The Laughing Monsters: A Novel

by Denis Johnson

  “Maybe you should instruct me.”

  “I instruct you to stay by my side. You’ll win more fights that way.”

  At the entrance to the grounds a car came to a sharp halt, and the man calling himself Kruger more or less fell out of the passenger door into the arms of his driver and the guard. The guard dragged the chair from his shack and sat Kruger down in it, and he and the driver—who was not the Zulu—carried Kruger in it toward another building with his shirt off and his arm bound up in it all bloody.

  Michael waved with his own wounded arm. “No hard feelings, mate—next time I’ll kill you.”

  Kruger sailed past in his chair with his eyes closed, chalk-faced and uncomprehending. His partner was nowhere around.

  “I don’t know what kind of mess we’re in,” I said.

  “I think we’re better off in Congo now.”

  “How did all this come about, Michael? Who were those characters?”

  “I’m sure of this much: they weren’t Mossad. Just a couple of jokers Mossad has on a string.”

  “In other words, Mossad has you marked for death.”

  “If Mossad wanted me dead, I’d be dead. Mossad works very tight. They use teams of six or seven or even more and they train and plan very carefully, and they get it done every time. They don’t use idiots who attack you in a café. These guys were just associates, like me. But I believe them this far—I believe Mossad gave them money. That’s why that fool pulled a knife. They wanted to keep my payment for themselves.”

  “This scam is over,” I said, “finished, okay?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Because it pisses me off when I go along with stupid ideas.”

  “You’re pissed off now. I see that. Okay.”

  “I wish I had transcripts of the conversations that led to this,” I said, “the conversations you had with those guys. I bet I could show you a dozen places where they were obviously—obviously—playing you.”

  “In the end, you have to go by instinct.”

  “You trust too Goddamn much.”

  “Is that really a fault?”

  “What? Yes. A fatal one. The life you lead, the people you deal with—do you think it’s just teddy bears hugging marshmallows?”

  He laughed at me.

  I wished Kruger would stab him again. “You trust the wrong people,” I said. “Believe me.”

  * * *

  This hospital had been established in 1848, according to the sign at the entrance, and originally as a place for lepers, according to Michael’s nurse, who prepared the sutures and such on a tray. No doctor arrived. She stitched the wound herself. “We will close the laceration in two layers,” she told Michael. “It’s deep.”

  “How long do you think this will take?” I asked.

  She was jabbing a swab down into the damaged area. “The sutures must go close together.” I took this to indicate a lengthy procedure.

  “If I had some water, maybe I’d clean up the car a bit.”

  “There’s a stream there”—she pointed with her chin—“running behind the morgue.”

  “Where’s the doctor?”

  “The doctor is sick.”

  The guard abandoned his post and found me a bucket and led me to the creek behind the small brick mortuary, the stink of which came over the transom and into the afternoon, but nobody seemed to notice. I went back and forth with the bucket until I’d flooded the car’s floorboards and turned the bright red mess into a faint pink mess, and then I went about peeping in windows. In a dirty concrete room behind a door labeled MATERNITY WARD, I saw Michael’s assailant, the fool who’d pulled a knife, true name unknown, stretched naked on a bare mattress on a metal bed. He was alone in the room, the only occupant of a dozen such beds. The maternity ward’s only patient. He had a round, simple face, and he breathed through his mouth. His arm lay out beside him, still bandaged with his shirt.

  Michael’s nurse, when I returned to them, was being assisted by a young girl dressed in the green skirt and white blouse of the local schools. Work on the wound seemed to have ceased while Michael chatted with a police officer in a close-fitting uniform, all of it—even boots, belt, and helmet—crisply white. His large sun lenses gave him the face of an inquisitive insect.

  “Officer Cadribo is making a report.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Good.”

  “My friend Roland,” he told us all, “will bring my fiancée. Did you see the route? It’s just through the gate to the road, then turn left, then right at the main road.”

  “Hannington Road,” said Officer Cadribo.

