Facing the Son, A Novel of Africa

by M L Rudolph

  The old man then struck a match and lit a kerosene lamp that threw a buttery light on the bare walls, illuminating their faces. The calabashes swayed under the torrent crashing into the thatch. Shadows danced to the roar of basic shelter. The old man pulled off Matt’s vest and unbuttoned his shirt and ran his coarse hands over Matt’s forehead and scalp and along his neck. He opened Matt’s eyelid with a thumb then slapped him. No response.

  The old man reached up into a calabash and retrieved some francs that he placed firmly in the boy’s palm and instructed him to ride after the doctor.

  He then knelt and again slapped Matt. —Up. We must walk. Getting no response he slapped him harder. Nothing.

  With Jean-Louis’s help, he pulled the heavy American to his feet and lugged him outside into the rain.

  The two men dragged Matt around the wet enclosure, the old man occasionally slapping Matt to seek a sign of consciousness. Gradually, the blows brought Matt into a blinking awareness that his arms were stretched over the shoulders of two men, and that he was stepping through mud and puddles.

  “The hell,” Matt said in protest to another sharp slap. He tried to shrug free of the support but the men held him tight and kept him trudging. At the far end of the enclosure, boys and girls poked their heads out a hut. The sight of the three men brought them out in the rain to splash along, and soon a dozen more boys and girls poured out to join the parade. One of the boys, more mature and taller than all the rest, remained aloof, a shadow at the edge of the night observing from beneath the shelter of the tin-roofed fire pit.

  Matt drifted out of consciousness, his head lolling to one side until the old man noticed and gave him another crisp slap across the cheek which brought an astonished hush from the children, then vigorous chirp and chatter.

  A pair of little girls, all knees and elbows and budding braids, walked backwards to lead the six-legged beast on its muddy way. The girls stared wide-eyed at the big foreign man in the middle, supported and slapped by their mentor and elder.

  As Matt slipped out of one world, he entered another and caught sight of Melanie and Karl.

  “Wait up,” he said, falling behind. Melanie and Karl walked ahead in the poor light, having a talk he wanted to join. And hey! If Melanie found Karl, why didn’t she let him know?

  Or was this a dream? Or were the three of them a family again, out for a walk in the fresh air after a spring shower? One of Melanie’s great loves, those walks around the neighborhood.

  Karl was clearly an adult up there, overshadowing his mother by at least a head. He draped his arm around his mother’s shoulder and leaned in to listen. Such an unassuming act and yet something they both missed for so long; there it was again, that simple gesture of togetherness. Melanie must be loving it.

  “Hold on,” Matt said, out of breath. “Wait for me.” But as hard as he tried to catch up, he couldn’t. His feet had no traction. Matt’s feet were muddy, stuck, weighed down by all those bad decisions.

  Melanie and Karl didn’t hear him either; they didn’t slow down or turn around.

  Karl hugged Melanie now.

  Damn. Matt wanted to hear the sound of his son’s voice, just the normal conversational sound of Karl’s voice. No anger. No posture. No guard raised to keep back honesty and truth. Just the sound of his voice. But he couldn’t reach him.

  Then Karl stopped Melanie at the trunk of his old Corvair. He’d apparently been carrying a box of LP’s, and a stereo, and a suitcase, all of which Matt watched him load into the small car. Then he shoehorned his tall frame into the low seat and drove a circle around Melanie, his head out the window, looking up at his mother, stopping in front of her house, at the end of the driveway where the maple tree threw a heavy shade.

  Karl wore a red headband emblazoned with the Indiana University logo. He was eighteen. He was leaving for college. This was the day Matt only heard about from Melanie. Karl didn’t want to make a big deal about leaving. Told her to tell Matt he’d write, though he never did. But Matt was here this time; he could say goodbye himself.

  He called out, “Karl,” and waved his arms above his head. A second chance to say goodbye, to emphasize how much he loved him. Emphasize. Yes. Emphasize. “Karl,” he shouted. “I’m here if you need me.” But neither Karl nor Melanie heard him.

  If Matt could just get his attention this time, maybe he could change.

