by Ross Thomas
“The tyrant is dead!” he screamed. The women didn’t hear him. They were too busy screaming themselves. So he yelled it again. Two of the Privates flanked him and grinned down at the crowd. Their grins looked a little mad. I put my arm around Anne and felt her shudder.
Some of the hangers-on from the cocktail party gathered on the fringe of the crowd of women. These were the insatiably curious. The circumspect had fled at the sound of the shots. I could hear engines being started and tires squeal as Chief Akomolo’s supporters remembered previous appointments.
The crowd grew quieter. “The tyrant is dead!” The Corporal bellowed again and moved the head around some more. This time they heard him and they went with the winner. They cheered. The Corporal lobbed the head down into the crowd. One woman caught it, lost it, and caught it again. It started to move from hand to hand, the gold-rimmed glasses askew on the face. Somewhere they fell off. Then the head disappeared and the women kicked it around some like a soccer ball. The Corporal rested his hands on the ledge and beamed down at the game.
The market women had a good time kicking the head around for five or six minutes, but they tired of that and surged towards the balcony where the Corporal struck his pose. They wanted something else to happen. The Corporal said a few words to the Privates who flanked him. They grinned, moved quickly to Anne, grabbed her by the arms, and jerked her over to the Corporal. I lunged after them, but two of the soldiers fastened onto my arms and pinned me against the wall. One of them put the muzzle of his rifle under my chin. I struggled some more and got rapped across the ear with its barrel. Shartelle smacked one of the other soldiers with a roundhouse left that sent the man sprawling, his rifle clattering to the floor. Shartelle was almost to Anne when the other soldiers caught him, threw him to the floor, and pounded their rifle butts into his back.
Anne fought all the way. She bit and she kicked and she cursed. The market women watched in silence as the two soldiers attempted to lift her up over the ledge. “Akomolo’s white witch!” the Corporal yelled and pointed at her. Anne screamed. The women shouted and laughed and held up their arms for her. Their faces formed a dark sea of hate and rage and lust.
The jeep, its horn blaring, roared into the courtyard followed by a Land Rover. The tough-looking Sergeant-Major who drove the jeep fired three shots in the air with a revolver. Sitting next to the sergeant was Major Chuku. The Privates let Anne go and she stumbled towards me. The pair of soldiers who held me let go and moved away. Shartelle groaned, got to his knees, and pulled himself up until he could half-sprawl on the ledge that ran around the balcony.
Major Chuku was in field uniform and carried a swagger stick. Soldiers in full field equipment jumped out of the Land Rover and formed a wedge behind the Major, their rifles at the ready. The Major used his swagger stick to beat his way through the crowd of women. The Sergeant used his feet and fists. They cleared a path and ran up the steps to where the Corporal and his soldiers huddled. The weapons that had killed Akomolo were abandoned on the floor. I held Anne as she shook uncontrollably. I leaned against the wall because I had to, and watched Chuku and his Sergeant-Major run up the stairs. It seemed to take them a long time. Shartelle was still half-lying on the ledge, one of his hands pressed against his back where the rifle butts had struck.
Major Chuku barely glanced at the Corporal and his soldiers.
“Is Miss Kidd all right, Mr. Upshaw?”
“We’re all fine, we’re all just great.”
“Has Mr. Shartelle been injured?”
“I don’t think he has any kidneys left.”
“Where is Akomolo?”
“In his study.”
The Major darted into the small office and came out just as quickly. He shook his head and pounded the swagger stick theatrically into his left palm. It must have meant that he was upset.
“I will offer a formal apology later, Mr. Upshaw. Now I must ask a question. Did they do this?” He made a vague swing of the stick at the six Privates and the Corporal who had been put into a stiff brace by the Sergeant-Major.
“They did it.”
The Major turned to the Sergeant. “Take them over to that wall—there.” He pointed with his stick. “And shoot them. Make the women watch.”
