Facing the Son, A Novel of Africa

by M L Rudolph

  A wide-bellied man broke from the bar and walked up behind Matt. He was square-jawed, fortyish, with curly blonde hair framing a round and weather-beaten face.

  “Let’s go,” Jean-Louis insisted. “I will take the bottle. We can talk all night about shooting cars if you want.” Jean-Louis glanced up into the smiling face of the strange man, then back at Matt and whispered. “I will tell you everything you want to know.”

  “Allo,” the visitor said, stepping around the table to face both men.

  Matt turned his attention up to the friendly figure. “What do you want?” he said, annoyed at everything and everyone.

  “My name is Krauskopf. Thomas.” He held out his hand.

  Matt inspected the man’s extended hand as if looking for a hidden bank note. Jean-Louis intervened and accepted the handshake.

  “Djédji. We are leaving.”

  “No we’re not,” Matt said. “I’m Matt Reiser and I’m not leaving to go anywhere.” He patted the side of the bottle. “And neither is he. He and I have some unfinished business.”

  The man let out a hearty laugh. “I like that. We also have some business. It’s called St. Pauli Girl.”

  The other two men raised bottles in agreement. “St. Pauli Girl. Ja. Gut. St. Pauli Girl, bitte,” one of them said, a heavy-bellied man with long dark hair falling into his eyes. He pointed at Matt, Jean-Louis, and Krauskopf. “Ein. Zwei. Drei.” Then he pointed to his friend at the bar. “Vier.” Finally he placed a finger in the middle of his ample chest. “Da’ macht fünf. Five St. Pauli, s’il vous plaît,” he said over his shoulder.

  The gloomy bartender, a dark vest over his light long-sleeved shirt, accepted the order and turned his back to gather another round of German beer from behind the bar.

  “We join you?” Krauskopf said, pulling up a chair from a nearby table and sitting down. His two friends brought the beers and grabbed chairs to sit on either side of Matt.

  “My name is Weiss,” the heavy-bellied man introduced himself. “Und he is Becker.” The third German, long dirty-blonde hair and rimless glasses, deferred to his older colleagues.

  Jean-Louis barely tolerated the intrusion. He didn’t appear comfortable with the sudden influence of these hard-drinking Germans. “Non, merci. Not for me,” he said, waving off his bottle of St. Pauli when it was plunked in front of him.

  “Ach. Just one,” Krauskopf said. “Just one beer among lonely foreigners.”

  His drinking partners agreed, held up their bottles. “Prosit.”

  “Prosit.”

  “Prosit.”

  “Whisky before beer, never fear.” Matt said, clinking each bottle until he got to Jean-Louis. “And you, mister concièrge? What do you say?”

  Jean-Louis gave in to the moment and picked up his bottle. “A votre santé, monsieur.” He clinked all around then put his bottle back on the table without drinking.

  “Hey,” Matt said. He thrust his hand up in the general direction of the bartender. “Five clean glasses, s’il vous plaît. You guys like whisky?”

  The Germans preferred beer but they were game to drink anything at this stage. The bartender brought more glasses; Matt sloshed the amber liquid all around; and everyone except Jean-Louis downed their drink in one go.

  “What are you jennelmen doing in the fine city of Bamako?” Matt said, as if he’d just been punched in the lip.

  “Bamako?” Krauskopf laughed. “That was last week. This is Ouagadougou.” He drew out the final two syllables. “Maybe you’re lost?”

  “Maybe I am,” Matt said. “Everywhere looks the same out here.”

  “Ja. Alles hot and schmützig. Tough on trucks.”

  “Trucks? Who cares about trucks?” Matt said.

  “We do,” Krauskopf protested. “We work for Daimler. That’s what we do. We sell trucks across this verdammte country.”

  “We just rode a truck all the way in from.…” Matt looked to Jean-Louis for help. “Where’d we come from?”

  “The north.”

  “The north,” Matt repeated. “We came from the north. In a big truck. Practically broke my back over those roads.”

  “Not a Daimler, then. You wouldn’t say that about our trucks,” Krauskopf said, in mock seriousness.

  “Ja, three out of four trucks don’t even work in this country,” Weiss said.