  Michael told him, “We’re staying at the White Nile Palace. We’ll meet you there around suppertime, all right? The incident is hardly worth mentioning, but you have to make a report, we understand that. Let’s make it an occasion. We’ll buy you dinner.” He wrapped my shoulder in his good hand and drew me close. “Go to the hotel, collect our things, and get Davidia. Check out and come back here.”

  Just to be talking, I said, “How’s the wound?”

  “We’re waiting for just a few more cc’s of Xylocaine,” the nurse said.

  Michael said, “We tried finishing without it, but God—it hurts! I can’t hold my arm still.”

  Michael and the cop began talking Krio or the local one, Lugbara, faster and faster, laughing, their remarks ascending to the tenor register.

  As I left them, Michael said, “Remember—you’re driving on the left!”

  * * *

  Packing was nothing, three changes of clothes—and now one less, as my bloody jeans and T-shirt went in the trash. I called the desk and asked how to call a room and they said they’d patch me through.

  Here, as in West Africa, land-line phones were answered by saying, “Hello?” and then taking the receiver away from the ear and staring at its silence before replacing it to the ear to listen a little more to the silence.

  “I said it’s Nair.”

  “Nair. I hear you. Where are you?”

  “I’m in my room.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Can you handle it if things get a bit more up-tempo?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Well—just that we’re breaking camp. Would you mind getting all your gear packed in the next few minutes? I’ll help you carry everything to the jeep.”

  “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

  “Michael’s moved up the schedule a bit, that’s all.”

  “Moved it up. What schedule?”

  “We really should leave in the next few minutes.”

  “God. God. God. Is Michael there? Let me talk to him.”

  “He’s tidying up some loose ends. I’ll come round as soon as I’m packed.”

  “Nair, this is ridiculous. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Then at least pack Michael’s things for him, will you, please? I’m coming to your room. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  When I knocked on the door, she said, “It’s open,” and I found her sitting sideways on the bed. She was dressed, except for shoes.

  I saw no evidence of packing. “Do you mind if I shut the door?” She gave a little wave, and I shut us in and said, “The journey resumes.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “If we’re going at all, we really should be pretty brisk about it.”

  “I’m not kidding. I’ve had it.”

  “All right. But I’ve got the Land Cruiser, and if we’re going, now’s the time.”

  “Where’s Michael?”

  “I left him in conference with some of his cronies. We’ll stop and pick him up.” She didn’t move. “I’m your chauffeur.” Not even her hands. “Sorry if the news is sort of sudden.”

  “So here’s a piece of news,” she said. “The lyrics for ‘Smile’ were written by two guys I’ve never heard of named Turner and Parsons.”

  It seemed to me they had two soft suitcases and two knapsacks. “What if we just shovel your worldly goods into your luggage
?” I took some shirts off the rod. “Do you want the hangers? Let’s leave the hangers.”

  “But the melody was written by Charlie Chaplin for his 1936 film Modern Times.”

  I stopped messing around. “How did you find this out?”

  “I went online in the manager’s office. It was driving me crazy. I thought maybe Irving Berlin—I was rooting for Irving Berlin, I don’t know why. I guess I’ve always liked the name.”

  “I see. Did you get a chance to catch up on your e-mail, then?”

  “No. Michael doesn’t want me to. You know that.”

  “Have you been in communication with anyone?”

  “No! I just said no!”

  “Right. I just wondered.”

  “Is it any of your business?”

  “That’s just the thing, Davidia. Our business is getting all mixed up together now. Yours and mine. I hope you realize that. If you realize it, this is going to be a whole lot easier.”

  “What is? What’s going to be easier?”

  “Can I take a chair?”

  “You’re taking my things. Why shouldn’t you take a chair?”