  But.

  His head snapped. Light flashed before his eyes.

  “Hey!”

  That hurt.

  He looked up.

  Melanie stood next to him, explaining something. Matt missed the beginning.

  “…expect too much.”

  Karl’s helmet lay on the ground. Karl had stormed off after dropping a pass when he took a hit. Yet another easy pass, yet another drop. He was fourteen. Summer league before high school. The first week with full pads. When the wheat and chaff naturally separated on the field of contact.

  “He tries so hard to please you,” Melanie said, at Matt’s side.

  Karl stomped toward the end zone, ripped off his jersey then his shoulder pads. Next he reached and pulled at his laces, trying to kick off his cleats without stopping.

  “You should go after him,” Melanie said, and she was right. Matt should have gone after him.

  Practice had ground to a halt, the rest of the team curious to see what Coach Reiser would do. Chase his petulant son, or adhere to the discipline he so thoroughly espoused? Give his son special treatment, or accept he wasn’t tough enough?

  Melanie jogged after Karl, but not before saying for everyone to hear, “Try being his father for once, instead of his coach.”

  Matt felt the glare of the players and their parents as he watched Karl’s retreating figure, then Melanie’s determined stride making a beeline for her son. “I don’t believe you,” he could hear her add.

  This time Matt followed. He ran after. He knew not following was a mistake.

  But.

  “Ow!”

  Matt’s head snapped. Lights flashed before his eyes.

  That hurt.

  He looked up.

  Karl was in the middle of saying something. Matt missed the beginning.

  “…but why?”

  Karl sat in his childhood bed. In his Batman pajamas, looking up at his Dad. Shock registered on his tender face.

  The child-sized bookshelf overflowed with board games and Lego models. The child-sized desk held comic books and sheets of lined yellow paper with short scribbled sentences. The curtains, the ones with the colorful smiling cars, shut out the morning light. This was the day Matt told Karl he was leaving.

  Karl lay back down on the bed and pulled his covers over his head. Matt wanted to rip them off and hug his son, promise him he wouldn’t move away. They’d see each other every other weekend. But Matt saw Karl’s desperate grip on the covers and opted not to tear them out of his hands; instead he watched, waited, then said, “I will always be here for you.”

  “I hate you!” Karl screamed, muffled by his blanket and his tears. “Just go!”

  This time Matt did reach for the covers and stayed with Karl. He waited for the boy’s anger to subside. Why had he chosen Joy over Melanie and Karl? He chose the athletic young blonde for the way she made him feel ten years younger. He couldn’t say no to her, so he said no to his family.

  This time Matt stayed, sat with Karl and reconsidered. Chose family over self. Fatherhood over Joy.

  But.

  “Ow! Stop it!”

  His head snapped. Lights flashed before his eyes.

  That hurt.

  He looked up.

  Melanie and Karl stood in front of him, in the middle of a conversation. Matt missed the start.

  “You fall in love. Nothing else matters. If you don’t already know that, you will soon enough,” Melanie said, and reached up to gently stroke Karl’s cheek.

  “He betrayed you,” Karl said, as if Matt couldn’t hear him. “He betrayed us.”

 
; Melanie brought her hand down to her chest. “He came back and I refused him.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “I said he could visit. Because of you, Karl. It wasn’t that bad, was it? Karl? Was it?” Melanie asked the question again to Karl’s stony silence.

  Matt tried to interject; he cried out to tell them he changed his mind, but they couldn’t hear him.

  “I didn’t miss him all that much,” Karl said eventually. “Sometimes I wished I had, but….”

  “I knew that, honey,” Melanie said, her voice heavy with sadness. “That’s why I wrote you a….”

  “Letter,” Matt said, coming to his senses, puzzled at his situation. “Where’s my letter?” He noticed his untucked and unbuttoned shirt. “My vest? They took everything.” He stopped cooperating, fought his forward motion. “Let go of me,” he slurred. “I need my vest.” He threw off his support, head down and arms out for balance.

  The old man and Jean-Louis stood poised to grab him if he showed any sign of stumble or collapse.

