Doing Dangerously Well

by Carole Enahoro

  “Of course, darl—… No!” he screamed again. “She’s sending them!” He turned back to the receiver. “When?”

  “Today.” Mary buzzed for her assistant and cracked open a bottle of water.

  “Today!” he shouted, then turned back to their conversation. She could hear her mother yelling in the background.

  Mary swallowed some water.

  “Now,” Father continued, “how can I help? By the way, have you found Barbie a job yet? Something slow-paced? Mailroom? Delivery, perhaps?”

  Mary almost spewed out her water. “Uh, nothing yet.” She could just imagine Barbara, with her purple harem pants, booming voice and jangling earrings, jeopardizing her reputation and status on a minute-by-minute basis.

  “Too bad,” Father sighed. “Ah well, keep trying. It’s such a huge organiz—”

  “Will do. Anyway, Dadsie, I’m working on the Nigerian contract. Any advice? Do you know anyone?” She pressed Send and continued through her email.

  “Well, I haven’t been following it closely … No! Peas will do …”

  Mary’s assistant entered. Devoid of facial expression, Mary handed her a piece of paper with a list of plants on it, handwriting neat. Her assistant looked at the list, glowered and shut the door.

  “Who should I contact? Do you know anyone? We’ve got an article in West Africa, but no calls. The Nigerian presi—… Just a moment.” She put her father on hold and answered the other line in an insipid voice. “Mary Glass. Yes. I’ll find out. Please hold.” She returned to her father.

  “… that would be a good idea.” He was in mid-sentence.

  “Pardon?” She rifled through some papers.

  “I said, I don’t think the president would be a good idea. He won’t last … No, just two potatoes, love. No, just two … He won’t … I’m trying to watch my weight, darling. Now, please put those potatoes back, Catherine. Put—”

  Mary put her father on hold. “Lebanon? James Stiffner has the contracts. You can get the number from my assistant.” She switched back to her father.

  “… know I never mix proteins and carbohydrates, love. Please, put those back … Now—what was I saying?”

  “Not to contact the president.” Mary took another drink of water.

  “Ah, yes. He won’t last long. Keep an eye on whoever heads the military. They’ll be in contact … No, I said no carbohydrates. Turnips are carbohydrates … In contact with the next … Yes, they are. Look it up, dear … See who’s meeting with him.”

  “How do I get in touch with any of his visitors? Aso Rock isn’t answering.”

  Her father replied with surprise at her naivety. “All their children are educated abroad, darling. They’ll have the home numbers.”

  “Yes, I knew that.” She cleared her throat. “Just checking other avenues.”

  After she hung up, she waved her assistant, Janet, back in for some more chores, making sure not to mention this new approach.

  “To the representative of the World Bank dealing with Nigeria. Start with the usual formalities.” Mary retrieved an intonation of indifference. “Ask if they are providing a loan on Nigeria’s behalf—purely confidential. End with the usuals.”

  “Uh, Mary. I thought Sinclair was going to deal with Nigeria.” Janet sat facing her, legs slightly apart, as advised by her Alexander Technique Training, a habit that greatly irritated Mary.

  “Well, Africa’s my remit too,” Mary replied with the innocence of a lamb. Mary’s little lamb. “Can’t just sit here twiddling my thumbs, can I?”

  A row of contoured teeth (a benefit of the dental plan) gleamed back at Mary. “You’d better watch out. You Type A’s are prone to all kinds of illness. Bet you clean your teeth, read the newspaper, eat your breakfast and walk your dog in the shower every morning.”

  A personal note, of threatening accuracy, had been introduced—Janet’s usual tactic in defence of Mary’s colleague and rival Sinclair. Mary kept a cold eye on her assistant, then transformed to exaggerate the warmth of their relationship. “You overestimate me, I’m afraid,” she said, attempting dry humour. “I get my cook to eat my breakfast, you to read my newspaper, my dog to take my shower and my maid to clean my teeth.”

  “That would explain all the cuts on her hands,” Janet shot back as she headed towards the door.

