money.”
Melanie waited through a moment of transoceanic pips and squeaks before asking, “Are you sure you want to continue, Mattie.”
“More than ever,” he said, sounding reasonable and determined. “The worst that could happen already did and I overcame it. And anyway, I’m not coming this far and getting blocked by some cheap hoodlum.”
“But how are you going to get around?”
“Just like we planned. Everything you and I set up is still good. In fact it’s because you were so good at planning that I can continue. As it turns out I have just the right amount of time in Abidjan to get everything back in place. Day after tomorrow up to Bamako which the embassy confirmed is Karl’s last known address, like you said.”
“Mattie?” Melanie used a tone she reserved for serious news.
“Hmh?” He recognized that tone and braced for the worst.
“I just want you to know it’s alright with me if you come back.”
He relaxed somewhat, grateful and relieved that she didn’t drop a bomb about a relapse or something worse. “I knew you’d say that. But the only reason I’m coming home is if you need me. Not because this place got the best of me. You know what, babe?”
“What?”
“Remember Mungo Park? All he went through? My problems are nothing compared to his. All I got to do is recreate a little paperwork. It’s not like anyone’s betraying me, or sending me into the wilderness with only the clothes on my back. I’m staying in a five star hotel. Plus it’s not exactly like angry natives are chasing me through the desert.”
At age twelve, Matt read Travels in the Interior of Africa, Park’s account of his 1795 adventure across West Africa seeking to be the first European to cast eyes on the mighty Niger River. Park suffered the loss of all his party to desertion and disease, survived imprisonment and brutal treatment at the hands of native tribesmen, and was reduced to trading the brass buttons off his coat for scraps of food before eventually sighting the great river. On a subsequent trip Park and his party suffered a brutal death at the hands of natives while traveling that river.
The effect on young Matt of this true tale of privation, starvation, and murder, rather than encouraging his impressionable mind to adventure and discovery, conditioned him against exotic travel, any notion of which he’d successfully rejected until Melanie asked him to take her letter to Karl.
After the call, Matt rummaged around in the minibar and found four Johnnie Walker Black miniatures which he downed in celebration of Melanie’s newfound strength. She was walking around the block with Annie! That was worth a toast or two. Who knew? Maybe Melanie could beat this thing. That would be the best of all possible outcomes: Matt would find Karl after he flew up to Bamako; they’d phone Melanie for a happy and healing reunion call; then Matt and Karl would fly home to give Melanie the boost that would prove the difference between life and death. First reconciliation, then remission.
It could happen and he didn’t see any reason he shouldn’t work to that outcome. With that in mind he fell into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed of floating in the clouds over a jungle of impenetrable vines and broad-leafed trees. A flock of Indiana crows circled far below, above the treetops. He hovered, curious, watching a single crow caw as it climbed, grew larger and louder until its screech pierced his sleep. The screech became a buzz; he opened a heavy lid to the red flashing light on the base of the bedside phone.
“Go away,” he grunted.
The buzz continued.
“Away,” he moaned into the receiver.
“Monsieur Reiser. It is me. Jean-Louis Djédji. I am sorry to wake you. But I have been unable to call you before now.”
“Uh-huh,” Matt said.
“If you come with me right now I believe we can retrieve your suitcase and papers. But we have to depart immediately. Can you meet me downstairs in the garage?”
“Um,” he said, sitting up and looking toward the window where dim light bled through the chintzy curtains.
“What time is it?”
“It doesn’t matter. If you want to get your things you have to come now. You change elevators in the lobby and go right down to the garage. I will meet you at the door. Do you hear me?”
“The garage?”
“Just take the elevator marked P from the lobby. Jacques took you, remember? But you must come immediately.” Before Matt could ask any more questions, Jean-Louis hung up.
Matt listened to the crackly dial tone and looked at the buttons on the phone, considering whether to press the button marked concièrge. But Jean-Louis was obviously not at his station. He said he was in the garage.
Matt dialed zero. It rang and rang with no answer. He pressed the button marked concièrge. It also rang without end.
He hung up.
The phone rang.
“Why are you still there?”
“Jean-Louis?”
“Of course it’s me. I am leaving right now. We have only tonight to get your things but you have to come now. I am trying to help you, monsieur.”
“But how do you know? Why now?”
“Are you coming? Jacques has his foot on the accelerator. Yes or no?”
Matt could hear the rumble of the engine echo in the background.
“Yes or no? Do you want your passport back?”
That could mean Melanie’s letter.
“Okay. I’m coming.”
He threw on his new clothes and with new boots in hand hurried down the hallway to the elevator.
As soon as the doors opened in the garage, Jean-Louis, still wearing his navy suit but without a tie, grabbed Matt by the arm and shoved him into the waiting Mercedes.
“What the hell’s going on?” Matt said, fighting the force of acceleration throwing him against the seat.
