On The Riverside Of Promise

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  * * *

  Business in the Metropolitaine was now in full swing. A small gang of sailors were celebrating one of their mates birthday, following the custom of drinking till the botswain comes looking for them. Louis kept a wary eye on a couple of strange-looking figures, but other than that the orders kept coming in and that made him a happy man.

  Ethan was sitting opposite James at a small round metal table in a corner near the bar, looking far from jovial. What James had told him had suddenly turned this war into a personal matter, something that every professional soldier tried to avoid. A well-known but sadly overlooked factor in dying was doing stupid things for all the wrong reasons, and making a war something personal was both stupid and wrong.

  James had fallen silent for a couple minutes, sipping at his wine, a local plonk variety that barely passed the mark. Ethan was down to his last couple of cigarettes, chain-smoking ever since they had sat down to talk. At length, Ethan broke the uncomfortable silence:

  “I should have pulled some strings when he told me he was going in with the Red Cross. Red tape, paperwork, passport trouble. Surely someone you know in the Interior could have been of some help. Maybe forced him to stay in Britain, somehow. Don’t know, really.”

  James motioned a definite `no’ with his head, eyes closed shut. He then had another sip before answering:

  “You know there are many ways to come to Nigeria. If your brother wanted to come, he would have found his own. There’s nothing you could have really done to prevent him from coming here in the first place.”

  Ethan drew heavily on his cigarette and exhaled briskly. He spoke with some irritation:

  “True enough, that. Maybe you could have detained him when their caravan set off for Biafra? I could have spoken some more sense into him. It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  James was as calm as before, answering with a flat and emotionless voice, trying to calm down Ethan as well:

  “Not a Red Cross caravan. How would it look in the papers if Nigeria blocked the Red Cross? It would look like we want to let children die of dysentery and famine. No, we could not have told your brother to just stay put. It was not my job, and not yours either. It was his choice, his life.”

  Ethan put out his cigarette, drank the rest of his drink in one go and made a gesture with his empty glass to Louis who seemed to notice almost immediately. Ethan then looked straight into James’ eyes; a set of dark eyes accented by the small bit of white that surrounded them. He tried to calm himself and find the appropriate words:

  “You are right about that… Maybe I should have just whipped him good like when we were still ten years old. But he’s a grown man, a doctor no less. He has his duties, his obligations. Like I have my own. Though I still think it was a stupid thing to do, at least he acted like the man he’s supposed to be. He wanted to help, he signed up with the Red Cross. Never really saw meself how lying down on the grass all day long, smoking pot and fucking like rabbits could stop people from dying. Still, a stupid move coming here.”

  There was a pause. Louis was returning to their table with Ethan’s refill of Littlemill and a clean ashtray. Ethan nodded his thanks to Louis who in turn bowed slightly and fleeted off to serve some other table. James had rested his arms on their table, his frame too large to comfortably seat himself in the Metropolitaine’s plain chairs. Ethan took a mouthful of Littlemill and flinched when he felt the malt burn down his throat and into his stomach. He then went on:

  “I know, war’s no place for idealists and romantics. That’s probably why I’m still alive. That, and an awful amount of luck, I’d wager. Maybe Andy’s doing a better job than I ever could. I mean, in the grander scheme of things, him being a doctor and all that. Can’t really tell why I didn’t stop him. I just couldn’t, you know?”

  James blinked languidly and sipped the last bit of his wine. He set his glass down with a clang before replying:

  “Someone has to try and save the world. People like your brother think they can. Like every hero should.”

  James grunted with a hint of disapproval and Ethan grimaced with slight annoyance at that contemptive gesture. He lit up one of the last cigarettes in his pack and inhaled thoroughly:

  “Well, I wouldn’t know. I’m not exactly in the business of saving people, am I? You could say we’re sort of antagonists, me and Andy. It kind of reminds me, we used to be in opposite teams when we balled.”

  “I didn’t know you play cricket.”

  “Haven’t ever since I got a leg injury in Kenya. Nasty business that was. Almost got myself killed. Young, stupid and rash. Also, quite a lucky bastard.”

  James expression seemed to change somewhat. He removed his hands from the table and for a moment sat still, looking at Ethan intensely. He then ordered another drink from Louis, who seemed to keep a watchful eye at their table more so than the others and nodded promptly, disappearing at the back for a couple of minutes. When James spoke next, he was lighting up Ethan’s last cigarette, Ethan affording nothing but a stunned surprise and a deep furrow:

  “Were you any good at it?”

  “What, cricket? I thought you didn’t smoke.”

  “I’m a man of many talents. And some vices as well.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not a Rolling Stones fan as well. It’d be a real crime to find out you’ve been hiding that too.”

