400 Boys and 50 More

by Marc Laidlaw

“Rush? You should have been out of here hours ago. How foolish of me. We could have been preparing. I am such a fool.”

  “Don’t say that, my Angelica.”

  He held her to him as though he were a blind man, she a creature made of light; but it would have been a lethal tableau.

  She pulled away, almost rough with him.

  “You make me forget myself. Let’s not both be idiots. I must get into Kmei’s house before he comes home. Tell me, old friend, how would you like a new name? In a moment’s time you’ll have one. A passport, that is.”

  “You have one forged already?”

  “All ready, but not forged. You’ll have to learn the signature, then you’ll be the counterfeiter. Your name, my love, is no longer Joseph Gidukyu. You are Kmei Dodo now.”

  “Kmei Dodo,” he repeated, nodding at the name as though it were unfamiliar. He began to hear a distant ringing of bells and regretted that there was no time to enjoy them: they were memories. As the last tingling of “Innocence” ebbed from his nostrils, the name was his.

  “I’ll get you money, clothes, whatever I can get immediately. But first, your passport is in another house.”

  “My house,” he said, remembering the arrangement of furniture in his bedroom. “There.” He pointed at a dressing table invisible to her. “In my table there is a drawer within a drawer, on the right, where I keep essential papers.”

  She nodded. “That’s good, Kmei lives in your house exactly as it was. If that’s where you kept your passport, that’s where his will be.”

  “I’ll wait for you, though I wish I could come along.”

  “And I wish I could come with you. Away from here. But Bamal is my life. Goodbye.”

  When she was gone he walked to the window without fear of being seen now that it was night and the room was even darker. A dog barked, then all was silent below. He heard the gate clang, and after that nothing for five minutes. He paced the floor, grasping for the odd straws of memory that must be woven back into his comprehension. He was Dodo, yet he was not Dodo: Dodo was an enemy. Dodo had taken his house, his clinic—yes, he remembered that now. It was only fair that he should take Dodo’s name; with reversal, things returned.

  Then the gate clanked and he heard light scuffing steps on the path below. Several minutes later she stood at the door, Leon beside her bearing a small suitcase. She stepped in and slid the passport into his hand at the instant Leon switched on a light; in the dark, the manservant had already closed the curtains.

  “You look somewhat alike,” she said, “you and Dodo, but I think you will need your oils to make your lies convincing. Can you daub this photograph with some perfume that will persuade the customs officials that you are who you say you are?”

  “Of course.” He turned to the box of essences. “There is nothing more persuasive than an ol-fact.”

  The bottle of “Innocence” was still out of the box. When he replaced it, he felt a moment’s nausea, as though he had taken another mouthful of some rich food on which he had already gorged himself. He found another bottle labeled, “Believe Me.” Holding it at arm’s length, he touched his finger to the gleaming mouth of the vial, capped it again quickly, and opened the passport to paint its pages.

  He found himself staring at a black man with a thin, almost skeletal face; his dark-pupilled eyes were rimmed by luminous white, his curls were close and tight. Joseph crossed the room to a mirror hanging by the door, and gazed at himself with new interest. His face was far thinner than that in the picture; his skin was not as dark as the Ife’s, though the black and white photograph would not betray him in this regard; and his hair was too long and wild, where it was not matted and full of stickers, to resemble that of the man in the photograph. He would need the help his chemicals offered, true enough; it would be hard to convince airport officials that Dr. Dodo had been sleeping in weeds.

  “Are you ready?” she said.

  He dropped a vial of “Courage” into his pocket. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “You’re coming with me?” he said with disbelief.

  “As far as the airport, yes. If it comes to that, I can say you threatened my life, forced me to come along as your hostage.”

  “Those men do not care enough for life to respect a ransom.

  “Don’t argue with me, Joseph—Kmei, I mean. I will see you off.”

  Leon carried the suitcase, Joseph took his precious box, and Angelica ran ahead opening doors, waiting impatiently at every turn. Once in the limousine, Leon took the wheel and headed out past the Dobermans that stood vigil at the drive. He did not turn on the headlights until they were a block from the house; then he also stood on the gas.

