Facing the Son, A Novel of Africa

by M L Rudolph

  He replayed the image of the concrete falling from Jean-Louis’s hands, the crunching sound as it skipped off Robert’s forehead into the street. Off his forehead. Again and again the scene played out in his mind. Matt meant to stop Jean-Louis but instead he knocked the concrete out of his hands. Whether Matt opened or shut his eyes, all he could see was the sickening sight of the free-flowing blood. The falling concrete after he struggled with Jean-Louis. The concrete tumbling. Robert’s unfocused eyes. Matt pressed and rubbed his temples, shut his eyes and scrubbed at the disturbing image.

  “We have to take Sally out of here now,” Jean-Louis broke the silence. “We will go to the farm.”

  Matt shook his head. “Sure.” The suggestion didn’t make sense. He wasn’t part of this. This wasn’t his world. Every time he tried to intervene he seemed to get it wrong. He would step away. Not get involved. “Then I can go back to the hotel,” he said. That was the right place for him.

  “We can’t go back to the hotel.”

  “Okay, I’ll find a taxi.”

  “You don’t understand. We can’t go back. That includes you. You’re coming with us.”

  “I can’t.” Jean-Louis didn’t make any sense. The hotel was Matt’s base. “I need to file a police report, wrap up with the embassy tomorrow. It’s all arranged.”

  “Eh, no, monsieur, you’re not listening. We can’t go back there and neither can you. Le Croc won’t let you file that report.”

  “Who? Why not?”

  “He just won’t.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Le Croc. Le chef I told you about. He has kept an eye on you. Plus now. When he finds out about his son. You’re not in a position to go back.”

  Matt was on a mission to find Karl. He’d been momentarily sidetracked, that’s all. Thanks to Jean-Louis and Chandler Bigelow he was back on track, ready to get moving under his own power again. “I can explain. It was an accident.”

  “He will not care what you have to say,” Jean-Louis said. “He can’t speak English anyway so he will not even listen. And if he gets his hands on you, finding your son will be the least of your worries.”

  “I’ve got to file a police report. Go to the embassy. Get my passport. Wire my money. It’s all arranged. Then I fly out of here, up to Bamako.”

  “Monsieur! Look at me!” Jean-Louis turned to Matt, his eyes glowering in the morning light, no longer the gracious and highly competent hotel fix-it man.

  “You’re not making sense. You don’t realize what’s going on. Check your pockets. Did you forget?”

  Matt felt his pants pockets and pulled out a handful of passports. He reached into his vest and found several more, his own passport pouch included. He threw all but his own into the front seat where they landed in Jean-Louis’s lap.

  “The man we stole these from will not accept apologies. That was his son back there.”

  “I’ve got nothing to do with this. You took me there.” He grabbed Jean-Louis’s shirt sleeve. “You beat this guy. You picked up that rock with the intent to kill him. That’s got nothing to do with me. I’m leaving you and I’m leaving this country exactly as I found it and nothing you can say will stop me.”

  “Robert raped Sally yesterday,” Jean-Louis said as Jacques turned off the boulevard into a narrow residential street. “He caught her alone and he beat her. When he fled the hotel, he ran into this car, this bumper. You had him pinned but you got out and helped him get up so he could ride away.”

  The accusation rattled Matt. He didn’t want to think he had a role in such a tragic affair; nor could he imagine the pretty spirited girl being so brutally attacked. “How is she?” He hated the sound of his own voice.

  Jean-Louis hesitated, looked at him as if to gauge the American’s sincerity. “She is traumatized, monsieur. What would you think? Barely able to move her mouth.”

  Jacques parked back in front of the modest house where they left Sally. “We’re going to get her and drive up to Bamako. It’s the safest and smartest way for you to get there, too. No one here is going to care what you have to say, not the police, and certainly not Le Croc, even if he could speak English. He’ll either kill you himself or get you arrested. Put you in jail for murder.”

  “This has got nothing to do with me.”

  “Explain that to the gendarmerie.”