“Sah!” the Sergeant-Major barked and gave Chuku a snappy salute. The thin Corporal fell to his knees when he heard the news and then sprawled on the floor, screaming. The Sergeant kicked him up and shoved him down the stairs. The Corporal fell once more and got kicked up again by the Sergeant. Downstairs in the courtyard the Sergeant gave a brief command to the wedge of soldiers. Six of them detached themselves from the formation and herded the Corporal and his men over to the high wall that surrounded the compound. The women watched.
The Corporal and the Privates didn’t line up against the wall. They just huddled in a bunch. The Corporal was weeping. The Sergeant-Major gave a brief command to his men. They shot the Corporal and the six Privates in a bunch like that while the women watched. Some of the Sergeant’s troops had to fire more than once. The Sergeant then walked over and used his revolver to put a bullet into the head of each man, but they seemed already dead to me.
The women cheered. They still went with the winner.
Shartelle, half-lying on the ledge, said: “Shit.”
The Major turned to me. “It was not to be this way,” he said.
Anne continued to shake. She made small whimpering noises and I held her tightly and stroked her hair. I kept saying, “It’s all right, it’s all right.” I could have said it a hundred times.
Shartelle managed to stand up. His face was twisted and white and he pressed his hands against his back.
“It was not to be this way,” Major Chuku said again.
“What way?” Shartelle said. His voice was a croak.
“There were to be no deaths—no shooting.”
“Shit,” Shartelle said again. He started towards the Major, staggered, and almost fell. I watched him over Anne’s head. The Major moved back quickly. “No deaths, huh?” Shartelle said. “No rough stuff, no violence. How about Captain Cheatwood?”
Major Chuku blinked rapidly. “What about Cheatwood?”
“You killed him,” Shartelle said. “Or had him killed. In our driveway.”
“You’re mad.”
Shartelle fumbled in his pockets and found a twisty black cigar. He put it in his mouth and lighted it. He seemed almost calm now as he inhaled some smoke and blew it in Chuku’s face. The Major waved it away.
“No. I ain’t mad. You killed Cheatwood because he found out about your coup.”
“This was an unfortunate accident, Mr. Shartelle. I regret that you were involved. But it is not your affair.”
“Akomolo was my candidate,” Shartelle said. “And you got hirn killed. How about the rest of them—Old Alhaji Sir and Dr. Kologo? They get killed in unfortunate accidents, too?”
“They have been arrested for their own protection.”
“But you couldn’t arrest Cheatwood, could you? You had to have hirn stabbed to death. You, Major, because Cheat- wood tried to tell us. He tried to write your name in the gravel and dirt of our driveway but he only got as far as the ‘C’ and the first bar of the ‘H’ before he ran out of time. Another two minutes and he would have spelled it out.”
“It could have been his own name,” Chuku said blandly. “It could even have been your CIA, Mr. Shartelle.”
“Could have been, but wasn’t, because you couldn’t let the poor bastards make their own pitiful mistakes, could you? Not even for a little while. You couldn’t even let them screw up their own country for a month or so.” Shartelle’s voice was still like a bullfrog’s, but he went on:
“So you take the losers into what you call protective custody and you kill the winner. Only the winner’s dead, huh? My winner.”
“It was an accident. Those men had been ordered to stand guard at the entrance of the compound. They were to prevent Chief Akomolo from leaving. They took matt
ers into their own hands.”
“They killed my candidate, Major—mine. And they were under your command so that makes you responsible.”
“I think you will agree that they have been sufficiently punished.”
“How about the ones who killed Cheatwood? Have they been sufficiently punished? Don’t give me that crap, Major. It’s all over the country, one slick coup. Cheatwood found out and had to be killed. Who backed you? The CIA—MI6?”
“You give us far too little credit, Mr. Shartelle. Even Africans can sometimes manage their own affairs without the help of outsiders. It might be a lesson for you to learn.”
