Mary hardly dared to breathe. She had struck the mother lode. With such a grand scheme, he would have to relinquish any rights to the river, and TransAqua would control their electricity as well. The corporation would effectively own the country.
“If you and your company wish to be involved, we will need to come to an agreement.”
“Yes?”
“For this plan to come to fruition, it would be in your best interests to advise the American ambassador firstly that I have your full support, and secondly that you wish the American government to provide equally strong support in my forthcoming ventures.” The sucking grew louder. “If, for example, that leads to the presidency.”
“That’s certainly a bold plan, Minister Kolo.” Mary hesitated. “I’ll do all I can to-”
Kolo stopped sucking. “Please.” His entreaty had an undertone of mockery. “Please don’t make me call the French. I do so detest their long-winded conferencing, although I must say they certainly love grand plans.”
Mary pondered. She had no directive to negotiate this kind of deal, but she could always retract later. “TransAqua is interested in purchasing the Niger River. And if we invest in the dam, we would, of course, need sole control over electricity pricing and distribution,” she said.
Silence.
Then Kolo’s voice, unperturbed, slid back through the receiver. “As I thought. You’re a daring woman, Ms. Glass.” The sucking began again. Kolo swallowed whatever he was eating before embarking on the next phase of negotiation. “In general, we have agreement. Obviously, we’ll have to work on the nuts and bolts, minor details, the renaming of the river, that kind of thing. We might need your help on that.”
“Do you have any ideas as to its new name?” Mary asked.
“Oh-no, no, no. Certainly not. We Africans are always renaming something. It’s in our blood. I haven’t had time to think about it. So,” he added, “I will leave a week for you to think this over. You’ll need to get the support of your executive, no doubt.” Mary flushed at his insight. “Naturally I expect the strictest confidence. Perhaps you could be so good as to phone me—say, a week Tuesday? As you doubtless know, I have a lot to do. Then we can meet in the new year.”
“Yes, sir. Tuesday the 15th.” Mary suddenly realized an important item that had been left out of the conversation, “By the way, I am the Associ—”
“Yes, Ms. Glass. I know. The Associate Director of Acquisitions for the Sub-Sahara. I have your contact details.”
Mary put down the phone with a clear feeling of having been outmanoeuvred. This did not sit well. Nevertheless, she quickly foresaw that this character—whoever he was—would be the most likely candidate to assume the presidency.
A full twelve hours later, Mary sat in the boardroom, watching the team as they prepared for the arrival of Cheeseman, the president of acquisitions. Her chestnut orbs surveyed the acquisitions directors, who all perched in terrified silence. Finally, her eyes rested on her own team, the associate directors, hired to compete with the directors, raise the pressure, tread on toes and dethrone. They chatted on the opposite side of the conference table, more relaxed.
Sinclair lounged as he flirted with Rachel, Cheeseman’s executive assistant. He had the hots for her. He actually had the hots for Cheeseman’s job, but he could barely distinguish between the two. “Your eyes are such a beautiful colour. Are those contact lenses?”
Cheeseman finally appeared ten minutes late, his high-heeled cowboy boots clacking a warning to his entry. He sat down, placing his boots on the table, hands folded across a denim shirt stretched tightly across his lower belly. Jeans one size too small and a belt with an ornate buckle squeezed in some of the excess flesh like a girdle. Mary could make out his penis, tucked to the left of his fly. He surveyed the table like a shark picking out a surfer.
Mary felt her stomach twist.
“Sinclair,” he moved in for the first kill, “where are you with Nigeria?”
“Well, um, I’ve had very good news with the World Bank, uh, as you know—”
“I din’ask where you’d like to be with Nigeria.” Cheeseman spoke in a low hush, so that Sinclair had to lean towards him. “I din’ask what leads you’ve got in Nigeria. I din’ask what kind of wet dreams you have regarding Nigeria. I asked where you are with Nigeria.” His face turned red, the colour internationally understood to signal danger. “It’s not a difficult question, Mr. Sinclair.” He began yelling. “I want numbers, not a personal chronicle!”