  Jacques and Jean-Louis went inside the house and left Matt alone in the car. His hotel had suddenly lost its appeal as a sanctuary. If what Jean-Louis said was true, and a local criminal bent on revenge knew where to find him, maybe it wasn’t such a wise move to hole up there. But an African road trip? All he’d seen from the air was jungle. How could that be any better?

  He got out of the car and walked to the nearest corner where he could smell the lagoon and hear the growls of busses and motorbikes from the next street over. He watched Jacques make several trips from the house stowing boxes of provisions in the trunk as if this trip had been pre-arranged.

  In a few minutes, Jean-Louis walked out with Sally. She wore baggy gray pants and matching long-sleeved shirt. The right side of her face was swollen, her right eye shut, her hair pulled away from her face. Her feisty attitude replaced by a sullen fatigue. Jean-Louis helped her into the back seat, closed the door, and looked around until he spotted Matt across the street.

  “We are leaving, monsieur. Do you come with us to Bamako, or do you try your luck at the hotel?”

  Chapter 9

  The Mercedes hurtled northwest along a modern freeway, the sun now over the trees. The view quickly shifted from the lagoon to urban congestion, then to colonial residential properties, and eventually to palm tree plantations with row upon row of the powerful trunks running as far as the eye could see on both sides of the highway.

  Jean-Louis and Jacques spoke quietly in the front seat while Sally slept hunched against the back door. Matt kept his head down, still unsure if he made the right choice, whether he felt trapped or liberated. He told himself he had to go along with these guys to avoid being left holding the bag for a murder—Jesus Christ!—a goddam murder of all things, which anyone watching would have clearly recognized he’d tried to stop. But even so, he participated in the break-in, he watched the body dragged into the warehouse, and he handled the stolen passports. How could he explain any of this in French?

  —We drop him at Hotel Bamako, Jean-Louis said to Jacques. —He has a reservation and can continue his trip from there.

  —Le Croc will send someone, Jacques said. —He knows we go to the farm.

  —Who would he send? He has no protection there. You know that.

  —Yes, but Robert. He won’t let that go.

  “So when are you two going to quit mumbling and tell me why you knew where my things were?” Matt interrupted, irritated by their private patter.

  “Quiet.” Jean-Louis looked back at Sally who was either sleeping or simply shutting out the world. Her bruised face looked worse in the early light.

  Matt lowered his voice but he wasn’t happy about it. “I want to know where you’re taking me.”

  “We’re taking you with us.”

  “Don’t jerk me around.”

  —Slow down, let him think you’re going to stop, Jean-Louis said to Jacques. —He needs to understand he’s not in charge any more.

  Heavy duty trucks made up most the traffic. Jacques turned into the right lane with his foot off the accelerator letting the Mercedes fall in behind one of those trucks carrying a flat bed of steel beams.

  “What is this farm you talk about? You can tell me that much.”

  A pair of broad warehouse-type barns drifted past.

  “You are welcome to come with us.” A different, firmer Jean-Louis spoke without the subservient concièrge demeanor. “But if you want to change your mind….”

  “Change my mind to what? I got in the car with you. I’m stuck. Just tell me what the hell to expect.”

  The Mercedes fell farther behind the truck and began to drift o
n to the loose dirt of the shoulder. Jean-Louis held Matt’s stare, dead pan.

  “Okay. I’m not changing my mind, if that’s what you need to hear,” Matt said. He could deal with taunts. They were part of the game. “You know more than you’re telling me. This is too confusing. What’s going on?”

  Jean-Louis delayed his response long enough to emphasize their role reversal. He was in charge now. Gone was the façade of the professional servant. He tapped Jacques on the shoulder and the driver veered left and shot into the passing lane where he sailed around the truck with its heavy load.

  “Are you sure you want to hear it, monsieur?” Jean-Louis said, as the car resumed passing rows of plantation palms. “You may not like it.”

  “Try me,” Matt shot back.

  Jean-Louis nodded to himself, checked on Sally to see her gently napping, then turned to Matt. “The airport chauffeur picked you out because you looked lost. You looked easy,” he said. “He’s part of a city gang that works the airport. Le Croc’s gang. They drug their victims and drive them to….”

