Old Lovers Don't Die (27 page)

The Norfolk pines by the edge of the lake were over one hundred feet tall. The first Belgian colonials had planted them in the 1800s, as a reminder of Europe. Now mature and fully grown they stood as magnificent guardians of the lakeshore; acres of shade scattered underneath, a refuge from the hot African sun. Christian could have eaten his hamburger sandwich at the hotel, but the hotel’s luxury and its magnificent swimming pool were so strangely at odds with the poverty around him; eating there would have seemed somewhat surreal. Sitting in the shade under a huge tree did not produce, he had found, the same discordant feeling. As he sat in the shade he could see groups of three or four people around him, some sleeping, others with children playing happily in the water, a reminder that poverty did not always preclude happiness.

As he ate his sandwich, one of three children playing in the water smiled and waved at him. Christian waved back, touching the cold primus beer bottle, enjoying the condensation on the glass and how refreshing it would be to drink. He took his first drink and closed his eyes to enhance the enjoyment of the scene, and temporarily close out the world. He then slowly opened his eyes to take in the vista that was the lake when he saw standing in front of him one of the young children who had been playing in the lake. Five or six years of age, the young boy was looking intently at Christian. Large eyes were framed by angelic face, curious perhaps to see someone so white in an area, which was normally African.

“Bonjour,” said Christian.

There was no response other than a huge smile. It was then that Christian noted the red tinge to the boy’s hair and his potbelly, all signs of malnutrition. The boy’s gaze quickly shifted to Christian’s hamburger. In the distance, he could sense the boy’s parents watching. He wondered briefly whether they too had not eaten and for how long. He motioned to the boy to sit down next to him. Then he waved his arms at the other two children at the water’s edge, indicating they should come and join their brother. When they were all sitting next to him, he divided the hamburger in three parts, giving one to each. They ate slowly, never taking their eyes off Christian, as if uncertain as to whether this was really happening to them. When they finished, they turned and looked at their parents, who smiled at Christian and waved their thank you. Then the three children got up and stood looking at Christian, hunger temporarily satiated, a gratitude lingered briefly in their eyes before they gave loud squeals and raced back to their parents. For several minutes, they all sat looking at each other smiling.

The beer tasted even better, as he watched the children splash about at the water’s edge. He had not thought about the dramas at the hospital for at least twenty minutes, a small act of kindness reminding him of one of the reasons that he was in Africa. That contrasted with much of what he had learnt in the last few weeks. The Congo was one of the most beautiful and populous regions of the world, exploited mercilessly, by those interested only in power and money. The richness of resources, buried amongst poverty, with a great potential to alleviate, was obstructed by some strange Faustian agreement, by those whose souls’ satanically worshiped money. Foreign governments, driven by a desire to drive their economies irrespective of the human cost, ignored the abuses of women and children, abuses which should have demanded their intervention not exploitation. The local militias were viciously protecting their interests while arguing flagitiously that without them, many would die of starvation. It was a devil’s cauldron continuously fed by greed and the need for power, uncontrolled, unsanctioned, viewed by a world apathetic to its barbarism. He looked at his watch and saw that it was 3:30 PM, time to head back up to the town and the mosque. He stood up waved at the family who smiled and then headed back up the hill.

To get to the mosque he had to walk past the hospital. Despite it being his afternoon off, he needed to know about Matthew. Walking into the ward again, he knew that he should not have called in. Matthew had a large oxygen cylinder next to the head of his bed. He clearly was struggling to breathe, eyes wide open with anxiety that oxygen deprivation brings. His mother was sat holding his hand, dabbing repeatedly at his increasing perspiration. Matthew and, therefore, Isabella were going to need a miracle. Leaving the ward, he realised that he had hardly had a chance to think about Michelangelo. He walked out through the front gate and headed up the dirt road to the town. Despite the stream of people in both directions, making it difficult to isolate one person, he had the feeling he was being watched. He glanced around as casually as he could, but could see no one that he recognised. As he reached the main street, the wind blew and the curtains drifted back on the upstairs balcony of the shop selling spices. A small flash of yellow was momentarily exposed. He recognised it as the distinctive bright yellow jacket that Kim Yao had worn. From where she was watching, she would be able to see him enter the mosque. He stopped, uncertain as to whether to continue or to turn back. As he stood trying to make up his mind, he saw the young boy who had passed him the note approaching. As he passed Christian, he stumbled, bumping into him, grasping Christian’s arm to rebalance. As he helped the young boy up, he pressed another sheet of paper into his hand. Not looking down at what he had been given, Christian searched for small side street that would be away from the prying eyes of those who watched him. Ten metres ahead he found a small alleyway, and without looking around, he casually turned into it and quickly looked at the piece of paper.
Go to the market, not the mosque.