  “Ja, and the fourth is a Daimler,” Krauskopf said. The Germans laughed at their shop humor.

  “Ja. Daimlers are the best trucks in de world. What kind of shit truck did you drive?” Weiss said.

  “What kind of shit truck?” Matt scowled at the question.

  Jean-Louis shrugged. “Some kind of water drilling truck.”

  “Ha! Good. A drilling truck.” The Germans toasted the funny idea of a drilling truck. Or maybe they toasted the funny idea that their two new friends could ride in a truck across country and not notice what make it was.

  “In the north. A water drill, I suppose?” young Becker spoke up, adjusting his glasses.

  “Yeah. Water. My son drills wells.”

  “Your son?”

  “That would be IH or maybe Renault up there,” Becker added.

  “Yeah, my son. He works here.”

  “What operation is that?”

  Matt looked again for guidance to Jean-Louis, who shrugged.

  When Matt didn’t answer, Becker said, “USAID or UNDP? Has to be one or the other up there. Maybe you could introduce him to us? We could give him a ride, give you all a ride, in our new G-class. Best off-road truck in the world.”

  “Ja, G-Class is fantastick,” Weiss added.

  “Ja, fantastick,” Krauskopf threw in. “We can bid on UNDP.”

  Matt took a pull on his St. Pauli. “Probably better if you talk to him yourself. His name is Karl Reiser.”

  The Germans laughed at first, but detected a change in Matt.

  “Ja. My son can be difficult,” Weiss said.

  “I saw my son today for the first time in six years,” Matt said, mainly to himself.

  The Germans looked for clarification to Jean-Louis, but he sat back away from the conversation.

  Next Matt mentioned the letter, and once he mentioned the letter, he told them about Melanie. The Germans set their beers on the table and listened with respect as Matt swerved through his story, from Fort Wayne to Ouaga. Matt said Melanie should be here and he should not. It wasn’t clear whether he meant here, as in Africa, or here, as in alive. The Germans frowned sympathetically when Matt described Karl’s cool farewell at the truck depot.

  “Fathers and sons belong together,” Weiss said. “I know. I grew up without a father. Your son. He don’t know how lucky he is to have a father.”

  Krauskopf added, “My Papi, he had a tough life. He was impossible during his last days, but I stayed with him. Sneaked him cigarettes in the hospital right up to the end.”

  The implication threw Matt off. “Hey. I’m not that old. I may be older than all of you but I got some time left.”

  “Nei, I don’t mean you,” Krauskopf apologized, then laughed, relieved to return to a more light-hearted tack. “You’re a young man.” He held up his nearly-empty St. Pauli Girl. “And you can drink like one.” He toasted his new friend. “Zum wohl.”

  “Zum wohl.”

  ”Cheers.”

  “Zum wohl.”

  Jean-Louis showed no interest in the round of father-son true confessions. He sat back, until late in the night, taking ridicule for refusing all drink, and sticking to Matt like a chaperone.

  Four hours later, a crashing sound and men’s voices in the hallway ripped Jean-Louis out of a deep sleep on the sofa bed in the junior suite. He hopped into his pants and put an eye to the peep-hole where he made out human shapes in the weak light.

  Behind the chain Jean-Louis saw Krauskopf and Weiss and the bespectacled Becker. Karl towered over the Germans with a look of confused concern.

  “So where is he?” Karl said to Jean-Louis, as he released the chain.
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br />   Krauskopf marched into the bedroom where Matt lay on his back, snoring. Weiss and Becker led Karl into the bedroom where he took one look at his father, sniffed, and said, “He’s drunk?”

  In the time it took Karl to make his assessment, Krauskopf yanked the bedside phone out of the wall and with his pals backed out of the room and slammed the door.

  “Hey!”

  Weiss and Becker shoved a broad-backed armchair in front of the door and Weiss plopped down his generous body.

  “Let them work it out,” Krauskopf said, looking over the result of his handiwork. “We will watch the door.” He set the phone on the coffee table next to the sofa bed. “We don’t let them out ‘til Herr Reiser tells us to.”

  Karl pounded on the door and rattled the handle, then shouldered the door into the armchair blocked by Weiss’s immoveable heft.