  James drew on his cigarette and threw his head back, letting off a small cloud of smoke. He was smiling when he pointed to Ethan and said:

  “Not much to hide, Ethan. Sometimes I smoke. Usually alone.”

  Ethan nodded with a sly grin on his face. He sipped another mouthful from his glass of scotch which was disappearing fast. James was toying with the ice in his glass when a slight grin formed on his face, droplets of sweat running down his forehead, glistening dimly in the hazy, poor lighting of the Metropolitaine:

  “A better chance than cricket, true enough. A bad leg won’t leave you behind.”

  “It isn’t just the bad leg. I’m not a cricket fan really. Andy loves it though. At least as a kid he did. Used to drag me along. The bad leg is just a reminder.”

  James seemed to stiffen suddenly. He straightened his back before reaching for his glass, his voice a bit shallow and distant:

  “Which is worse, Ethan? The memories, or the leg?”

  “It’s the memories alright. Hadn’t seen him in four years. Rarely called. Never wrote. He must’ve thought I couldn’t care less. But it’s the job, you know? The distance.”

  James interjected mildly:

  “The scotch too?”

  Ethan drained his glass, as if a real thirst was driving him and answered:

  “That too.”

  James was looking at him through bloodshot eyes, his glass of wine empty once more. He sat upright in his chair, drew audibly through his large nostrils on the thick air of the Metropolitaine and made a hand signal for another round of drinks, making sure that Louis brought two glasses of Littlemill. Ethan’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling fan above them. He looked distantly thoughtful, grim and withdrawn, far from his usual self. He turned his eyes to his empty glass and spoke with a touch of anger behind each sentence:

  “I need to find my brother. I’ve never left a man behind in my life. Brought everyone back. I can’t leave me own brother behind. It’s Andy for God’s sake, hasn’t hurt a fly in his life.”

  James seemed at once somber and surprised, his eyes narrowing dangerously:

  “Ethan, there’s a war going on. What is on your mind?”

  Ethan picked up their drinks from Louis’ passing tray in mid-air, and replied:

  “Go look after him. Find him. Bring him back.”

  James shook his head disapprovingly:

  “A fool’s errand. Even if he’s alive, it could get you killed. The both of you.”

  “It’s not an errand and I’m no fool either.”

  James stare had begun to pierce through Ethan’s eyes, casting a gaze hard as stone upon him: �
��You must be out of your mind,” he said in a hushed voice.

  Ethan shrugged indifferently and retorted:

  “I’ve done more than my fair share of mistakes. I know this isn’t one.”

  James voice was slow and determined:

  “You’ll need all the help you can get then. If it’s going to have any meaning or chance of success.”

  Ethan cracked a smile and drank a tiny sip of Littlemill, noticing he was almost out of scotch. Louis then appeared out of nowhere with the grace of a dancer. He offered them the bottle of Littlemill he had opened earlier. There was barely enough scotch in it for just another drink.

  “Gentlemen, compliments of the house. And you can keep the bottle too, if you like.”

  Ethan nodded his thanks and laughed despite himself, while James still sat there looking at Ethan seemingly unable to discern whether or not the man was simply drunk and already grieving, making up ideas. He asked Ethan, the stress in his voice showing he wanted to be convinced:

  “Are you sure you are going to do this? I want to help. But I want to know I’m not risking my neck for some jungle antiques, Ethan Whittmore. And it could mean my neck, literally. I need you to be deadly serious. All the way.”

  Ethan’s reply was as sharp as his pervasive eyes:

  “I got nothing left apart from Andy. Nothing that matters anyway. Job’s shit nowdays. No wife or kids. He’s all I got, James.”

  James shrugged, his large set of shoulders tensing up his fatigues almost to the point of tearing. He then told Ethan:

  “He could be already dead, you know that. He might be a white English doctor, but no matter how useful he may prove to any captor, bullets are not very picky.”

  Ethan went on, his fists clenching instinctively, his eyes shining with a crystal clarity that he rarely exhibited:

  “Then I’ll bring back the body to Glasgow and lay him down in the ground. I’ll do what I can, James. I’ll do anything.”

  James fixed his stare on Ethan, as if he was measuring him up:

  “What are you going to do? Quit first thing tomorrow?”

  Ethan smiled bitterly and said:

  “Maybe I should. They wouldn’t let me though. Operational needs, lack of personnel, that sort of thing. The service wants to fuck you three ways to Australia if they can. Can’t even put in for leave, not at such a short notice. Listen, do you think you could arrange some sort of training exercise? Any reason that will demand me being attached to somewhere outside Lagos. Gone for a week or two. If all goes well, then I’ll see what I’ll do. If not, it won’t really matter from then on.”

