Mortals (15 page)

Ray went on. “Summing it up, it goes like this. You have this character and you know he has some kind of definite campaign in mind. We see the offprints he has ready to go. We see these handout cards. And the evidence is pretty good that he’s planning to make tapes. He brought a shit-load of blank cassette tapes with him. We know that. So that even the illiterates can get the message.

“Even if the only question we had about him was who in hell he thinks he is, it would be worth getting the answer. But anyway. There’s also the list of peculiar names he had. Well, as I told you, I did figure out what that is. It’s a list of South American tribes exterminated by the Christian soldiers of Spain, just in one part of South America. So the implication is pretty clear. Africa has tribes, Botswana has tribes, the white man cometh, you see the point. It’s a litany of murdered tribes. It’s not so hard to imagine where this kind of fragment might fit in, is it? By the way the list comes from a book called
Land Without Evil
, and the guy who wrote it was a Brit who was friendly with the KGB.

“So okay, and the operation he has in mind, from what little we know from this distance, the operation has the potential to get
all
the religious groups in the country upset, once they hear about it. The Muslims are already upset, for other reasons. And don’t forget that this character is going to be identified as what he is, one of us, an American, which may be something we don’t particularly need on our plate, this part-time Antichrist being one of us.”

Ray was going on too long and he knew it, but he couldn’t make himself stop. He had to put everything out. He hated the slings and arrows of staircase wisdom. Also it was getting to be so tough to get face to face with Boyle that he had to seize the moment. Boyle wasn’t liking this, which wasn’t fine. But he had to lay it all out.

Ray said, “Another piece of this, and I’m sure you know all about it, is that Doctor Morel has two patients in the cabinet. The Secretary for the Office of the President and the Minister of Local Government and Lands. You know, we’re not the only people in Gaborone aware of this. Everybody knows it. You mention Morel’s name and people tell you how he saved Montshwa, or rather how first he saved Fabius and then Montshwa. They were in the delegation that went to Boston. This is the story that’s around. Fabius had some sort of leg problem and somebody sent him to Morel. And then Montshwa’s back seized up and Fabius had liked Morel so much he brought Montshwa to him and the rest is history. They walk, they run, they dance …”

“Lookit,”
Boyle said, hard, which only showed Ray how long Boyle
must have been out of contemporary U.S. culture. Lookit was a class-descriptor … lower class, and anyway it was long out of use. Even he knew that. Of course now Boyle was trying to be hard with him.

“Now lookit,” Boyle said. “None of this
matters
, and …”

Ray interrupted. “Wait, I’m not saying this character is Rasputin or Stephen Ward. I don’t think he is. But. But. Wait, I lost my train of thought. I think it was … he just gets here, he hardly gets here and he has friends in high places and people are noticing him and … sorry, I lost it.”

“Lookit,” Boyle said.

Again Ray stopped him. “Wait, before I forget this … I didn’t mention this before and you might want to consider it.

“Okay, let’s set aside all the friends in high places and think about this. I mentioned how one of the subjects our friend seems interested in agitating around is circumcision. I did mention it, didn’t I? But what I didn’t mention is bogwera.

“Bogwera is a ritual. See, at one time the Tswana circumcised their young men in these bogwera camps when they reached puberty. Well the tradition died down until very recently and now it’s coming back, the same as traditional medicine is. It’s part of a cultural revival. You can read notices announcing bogwera camps in
Dikgang
. They’re big.

“Right, so someone coming out saying that circumcision is for idiots is not going to be popular. I mean, my guess is that the arguments that are going to be made against it are going to be that it’s medically stupid, primarily. And there’s one more point, just quickly, about circumcision, which is that most of the Tswana tribes, maybe all of them, used to do it, but the Zulus, and there are a lot of Zulus in the mix in this country, some of them doing quite well, and the Zulus don’t do it, they think it’s stupid. There’s bad blood, historically, over the issue between the Xhosas, of which there are plenty here, especially around Mahalapye, and the Zulus. And this was because Shaka stopped circumcising his guys because it took them out of circulation just when they should be getting into shape for warmaking. The Xhosas actually see the Zulus as unclean because of it. It’s serious. Down in the Republic it’s part of the problem between the Zulus in Inkatha and the ANC, which is mostly Xhosa. Anyway, we have both groups intermingled up here. So potentially any kind of open campaigning on the issue is going to be inflammatory in a number of directions. You see my point.”