A searing electric thrill shot through Mary’s body.
“Sorr … sorry. The World Bank will support reconstruction. They plan to introduce me to the president.”
Cheeseman stared at the table, smiling faintly. “Really? You got a date?” His eyes shot to the heavens. “Well, don’t forget to invite us to the wedding.”
Mary’s lips trembled as she fought to hold in a volley of laughter. Sinclair looked mortified.
“Glass?”
Her stomach almost emptied its minimal contents on the table.
“Yes, sir?”
“Update.”
“I am in regular contact with Chief Ogbe Kolo. He’s the current minister for natural resources but is rumoured to be the next president. He’s interested …” she paused, “… in selling rights to the Niger River.” Mary turned to Sinclair, whose handsome eyes burned with loathing.
“The Niger River?” Cheeseman asked, his face relaxing from its red alert.
“Yes, sir. Not only pricing but outright ownership.”
“Rights and licences?”
“Yes, sir. And, if we invest in dam reconstruction, he’ll give us exclusive rights to power pricing and allocation. He’ll want his own percentage of profits, no doubt, but that’s to be expected in Nigeria.”
“Full control over their electricity supply, huh? Impressive!”
“With your guidance, sir, I am hoping this deal will become a, uh, blueprint for future deals with the developing world.”
“Whoa!” Goosebumps appeared on Cheeseman’s hairy forearms. “Now, that’s brilliant, Glass. I am in awe. I stand here in total awe. Great work, Mrs. Glass!” Mary was not married, but she was not about to correct him. “Round of applause.”
Mary’s lips pinched a repressed smile of acknowledgement. She shallow-breathed through her elation.
“Mrs. Glass, see me in my office. Sinclair,” Cheeseman added, “you’d better watch yer ass.”
SIX
Baa-Baa Black Sheep
Barbara sat in the Library of Congress and pinched her left nostril with her fourth finger, wheezing in a deep breath. She grunted out through the other nostril, then swapped nostrils and repeated the process ten times, eyes closed.
All around her she could feel the power of the universe, the electricity of nature, urging her onwards towards her future. It had rained overnight, washing summer’s bird droppings from her car, a portent of great things to come. Next, she had accidentally splashed a bothersome neighbour with icy water while driving through a puddle-another rare and unique omen. Then, beyond all odds, she had secured her favourite desk at the library, narrowly beating an aging academic to the spot. All signs pointed to success.
She flipped open West Africa Magazine to review recent events in Nigeria. Flicking through the panoramas of horror, she pored over scenes of rioting, images of starvation, pitiful shots of people drinking from the same rivers in which dead bodies floated. Increasing numbers of people, from all walks of life, now suffered from water blindness.
She took a pink pen out of a capacious handbag made in Morocco. With care, she wrote down in her circular scribble the names of the politicians who graced the magazine’s pages: President Mu’azu, denying all previous knowledge of the dam’s defects, and Chief Ogbe Kolo, minister for natural resources, plump face in tears as he commiserated with those in mourning, wishing only that his warnings had been heeded.
After a while, bored with facts and figures, Barbara rifled to Employment Oppo
rtunities. She punched the page open, flapped it straight a few times to steady her nerves and scanned down the page for a position.
Nothing.
Despite the multitude of premonitions, she could find no positions suitable for her. She sat there in disbelief, shocked that the universe had played such a cruel hoax on one of its most ardent supporters.
She had already applied to all agencies specializing in water politics—numbering almost fifty—both within and outside the United States. None had responded with any interest. It appeared her skills had imprisoned her in a life for which she had no more passion. Daily, she struggled to get to work, to find the strength to pull off yet one more team-building session, to present a cheerful face to the world. For Barbara, such stress was not easily borne.