  “Let’s pray the road is not blocked in the desert. There was a traffic jam last week, though I hear it was cleared with Russian snowplows. There can’t have been time for another to accumulate.”

  He watched the last of the estate houses pass; they were replaced by their ramshackle cardboard contemporaries. It was easy to forget how little of the city the estates occupied when one lived cloistered within them.

  The open sky painted the windows black, and the stars were like bits of glare from the headlights. Angelica opened her pearl handbag and extracted a leather billfold which she had difficulty keeping closed; it was bulging, he saw, with bills.

  “This is about all the help I can give you—a far cry from letters of introduction to the people who could really do you a service. I know I’ll be under suspicion when you’re gone, so I can’t send them messages to look out for you. I suggest you contact your scientists as you planned. Call yourself Dodo; if he’s ever been known outside Bamal, his name should be relatively unstained. Buique gives him good press.”

  He glanced at the bills, uncertain of their value. It was American currency, all 100’s. In Bamal it took three 500 notes to buy a loaf of moldy bread.

  The limousine blared its horn, a cyclist escaped narrowly by toppling into the dark at the roadside. Just ahead, where there should have been only empty road, he saw yellow and red beacons spinning out a warning.

  “Madame,” said Leon before Joseph could point it out.

  “My God, a roadblock. Joseph, quickly, let me have your box.”

  He handed it to her. She opened it, sorted through the vials, and found the one she wanted; secreted it in her palm as the limousine slowed. Joseph looked out at the soldiers unslinging machine guns as they advanced on the car, both squinting and aiming into the headlights.

  Angelica rolled down her window and moved deeper into the car, so that whoever addressed her would have to lean close to the open window.

  A stern Ife face presented itself, already drawling in a commanding and derogatory voice, “Fancy cars should stay at home tonight.”

  “My good man, why is that?” asked Angelica, the hidden vial now open in her hand; she waved it beneath his nose, a scented glimmer in the shadows. “We’re on the President’s business. You know he wants the airport checked; I’m to see if I recognize anyone there. Now let us pass. You’ve done your duty.”

  It was a different Ife, a soft-faced and compliant fellow, who stood back with a grin on his face and waved the other guards away. “Let them through!” he shouted. Oil drums rolled from the road; the soldiers retreated and stood like an honor guard as the limousine cruised past them. The flashing lights gradually shrank in the rear-view mirror and Angelica replaced the vial in the chest.

  “Let’s hope things are this easy at the airport,” she said after a sigh.

  “There is a flight tonight?”

  “A flight was scheduled to leave two days ago, but the pilots were promised a payment which they haven’t received. I think we can convince them to leave, don’t you?”

  “I hope so.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Ah, Joseph. How strange, this certainty that we will never meet again.”

  “Don’t say that. You are free to travel as you like.”

  She shook her head. “Yo
u know better than that. Let’s make this a farewell and have done with it. We will both go on to other things.”

  “Other things, but not necessarily better. I will miss you more than you know.”

  He kissed her hand and the last miles passed beneath them in silence. The airport grew out of the dust-hazed night, lights like smoked quartz mounted in the walls of the single terminal building. When Joseph finally released her hand, it was to search for the essence of “Courage.” He tucked it into his breast pocket, smiling awkwardly at her.

  “In case I need it,” he said.

  “I doubt you will.”

  While the box was open, he thought to take out a few more vials which he placed in his pocket. Chief among them was the old Mome distillate, certainly his most successful creation. But the attar he kept out and sniffed as the limousine slowed was called “Tranquillity.”

  Through the dingy windows of the concrete building he could see people milling, staring, faces blank with patience. A line of people lay against the terminal, some sleeping, some smoking, few openly watching the car. As Joseph opened the door he saw a sentry come to the door and look out at them; his only response was a sleepy smile. His blood beat calmly in his heart.

