Burridge Unbound (28 page)

“Corporal Tiu, what unit do you work for?”

“The special operations unit, sir.”

“That’s part of the IS, the Intelligence Service?”

“No sir.”

“It is not at all affiliated with the IS?”

“It is a special branch of the presidential guard.”

“Under the orders of the president, then?”

“We operated under orders from Captain Velios.”

“Did you meet Captain Velios? You worked with him?”

“Many times.”

“What does he look like?”

“He has black hair and thick eyebrows. Not a large man.”

“How old is he?”

“Not old.”

“In his twenties? Thirties? Forties?”

“Not old.”

“You don’t know?”

“Not old.”

“Corporal Tiu, you must answer my questions. We have been looking for this Captain Velios. Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Before the troubles.”

“Before what troubles? The assassination of President Minitzh?”

“Yes.”

“He disappeared after that?”

“He did not come any more to the office.”

“But you heard from him on the phone?”

“No.”

“Not a word?”

“No.”

“Corporal Tiu, what does the special branch do?”

“It is involved in secret activities.”

“Such as?”

“I do not know.”

“You work there, but you don’t know what the unit does?”

“I am a clerk in the supply room.”

“And everything is secret?”

Silence. He rocks sickly in his chair, his face down, either terribly ashamed or on the verge of vomiting.

“Corporal Tiu, we have heard from several witnesses about the sordid activities of Captain Velios. We have heard that he ordered the slaughter of villagers, the murder of a journalist, various kidnappings, that he oversaw a ring of secret detention centres throughout the capital and outskirts. Did you know Captain Velios to be in on any such activities?”

“No.”

“But you have no idea what he
did
do? As part of special operations?”

“He liked very sharp pencils,” Corporal Tiu says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Most days he required three or four very sharp pencils. Sometimes he sent his office clerk and sometimes he came himself to pick them up. He brought us sticky buns sometimes.”

“Is this all you can tell us about the notorious Captain Velios, that he liked sharp pencils and brought you sticky buns? Did people talk about him? Were there stories about what special operations was all about?”

Silence.

“You knew about these murders, Corporal Tiu, didn’t you?
You knew about what went on in the detention centres. Don’t come here and tell me about pencils and sticky buns!”

Silence. Not vomiting, but not looking anyone in the eye. Here is the one man we’ve been able to find from special operations. A clerk who says he knows nothing!

I press, cajole, threaten, humiliate, but Corporal Tiu will say nothing more, not to me, not to Sin Vello, not to the rest of the world.

I walk back to the Merioka with Joanne, both of us holding umbrellas against the hot sun, Nito staying a few paces behind. The exhaust fumes seem particularly bad today, and we edge away from the street as far as we can. Diesel fumes from unregulated vehicles, sickening, but not bad enough that we can’t breathe. These day-to-day poisons we learn to accept. Joanne has missed most of this week’s testimony, has been working with the
sorialos
instead. I seem to be handling the hearing room better, and there’s a great need for public-health people in the sprawling encampment. I tell her about the sticky buns but she seems preoccupied, not really listening. I tell her I’ve requested a meeting with Suli to iron out the money problem, make sure we start to get paid. “Derrick will be happy,” she says curtly. All week she’s been like this. We haven’t talked about Hoyaitnut, what happened or didn’t happen between us. But she still reviews the testimony with me in the evenings, we still share our late-night cribbage. I’m happy to retreat, forget – just be as we were. I was stupid and greedy to hope for more than that. And I need to tell her but can’t find the moment.

A day slides by. I meet Justice Sin and Mrs. Grakala in Sin’s office after testimony. It’s a grand room with an oceanfront view, a carved desk the size of a small boat betraying an
extraordinary lack of clutter. The walls are lined not with books but with colourful oil paintings of splendid flowers I don’t knows the names of – purple-spiked, white-rimmed ones, others lined in crimson with flashes of yellow, some black and gold like a sunset, some silvery and soaking in metallic blue water. I ask who the painter is, and Luki says Sin Vello himself.

