An Elegy for Easterly (13 page)

Other African delegates peel away the veneer of diplomacy on learning his nationality. They address
him with an affectionate familiarity. ‘You Zimbabweans,' says the Kenyan delegate. ‘You want to drive out
muzungu, heh
?' The Kenyan delegate laughs, and the Zambian and Tanzanian delegates join in.

‘You Zimbabweans,' echoes the Ethiopian delegate. ‘When are you getting rid of your President? And our Mengistu, there in Harare with him?'

He develops a laugh for encounters such as these.

He learns to fall asleep with his eyes open.

On the flight to Amsterdam, he dreams of a new geyser for their house in Harare. The last time he called home, his brother's wife said the old geyser is giving problems. He must remember to ask his brother to call Tregers' for a quotation, he thinks. Then he remembers that with a million euros, they can buy a new house,
houses
, for him and his brothers. And each of their children. And their children's children.

He works out how much a million euros is in Zimbabwe dollars. Each euro is two million dollars, on the parallel market, of course. 2,000,000,000,000 Zimbabwe dollars. His mind cannot expand enough to take this in.

Twelve zeroes make a billion, according to the United Kingdom system of counting. Twelve zeroes make a trillion, going by the United States version.
Two billion or two trillion. One-fifth of Zimbabwe's last annual budget. A lot of money, in any country. In a flood of thanksgiving, he plans all the things he will buy for his Lord's representative on earth, their pastor in Harare.

A new cellphone, for sure.

A stove and a fridge.

A suit for the pastor.

An outfit (with a hat) for the pastor's wife.

Toys and clothes for their children.

In his mind he sees the pastor's children on his farewell visit, peering at the black-and-white cartoon images hissing from their fourth-hand television.

‘I will buy them a new television,' he vows. ‘One with a flat screen.'

The grimy façade of the building that houses the European Bank of Luxembourg gives him pause. When he sees the broken elevator, the ten-franc ham sandwich that he ate on the flight moves uneasily in his stomach. He walks up the stairs to the second floor. A door with the letters EBL in black flourishes on a gold plaque gives him some reassurance. The door looks serious, solid. Inside, he finds that the offices are not as grimy as the outside indicated. The ham sandwich settles in his innards.

The biggest surprise is Mr George. He is not the white gentleman of our man's imagination, smiling with largess in a bustling office. Instead, he is a lone young man with a West African accent. He has several gold chains around his neck. He wears black denim jeans with giant pockets at the knees, patent leather shoes, and has two cellphones on his belt. He interrupts their conversation to talk in low tones on his phones. To our man who does not understand the language, the one-sided conversations sound vaguely sinister.

‘The money you have won needs to be cleaned,' Mr George explains to him. ‘And you need to give us twenty-five thousand euros for that purpose.' The word sounds like
papas
. ‘We cannot give it to you in this state.'
In dis stet
. ‘There is an expensive chemical that we must buy.'
Iks-pansive kamikal
.

Mr George takes a fifty-euro note. It has some markings on it, reddish brown, above the stars of Europe. He wipes it down with a cloth on which he has sprinkled a transparent fluid. The note emerges pristine. The term money-laundering comes from that part of our man's mind that absorbs the news and documentaries that he watches every night on BBC World. He asks the question.

‘No, no, no.' Mr George laughs a full-bodied laugh that sees him click-clicking his fingers and clink-clinking
his gold chains. ‘Money-laundering. No, no, no. That is for dirty money, money from prostitutes and drugs, money that is sent to accounts in Cayman Islands, you understand me? This is a lottery, you understand me? This no dirty money. God has chosen us to find people like you, to help you.'

Mr George pauses to answer the phone ringing on his right.

‘Dr Rose, he wants to help you,' Mr George continues. ‘He even mention your name especially, you understand me.'

Our man understands nothing, but the earlier reference to God settles in his mind. ‘I am a civil servant,' he explains. ‘I do not have twenty-five thousand euros. Can't you just deduct your money from my million euros before you give it to me?'

Mr George laughs.

Click-clickety, clink-clinkety
.

‘No, no, no. That is not how we do it, you understand me. But it's okay. If you don't trust me, we can't do business. You can take your five thousand, and lose your million euros.' Our man has already handed over the five thousand euros; they rest snugly in the back pocket of Mr George's jeans.

He can see their outline when Mr George turns.