  “Careful now, Joseph,” Angelica whispered. “I dare not stay with you here. Kiss me, take your things, and go.”

  “Angelica—”

  At the edge of the curb they embraced and parted with the same will. It was not a good time to do more than that. He turned away, heard Leon bid him farewell, and then the car door slammed and he began to walk toward the sentry. With no scent in his hand, he felt vulnerable, too peaceful. He could only pray that Buique had not had time to organize much in the way of a manhunt; he could hardly tell the soldiers that they sought a man who had been dead six months.

  The guard, apparently impressed by the limousine and his attire, did not stop him. Not even Miguel would have expected him to try leaving Bamal in such style. Once more Angelica’s discretion had saved them grief. He could feel the man watching him as he worked his way through the somnolent crowd toward a deserted counter where, presumably, tickets were sold. On the wall behind it was a poster showing a montage of sunsets, swimming pools, elegant dining, children with golden bangles in their hair.

  BEAUTIFUL BAMAL, said the caption; WE HAVE YOUR BEST INTERESTS AT HEART.

  Setting his chest and suitcase on the counter, he looked for a ticket agent and saw no one; he rang a silver bell for service, evoking a muffled sound. Guards at the far door watched him with amusement, but no one volunteered assistance.

  “Excuse me,” he called, his voice gentle, polite. It occurred to him that perhaps he should be more forceful, despite the evening’s pleasant mood. He had no time to waste.

  The vial he selected was “Obey.” He uncapped it discreetly, strolled over to the guards at the rear door, and nodded in the direction of the counter. “You,” he said to one of the gunmen.

  The man gave him a scornful look and swaggered closer; he was a foot taller than Joseph, so Joseph used the gesture of a feisty little man to bring the bottle near his face; he reached up and pressed a medal on the soldier’s chest, as if it were a button.

  “Find the ticket agent. I want to leave Bamal.”

  The guard blinked, nodded, and turned to the door. As he went out, one of the others remarked, “The plane’s going nowhere. Pilots want money. No one here has it.”

  The other guard laughed. “Maybe he does.”

  “If that’s what it takes,” said Joseph, “I probably have.”

  The door opened between them and the original soldier returned with a harried Kaak, grizzled and stout, his eyes blurred and red behind thick lenses.

  “What do you want?” he asked Joseph. “Why bother with tickets? Nobody’s leaving. You can stand in line with the rest. The pilots won’t go, I’m telling you.”

  “I can reason with them,” Joseph said.

  “Reason?” He laughed madly. “They want money.”

  “I’ll give them money then.”

  “You haven’t got enough, I—”

  As the vial passed near his nose, he began to smile. Noticing Joseph for the first time, it seemed, he drew himself into a proud pose and then bowed at the waist. “Perhaps you have at that.”

  “Let me get my belongings,” said Joseph. “I’ll come and meet them.”

  “No, no, I’ll be happy to bring them here,” said the Kaak.

  He returned to the counter and when he touched his box of essences his skin began to creep with foreboding, tangible as any scent. He glanced around slowly, but nothing had changed. He might have been straining to hear something inaudible, to see something just out of sight. His eyes met those of the sentry by the front door; the other man forced the casual contact into a deadlock. Without looking away from Joseph’s face, he crossed the room. He stopped an arm’s length away, out of reach.

  “So, you are a passenger?” he said. He thumped one hand on the counter by the box of attars. “Tourist? You have a passport?”

  “Of course, and I’m no tourist. You should know me.”

  The man inclined his head. “I think I do. I would like to see your passport now.”

  “I’m sure you would, but it’s not for you. I’ll show it to the customs official.”

  The man snorted, humorless except for the pleasure he seemed to derive from Joseph’s distress. He was a tall Fombeh, and Joseph suddenly wondered if he might have been among Miguel’s companions, overthrower of the empire. He was certain that this man was the source of his ominous intimations; he must have caught the scent of suspicion coming off him.

