Making Wolf, page 21
“Oh, please!”
“—or if you promised to pay him when the insurance came through only to find him conveniently blown up after the event. Then you simply stopped taking his calls, after which he is meant to have killed himself. Did you start a fight with your husband to reduce the guilt when you ‘discovered’ his assassination?”
“I want you out of my house.”
“In a minute. You lied to me. I went to the insurance company. Gentian Alliance. The claims department is virtually one investigator and an extremely busty secretary. He told me there was no investigation into your claim. You said it had been fully investigated when I asked you. Why would you say that? The investigator said there was a wave of sympathy when Pa Busi died, and he was instructed ‘from on high’ not to bother with a close look at the circumstances of his death. Sixteen million dollars, wasn’t it?”
“Get out.”
“I will, but not yet. I want you to know something: I don’t plan to share this information with anybody. Ikem Okafor has been found and killed. It doesn’t matter how. The official story will be that she was a lone gunman, and that will be that. You and I will know the truth, I suppose, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve found out recently that I have no real morality or politics.”
“You were fucking me while your girlfriend was missing, Weston. That should have been a big clue.”
“Yes, yes, my powers of detection only work for the benefit of others. Blah, blah. Diane, I know you did it, but I don’t know why. I don’t buy greed as a motive, although sixteen million is sixteen million. Yet Ikem saw something while she was surveilling you.”
“…”
“What did he do to you?”
“All you have is conjecture.”
“I know.”
“But the kind of thing that could theoretically drive a person like me to murder would have to be an insult against my body. It would be something I consider to be defilement. For example, if my husband were to drug me one night, to drug my food, and undress me and scoop some of the low-fat butter from the refrigerator and smear it inside and around an orifice which we had not previously agreed was open to him and insert his erection and take me again and again until the bed linen is stained with blood and semen and excrement, all to satisfy his urges and needs. It would probably take weeks in the hospital to heal. Wounds would open up between the bladder and rectum, which would mean incontinence and persistent water infections since fecal matter would leak into the bladder. Hospital staff and servants would have to be paid off to keep quiet, but the victim of such savagery would always know that they knew. Such a victim would feel dirty no matter how many times she washed, not just from the rape, but from the incontinence and fear of incontinence. Theoretically, if he were to do that, then the shame might be enough to drive a person like me to murder. Not me, mind you. A person like me. Not me.”
“No. Of course not.”
We were both dressed now. I gave the aquarium a final tap. I remembered the extreme porn I found in Pa Busi’s locker when I roamed the house. I nodded at nothing. A few tentative birds started experimenting with dawn song.
“Do you even care, Weston?”
“Not really. I was just curious as to your reasons. It makes no difference to either of our destinies.”
“I mean about me. Do you care about me?”
She seemed vulnerable for the first time. Her hair was all wet and floppy and the anger was gone. Just resignation and sloped shoulders.
I walked over and kissed her in lieu of an answer. Then I left.
Chapter Twenty-five
I was sleep deprived again.
I had worked everything out. There was no fine maneuvring to do, but I had to remain alert. I felt slightly dizzy whenever I stood up quickly, and I had a layer of cold sweat on my back. I asked for strong black coffee while I waited for the supreme commander in his lounge.
The Liberation Front of Alcacia had moved headquarters since my last visit on account of government shelling. It was smaller, and the commander’s quarters weren’t as grand.
Rather than the old camp where the revolutionaries pushed back the forest with a bulldozer, this one secured a gentler place, more in tune with the countryside. Even from inside I could hear wind shaking up the trees. Nature was winning this time, and there was an impermanence to the place. It was still early enough in the morning for cocks to crow.
There were both gas lamps and kerosene lanterns on shelves although the distant hum of a generator guaranteed power.
There was a dining table covered with a white Red Cross blanket instead of a table cloth. There was bread, open bottles of olive oil, tea cups, dodo, ogi, empty glasses, bottled water, a boiled egg, salt and pepper shaker, and a cooked, half-eaten fowl. Nothing steamed, so I guessed it was all cold. The table lacked vitality—these were leftovers.
Inexplicably there was a bootleg poster of a young Leonardo DiCaprio on the wall.
There were windows with vulgar bars across them. I spied two men sitting under a tree, sharing a meal and laughing. A delayed guffaw. One would throw back his head, and the dopplered sound would hit later.
I was here to be officially congratulated. This time I had not been kidnapped or even blindfolded. I simply waited at the market gate, and a car came for me. I was not searched, even though I wasn’t armed.
Sing a happy tune.
A door opened, and Supreme Commander Osa Ali came in with Churchill and another man whom I didn’t know. I was slightly disappointed; I had hoped Nana would be there, too. Not that it was necessary. Church was in a buba and soro, which is a modified caftan made of local fabric. He smiled at me with an eyebrow raised and cocked his head to the side with his hands spread out. As if to ask, No hard feelings? I nodded at him with a scintilla of a smile. Osa Ali did not have his glasses on, but he seemed rather benign and wore a white shirt with jeans. The unknown man was Chinese and wore a suit.
“Your Excellency,” I said.