A mood of black despair engulfed her. She looked at the others seated near her. They appeared fulfilled and focused. Why had it taken thirty-seven long years for her to find purpose? Why couldn’t she be like Joan of Arc, who always knew what she was destined for? Her parents were right. She would never succeed at anything.
Barbara flicked back to the pages on Nigeria. More trauma awaited her there. TransAqua, her sister’s company, had announced that it would submit a bid to reconstruct the dam. Barbara knew that her sister would be front and centre of that proposal.
“Goddess Kali!” Barbara barked, her words echoing around the library’s silent walls. “If Batwoman gets the contract, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
She threw the newspaper down with a whack, making some of the more fragile readers jump, and stormed out to buy a cup of fair trade hot chocolate made with soya milk.
Scandalously early-i.e., at 8:20 a.m.—Barbara struggled to a three-day end-of-year team-building session with the Association of Rare Heritage Stock and Poultry. She had facilitated an exercise with them twice before, and the only difference her efforts had produced was the addition of “and Poultry” to their title by non-unanimous vote. For some members, any animal that did not eat hay was considered more pet than livestock.
Though a committed vegetarian whenever possible, Barbara had a soft spot for Rare Heritage, a well-meaning group who preserved breeds that farming giants had made almost extinct. As humane farmers, she supported them philosophically and therefore continued to slog along with them, despite their lack of solidarity.
She bundled into a small room at the back of a deserted local library in the Virginia farmlands and set up her whiteboards and papers. She was not looking forward to the session; she knew it would signal yet another professional defeat with a group whose mutual distrust merited sociological enquiry.
She sighed and swirled a Taoist quote on the board.
Nothing wears away hard, strong rocks
As well as soft, weak water.
From this anyone can see that softness is harder than hardness
And weakness is stronger than strength.
—Lao Tzu
A full five minutes passed before she noticed that the first arrival, who cleared his throat to get her attention, was already in his chair, sitting upright and perfectly still. Ned represented the equine contingent. He was a small and efficient man who lived alone and exchanged pictures of horses on the Internet. He gave her chest a curt nod.
At 8:45 a.m., a woman with large, assertive breasts entered the room. She looked over her half-moon glasses at Barbara. A second pair of glasses was slung around her neck by a chain. She surveyed Barbara, then introduced herself with a firm handshake. “Dahlia. Poultry.” Barbara was impressed. She had a fine, operatic voice.
Then Jack arrived to head up cows. According to him, the bovine contingent represented the only “real farmers” in the group, and he thus insisted on being called “Farmer Jack.” He looked Barbara up and down as if he had never met her before, sat down on the opposite side of the room from Dahlia and started to flick through some livestock journals.
Raymond and Florencia traipsed in together fifteen minutes late, adding to the variety of manure laced with snow on the library carpets. The distinctive odour was now beginning to waft to Barbara’s sensitive nasal passages. Raymond, a jolly, round man with pink cheeks who smelled of the farm, was Barbara’s favourite. He spearheaded pigs. Ovines were managed by Florencia, a failed artist, musician and dancer who favoured shawls, headdresses and bright lipstick that bled to her teeth. Her remit included sheep, goats and exotic ruminants such as llamas and vicuna.
The last to arrive was the least powerful of the group: the Director of Rare Breeds and Poultry. Norm Blacksmith was a drained individual with the pallor of dried grass. He had given up farming to take up the directorship, since which time, Barbara noticed, his weight had fallen dramatically.
She surveyed her trainees with an audible sigh, wondering how to calm the waters of hostility and prove to herself that her life had some worth, even if in small measure.
Throwing caution to the wind, she started with a bold exercise. “Write down on the strip of paper in front of you something shocking that you feel others do not know about you. It should have nothing to do with farming or animals.”
“Or birds,” added Farmer Jack, arms crossed.
“Jack,” Dahlia trilled, looking over her half-moons, “simmer down!” The omission of his honorific was not lost on him.