  “Saucer of milk for the woman in the ill-fitting suit.” Mary scratched the air, her thin lips sliced right across her face. Her smile was known widely in the company as The Slash.

  As Janet shut the door, Mary watched her through the plate glass, her smile fading in an instant. She wondered whether Janet knelt in a position endorsed by the Alexander Technique as Sinclair thrust his semi-flaccid penis down her throat. She had to get rid of her rival; he infringed on her territory in a reckless manner. She considered him in the same way a gardener armed with salt would look at a slug. It was something that had to go, not just because it was destroying the garden, but also because it was slimy and distasteful.

  And, of course, nixing it was not a difficult thing to do.

  Janet power-walked down the corridor to her meticulous cubicle, then power-typed Glass’s letter. She was dying to make a phone call but had to finish the dispatch first.

  Finally, she dialled 5646 (no one knew whether Sinclair had deliberately requested an extension that spelled his name). Goosebumps appeared on her forearms. She repositioned one of the plastic plants surrounding her desk for more privacy.

  “John Sinclair,” a voice as smooth as massage oil answered.

  “Hello, lollipop.” She was tingling with excitement. Power was an aphrodisiac, and John Sinclair, Director of Acquisitions, Middle East/Africa, occupied a corner office with its own water cooler.

  “Jane! Well, this is unexpected! What a wonderful surprise! Great to hear from you!”

  “How’re you doing?” she asked, juicing up.

  “Dangerously well. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” She crossed her legs, trying to minimize the leakage to her thong. She pictured him: headphone clipped to his gelled hair. As a salesman, he was magnificent, and as a specimen of humankind, he was dazzling. He shone. He was handsome, clean, with fiercely manicured hands and a smile that would drive a dentist out of business.

  “Well, great to hear your voice. What can I do you for?”

  “Nothing. Just wanted to keep you abreast—”

  “Ooh! That sounds yummy …”

  “Self-control. The key to a higher state of being.” Janet lowered her voice and cupped her hand over her mouth. “Look, I’m trying to warn you that Glass is working on rights to the Niger River.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, my little sweet. Uncle John’s got it all under control.” After a pause, he threw out an off-hand question. “What’s she working on?”

  Janet mouthed “Bingo!” to herself. “A letter to the World Bank.”

  “Look, Jeanie, great work. Wonderful to hear from you. Tell me, are you free Tuesday?”

  “Karate. And my name’s Janet.”

  “Well, how about Wednesday?”

  “Therapist. I’ll cancel.”

  “Great. Wonderful. See you then. Bye.”

  Janet put down the phone, looking forward to seeing Sinclair again. He was beautiful to look at, in contrast to his nickname, The Slug. Still, if only he had a slug’s propensity for sexual prowess. The great grey garden slug, she had been told, has a penis nearly twice its body length and engages in an elaborate courtship ritual lasting hours, covering its partner almost completely in sticky mucus. Janet could not see herself attaining this in the few short ten-or fifteen-minute spurts offered by Sinclair.

  Sinclair stood in shock. How the hell did Glass have the balls—no, the flaps, he corrected himself—to take him on? The women he associated with were passive organisms, wallpaper, background items. Women were supposed to excel at the emotional side of office life, offering supportive leadership, doing performance reviews, helping people to “communicate” a
nd other human resource issues. How could Glass behave with such vicious self-interest? What was her problem? He swivelled his chair around to look at the early winter frost covering the trees. Was she frigid?

  He had no particular enmity towards women—he loved them, in fact. He simply did not trust them. They gossiped. They made decisions based on emotion rather than fact. And as human resources had become the province of women, they had managed to hijack the workplace and make it fit their twisted logic. He had no intention of allowing Glass to threaten or supplant him in the industry.

  The water business had its frustrations, but it was also the most profitable business on the planet, eclipsing the dying oil business. The value of the water market already sat in the trillions; however, with corporations supplying only 6 percent of the world’s population with water, the profit potential was limitless. You could pick up the rights for the cost of a paper cup and then set the price at any ceiling you liked. If he could hold on to his position within TransAqua for a few more years, he could retire in his mid-forties a multi-millionaire. But only if he could get hold of the Nigerian president before Mary’s monotonous life form tricked the tribal leader into signing something after sending him into a light doze.