“Weston Kogi, we owe you a debt of gratitude,” he said. He hugged me, drew me into himself. Very expansive. Hardness in the muscles under his layers of fat. Smelled of Old Spice. ‘May I present Mr. Tian Rui Han? This is our private investigator, Weston Kogi.”
Han shook my hand. Ali did not volunteer what exactly Han’s role was, and I did not ask. He handed me a sheet of A4.
“Press release,” said Church. “It’s going out later today. Nana composed it, but it will appear under a different byline when published.”
Indeed.
After many years of uncertainty the murderer of Pa Busi has been unmasked. The investigation was carried out by private detective Weston Kogi working in conjunction with the Alcacian Government. He has disclosed that the killer was Ikem Okafor, a People’s Christian Army agent. It appears clear that the PCA’s intention at the time was to stoke conflict between rebel factions and disrupt the peace process sought by other groups, particularly the Liberation Front of Alcacia. In an attempt to apprehend the assassin, she was fatally injured and did not survive. Mr. Kogi was not available for comment. This draws a line under a case that has baffled authorities for…
“What do you think?” asked Church.
“You said ‘fatally injured’ and then that the person did not survive. Tautological.”
“Nobody cares, Weston.”
“This is going to become the official version of events, isn’t it?” I said.
“Pretty much.”
“It would be a pretty good advertisement for me if I were planning to stay in the country and work.”
“True, but you don’t have to worry about funds for the time being. We have remuneration for you,” said Ali. He handed over a briefcase. I didn’t look inside. “Do not give any interviews about this affair. That could make things inconvenient for us. It is over.”
“I have a gift for you,” I said. I took the Epoch canister out of my hip pocket and offered it to Ali.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It’s a nasty little synthetic virus that the PCA wanted me to release in your camp. My gift to you. Do with it as you will. I’m out of this business.” I stood up.
“Wait,” said Church. “Let’s confer.”
They asked me questions about the virus and how to release it and who specifically asked me to bring it. I answered honestly most of the time. Han was most interested in the parameters of the disease that Epoch induced. They got into agitated whispers, which did not interest me in the least.
“Not that I’m any good at strategy or anything, but what are you planning to do with it?” I asked.
“We are going to shove it right up the PCA’s collective ass,” said Church. “It’s just what we need.”
“You’d unleash it on them?”
“They were going to do it to us,” said Church, arms spread out.
“Good bye, Mr. Kogi. We’ll think of you again if we have business,” said Ali.
“Please do not,” I said, and left the room.
From the car I telephoned Nana. This time she picked up the phone. “We have nothing to talk about, Weston,” she said.
“My passport?”
“It’s at my parent’s. I’ve told my papa to give it to you if you turn up.”
“Thanks. Listen, I really am sorry for—”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“One last thing: are you in the camp?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Get out.”
I hung up the phone and dialed another number.
“It’s me. I did what we agreed. They also planned to use Epoch once it was in their hands. My part in this is over.” I hung up and tapped the driver of my escort jeep.
“Stop the car. I need to take a piss badly.”
I went into the undergrowth and ran as fast as I could. I was still running when the rumble of bombing began.
After an hour I began to hallucinate. Nordic frost giants melting in the noon sun of Alcacia. Watermelon monsters battling over the corpse of a Jabberwocky. A dozen monkeys babbling Shakespeare’s sonnets. Orange-red Martian landscapes with corpulent African fertility gods running marathons. Giant bats, jaws dripping blood, swarming around me. Yet in all this, I was not afraid. I was walking or running through it, trying to get away from a conflagration behind me. Or in front of me, it was difficult to tell. I drifted, floated off the ground, dissipated into nothingness.
I woke up in a bed that was cold and wet with my own sweat. It was night time judging from the crickets and the darkness outside. I had no idea where I was. The ceiling had this dusty netting strung up across it and random objects like books and toothbrushes were caught in it. Mine was the only bed in the room, which was small with a single window. Someone had scribbled “Stand Up For Jesus!” on the wall beside me. The other walls had a one-foot crucifix and a painting of shepherds. It was too dark to determine color other than a dull brown. A gas lamp hissed in the corner in front of me, turned low to provide a night light. I sat up, felt dizzy, steadied myself. I was naked.
Near the door there was a chair, as if someone had been watching over me. The bedside desk had a King James Bible and an empty glass. Perhaps a hospital? I wondered what had happened.
There was one cupboard, and I aimed myself for it, feeling a fresh wave of dizziness. My clothes were inside, clean but not pressed. Also, my briefcase of money which surprisingly still contained the cash Ali had given me. I dressed up, but very slowly. I spent a few minutes looking for the shoes, but they were under the bed. I tried the door. It opened into a hallway with nine similar doors on each side with mine in the approximate middle. Lamps were hanging at intervals from hooks in the ceiling. I stepped into the corridor and blacked out.
When I came to I was in bed, clothed this time, with a kindly nun standing over me. She was Indian, fiercely furrowed face, benevolent smile. I generally hate nuns, but I was glad to see this one.
“It’s good to see you awake,” she said. “My name is Puja.” She didn’t sound Indian, or even Alcacian.