‘Here is what I propose. You are a nice guy, flown all this way. You can't leave empty-handed. We can
lend it to you. Or rather, we have a partner who can lend it to you.' And he mentions a Miss Manning from Equity, Loan and Finance Company of London.
Lorn-dorn
.

Our man is dismayed to learn that he has to deal with yet another person in yet another city. ‘You do not have to go to London,' Mr George says. ‘Miss Manning will contact you to arrange the loan.'

Our man is bewildered by all of this. ‘Why can't the bank just get the money directly from this lender? Why does the money need to be washed?' To all the whys, asked and unasked, Mr George has one response. ‘Go back to Geneva, and await Miss Manning's email.'

In Geneva, our man is anxious but not afraid. A week passes, and nothing happens. He emails Dr Rose who tells him to contact Mr George who tells him to await Miss Manning. Miss Manning finally contacts him, by email and then by post. The letter that comes by post says, ‘Greetings. May our Lord Jesus Christ shower his Blessings upon you and all your Beloved. I looked into my heart and found a Blessed Peace. I pass this Peace on to you today. Herein please find a cheque for 25,000 euros, to be repaid on receiving your winnings.'

Our man is tempted to kiss the cheque, but restrains himself.

‘Worship God, not Mammon.'

Within an hour, Mr George writes to him.

‘Greetings,' he says. ‘Please send us the money, as soon as the cheque clears. Your million will soon be in your account. Trust God.'

In two days, the cheque clears.

‘Learn humility,' our man chides himself. He promises the Lord not to doubt His wisdom again. He sends the money to Mr George. He waits a day, two days, a week, two weeks. There is no news from Amsterdam, or Brussels. There is no news from London.
Lorn-Dorn
.

He emails Dr Rose, Mr George, Miss Manning, in that order, every day, twice a day for one week. Dr Rose finally responds in a letter of fluid persuasion. ‘We would not cheat you, my friend,' the email says. ‘As for me, I am a woman fearful of God. My promise is my credit.'

The reference to the possibility of cheating him does not alarm our man so much as Dr Rose's revelation that she is a woman. He finds himself back in Amsterdam, Mr George's voice in his ear. ‘
Dr Rose, he
wants to help you. He even mention your name especially,
you understand me
.'

‘You say you are a woman,' our man writes. ‘I thought you were a man. Mr George distinctly told
me that you were a man. In Amsterdam, he said you were a man.'

‘Make no assumptions, my friend,' Dr Rose responds. ‘Only have faith and all will be well. You will hear from Mr George.'

Mr George is brief, to the point.

‘We need more money for chemicals,' he writes. ‘Miss Manning is sending you another cheque.'

Our man in Geneva protests, but his emails bounce into empty space.

Every night, and first thing in the morning, he sits before the computer. He jumps at the pinging sound that announces new email. He is bothered by a permanent dryness in his throat. Susan calls to remind his wife about her second semester fees.

‘
Wototaura nababa vako
,' his wife says. ‘He will send the money next week, that is, unless he has spent it all.' Our man joins in her laughter, his own laugh sounding to his ears like Mr George's.

‘Spent the money? No, no, no.'

Click-clickety, clink-clinkety
.

He opens his Bible to a random page. Like an answer to a prayer, his eyes fall on Jeremiah 33:3. ‘Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and show thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not.'

He asks God to show him the way. The Lord speaks to him with all the clarity of common sense. ‘Forget about the million euros. Come clean to your wife. Pray together and work together. Write a letter to your daughter's university. Ask for a grace period. If necessary, take a loan from those credit people who send emails.' For the first time in weeks, our man sleeps the sleep of dreamless ease.

He wakes the next day with a sense of purpose. The morning is bright with hope. The clocks have moved up an hour, and the year is approaching spring. As he drives up the hill towards the United Nations, the sun casts its rays through the slits in the giant sculpture of the Broken Chair and into the windows of his car. The snow drips from the trees. The birds sing from the melting boughs. At the yellow and black zebra crossing just after the Broken Chair, he stops to allow a woman and her toddler to cross the street. The child drops its teddy bear, breaks free of its mother, runs back to pick it up and meets the eyes of our man through the windscreen. The child breaks into a toothless grin and waves. Our man waves back. He is seized by a burst of joy so intense that he almost gasps. As he drives on to Chambesy, he whistles his wife's favourite hymn of thanksgiving.

‘
Simudza maoko ako, urumbidze Mwari, nekuti
Ndiye ega akarurama
.'

His heart is filled with grace and gratitude.