“We are taking you to your things,” Jean-Louis said as the car climbed the ramp. “I know where they are, if they haven’t already been sold into the marchés.”
“But how do you know?” Matt struggled to sit up.
“I know the man the driver worked for. His warehouse is close to my home.”
Jacques shot out of the garage and turned onto the weakly lit boulevard.
“But why now? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Something happened.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t concern you. Just come along and identify your things. Then we will get you back to the hotel before morning.”
Chapter 7
Jacques made quick progress south to a dark and dense residential area thick with hedges and pruned trees and parked in front of a two-story wooden house.
In a small courtyard at the rear, a middle-aged woman in a long pagne and a flowery headscarf stood as if
expecting them and swung open a screen door. Up a narrow staircase and down a cramped hallway, in a bedroom overlooking the street, Matt noticed Sally laying under a thin sheet, bare-shouldered, her head turned to the wall. Jean-Louis bent down and spoke softly to his niece.
Embarrassed for walking unthinking into Sally’s bedroom, Matt backed away, edging past the woman who led him. He felt intrusive in the tight space and took the stairs down to a simple kitchen with shelves lined with raw fruit and vegetables and bags of grain. A short refrigerator hummed in one corner.
In an adjacent sitting room, several mismatched chairs faced a portable TV on a three-legged stand. On the wall, a painting of Jesus on the cross next to a photo of JFK in tails with a begowned Jackie beaming at, Matt assumed, the diminutive President of Côte d’Ivoire—he’d read his name but it was unpronounceable and he forgot it—equally charismatic beside his tall bejeweled wife.
Matt leaned on the back of a chair and stared at the Kennedy charisma. Once again, the far-reaching influence of his country stared back from foreign walls, radiating power and purpose…and Peace Corps, Matt thought. These two leaders might have talked about cooperation in the way of nations that resulted in Karl Reiser coming to Africa. Motivating thousands of Karls to serve. But how many of those young people seized the opportunity to cut off all contact with their parents? Or went missing in some remote corner of the world? Or got mugged in an unlit alley of a foreign city where they didn’t speak the language and no one heard their cries for help? Matt doubted formal talks, or talks at formals, got down to that level of detail. And anyway, why would you hang a photo of these presidents next to a portrait of Jesus? Was the unpronounceable president so revered? Was JFK?
A creak on the stairs announced Jean-Louis. He’d thrown off his suit in favor of a pair of old chinos and a loose-fitting short-sleeved shirt, and in so doing exchanged his kindly professional demeanor for a scowl. He swept past Matt and said, “Come, monsieur. We will need you.”
Jacques followed carrying a pair of bolt cutters.
At a nearby gloomy street, Jean-Louis explained, “I believe you were left here. And your things were taken around the corner.”
Matt watched Jean-Louis with new eyes, not sure what to make of him.
“The chauffeur takes the stolen goods to his chef who sells everything to his vendors immediately. It happens so fast, it is normally impossible to track.”
“Chef? What do you mean his chef?” In this world, everyone understood the rules but Matt.
“His chef,” Jean-Louis said sharply. “Like you would say ‘chief,’ or ‘boss.’ His leader. Tu vois? You have to understand what happens around you, Monsieur Reiser, if you want to find your way here. I can’t be with you all the time to translate. You must pay attention. Figure things out. His chef. You get it now? He delivered your things to his chef, his chief, his boss.”
“Okay, okay,” Matt said, taken back by the outburst. “I get it. But I don’t understand. How do you know this?”
The car rolled to a stop in front of a mud-walled warehouse with a row of decrepit wooden doors chained shut along the front. Jacques killed the engine and stepped out, careful to close the door quietly.
“Just keep your eyes and ears open, monsieur.” Jean-Louis put his finger to his lips. “We must hurry.”
The driver used the bolt cutters to sever the chain then swung open the wooden doors.
Scant moonlight cast shadows into the narrow room onto rows of pottery, stacks of cloth, and collections of small sculptures and carved masks.
Jean-Louis pulled Matt’s elbow and whispered. “Come. Look for your suitcase.”
Matt grew excited at the prospect of finding his goods and travel documents. He strained to make out a row of suitcases against a wall. The bright yellow strip of tape on his Samsonite was easy to spot. “That’s it,” he said in a coarse whisper and yanked out his bag. It fell open, the latches broken off. Empty.
“Leave it.” Jean-Louis tugged at Matt’s jacket. “Look over here.”
Jacques scooted aside a stack of pottery and from under a pile of animal skins extracted a padlocked metal toolbox. He pulled a heavy screwdriver from his back pocket and pried at the hinges until they broke apart. Inside was an array of passports.
“Find yours,” Jean-Louis said. “Give me the rest, then let’s go.”
Matt knelt in the dim light and quickly sorted through the American, British, Japanese, and West German booklets.
“That’s taking too long,” Jean-Louis changed his mind. “Bring them all. We’ll sort them out in the car.”