Ray was parched. There was never ever anything to drink available in the room. He realized that the room had been made smaller by the newly
installed soundproofing that Boyle had ordered. Ceiling and walls were now covered with porous sheathing, a good idea if Boyle was going to have free use of his shouting option. The room ate sound. That was why Ray was parched. It was voice-strain. He should always get a drink of water before he saw Boyle.

Boyle’s long, slow sigh was meant to say that Ray was being taxing. That was fine. He had said everything he could. Ray gathered himself.

Boyle began. “Okay, let me just say it so you understand it. I don’t give a fuck about this chiropractor. Wait till he sees it here. I know these guys who want to save the world, believe me I know them. This fucker will go home in six months when he sees it here. More like six weeks. This is some kind of prima donna who thinks he’s too good to be a fucking chiropractor, so he decides he should be some stupid intellectual savior instead. I know him. Don’t bother me with people like this shithead. This guy is black. He was living in Cambridge, for Christ’s sake, so wait until he sees it here. Cape Town, someplace like that, he might end up in, not here. With these black characters it’s a romantic black bourgeoisie thing about Africa and it takes about six weeks until they say uh-oh. Cambridge, Boston, places you can have a lot of fun. Believe me I know enough about this character to know he means
nothing
to us, and I mean nothing, zero, zero squared. These cards he’s going to hand out. I wish I could be there and see the expression on the faces over at the takeaway. It’s a joke. Believe me that this is a guy who likes to eat out. He was living on the best street in Cambridge. I know his story. He was up against all the local geniuses they have around Cambridge. So out here he’s the biggest genius around. Fuck him. It’s a safari, believe me. Over here in the bulrushes he’s going to be Moses, a light to the nations, whatever. This is a man with his head up his own ass and finding it very interesting in there, very interesting, gee.”

Boyle carried a menthol inhaler which he dug out now and applied to his nostrils.

Boyle went on. “Believe me, when he was in Cambridge what he was was a chiropractor. Now he comes over here and he’s the light of the world. But tell me something. Why didn’t the light of the world write a book instead? He never published a thing, so far as I know. Why not? Believe me when I say this guy is going to self-destruct. Besides I know twenty ways to get him out of here if he fucks around to any degree. I don’t need to know a thing about this guy I don’t already know. I …”

Ray couldn’t help himself. He broke in again.

“Yeah, but you’re leaving out Fabius and Montshwa. They swear by him. What about his protection? What about …”

Boyle said, “You know, words fail me with you. There is no protection I can’t break. You don’t know a thing about what I can do. I don’t mean to beat up on your idea, but I don’t think you understand a lot of things you should.”

New times! Ray thought. Boyle was normally laconic, and laconic at a completely standard middle-class level of word choice. He was playing a rougher class. The profanity, or the profusion of it, was new times too. There was more of it than was necessary to make Boyle’s point, which was that he was tough at the core, so watch out. And there was no way for Ray to miss the implications of Boyle’s allusions to academics as pains in the ass and problems in general for the true heroes of the world—the hard men, the practical men, less overeducated men like Boyle himself.

“So then you don’t want me to pursue this in any way.”

“Shape or form. No.”

“Even if I pick up something.”

“No. Nope. Don’t pick anything up. Don’t. Don’t touch him, don’t think about him, don’t have dreams about him. I’m sorry if you think he’s fascinating. He isn’t. Anyway there’s somebody else I need you for, if I can ever get to it.