  “Have you a minibar?” Weiss asked Jean-Louis. “Can you give me a beer, please? Ich schlaff’ hier. I sleep here tonight.”

  Chapter 42

  Karl pounded and pushed without effect. He checked for hinges, but they were on the other side of the door, which was solid wood and built to withstand any amount of damage he could inflict. After a few unsuccessful heave-hos, he took a break, grabbed an unopened bottle of water from the nightstand, and sat on the edge of the bed next to his snoring father.

  He could yell, cause a commotion, get the attention of the guests in the next room. Surely someone would call downstairs to complain. But there was no guarantee anyone was even in the next room. And even if there was someone, and they did call downstairs, he didn’t have any faith someone would pick up at—he looked at his watch—four-thirty in the morning.

  He was tired and pissed with his father. But he didn’t feel threatened. Not like he was in danger. Those Germans were buffoons—he decided that the moment they rousted him out of bed. They were loud and annoying but not the sort to do harm. Their role in this setup was a mystery to him.

  Nor did he understand his father’s role. Not the kind of thing his dad would engineer. He wasn’t a trickster. He was a straight-forward, chin-to-chin kind of guy. Loved the goal-line stand. Whoever wanted the final yard the most won the day.

  He looked down on his father. Clearly he wasn’t bothered by any of this. Hadn’t even altered the rhythm of his snoring. He must have sucked down a lot of booze. He looked hammered, homeless. Grizzled beard. Brush of gray at the temples. Silly in that khaki suit. His hands had that freckled old person look. His eyes were puffy. An alcoholic puffiness? So was that it? He drank now? It wouldn’t surprise him. A sober version of his father would never travel to Upper Volta. He had no tolerance for foreigners. He mocked people who couldn’t speak English. He never left Indiana except for short vacations to Michigan and Florida. The sight of him screamed non-native, uprooted, not transplantable. Yet here he was, right beside him, sucking air.

  Karl heard the heavy outside door shut from the other room. Someone left or someone arrived. He didn’t hear anyone talking over his dad’s gurgling snores and that fat German’s heavy breathing.

  He switched off the bedside lamp. A strip of light leaked under the door. He pressed his cheek against the dusty carpet and shut one eye, strained to see into the sitting room. He could make out the dark wooden legs of the chair the Germans used to block the door. A beer bottle lay defeated next to a pudgy stockinged foot. He pressed his cheek hard against the carpet but still couldn’t see past the area directly in front of the door. While he was flattening the carpet with his fingers, trying to extend his view, the lights went out. He heard what must have been the springs of the sofa bed.

  “Hey,” he yelled under the door. “Who’s out there? Jean-Louis?”

  The springs moaned. A soft light threw shadows across the carpet.

  —Yes. It’s me.

  —What’s going on? Karl switched to French hoping to end-run any German presence, maybe establish some rapport with the Ivorian.

  —You stay in there until your father asks us to open the door.

  “Fuck that.”

  No answer. The light went out. The springs groaned. Silence, but for Matt’s in-sucking snores and the throaty breathing of the German.

  “Okay.” Karl reconsidered. Had to keep his wits. He’d given in to his feelings—still struggling with the loss of his mom—and when the Germans burst in with their so-called emergency news about his father, it hit him like an uppercut. What now? Both parents lost in one day? Of course he rushed over here, but to what? The Germans playing him?

  —How can he ask you to open the door? He’s passed out drunk.

  —He came a long way to find you. The idea is you should talk to him, man-to-man. Give him what he came for.

  —We talked in the truck, Karl shot back.

  The German slipped into snoring mode, creating an audio see-saw effect, first Matt’s nasal rumble on this side of the door, then the German’s guttural gasps in response.

  —I couldn’t hear you.

  —I said, you have to do better than that.

  —Better than what? He raised his voice over the snorts and whistles.

  —You are not stupid. You know what I mean. Talk to him.

  Karl didn’t answer. The stereophonic snoring grated on his already frayed nerves. It was hard to hear through the ruckus, and through the door. And Karl stubbornly refused to accept this demand. Why were these total strangers butting into his personal life? This was nobody’s business but his.