  I sat down. “There’s a lot you haven’t been aware of. Nothing sudden is happening here. More is just suddenly being revealed.” I took a moment to frame my thoughts. I don’t know why. I’d imagined telling her this many times. “We talk about how the world has changed since the Twin Towers went down. I think you could easily say the part that’s changed the most is the world of intelligence, security, and defense. The world powers are dumping their coffers into an expanded version of the old Great Game. The money’s simply without limit, and plenty of it goes for snitching and spying. In that field, there’s no recession.”

  “That field? Your field. It’s obvious you don’t work in some bank. It was obvious all along. You’re CIA.”

  “Goddamn it. Ma’am, I am not in the Goddamn CIA. Don’t lump me in with that lot.”

  She seemed about to speak, then didn’t. I got up and sat beside her on the bed.

  “You’re sitting too close.”

  I moved closer. “But the truth of it is you’re partly right. I don’t work in a bank. I’m still with NATO intelligence. I’m here on assignment, actually, and the assignment is Michael Adriko.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Michael’s in trouble.”

  “Oh, Jesus. What’s he done?”

  “He may get out of it. You know Michael. But I think we’d better get out of it first. You and I.”

  “You and I?”

  “I’m leaving on my own, and I think you’d better come with me.”

  “What for?”

  “For whatever it’s worth.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as it lasts.”

  “As long as what lasts?”

  “Let me get you out of this.”

  “To where?”

  “Back to Freetown. For a start.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got business there. I can set us up.”

  “Nair, there’s nothing between us.”

  “Come here. Let me hold you.”

  “Are you crazy? Stop touching me.”

  I had to stop, or I couldn’t talk. The feel of her skin took my breath away. “I’ve known Michael for almost twelve years, and all this time I’ve thought I was infatuated with him, and I was wrong. All the time I’ve known him I’ve been infatuated with you. Waiting in infatuation for you to materialize. For him to produce you, conjure you, bring you, fetch you.”

  “Oh God,” she said, “you’re complicating this impossibly. You’re making it impossible. Why do you have to be crazy too?” She stood up and started piling things on the bed. “What’s Michael’s plan? If any.”

  “He’s going to Congo.”

  “And you’re not.”

  “That depends on you.”

  “I think I’d better go.”

  “I think we’d better not. There’s no law over there. The government has no writ. The cops, the army, psychotic warlords—they all take turns robbing anyone who’s not armed.”

  “Then why don’t you leave us now?”

  “Because I can’t. I couldn’t bear it. Not without you.”

  “This is awful. Shut up.”

  “Once you’ve had a look at the place, you’ll want to come with me.”

  “I’m going with Michael. Take me to Michael.”

  “I’ll take you wherever you want.”

  “I’ve got to. I can’t just disappear. I have to hang on till Michael’s situation is … stabilized or something. Or at least clarified.”

  She put a bag on the bed and started filling it like a pit.

  “Hold up for a bit. Will you? Okay?” She didn’t. She kept packing. “Davidia. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Well, you did scare me. I’m scared—of you.”

  “I got crazy. I don’t want to make you crazy too.”

  “Too late.”

  “Have I forced you into this decision? Because I didn’t mean to put you in a corner. Wait a minute.” She didn’t pause. “Stop packing for a second.”

  “I’m going with Michael now, and I think you’d better take me to him.”

  “Are you sure? Are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “All right, fine. Just a minute. Look at me.” She settled down. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’m crazy.”

  “I said it first.”

  “So we agree on that too. So will you keep all this quiet?”

  “Quiet?”

  “Don’t tell Michael.”

  “I’ve promised Michael I won’t talk to anybody, now I promise you I won’t talk to Michael—is that what you’re saying?”

  “Let me be the one to come clean with him, that’s all.”

  “When?”

  “Not right away.”

  “How long do I have to betray him, then?”

  “Not long.”

  “How long exactly?”

  “Two days exactly.”

  “Forty-eight hours.”

  “Correct.”

  “Promises to him, promises to you, and everything is secret from everybody else. This is what we call a situation.” She seemed to see some humor in the thing.