  “You’re part of this.”

  Jean-Louis tolerated the interruption then waited a beat. “They drop them at different places in the city, take everything they can sell. Le Croc knows to avoid guests from Le Grande because the owner is a close friend of Le Président Houphouët-Boigny. That driver who robbed you, he is never going to work for Le Croc again.” Jean-Louis turned to Jacques. —Or anyone else, eh? he said with a sarcastic laugh.

  The driver nodded in agreement.

  “So you’re part of this,” Matt restated.

  Again, Jean-Louis waited before responding.

  A circle of conical mud huts with thatch roofs appeared in a break between palms. The structures rested on timber foundations and leaned at indifferent angles, individually settled into the uneven earth. A truck in the slow lane cut the huts from view.

  “The first thing a driver is supposed to ask is where you’re staying. If it’s Le Grande Hôtel or L’Hôtel Ivoire, the two best hotels in Abidjan, he leaves you alone. That driver, he should have known this but, eh, too bad for him.” He shrugged. “And for you.”

  Jacques checked out Matt in the rearview mirror.

  “Le Croc came to the hotel as soon as he saw your reservation among your papers. He hired me to take care of you so you wouldn’t do anything to cause him trouble. That money I gave you? It was yours. He gave it to me.”

  “What do you mean it was mine?”

  “It was yours. What they stole from you.”

  “What?” he shouted. “You gave me back my own money?” He looked over at the tender and beaten Sally, her arms crossed a little too firmly to be asleep. If not for her, he would have grabbed the concièrge by his cheap shirt and pulled him into the back seat for some face time. “You are part of this,” he insisted, tight-jawed.

  Matt flashed to the sight of the CFA bills slid across by the teller at the airport, then to the image of the envelope Jean-Louis handed him in the hotel lobby. He seethed at the thought of being “loaned” his own money.

  “I can’t believe you. You were part of this all along and you told me nothing.” He looked around for something, someone, to punch, and drove a fist into the back of the seat. “Why didn’t you let me go back to the hotel? What do you care about me?”

  “I am not part of it, as you say. But it is complicated with a man like Le Croc. If he comes asking for a favor, and pays you for it, you have to go along. I agreed to give you some of your money back and help you so you would leave Abidjan without causing trouble. That was in everyone’s interest.”

  “Everyone’s but mine.”

  “Especially yours. Le Croc would never let anything happen that involved the police. If you made too much noise, you could have disappeared.”

  “You beat that guy to death, his son. Not me.” Matt spoke with the steady monotone of controlled anger.

  “That guy,” Jean-Louis snapped, then lowered his voice. “Robert. Too bad for him he showed up.”

  “So you’re blameless. It’s his fault you killed him. Just like it’s my fault I got into the wrong car at the airport.”

  “Le Croc was always buying Robert out of trouble. He would have tried to pay me off for what Robert did to Sally. He already paid me to keep you from going to the police. Le Croc doesn’t like problems. He makes them go away. You, and now Sally. You’re problems.”

  Jean-Louis looked back at his niece and winced at the sight of her. “None of them can see how smart she is.” He shook his head in disgust. “I told Robert to leave her alone. There are plenty of other girls he could f….” His eyes hardened. “We only meant to beat him. What happened at the warehouse was an accident, but he got what he deserved.” Jean-Louis rested his hand on Jacques’s shoulder.

  The driver caught Matt’s eyes in the rearview mirror then frowned at something on the road behind them. “Merde,” he said, and stroked his amulet.

  Matt turned around to see two fast-approaching cars flashing their headlights to clear the far lane. Tension filled the car. Jacques let up on the gas and pulled right to make way. Jean-Louis popped the glove compartment and pulled out a handgun which he placed under his shirt tail. Sally sat up and looked behind, then slid down out of sight, leaning toward Matt on the seat.

  “What is it?” Matt switched to hyper-observe, his nerves on edge, poised to react but with no idea what to expect.