  “How do you feel?” Jean-Louis said.

  Matt swung his arms, rotated his shoulders. “What’s going on? Where’s my vest?”

  Jean-Louis translated for the old man, then answered Matt. “In the hut. We had an accident. We fear you have a concussion.”

  Matt put a hand to his beard and grimaced. “What is this place?” The low flames of the fire pit reflected off the wet earth and deepened the darkness at the edges of the village wall. Shapes among shadows. Whispers and low voices.

  The old man spoke Bambara to Jean-Louis, —Keep him talking. We must walk him until the boy brings the doctor. I will bring his coat.

  “What is he saying?” Matt slurred. “I can’t understand a goddam thing.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Jean-Louis said, standing face to face with Matt.

  “You’re the man who robbed me and gave me my money.”

  Jean-Louis snapped his head back, not sure what to take from this response. “What is my name?”

  Matt didn’t answer; he gave Jean-Louis a crooked look like he was being a wise ass then let his gaze be drawn to the muddy track of the departing old man.

  “Where’s he going?”

  “He is Madaadi. The village elder. He is going to fetch your coat like you asked.”

  Matt noticed the circular huts with their tattoos beyond the old man’s receding shadow, then he looked up into the falling rain, and quickly looked down, wiping his eyes.

  “He will come back,” Jean-Louis assured. “Are you thirsty, Monsieur Reiser?”

  “I’m not Monsieur Reiser,” Matt said angrily, exaggerating the rolling r’s. “I’m Matt Reiser and I’m here to find Karl Reiser.”

  The children ran around in the rain. The fire popped and hissed.

  “I don’t belong here.” Matt stopped walking, put his hands on his hips, and dropped his shoulders to stare into the earth and ply at the dark recess of a forgotten conversation.

  Some of the children splashed after Madaadi. Some stayed with the two strange men standing still and talking under the drizzle.

  Jean-Louis faced Matt, at the ready to catch him if he stumbled. “We are safe here, monsieur. Walk with me. We need to keep you moving and awake.”

  A tall silhouette, taller than all the other children, beckoned from the edge of the fire light, then raised its arms above its head as if signaling.

  “There he is,” Matt said. “It’s him.”

  “Yes,” Jean-Louis agreed. “I told you. He is coming back.”

  The silhouette approached with halting step. Impish shadows darted around it, jumping up and down, as if asking to be picked up and carried along.

  “I’m not surprised at all. Finding him in a place like this. It’s kind of what I expected.”

  “No, monsieur,” Jean-Louis said, recognizing Matt’s confusion. “No. I am sorry. It is not who you think.”

  The silhouette emerged into the fire light, and as it approached Matt recognized it wasn’t Karl, but Madaadi, with a small boy perched on his shoulders wearing his vest.

  Chapter 34

  At dawn, Matt sat on the mud wall outside the old man’s hut, a blood pressure sleeve hugging his bicep. The doctor had come in the night. He was a clean-shaven well-nourished man, thirtyish, in a light-green nylon jacket, and spoke enough English to put Matt at ease.

  “It’s next to impossible to get the doctor to come, you know. But he did it.” Jean-Louis gently squeezed the shoulder of the boy who rode a moped through the rain all the way to Koudougou and back.

  “One hundred over seventy,” the doctor said, lowering his stethoscope and tearing off the cuff. “Low but not to worry. You drink enough water?” he asked Matt.

  “What’s enough?” Matt said, rolling down his sleeve.

  “Do you drink when you feel thirsty?” The doctor took advantage of each moment to teach. He explained to the boy who fetched him, that he too should always drink clean water when his throat was dry.

  “I couldn’t tell you what day it is much less how much water I drink,” Matt said.

  “What about the concussion?” Jean-Louis said, from his perch in the morning shade beside the hut.

  “From what you say, he has a moderate to severe concussion. Not to worry as long as you take care. Drink water, and,” he leaned toward Matt expecting to be taken seriously, “don’t do it again.” The doctor spoke firmly. He was practiced at communicating to the uneducated rural peasant in a manner that left no room for misinterpretation. “Avoid hard objects. Give your bruised brain time to heal.” He reassembled his blood pressure monitor and placed it beside his worn leather bag, then told the boy to bring the first person in line.