  Sinclair grabbed his water bottle and downed half a litre to ensure his minimum daily intake of eight litres as he looked out over the snow-littered landscape. Winter had come a bit early. He considered his strategies as he studied the snow. If winter could be premature, he could also herald in the winds of change ahead of schedule.

  He dialled his buddy Beano Bates, who currently worked in TransAqua’s Sewage division. Sinclair had greater plans for him. He intended to mentor Beano in Water Acquisitions and, if all went according to plan, move him into Glass’s role. Although his floppy-haired disciple had little ability and less intelligence, he had the secondary advantage of being the youngest son of the American Ambassador to Nigeria.

  “Hey, Beano! What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

  “Sinclair! Just back. One word: Thailand!”

  “Ha ha ha. Cultural trip, I presume?”

  Beano snorted a laugh. Sinclair snickered too, but really did not wish to know what manner of pleasure Beano had encountered there.

  “Could you do me a fave and drop by for a moment?”

  “Of course. As long as you don’t mind the shit on my shoes,” Beano snickered.

  Sinclair bellowed back a laugh. “Touché, Beano, touché.” He had heard the joke a thousand times. It was part of the stock-in-trade of Sewage.

  Sinclair could see Beano coming towards him down the glass hallway, scraping his hair off his face. He knew Beano was as desperate for status as the rest of the employees at TransAqua. No one, most particularly Beano, with a family seat in Connecticut and a dynasty biting at his heels, wanted to admit to working for Sewage. Beano could chase the current Nigerian president while Sinclair covered other bases.

  Beano arrived, his taut body a tight bundle of boyish charm. “Sinclair! You look fantastic!”

  “Right back at you, Beanz!” Sinclair applied ChapStick to his lips and waved him to a chair. “Look, it’d be great to have talent like yours on the team. Skiing with Cheeseman on Friday. Maybe a personal intro then?”

  “Really? You think that’s poss?” Beano flicked back an errant flop of hair off his forehead. He sounded like a schoolboy being asked to a dance. “What about Glass?”

  “She’s great, but … To be honest, she’s all over me, like cling film. Once you’re on board, we can get you straight to work on the Nigerian president. She’s so distracted, every time she sits down, she sticks to her chair, know what I mean?” Sinclair laughed.

  Beano flushed crimson and giggled like a child.

  “Makes her own Post-it notes. Ha ha ha ha!” Sinclair issued a flashbulb smile. “So I like to keep her at arm’s length. And in her case,” he pointed a finger gun at Beano, “I make sure they’re fully loaded.” He eased out another chuckle.

  “Arms loaded.” Beano’s dimples deepened. “You have such a way with words.”

  “You know, I feel sorry for her. She wears those air hostess suits, and I keep expecting her to ask me if I want peanuts with my martini.” Glass had never given him the type of eye contact he expected from women. It occurred to him that she was most probably a lesbian.

  “Peanuts would be her first choice, I’m sure,” Beano chuckled. “She’d pay mucho dinero to see you in anaphylactic shock.”

  The little joke sent a shiver up Sinclair, and he continued on a graver note. “Probably why she dresses like she’s flying United,” he smirked. “Anyhoo, to be honest, we need someone with more technical knowledge. Not sure she’s up to it.” Sinclair did not like lesbians who dressed in skirts, like they were available.

  “I’d really welcome the opportunity, Sinclair. And as you know, you can’t get more technical than sewage.” Beano wrung every last drop of gratitude from his shallow depths.

  “As it happens,” Sinclair added, “I’m going to be in touch with your father, so I’ll take it as a fait accompli and pass on the good news. We’ll celebrate. I’ll get my girl to call your girl. Okay?”

  “I’ll bring some peanuts. Ha ha ha.”

  “I’ll write that down on my Post-its,” Sinclair rebutted.

  Beano spluttered back into laughter.

  After Beano had bounced out of his office, Sinclair leaned back in his generous, ergonomically correct chair and put his flawlessly shined shoes on his perfectly polished desk.

