Doing Dangerously Well (9 page)

“Ms. Glass, is it?” Mellifluous tones flooded the phone.

Mary stopped in mid-stretch, astounded. “Yes,” she said, almost rudely.

“How may I be of assistance, Ms. Glass?”

This did not sound like a simple tribesman.

“Minister Kolo, I am phoning from TransAqua. We have heard about the terrible events.”

“Tragedy. Absolute tragedy. Terrible, terrible tragedy.” She could swear he was sucking on something.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I was to read about it.” She did not sound convincing, but that was not her job. She had not been trained as a therapist. They must have relatives they could cry to. “I think there are ways in which our company can help.”

“Oh! How kind of you to offer,” the notes slid out. “Now, please refresh my memory. Your company is involved in water
rights and licensing, hydroelectric power, desalination, water supply, sewage—”

“Uh, waste management, yes,” she corrected.

“… bottled water and filtration technologies, is that correct?”

“Yes.” Mary adopted a tone of greater formality to cover her growing unease. “That is correct.” Had Sinclair already called?

“What a fortuitous call! You are interested in rights acquisitions? To the Niger River?”

“We’re interested,” she corrected, “in assisting with the supply of uncontaminated fresh water, waste management systems and, of course, hydroelectric—” She stopped herself. “Minister Kolo, have you received a call from the company already?”

“No. Indeed, no.”

She could not tell from his tone whether he had or not.

“Now, are you planning to provide this for free?” More sucking.

“Well, of course we’d only expect nominal repayment as you rebuild your—”

“A country in such a sad state of disrepair rarely receives calls from such eminent prospectors as TransAqua. Allow me to let you in on a secret, Ms. Glass. I have a plan—a bold plan for this great country.” More sucking. “I wish to build the biggest dam in the world at Kainji and to rename the Niger River.”

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.”

B
arbara 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 Opportunities. 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.

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.