“So you went and got yourself a real home-grown coup—just you and the rest of the Army. What’re you using for an excuse to keep the British out?”
“A formal statement has been prepared. You can hear it on the radio, or read it in tomorrow’s newspaper.”
“Something about corruption and the need for austerity and stability in the trying times that will accompany independence?”
The Major permitted himself a faint smile. “Something like that.”
The women were leaving the courtyard, prodded along by the soldiers who were under Chuku’s command. They left quietly—their gabbling over. The courtyard was silent. Shartelle turned to me. “Miss Anne all right?”
“I want to get her out of here.”
He nodded and turned back to the Major. “I’m going to tell you something, sonny. You just made yourself a mistake. You’ve just pulled off about the most unpopular coup in history and if you ain’t got a popular coup going, then you’re in trouble. If you’d waited a couple of months, you’d been all right. But the folks have just cast their votes and they’ll want to see who won and how they do after they get elected. So, boy, I think you’re in trouble with the folks, and if you’re in trouble with the folks, then you’re going to be in trouble with the money crowd. They can starve you out. And when the folks get hungry enough there’s going to be some other Major or Light-Colonel come knocking at your door about midnight and if you’re lucky, they may even mark your grave.
“You paint a most dismal picture, Mr. Shartelle. I didn’t realize that you were capable of such theatrical hate.” He smiled again slightly. “Perhaps it will diminish after you leave Albertia. And you will be leaving, you know, you and Mr. Upshaw, within twenty-four hours. You can take your hate with you.”
“Major, you killed my client. My winner.” Shartelle tapped himself on the chest. “Mine. You don’t know what hate is ’til you’ve been hated by me.”
The Major permitted himself another smile. It was probably his last for the day. “Perhaps you will find a match for your hate, here in Africa.”
Shartelle shook his head slowly and stared at the Major. “There’s no match for mine, Major. There’s none at all.”
Chapter
27
We were back at the wide-eaved house by seven o’clock. Shartelle had driven and we saw squads of soldiers patrolling Ubondo. They had stopped us once, politely enough, and cautioned us to get off the streets. The house was locked when we got there; no servants were about.
None of us said much on the way home. Shartelle had gone immediately to the phone, and was talking with Claude. Anne sat on the couch, a glass of brandy in her hand, staring at the floor. I stood in the doorway, looking out into the night and drinking brandy. I was trying to decide how I felt and I wasn’t having much luck. My ear ached.
Shartelle finished his conversation with Claude and dialed another number. I didn’t listen. There was nobody in Albertia I wanted to call. I walked into the dining room and poured another brandy. Then I went back into the living room and stood by Anne.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She looked up and smiled. “I’m all right. It’s wearing off. The brandy helps.”
“When Shartelle gets through on the phone, I’ll get us reservations.”
“To where?”
“To wherever the first plane goes. North, south, west—it doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
“I can’t leave. I know you have to, but I can’t. I have to teach school tomorrow. I just can’t leave like that. I can’t leave until I’m through.”
I knelt down beside her. “What kind of crap is that? It’s over, Anne. It’s all over. Done. The good guys are all shot; the bad guys have got the ranch. It’s ended.”
“No,” she said, “it’s not like that. School will open tomorrow. It always does. It has to open—especially tomorrow. You see that, don’t you?” She put one hand out and gently ran it up and down the side of my face where the soldier had struck me with the rifle barrel. “Does it hurt bad?”
I shook my head.
“The children will be there tomorrow. They’ll expect me there and they’ll want me there because they’ll be confused and a little frightened. I’m something constant in their lives. They didn’t lose an election—only the candidates did. I don’t know. Maybe the country lost something, too, but you can’t penalize the children for that.”
“You can resign,” I said. “You’re not indentured. You can quit and we can get married in Rome or Paris or London or wherever the plane lands.”