  The phone rang. Mary bounded from the water cooler outside her office and picked it up on the second ring. “Y’ello?” she drawled. “Mary Glass.”

  “Yes, madam,” the line crackled. “Good evening.”

  Mary realized how late it must be in Nigeria. “Good evening,” she said slowly and loudly, as if her caller did not speak English. “Do you have any news for me?”

  “Yes, madam.” The voice was now shouting into the phone. “The general has had many visitors. The president has come eight times, Mr. Kolo three times—”

  “The minister for natural resources?”

  “Yes, madam.” The voice grew excited at its own resourcefulness. “Also minister for the environment, five times; minister for foreign affairs, two times.”

  “Do you know why they visited?” Mary articulated each word.

  “To discuss, madam,” the voice replied with a note of self-importance.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “No, madam.”

  “Okay. Thank you. We’ll send your pay today.”

  With this information, Mary quickly discounted dealing with the president and the minister for foreign affairs—the latter was strongly allied to the president, from his hometown, and making speeches in his favour. Her father considered the president destined for the mortuary. That left the other two. She’d have to wait until 3 a.m. Santa Fe time to get them, so left work early.

  In the small hours, she marched back up to the building, now reflecting a clouded moon, and noticed other offices with lights on. Her eyes immediately darted to Sinclair’s corner. Only a faint glimmer—a lamp, perhaps? She quickened her pace.

  Her first call, to the minister for the environment, was not successful. He was too circumspect—he did not have the mind, the soul, of a businessman. He was so fearful, so nervous, it made her skin crawl. Mary put down the phone in disgust.

  Ogbe Kolo would have to do. Another call.

  “The residence of the minister for natural resources,” a voice answered.

  “Hello. Could I please speak to the minister?”

  “Who may I say is speaking?”

  “Mary Glass, from TransAqua International in Santa Fe, New Mexico.”

  “Mexico? Just a minute.”

  “No,” Mary snapped. “Not Mexico. United States.”

  “You are calling from the United States?” the voice asked in panic.

  “Yes.”

  “Just a minute. Just a minute.�
� The receiver was put down, though she could hear the voice–“Just a minute … Just a minute …”–still with the note of panic.

  Mary stood up, placed her foot on her chair and leaned towards it, stretching her hamstring. Classical music crackled through the receiver.

  “Ms. Glass, is it?” Mellifluous tones flooded the phone.

  Mary stopped in mid-stretch, astounded. “Yes,” she said, almost rudely.

  “How may I be of assistance, Ms. Glass?”

  This did not sound like a simple tribesman.

  “Minister Kolo, I am phoning from TransAqua. We have heard about the terrible events.”

  “Tragedy. Absolute tragedy. Terrible, terrible tragedy.” She could swear he was sucking on something.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I was to read about it.” She did not sound convincing, but that was not her job. She had not been trained as a therapist. They must have relatives they could cry to. “I think there are ways in which our company can help.”

  “Oh! How kind of you to offer,” the notes slid out. “Now, please refresh my memory. Your company is involved in water rights and licensing, hydroelectric power, desalination, water supply, sewage—”

  “Uh, waste management, yes,” she corrected.

  “… bottled water and filtration technologies, is that correct?”

  “Yes.” Mary adopted a tone of greater formality to cover her growing unease. “That is correct.” Had Sinclair already called?

  “What a fortuitous call! You are interested in rights acquisitions? To the Niger River?”

  “We’re interested,” she corrected, “in assisting with the supply of uncontaminated fresh water, waste management systems and, of course, hydroelectric—” She stopped herself. “Minister Kolo, have you received a call from the company already?”

  “No. Indeed, no.”

  She could not tell from his tone whether he had or not.

  “Now, are you planning to provide this for free?” More sucking.

  “Well, of course we’d only expect nominal repayment as you rebuild your—”

  “A country in such a sad state of disrepair rarely receives calls from such eminent prospectors as TransAqua. Allow me to let you in on a secret, Ms. Glass. I have a plan—a bold plan for this great country.” More sucking. “I wish to build the biggest dam in the world at Kainji and to rename the Niger River.”