  He felt an urge to attack the door again and he jumped up, put his shoulder to it, and shoved. But he only managed a weak wooden creak.

  He threw the curtains open and looked below. African nights were the most brilliant spectacles he ever experienced. But tonight was blanketed with clouds. He could only detect a few specks of light around the pool below. Beyond the hotel property, the barely distinguishable outline of Lake Ouagadougou. Farther south, intermittent flickers at the rough boundaries of the city.

  He was stuck. Getting angry wouldn’t improve things. He sat back at the edge of the bed and sipped the water to get a scratch out of his throat. The dust from the carpet irritated his sinus, made him sneeze. Then cough. He could never get the desert dust out of his nose and throat. It penetrated everywhere. He flipped the light on in the bathroom, ran the tap to wash his hands and face, used a hand towel, then with his finger at the light switch, caught his reflection and leaned forward with his hands on the sink to scrutinize his tired face.

  He saw remnants of anger. His pupils tiny under the vanity lights. Tension around his eyes. But mainly he saw a drawn face sustained by adrenaline.

  What the hell am I doing in this room? How stupid can I be?

  He stood back to take in his reflection as if he’d just met himself. His face hardened by two years of desert sand and sun, a three-day beard accenting his cheekbones. Karl nodded at himself and said out loud, “I’m doing the right thing.”

  Matt fluttered his eyes on Karl leaning over the sink, at first thinking he was back home but the layout of the room felt wrong. The smells were musty, too acrid, as if vestiges of a long ago chimney fire. He lay watching Karl until he remembered he was in Africa, in Ouaga, in the junior suite at The Hotel Silmandé with a throbbing whisky headache.

  “I feel like death,” he said and groaned.

  Chapter 43

  Startled, Karl turned toward the bed. “They said you collapsed.”

  Matt took a deep breath. Tight temples, itchy eyes, whisky mouth. “I did?”

  “They said you stopped breathing.”

  Matt blinked, rubbed his eyes until Karl turned off the bathroom light. “Who’s they?”

  “What?”

  “You said they said I stopped breathing. Who’s they?”

  “Some Germans. They said you asked for me right before you collapsed and it looked really bad. Said I better hurry.”

  Karl picked up the water bottle off the floor. “Here. It’s okay. I opened it.”

  Matt scrunched up to
a slumping position and drank long.

  “They won’t let me out of here until you tell them to.”

  “The Germans? What do they have to do with anything? Where’s Jean-Louis?”

  “He’s out there, too. He’s in on it.”

  Matt leaned back on the wooden headboard and absorbed what Karl told him.

  Matt laughed weakly. “You have to watch Jean-Louis. He’s not what you think he is.”

  “I have no idea what he is to begin with. Did you put him up to this?” Karl sat on the end of the bed, the outline of his long torso visible in the faint light from the window.

  “Up to what?”

  “Trapping me in here with you.”

  Matt fought the whisky headache. “I need more of that water.” He drank more, slowly.

  “I’m as surprised as you are,” Matt said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “At … this.” He made a dismissive wave. “I woke up. Saw you looking at yourself in the mirror.”

  “What about the Germans?”

  Matt pressed his hands to his temples. “I barely remember them. Some guys were drinking at the bar when we got back. I think they joined us.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, I think. It’s a little blurry.”

  Karl didn’t know if he should be embarrassed or angry at his father. The paternal table turned on him for the first time. He was the one in control. The boring one with perspective and common sense.

  “Is this something you do now?”

  Matt shook his head. Didn’t get the question.

  “Drinking? Getting smashed.”

  Matt let out a sigh. “No, Karl. I don’t get drunk. You should know that much about me.”

  “All I have to go by is what I see.”

  “I hope that’s not all you have to go by. But no, I don’t drink.” He cleared his sandpaper throat. Talking made it tender. “I got drunk last night. I just reached a point, I wanted to forget. I checked out. My mind went home.”

  The German’s snore rumbled beyond the door and irritated Karl, reminded him how he’d been hoodwinked by those assholes. Plus, he didn’t like this vulnerability in his father. It was annoying. Something he never expected. He was always such a tough angry guy, with such high expectations. He couldn’t accept him like this.