“Where are you from?” I asked. I needed water. My throat was parched, and I sounded like a frog in mating season.
Puja laughed. “Usually, people in your condition want to know where they are or what day it is. You have questions about my accent. Huh.”
“What’s with the…aren’t you a nun or something?”
“I’m a reverend sister.”
“Okay, so shouldn’t I be calling you ‘sister’ or some other reverent noun?”
She laughed again. I was learning she laughed easily. “Some call me Sister Haq or Dr. Haq. Puja’s fine also.”
“Am I dreaming you?”
“No.”
“Good. What’s wrong with me?”
“Malaria. You were delirious and dehydrated, too. I had to give you quinine.”
“Malaria? But I was taking Proguanil.” Except I hadn’t taken it for God knows how long.
“You have malaria. You’re better, but you need to take meds for a while.”
“I feel itchy.”
“Yes, quinine does that.”
“Right.”
“What’s your name?”
“Weston.”
“Weston, how is it that you were wandering in the forest with just the clothes on your back and a sizeable briefcase full of money yelling about pterodactyls?”
“I fell in with a bad crowd.”
“You were asking for your gun.”
“It was a very bad crowd.”
“Hmm. That will have to do, I suppose. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“Not really hungry. Thirsty, though.”
“Does your bad crowd…are they…”
“Not criminals or gangsters. They are revolutionaries, patriots!”
“You mock them. What did you do?”
“Let’s see. I don’t want to be a mass murderer, so I swapped something harmful for something harmless.”
“What are you talking about?”
I telephoned the number. I told the secret police guy about Epoch. He asked for a meet. He took it off me and gave me another cylinder. Harmless. With a tracking device. Asked me, told me, to take it with me to the Front meeting. And I did. Knowing it wouldn’t be long before the helicopters arrived. Knowing the existence of Epoch guaranteed the obliteration of the Christian Army. Knowing the choice made by Ali would determine its own survival.
If he had opted to destroy the virus, I wouldn’t have led government troops to his headquarters.
I hoped that Nana got out, that Church was dead. But I knew better. Church would survive nuclear holocaust and still have time to dance bata on the radioactive corpses.
As for Abayomi, who knew where he would end up? I didn’t care.
“I’m worried about myself, sister. I don’t care about anything. I have no ethics, no code of conduct.”
Puja pointed to her own chest. “Not a psychiatrist. Just a physician tending to poor Alcacian folk in the middle of nowhere.”
“You’re a reverend sister.”
“You want me to discuss the Word of God with you? The Risen Christ?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To feel intensely about something. To want to take a stand.”
“What’s stopping you? You are mistaken if you think I will recommend God. My God is a refining fire who will burn away the impurities of self. You are still devoted to yourself, I think. You want a purpose, a mission statement for your life, and it does not include God or the Holy Mother or service. I cannot help you with that.”
“I have this recurring dream, you know. I’m walking through a marketplace, only it’s empty. All the stalls are open, the beans and grain stands with their measures ready for trade, but there are no humans. I usually end up in the butcher’s stall where a dead person will speak to me and then a flight of vultures will come down and eat them up.”
“Hmm.”
“Is that it? Don’t you have some words of wisdom for me?”
“There’s certainly a loneliness theme in there, but I cannot help you. I’m the least wise person I know, Weston. I’m a doctor. I am here to heal your body. I can tell you that every person who heals you gives birth to you in part, but I’m not your mother. Get better. You cannot stay here.”
“How long have I been—”
“Three days before your fever broke, but I think you were wandering in the forest for at least twenty-four hours judging by the degree of dehydration.”
“Do you have any newspapers? Or a radio or television?”
“I think there is a transistor somewhere. I’ll have it brought in.”
“Thank you.”
The letter I sent to my sister in London went like this:
Dear Lynn,
I feel like shit.
As I write this, my skin itches all over from quinine injections. My nails are shiny from scratching, and I have marks all over me—some from mosquitoes, some from itching. I should have trimmed my nails, shouldn’t I? Before you ask, yes, I have malaria; yes, I did take antimalaria pills, but they didn’t work; yes, that’s because I’m in Alcacia. In fact, I’m looking at that famous painting, the one after Poussin, by Gbamileke. Et in Alcacia ego. It’s at the end of my hospital bed. Oh, and yes, I am in hospital. I’m in the mission hospital, though I might not be by the time you get this. They tell me I’ve been owning malaria for four days now and the fever just broke. The ink smudges on the letter are from my sweat. I’ve tasted it, and it’s curiously without salt.
I’ll explain why I couldn’t email in a minute.
There isn’t enough water for me to take a decent
Do not fret. And don’t blame me either. I didn’t come to the home country for an adventure. I came to attend Auntie Blossom’s funeral. Then I got caught up in something…icky.
What I’ve sent you constitutes diary entries. I’ve scribbled everything that happend happened up till this point. I don’t know if it’ll get to you or if I’ll be able to send more. We’ll see. This should get to you via the xxxxxx embassy. Every other commission appears to have an interest in impeding my progress. That’s why I couldn’t send the emails—my account’s being monitored.