Just then Matt spotted his passport pouch and pulled it free. He felt for Melanie’s letter and discovered it still neatly tucked inside. “I got it,” he cried out. “I can’t believe….”
“Shhhh!” Jean-Louis ordered. “Allons.” He grabbed at the passports, shoving some at Matt and taking the rest.
Jacques returned the broken toolbox among the animal skins and repositioned the pottery as he found it.
“He’ll know we were here, but he won’t see right away what we took.” Jean-Louis stopped at the sight of a shadow darting past the doorway.
Jacques sprinted after the shape.
Matt and Jean-Louis rushed to follow the driver and caught sight of him around the corner where he tackled a young man and tumbled into a pile of trash. The pair rolled into the street, trading blows. Jacques swiftly took control, slapping and punching the other man without mercy.
Jean-Louis stood aside and watched the intruder try to shield himself from Jacques, begging for him to stop until he pleaded. —I’ll pay you. He grunted at a slug in his ribs, then with a pained laugh said, —You know my father will pay.
—You think this is about money?
Matt couldn’t understand the frenzied French but he recognized the young man. He was the boy who skidded his moped under the bumper of the Mercedes. The rude boy from the Grande Hôtel lobby who laughed at Sally’s girlish blows. Is that what this was about?
“Robert?” Matt said, remembering Sally mentioning his name.
All three men looked at Matt. Robert took the distraction as an opportunity to kick free and got to his feet to flee but the driver caught him by his jersey and ripped him backwards. Robert screamed out for attention, any attention, from anywhere, as if he knew people stood in the shadows.
Jacques kicked Robert smartly at the back of his knee and knocked him to the ground.
The driver kicked Robert in the kidneys. Robert grabbed for his back and Jean-Louis kicked him in the head.
Matt looked uneasily around the intersection. He didn’t want to be a part of this. They could kill this guy if they didn’t stop. The street ran straight in both directions. Someone could watch without being seen. With every kick and punch he felt more exposed, certain they’d draw a crowd if they hadn’t already.
Reacting to Robert’s continued howls, Jean-Louis picked up a chunk of discarded concrete block from a nearby trash pile and raised it threateningly over his head.
At the sight of the block, Robert balled up to shield himself and kicked at Jacques to squirm away.
“No! Don’t!” Matt thought he was about to witness a murder and ran at Jean-Louis to stop him. In his rush to grab the concrete he dislodged it and sent it tumbling out of the concièrge’s hands.
Robert let out a sickening grunt as the weight glanced off his forehead.
Jean-Louis turned and punched Matt in the shoulder. “Idiot!” he screamed. “I was only scaring him. Now look what you did.”
Robert lay twisted and limp, his face contorted into a ghastly smile, a dark stain oozing at the side of his head into street.
Chapter 8
Matt barely felt Jean-Louis’s punch. He stared at Robert, willing him to show a sign of life, a breath, a twitch, a blink. Willing him to sit up, shake it off. But this guy didn’t move. He lay there, mouth open, bleeding out. A hush hung over the scene as if the silent byways were full of onlookers waiting for a sign
to burst forth with burning vengeance. Matt was certain someone saw everything. The street ran far too straight with homes and hovels. Each shadowy corner could hide a witness.
“You can’t leave him here,” Matt said, concerned with Robert’s survival.
“That is exactly what we are going to do,” Jean-Louis ordered.
Jacques dragged the body by the feet. Robert’s mouth hung open, his arms flopping lifelessly at his side. A thin dark trail marked the path into the warehouse.
“He needs help,” Matt insisted. He couldn’t accept leaving the boy behind, but neither did he know what to do. He didn’t speak the language and didn’t know who to contact even if he could communicate. “You can’t just leave him.”
“We will leave him,” Jean-Louis stated, again brooking no discussion and taking control. “Robert deserved a beating,” he continued, as he closed the doors. He arranged the chains to appear undisturbed. “This is your fault.”
“Mine?!” Matt protested. “I tried to stop you.”
“Absolutely not. You made it happen. Now get in the car unless you want to be here when the owner arrives.”
In a state of buzzing disbelief, Matt let Jean-Louis shove him back inside the Mercedes. At the first turn into a narrow side street he caught sight of a figure on a retreating motorbike, at the next turn a pair of shadows walking toward them, then a group of men smoking cigarettes beneath a weak light hanging from a tree. Any one of them could have seen or heard what happened.
Soon Jacques entered a broad roundabout with a giant illuminated billboard advertising beer and another flashy billboard hawking tires. Traffic merged onto a boulevard. Busses. Trucks. Scooters. Vans. Orange taxis. Polished luxury sedans. All heading toward or coming from the city to the north.
Matt was sure they’d been seen. There was the retreating motorbike. All those people a street away. Surely there were witnesses. Someone would recognize him as party to the crime.