“I want to, Pete. You don’t know how much I want to. But I can’t leave. And apparently I can’t explain it or make you understand.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I don’t understand words like commitment and dedication and motivation. To me they’re just jargon. I know I’m not going to be welcome around here. I don’t think the new government’s going to like it if I hang around for six or seven months just so I can carry your books home from school.”
She looked at me and I could see the tears in her eyes. “I know. I know you can’t stay, but I know I have to. I just have to.”
Shartelle hung up the phone and walked over to us. He picked up a glass of brandy I’d poured for him and took a large swallow. “That was Jenaro,” he said. “He’s on the run and heading for the Ile’s Palace—driving one of those Volkswagens he bought. He had to make sure that Mamma and the kids would be all right. Dekko and Doc Diokadu are already on their way to the Ile’s. I guess you and me can head up there about midnight in the Humber.”
“You and who?”
“You and me, boy. To the Ile’s.”
“You’re not serious, Shartelle?”
He cocked his head to one side and studied me. “I reckon I am, Pete. Jenaro said they’ve got an emergency plan. It’s part political, part guerrilla. They need some help—somebody to do their thinking, I ’spect.”
“What are you going to do, Shartelle? Team up with some jackleg politicians who’ve gone for bush? Run a guerrilla operation? Christ, you’re not Fidel Castro. You’re not even Ché Guevara.”
“You’re not going then?’”
“To the Ile’s Palace?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No. I’m not going. I’ve got twenty-four hours to get out of the country. If I’m still here after that I might wind up out there on the driveway trying to write the name of whoever it was who stabbed me. No, I’m not going, but then I’m not a guerrilla expert. They don’t need me. I don’t think they really need you. I just think you got whipsawed and it’s tough to take.”
Shartelle walked over to one of the easy chairs and sank into it carefully. He stretched out his long, seersuckered legs. He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling.
“Now I ain’t going to take offense because I know you’re upset, Pete. And it may be just the way you said it. Maybe I was whipsawed and maybe I’m riled about it and acting the fool. But I got some of me tied up down here and if I was to leave like the Major said, it would be like walking off and leaving a good arm or leg or eye behind. I can’t do that. They took something away from me, that slick-talking Major and his crowd. And what they took is all I’ve got. Now I don’t know if you understand, boy, but I aim to try and ge
t it back. I can’t leave without trying and maybe the trying will be enough. But I know I have to do that.”
“What did you lose down here, Clint? A shred of a hot reputation? You didn’t lose the campaign, they stole it from you at the point of a gun. It was a holdup, a heist. The only goddamned thing you’ve lost down here is your mind.”
“He won’t let himself understand, Clint,” Anne said. “If he let himself, he’d stay and he doesn’t want to owe that much to anybody.”
“You staying?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have to. You know that.”
“I know.”
I knew what they were talking about but I also knew it was too late. About thirty-four years too late. I knew it was too late for me to join anybody’s counterrevolution. Instead I got up and walked back into my room, got my suitcase out of the closet, and started throwing clothes into it. I found a blue denim wraparound skirt and a white blouse in the bottom drawer. I put them in the suitcase. Then I took them out and put them back in the drawer. I didn’t seem to need any souvenirs. When I was through packing I carried the suitcase into the living room. Anne was on the telephone. She said “Thank you” and hung up.
“There’s a flight at eleven tonight. That was the Consulate. They’ve already been informed that you’re persona non grata and you’ve got space on the first flight. If you’ve decided to go.”
“I don’t think I’d like the Albertian jails.”
Shartelle was still stretched out in the easy chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Wish you’d reconsider, Petey. Might be a lot of fun.”
“I had enough fun tonight.”
Shartelle sat up slowly, took a notebook and a pen from his pocket, and started to write. He handed the note to me. “William’s back, just stuck his head in the door while you were packing. He’ll drive you down to Barkandu in the LaSalle. I’ll take the Humber and make sure that Anne gets home safe and sound.”