“Also, and this is a minor thing, but this is the way I want it, I don’t want anything on paper necessarily, from you. Unless you want to come in here and write it here and hand it straight in. I guess that would be okay except that it ties up the room. I guess we could try it. The fact is what I would prefer, and I think we are going to get to this, is for you to come in when you have something and just tape it here. Put it on a tape, it’s the fastest way. You can abbreviate. What I don’t want is you working on profiles on paper outside this room, because you know and I know what can happen. Now. I understand it’s not going to be as polished. It’s not the same thing writing it in here out of your head or taping it. But I don’t want you hit by a truck and there is all this interesting
material
, you know, in your backpack. I don’t want that. The people here do not know how to drive. I love them but they cannot fucking drive. Maybe in fifty years. And I know how careful you are and how you keep all your notes safe when you write. I know all that. I know you have your burn box, I know you always use it. But I want to get away from paper.”

Ray felt his face getting hot. It was possible he had brought this on himself by fighting to get Morel. That would mean it was a punishment
that might be reversed at some point, if he what, if he what, if he could think of something to get it reversed, like what? Boyle was dropping back into his more middle-class presentation of self, showing collegiality now. Everything is a trap, Ray thought.

Boyle wouldn’t stop. “I see your stuff and your stuff is beautiful, I grant you. And Marion told me all about it and how they love it at McLean. I looked at your file and it’s beautiful. You know. So I don’t say categorically don’t write, but it has to be in
here
, and how you can fit that in I don’t venture to say. You need to shorten up anyway, if you want to write. But the fact is that if I have it on tape I can do something else while I listen. You know. I have my problems with time the same as you do. Whatever I need to do I can do. I can replay if I need to. I can listen to you on the can and get two things done at once. You know. And. We might make an exception and you could tape either here or in back, sometimes, upstairs. I could fix it up as an exception. Part of it is that I have more stuff I have to read than I can handle. I’m buried in it. So as I say we’re definitely going to tape only, fairly soon. It makes sense because you get more on tape faster and anyway we can go from tape to text through a machine if we need an extract.”

I need to comprehend this, Ray thought. If he thinks he can make me quit with this shit I have news for him because patiens shall be my song: He may have been lying about Morel, why Morel is nothing to us, or he may not, why would he though?… I can’t think in here.

From left to right on the table in front of Ray were an open pack of Rothman’s brand cigarettes and a pale blue desk blotter in a leatherette holder, on which rested the file folder Boyle had brought. Boyle’s thick hands rested overlapped on the folder, right hand on top, Boyle’s absurd involved gold Knights of Malta ring, if that’s what it was, gleaming on his middle finger. It was impossible not to be curious about what the ring meant,
but
it was also impossible to show you were curious because that meant you were someone unable to place such a ring, correctly identify its provenance, the device on it. So the task was not to fixate on it while it glinted away at you, big, big enough to have a secret compartment, like a Borgia ring. Boyle was waiting for him to assent, Boyle invariably had an open pack of cigarettes on display. It was there as a memento mori, in a way, and signified that time was fleeting and that Boyle couldn’t wait to get upstairs and have a smoke. There was no smoking in the conference room. There were no ashtrays. You always knew you were keeping Boyle from having a smoke. You were intended to remember that, because it would keep you crisp and succinct.

Ray thought, I hate your fucking face, and said, “We can manage this. I um I appreciate … your time problems … your …” Then he didn’t know what else to say. This is obedience, he thought.

“We’re fine,” Boyle said, just as Ray said, “No we’re fine.” Ray was embarrassed.

Boyle appreciated obedience, and was showing he did, Ray understood, by considerately opening the folder he was pushing toward him and swinging it around so that Ray could begin reading immediately. Boyle relapped his hands, this time with his ring hand underneath, his seal of power withdrawn, a sign of collegiality restored because Ray was being good. All of Boyle’s inlays were gold, Ray had noted during one of the few times he had experienced Boyle laughing at something. He had no idea why that had come back to him.

Ray opened the folder, acutely aware that it behooved him to show there and then that he could absorb like a demon. He had to be in control. He had to kill his grievances for the time being, but truly kill them, including the recurrent feeling that life was just one goddamned unannounced test after another, which hurt because given the state of the world, he had a right to relax, they all did, the entire agency, not only himself.

The subject was a Motswana, Samuel Kerekang, forty, single, recently returned to the country after a protracted, successful, and, reading between the lines, heroic pursuit of a doctorate in civil engineering from the University of Edinburgh no less.