  “I am the only official here,” the man said slowly. “Now give me your passport, Mr.—”

  “Doctor,” Joseph said. To make a sweep of his arm toward the man’s face would have been seen as a hostile gesture; he dared no such thing. He rolled his thumb alongside the cap of the vial, sealing it for the moment.

  “Doctor?”

  “Perhaps you have heard of me.”

  As he reached for the passport in his inner pocket, his other hand found the vial of Mome-scent and loosened the cap; he pretended to cough, putting both hands to his mouth, and in an instant slipped the vial into the hand that held the passport. Presenting the papers, he fanned them slightly so that the scent would carry. Surely, he thought, the memory of loyalty to the old Emperor was not far beneath the surface of this Fombeh’s mind; to reach down and call upon that allegiance would be to contact a powerful ally.

  “Doctor Kmei Dodo,” the man said, and he looked rather stupefied. “You, here?”

  Joseph prayed the scent was strong enough to convince the man—but suddenly he had no idea of what he was trying to convince him. Dodo and Mome were antagonists. What had he done?

  The scent had some effect. The official blinked, eyes watering, and wiped his nose. He walked around the counter, flattened the passport, and stared at it from a distance, still blinking as though trying to clear away the tears.

  “Is something wrong?” Joseph asked. “Can I help? I am a doctor.”

  The official straightened quickly, snapped the passport shut, and thrust it back at him. “Nothing is wrong, Dr. Dodo,” he said brusquely, still twitching as though a flea had gotten up his nose. “I have never seen you here before, that is all. I would think the President’s plane suits you better. But I will speak to the pilots. If I can’t give them money, I can promise bullets.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Joseph began as the man wheeled away, shoulders jerking like those of an ill-handled marionette. “Why don’t you stamp my passport?”

  The far door banged open, the fat Kaak ran in hauling a man in a shapeless, sleeped-in uniform by the wrist. “He’s over there, you talk to him. He’ll tell you, he has money.”

  “Everyone tells me they have money,” the pilot began.

  “I have something better than that,” said Joseph’s interrogator, raising his machine gun barrel toward the pilot’s fac
e. The pilot stopped dead, eyes bulging, then started to back away.

  “No, no,” cried the Kaak. “None of that!”

  “The plane is leaving!” someone shouted. There was a rush of bodies, not away from the confrontation but toward it. “I have a ticket!” “The plane is leaving!” “Go, go!” Others shoved in from outside, crowding the room further.

  The officer came out from behind the counter and pushed back at the crowd, jabbing with his gun. His face was bland.

  “No shoving,” he barked, and the gun coughed once.

  A boy crumpled, clutching the rags of his belly. The rest turned away in a crushing mob, squeezing into the corners of the room; some limped, wounded by bullets that had passed through the boy. The official turned back to the pilot, who was halfway through the door now that the other guards had moved toward the crowd.

  Joseph leaned against the counter—or caught himself as he staggered. His eyes lingered on the still body whose life had deserted it in a rush, a torrent. He reached for the only thing that mattered to him now, the chest full of essences; he started sliding it across the counter, toward the far door. The soldiers were intent on the shrieking mass of bodies that was trying to pour in one piece through the doorway. A window shattered, then another, as the trapped people found other exits and clambered through broken glass to be free. Out of the wailing and clattering, he heard one clear voice that made him stop.

  He looked to the front door and saw a figure in the crowd, her arm upraised, a delicate lace handkerchief waving from her fingers to catch his eye.

  “Angelica,” he said.

  She could not move against the press of the crowd, her eyes were hopeless, shining out between the terrified masks that overwhelmed her. Why had she come back? What was she telling him?

  Then, louder than the mob, he heard the roaring of jeeps and the chatter of machine guns from outside the terminal. The crowd reversed, surged back into the room, this time bearing Angelica along with it. He held fast to the counter so that she could find him.

  “They’ve come, Joseph,” she cried; her words were isolated from the screaming, she might have been speaking to him in a private silence. “We saw them on the road and I had to warn you. Get on the plane, Joseph. It will go now.”