  The entire village had turned out to see the doctor from Koudougou, mothers and restless children patiently waiting by the old man’s hut.

  “Can you walk?” Jean-Louis said.

  “Of course I can walk. I’ve been walking all night. That’s why I’m so damned tired.” Matt patted his damp vest and felt the contour of his passport pouch with the letter and money.

  “You’re not dizzy?”

  “No. I’m not dizzy.”

  “Where are we?”

  “I haven’t got a clue where we are. And what is this, twenty questions? I just saw the doctor. You heard him. I’m fine.”

  Jean-Louis led Matt around the hut as the boy accompanied a young mother in her teens, her sleeping infant wrapped firmly to her back.

  “As long as you are careful. That’s what I heard. You have a bruised brain.”

  “You’re the one with the damaged brain,” Matt said to Jean-Louis. “The way you steal and lie and blame it all on the French. My bruise will heal. But yours, it’s like a hematoma, a bruise so deep you’ll never get at it.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jean-Louis said, with a slight laugh. “You have recovered. But still with so much to learn.” He walked a step in front of Matt as they passed the mothers and children prepared to wait all day if necessary to speak with the doctor.

  “Madaadi had the boy bring back a mechanic, too,” Jean-Louis said. “He is examining the car now.”

  A broad man in oily overalls and heavy leather shoes leaned into the engine compartment under the open hood of the Mercedes. An elbow rose and fell to the sound of a ratcheting wrench. When the mechanic stood up to get a look at the car’s owners, his face split into a friendly grin. He had short grizzled hair and beard, and his bulky shoulders shined with sweat.

  “He says he can fix it,” Jean-Louis translated. “He needs to replace the radiator. That is to say if he can get it out.”

  The mechanic showed Matt where the broken grill and chunks of cow flesh penetrated the radiator, bending the mount and shoving the mechanism backward into the engine.

  Jean-Louis negotiated a price with the mechanic. It would take him about a day to find a matching radiator—unless he couldn’t find one in Koudougou and had to go to Ouaga—in which case that could take an additional day or t
wo. Then to remove the old radiator, install the replacement, and refill it with fluid—as long as he didn’t run into any other problems like broken hoses or bushings—he said he could probably get the job done in about two or three days, maybe four.

  “So altogether…” Jean-Louis said to Matt.

  “We’re stuck here for about a week,” Matt shot back sarcastically.

  “I offered a generous tip if he can finish the whole thing by tonight.

  “Bah,” the mechanic said with a frown. —This is a new car. The parts are not so easy to find.

  Jean-Louis asked Madaadi how much he would accept to rent him a pair of mopeds from the village. “We could ride to Koudougou and get a bush taxi to Ouaga. Get the car later,” he explained to Matt.

  The old man mentioned an amount less than half the mechanic’s quote.

  —By nightfall, then, the mechanic agreed, suddenly remembering where he could find the right radiator.

  By late morning, the thirsty earth and the blazing sun absorbed all but faint traces from last night’s storm. Matt and Jean-Louis sat in the shade of a shea tree, watching the village day unfold, and waiting for the mechanic to return with parts.

  “What about him?” Matt pointed to the doctor who sat straddling his scooter, bag strapped behind him on the seat.

  “One of the rare ones. Came back to serve his people.”

  Children watched as the doctor kick-started his bike.

  “I give him one year before he moves back south. Do you see how he dresses? He won’t stay here.”

  The doctor revved the simple motor and after waving goodbye to the children, shot up the path to the road, puffs of blue smoke and engine growl in his wake.

  “Like everywhere, I suppose. The best and the brightest move to the cities.”

  The simple sounds of children, chicken, dogs, and goats on a hot country morning.

  “I grew up at that farm you saw,” Jean-Louis said. “I raised goats and sheep and gathered shea nuts with the women. I did what I was told. I helped my mother, my grandmother, and the rest of my family.”