  * * *

  To make ourselves more visible I lit the headlamps. Nobody else did such a thing, none of the bikes or vehicles set themselves apart.

  Davidia said, “This is blood, isn’t it? How badly is he hurt?”

  “He needed quite a few stitches.”

  “Where’s the hospital?”

  “Actually it’s back that way.”

  “Then why go this way?”

  “Couple of errands.”

  For these conditions I drove too fast. It was nearly 4:00 p.m. I had no idea how late the Catholic communications center might be open. Nevertheless I stopped at a vendor’s shack and bought all his hundred-milliliter packets of spirits. Then I stopped at another vendor, and I did the same thing. Still I had less than a couple of liters. Before I left the hotel I should have gotten the biggest bottle of rum, or tequila, whichever had the bigger proof. Baboon Whiskey, if that’s all they had. But I’d forgotten.

  On the way up the long hill in the middle of Arua I nearly stopped again for another such transaction, but the sight of the towers at the top lured me on. “I’m stopping up here at a place with internet,” I told Davidia. She said nothing.

  Across the road from the gates, I turned off the engine and said it again. “If you have someone you want to communicate with, here’s the place to do it.”

  “Just hurry up. I’m worried about Michael.”

  “You can wait with the guard.”

  “I’m fine right here.”

  When I got out, I went around to her window. She didn’t roll it down. “Will you be all right?”

  “Will I?”

  “If you get uncomfortable, lock the doors.
”

  I heard them locking even as I turned away.

  * * *

  I had two e-mails, the first from Hamid:

  Firm and final offer is cash funds 100K US for you.

  If your answer is yes, we meet same place same hour.

  Cash takes time.

  Your share 100K US. Final offer.

  I liked his figure. I didn’t like his next one:

  Will meet 4 weeks following date last meeting.

  Not 30 days. 4 weeks exactly. No fallback. One chance.

  On the one hand, the money was set, and it was good money. But with his other hand he’d ripped two days from the calendar. I closed my eyes and set about composing a comeback, a counteroffer, and then scotched it. I had nothing to offer.

  I opened the second e-mail: several hundred angry words from my boss at NIIA. Before I’d read half, I deleted it.

  I banged at the keys: “Hello, you idiotic shits. Are you waiting for my report? You can wait till Hell serves holy water.”

  I pressed DELETE.

  Again I banged on the keys, this time at some length:

  Goddamn you. You smiled sweetly while slipping a rocket up my ass and lighting the fuse. Now you want to dress me down?

  Would you cunts please explain what British MI is doing at my hotel?

  Would you cunts care to describe Mossad’s involvement in—what shall we call it—this affair? Investigation? Cluster-fuck?

  All of you, go fuck yourselves. Fuck each other.

  I hold the rank of captain in the Army of Denmark. What has any of this got to do with Denmark? What has any of this got to do with me?

  Why have you put me in a position to be murdered?

  For three seconds, four seconds, five, my finger hovered over the DELETE key, and then I pressed SEND.

  I logged out, plugged in my own keyboard, and went to PGP. I wrote back to Hamid:

  Sold.

  THREE

  [OCT 15 11PM]

  All right, Tina. The chief captor, the witch doctor, the general, the jailor or kidnapper or whatever he is, has just showed me my favorite thing in East Africa, a plastic baggie that would fit exactly in a shirt pocket, and shows me the label, “40% Volume Cane Spirits 100ml,” before biting off the corner and sucking it dry, explaining, “It’s for the cold,” and tossing it aside, and I notice, right now, that the dirt floor of this big low hut we’re in is littered with similar packets sucked empty and tossed aside—paved with them—“Rider Vodka” and “ZAP Vodka” and the Cane Spirits. I’m familiar with these packets, in fact many of these empties were mine-all-mine as recently as one hour ago, when they stole them, yet I don’t perceive any gratitude in the black lacquer faces of these drunken soldiers all around us. What I do perceive is that this place smells powerfully of unwashed humans.