We sit at the small table by the window, Sin taking up most of a couch, Luki perched on the remaining edge, and me and Mrs. Grakala in ornately carved, hard-backed island chairs like the one in Suli’s office. At Sin Vello’s request, we are meeting without aides. Joanne has gone back to the hotel early; Mrs. Grakala seems nervous without her staff present.

“The
IS
or the presidential guard or I don’t know who – somebody is going to have to produce this Captain Velios,” I say. “Everything’s pointing to him. But what happens if we can’t find him?”

“I am certain we will be presented with a Captain Velios,” Sin says after the translation. “They are packaging one as we speak.” Mrs. Grakala says something to him and they have a back and forth. When I look to Luki she shakes her head, not important.

“Packaging one?” I ask.

“I am certain,” Sin Vello repeats. “What is less certain, perhaps, is who this Captain Velios will be, and what he has done.” He smiles, somehow taking joy in the subterfuge. “Everyone knows
IS
has played a key role in our island’s problems for many years. We need someone to blame, but we don’t know who. Now we are being given a name.”

“Has Captain Velios been invented?” I ask. When the translation comes Mrs. Grakala nods and her chin waggles affirmatively. “He is being packaged and prepared,” she says, “the one man responsible.”

“The
IS
is packaging him?”

“Since Minitzh and through all the changes,” Sin Vello says, “the
IS
has remained the same men in the same positions doing the same poisonous things.”

“What are we going to do? Just be made fools of?” I ask.

Sin Vello smiles, looks to Mrs. Grakala, rubs his thick hands together. He knows more than he’s saying. I can’t tell if Mrs. Grakala knows as well. “The
IS
generally gets its own way. But maybe there’s something we can do,” he says.

“What?”

“Let’s sleep on it.” He says it jovially, not at all like a man who needs to sleep on anything, but who knows already. At first I’m offended, expecting to be taken into confidence. Is he uncomfortable with Mrs. Grakala present, I wonder? I remember Suli Nylioko’s remarks – there might be some sort of distrust between the two. Or perhaps he’s uncomfortable with Luki present. She’s an extra set of eyes and ears; maybe she’s even an
IS
plant. But she’s so young and earnest, works so hard, is so intent to please. The gawky arms, bony body, toothsome smile, the bad facial skin. I look at her closely, as if for the first time, and notice her wedding band. She seems very young, but of course she must have finished her schooling, is competent in her translation. But not only that, I also notice, for the first time, that she looks pregnant. It seems outrageous to have missed it, although she isn’t huge, probably never will be, but there under the stretchy fabric of her skirt is the beginning of either a pot-belly or a baby. And her face is visibly puffier than before – glowing? I stare at her until she stares back, red-faced, and I look away. Justice Sin has been talking and I’ve missed it. But in a small way too the world looks different just because I’ve opened my eyes.

Would a pregnant, happy, young married woman be an
IS
operative? No. Clearly not. Clearly?

As Nito and I are leaving the
Justico kampi
, several powerful young men suddenly surround us. For a moment I’m worried, but then I recognize a few of them as my escort from my late-night meeting with Suli.
“Haha, Suli!”
one of them says, pointing outside, and I realize that they’re taking me to see her. We were going to meet Joanne for the walk home, but they hurry me into a white van instead – government issue, I know now, maybe even an
IS
vehicle. Nito stays behind; he’ll let Joanne know that I’m safe. As we drive past the
sorialos
on the lawn I strain to catch a glimpse, but can’t see her.

It’s full rush hour, yet cars make way for us, even without a siren. Everyone seems to know about these white vans with the polarized windows. We race through the downtown, quick snatches of the harbour glinting at me between skyscrapers. When the Pink Palace comes into view it looks dull behind the shading, but once I step outside the stopped van it’s vibrant and glaring in the naked late-afternoon sun, garishly unreal to my northern eyes, like a mammoth candy-floss castle liable to blow away in the first wind. But there near the gate is a gaping, blackened hole – it must be from the assassination of Minitzh, I realize. The bakery truck that blew up. I must have missed it when I visited here that first time at night.