  The cars continued flashing their headlights as they closed in then blew past as swiftly as if the Mercedes was parked at the side of the road.

  “Le Président,” Jean-Louis said with a sigh of relief. “Or one of his men going to visit the palace.”

  Everyone exhaled and relaxed except Matt. Once again he felt like everyone knew the rules but him.

  Chapter 10

  Puffs of cloud interrupted a deep blue sky. The route north from Abidjan cut through coconut plantations and coffee farms, eventually knifing through vast tracts of impenetrable jungle. A weighty humidity clung to the interior of the sedan with a dense wet smell. Jacques tested the performance limits of the Mercedes while the three passengers rode alone with their thoughts.

  After a couple of hours, the six-lane divided highway terminated abruptly at a temporary town of housing trailers where a billboard announced Yamoussoukro, birth place of Le Président Houphouët-Boigny. Heavy duty trucks in various stages of unloading and jeeps transporting men and material contested a narrow dirt road winding around a small lagoon. Jacques leaned over the steering wheel, start-stopping to dodge the dense construction traffic, aiming for a way through.

  The sudden deceleration caused Sally to cough and sit up with her hand over her mouth.

  —Stop, she said, her voice muffled, and rolled down her window to stick out her head.

  As soon as he found a gap in the road Jacques skidded to a halt next to a bushy acacia tree.

  Sally threw open the door and jumped out, dropped to her knees, and vomited into the dirt.

  Jean-Louis rammed the handgun into the glove box, pulled out a folded cotton cloth, and hurried out to Sally. She shrugged him off and vomited again, teary-eyed, crouched on all fours. Jean-Louis stood protectively over his niece as a new Peugeot sedan pulled up behind the Mercedes and two men in dark blue uniforms stepped out of the car.

  The driver of the Peugeot, the older of the two officers, hand on holstered side-arm, approached Jean-Louis. —What’s wrong with this one?

  —She had an accident, Jean-Louis said, stepping between Sally and the officer.

  The junior officer retrieved a small bottle of water from the Peugeot and handed it to Jean-Louis.

  Jean-Louis twisted off the cap and handed it to his niece, who sat back to sip and spit, shielding the swollen side of her face from view.

  Jacques and Matt watched from inside the car.

  —Where are you going? the Senior Officer asked, looking down at the license plate of the Mercedes.

  —We’re taking our client to see Yakro
, Jean-Louis said. —He’s a banker.

  The Senior Officer nodded at the acceptable answer. —You have some luck then. Tell your banker the Minister of Planning will meet him. He is here for the afternoon.

  “What was that?” Matt asked when Jean-Louis got back in the car.

  “They’re with a minister,” Jean-Louis said. “The one who passed us on the highway. Apparently his eminence wants to meet you,” Jean-Louis said, clearly annoyed with the delay.

  “Me? Why me?”

  Jacques made a U-turn to follow the Peugeot back the way it came.

  “When he passed us on the freeway, his eminence the Minister of Planning of the great nation of Côte d’Ivoire, asked an aide who we were. When they arrived here ahead of us, the very efficient aide sent these guards to find us. The Minister asks a question,” Jean-Louis whipped his palm upward. “The Minister gets an answer. I told them you were a banker on vacation.”

  “Say what?” Matt said. “Why’d you say that?”

  “Because I didn’t think it would be wise to say we’d just killed the son of a gang leader in Abidjan.”

  “Not me—you!” Matt blurted. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  Jean-Louis ignored Matt’s outburst. “I said you are a banker, Monsieur Reiser, and you are now a banker. That is that. It was the first thing I thought of. They will take us to the Minister—I will translate for you—and you will be a banker. He will ask you some questions. You will love the idea of investing in the Côte d’Ivoire. And then we will be let go.”

  “But I don’t know anything about banking. I wouldn’t know the first thing to say.”

  “Use big numbers,” Jean-Louis said, as if Matt hadn’t spoken. “Where do you come from? What’s on your passport?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “Where are you from?” Jean-Louis insisted.

  “Fort Wayne. Indiana.”