“Do not add your name to the paper,” Barbara continued, staring at Farmer Jack. “When you are finished, pass the paper to me. And remember, as always, nothing that takes place or is said here leaves this room. This must be a safe environment for all.”
As the six members began to ruminate, Barbara drifted into a reverie in which she was wearing African clothes, throwing herself in front of large bulldozers, demanding that dam building be stopped. Photographers were using long-range lenses to catch the action.
Ten minutes later, a hesitant Norm finally handed the last slip in.
Barbara scanned through the responses, shocked that her flock had taken her so literally. Nonetheless, she carried on, hoping the exercise would draw the group closer together. She wrote the responses on the board.
I enjoy the switch of the lash on my bare buttocks.
I had sex with a contortionist.
I went to Mexico for a holiday-viva México!
I once had sex with my brother for a dare.
I suffer from paranoid schizophrenia and once tried to kill my teacher.
I am a vegan.
As her magic marker screeched each bullet point onto the whiteboard, the participants grew increasingly pale. At the last sentence, the entire group gasped in horror.
“A vegan? Thath’s ridiculouth!” Florencia lisped, her lipstick collecting in the corners of her mouth.
“What kind of aberrant behaviour is this?” Farmer Jack shouted. “A vegan? I demand to know who it is!”
“A deviant in our ranks?” Ned reared.
Pleased that the group had shown such openness, Barbara clapped her hands for silence. “Now I would like you to match up each phrase on the board with the person who wrote it. The person who gets most correct answers wins a pen inscri—”
“What?” Norm struggled for breath. “You didn’t say anything about guessing who said what.”
“There is no way,” Ned added, his miniature hand held up in a stop sign, “that I will participate in this exer—”
“This is highly invasive,” Dahlia’s voice soared above them all.
“Please.” Barbara’s lips stretched out into a small smile, head tilted to one side. “I think I know what I’m doing.” She looked down on them as a missionary might. “It’s vitally important that we continue our work here. Now, let’s get going.” She whispered out the last sentence.
The no-brainer for everyone was Ned. Steadfastly single, known to proudly stroke the flanks and buttocks of his horses, he was pinpointed as Raw Hide.
Only Raymond guessed that Dahlia had had sex with anything, let alone a contortionist. She had to explain in twenty minutes of painful, tearful detail over three oc
taves before anyone was even halfway convinced.
And Florencia, the failed free spirit of the ovine world, had nothing more interesting to offer than Mexico. Her erotic paintings and lusty voice hadn’t even got her into an orgy.
Raymond, Dahlia and Ned plumped for Farmer Jack and the incest. Correct. It was “a long while ago” after a “drunken night” and a “dare.” Doubtful. He still lived with his brother.
A fight broke out as person after person guessed Dahlia as the vegan. In fact, it was Norm.
The biggest surprise for Barbara was that Raymond won the competition. As a paranoid schizophrenic (medicated), he was the most highly observant of the bunch.
After a shattering two hours of “bonding,” Barbara suggested they take a break. She worried about the prospects for Norm’s meatless directorship and, most particularly, about the weapons she had unwittingly put in the hands of the other participants. She was also somewhat desperate, since she calculated that her own prospects of future employment stretched to a maximum of twenty hours.
She needed to shift her focus to an area of obvious strength-i.e., conflict creation rather than conflict resolution-and so Barbara approached Dahlia. As a woman interested in the welfare of birds, although more on the eating side, Dahlia might be involved in wetland preservation.
“Dahlia,” Barbara adopted a more operatic voice without being aware of this shift, “I’d really love to work as a water activist. Can you help?”
“Well, although we’d be sad to see you go,” Dahlia’s voice trickled up and down the scales in a mournful minor key, though her eyes betrayed relief at this news, “I certainly have some contacts. Is there a field you’re particularly interested in?”
“TransAqua is going after rights to the Niger River. They need to be stopped.”
Doing Dangerously Well Page 7