This time I’m not taken to her office but to the garden in the central courtyard. It’s a humid square packed to jungle density with lush, sweating, perfumed vegetation: a mass of glowing green leaves, some as huge as elephants’ ears, others spiky and small, and everything in between, the blossoms purple, orange, white, and red, the rich black soil fed by burbling streams and rockpools teeming with fat tropical fish,
some red and white, some the same pink as the palace, some blazing gold, crimson and black.

Suli is sitting alone, cross-legged, on a stone bench behind a towering palm, her back straight as the tree trunk, face composed, eyes closed. In her blue
saftori
she looks as strikingly elegant as any of the jungle flowers. My escort withdraws when they see her, and I am left to approach her alone.

“This is my quiet spot,” she says, opening her eyes and smiling – tired but welcoming. She rises gracefully and takes both my hands with hers, kisses my cheek quickly in greeting. It’s an effortless motion that seems to acknowledge immediately that we know one another better now, can get beyond the stiff formality of a business meeting, this small matter of my getting paid.

“Let me show you,” she says before I can say anything, and pulls me along the path. Her hand fits perfectly in mine; it seems normal and acceptable, somehow, that it would stay there while she points out the flowers she loves, the medicinal roots, the birds and lizards and insects. “Minitzh used to spend hours here every day,” she says. “He had it built according to exact specifications, consulted with tropical horticulturists the world over. It’s frightful to think of how much money he lavished on it. When I first saw it I thought I really must take off the glass roof – such a terrible thing to keep everything captive like this. But it really has been designed with care to be self-contained. I find myself taking refuge here more and more.”

“It’s very beautiful,” I say.

When the tour part is over she lets go of my hand and says, while still walking slowly, “Your money is being held up in a special account by Talios Hind. He’s a corrupt bureaucrat from Ludapa district, the banking sector. He earns interest on it, you see, and so is loathe to release it. He’s a bit of a robber
baron, very powerful in his little kingdom, and has strong friends in the military, who also are benefiting from this situation. I’m sorry I haven’t worked it out yet, but it’s normal for this to take time. There are many other considerations – favours that are owed, special projects for Ludapa that are being held up by other corrupt bureaucrats for their own particular reasons. It exasperates me no end, and yet it also reminds me of what I read of the U.S. congress, how public-health legislation must be rolled into a bill on highway expenditures and liquor taxes in order to appease all the politicians along the way. I believe it’s called log-rolling. This is the Santa Irenian variety.”

“It sounds more like a kleptocracy.”

“Yes. Perhaps that is accurate,” she says. “Even though Minitzh is dead, the system he so carefully nurtured is still with us. It will take more than a few months to deal with the many remaining Talios Hinds. Please accept my apologies, but you must have faith – you will be paid, with interest. I personally guarantee it.”

The moment passes when I could rant, express my disgust, threaten to pull out and go home. As usual, she has undercut my anger.

“There is something else we need to discuss,” she says. “I have to tell you that the danger to my personal safety has increased. Factions of the military are unhappy with the pace of change – and not that it’s going too slowly, I can assure you. I cannot give details, but it’s possible there will be an attempt on my life. It would make no sense. Many of the most powerful players in the military realize that with me as the face of Santa Irene we are doing very well with aid from the wealthier nations. But bombs and guns, and the men who use them, do not always make sense. I’m taking every precaution.”

The tendons on her neck are rigid as she speaks. She looks frightened, as if she needs someone she can trust. We are now back at the stone bench beneath the tall palm. She sits, draws her feet up and, almost childlike, holds her knees to her chest, tucks the hem of her
saftori
under her feet. There is not much room for me to sit so I hesitate, but she shifts over slightly, inviting me to sit as well. When I do we’re no closer than we were on the rock that day, and yet it seems more intimate here.

“Not to alarm you,” she continues. “These threats won’t affect the good work of your commission. Although you’ve upset some people with the questioning of security forces personnel. Don’t worry, you will not be interfered with. Calmer heads realize that this inquiry must proceed. With prudence, of course.”