  James took a mouthful of Littlemill without preparing himself. Unaccustomed to strong liquor as he was, he looked as if he was about to vomit on the spot but he managed to contain himself. He shook his head in affirmation and said:

  “I can do that. I can do more than that. I can keep you informed; give you locations, rumors, troop movements, any intelligence that passes through me. Anything that would help you find your brother and keep you alive at the same time. I even think I can cook up a `real’ operation. We can then use regular radio traffic to keep in contact without arousing suspicion.”

  “Can you do that? I’ll need to leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow night, the day after tomorrow at the latest. I have to pack my gear, and maybe borrow a couple of things as well, with your help. Then I need to do some itinerary checking.”

  “Are you planning to follow the same path as your brother’s caravan?”

  “Yes, all the way. I’ll start from Lagos, to Benin City, then Asaba, through Onitsha and into Biafran territory. From then on, it’s Owerri.”

  James nodded appreciatively. He asked with a hint of worry in his voice:

  “What happens when you’re in Biafra? What happens if you find your brother?”

  “You mean when I find my brother. Bring him back, what else?”

  “I mean, how do you plan to do that? What if he’s injured? A prisoner, or a hostage? What if he’s weak, wounded or sick? Don’t tell me you’ll hitch a ride back or carry him yourself if you have to.”

  “I will if I have to.”

  “Are all Scots on their father’s side as foolish as you? I’ll bring a helicopter. We can arrange a landing zone through the radio. If we lose contact, we’ll have two pre-determined landing zones, at two different times. I hope it doesn’t get to that.”

  “You’ll do that?”

  “Helicopters fly without flight plans all the time. I don’t have these pilot wings for show, Ethan.”

  Ethan grinned at the hint of mischief. James shot his hopes down abruptly once more though:

  “What are you going to do when you’re inside Biafra though? How are you going to run around, an Englishman like you, with no papers whatsoever? Or are you just going to let everyone know you’re a military advisor for the Nigerians, so they can perhaps torture you before shooting you on the spot?”

  Ethan seemed a little skeptical, but at length he managed a reply:

  “I have something in mind for that. I may have a contact, through the embassy. An old friend. He might be able to forge some papers, make me look legitimate. A photographer, or a journalist. Someone who can get in and out with relative impunity.”

  “There’s no such thing as impunity. Tolerance maybe. A journalist would be a good cover; they’re always looking for sympathy from the press.”

  Ethan nodded in agreement and paused toughtfully for a few moments. He then looked at James as if he knew he was already asking too much of his Nigerian friend, but nevertheless went on and told him:

  “James, you’ve been a good friend while I’m here, helping me ease into the situation. We’re like-minded, you are a damn good professional if I’ve ever seen one, your cooking’s great but why are you doing this for me? It can’t be that you’re risking so much at such a time just to help a white man. I consider you a comrade-in-arms, a friend I wish I can drool with over a bottle of scotch when I’m hopefully old enough to pee on my pants. But tell me, why exactly are you risking your life and career? If it’s about money, I assure you I…”

  James slapped Ethan hard across the face, the shock from the hit leaving him dazzled for a while. His voice was like gravel on a tin, his face trembling with aggravation:

  “You insult me. I come to you as a friend, and you insult me thinking me a gold-digger. You have a knack, all the Englishmen seem to. You’re so blind to what really is right in front of you. I consider you a friend too, so I’ll consider this a slip of the tongue. You’re under emotional pressure, you’ve had some drinks. I’ll forget you ever said it.”

  James exhaled deeply and seemed to calm down. The timbre of his voice turned to something affable, a voice unusually soft and mellow, full of memory and sentiment:

  “You want to know why I want to help you with whatever means at my disposal? Because I myself had a brother once. A brother who bled his hands so I could grow into the man I am today. A brother who buried our parents with his own hands. I lost that brother. I lost him and while I could have done something about it, I simply watched him go away, never to return. I’ve been in your place Ethan. I know you’re doing what I should have done years ago. And I want you to find your brother. That, I swear unto God.”

  Ethan looked sullen and embarrassed. He cleared his throat before saying:

  “I’m sorry James. I’m sorry I offended you. You’ve never told me much about him.”

  James laughed without joy before replying:

  “What is there to say, Ethan? Perhaps it was his fate. Like we have ours.”

  “You believe in fate, then? Think all this is part of it?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I believe. No-one can escape the webs of fate, believer or not. We should do well to remember that.”

  Ethan emptied the rest of his glass in one go and poured what little was left in the bottle of Littlemill to the both of them. He then raised his glass in a toast:

  “To Andy.”

&n
bsp; And James replied:

  “To Enkele.”