The market was at the far end of town. It took him ten minutes further walking to get there. The entrance was protected by two large oval gates. Walking through, he stopped and looked around. Dozens of stalls with clothing and handbags were intermingled with those selling live chickens, fruit, and vegetables. It was the fourth stall down on the right that caught his eye. The little boy who had passed the note to him in the street stood half hidden behind the handbags, beckoning him with his hand. By the time he got to the stall, the boy had gone but he could see at the far end sackcloth through which he must have disappeared. Christian parted the sackcloth and on the other side he could see the boy with two other men, dressed in Muslim robes. They both motioned to Christian to keep quiet. One of the men then walked back past him, opened the sackcloth, and peered out into the market. Satisfied that Christian had not been followed, he then handed him a flowing Black Muslim burqa to put on with full-face covering. Black gloves eliminated any trace of his white skin. The man who had handed him the clothes explained that Christian needed to follow them at a distance of several meters. He must not look at anyone just concentrate on the heels in front of him.

They left the market through the main gate. Christian concentrating on the heels in front of him, taking small steps so as his shoes did not show out under the front of the robe. They all reached the mosque as the call was going out on the loudspeakers summoning everyone to prayer. Inside the mosque, he removed his shoes as he saw everyone else doing. Then he noticed that the women were being directed to a separate room upstairs. Mohammed then appeared from a side door and stopped in front of him.

“Go into that small room over there,” he said and walked on.

The wooden door had ‘Praise Allah’ written across it in large gold letters. Underneath was a picture of the prophet Mohammed. Christian opened the door into the room, which had a single chair in one corner with white flowing robes folded neatly on top of the chair. A small white prayer cap and turban rested neatly on top of the robes. Christian quickly exchanged the black robes and the burqa. He put on the prayer cap and wrapped the turban around the cap and his face so that only his eyes were visible. The long flowing robes would cover his hands as long as he kept them clasped. The turban securely tucked in, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to see Mohammed again standing there. He looked Christian up and down, then smiled approvingly before saying,

“Go back into the mosque. There is a prayer mat in the fifth row from the front. Michelangelo will be next to you.”

Christian walked back through the main entrance into the mosque. Walking up the side of the mosque, he could see there were at least 200 men, bent low, praying on mats that faced obliquely across the large hall. In the right hand corner was a small pulpit. As he slowly walked up the hall, he saw the vacant mat the fifth row from the front. Christian knelt on the vacant mat, before bending forward in the motion of prayer in the way that he saw the other men doing. Then he glanced under his right arm and saw Michelangelo’s wide eyes looking back at him. There was uncertainty and a little fear until Christian winked. Then he heard Mohammed say,

“Glory be to my Lord, the most high.”

That verse he had remembered hearing in a Christian church. As they stood up to pray, he could feel Michelangelo looking at him. As they finished the standing prayer and began the second prostration, he squeezed Michelangelo’s hand. He could see that had caused a large smile. With the finish of prayer time, one of the men who had brought them to the mosque directed him to the front and took them behind the pulpit. A door led through to a small prayer room where Mohammed was now sitting on a chair.

“Please feel free to take off your turban and cap,” he said as Christian walked in.

Unravelling the turban, Christian folded it and placed it neatly on the desk as he heard Michelangelo sit down and ask for a glass of water. Christian sat on one of the spare chairs next to Mohammed and held out his arms to Michelangelo. He rushed into Christian’s arms grasping his flowing robes as though he intended never to let go.

“I promised you we wouldn’t let you go back,” Christian said holding him at arm’s-length before taking his turban to wipe the tears from Michelangelo’s eyes. Mohammed gave them a few minutes before saying:

“Kim Yao has been staying in that boarding house down the street since yesterday. She has five men with her. One of the brothers told us that she’s been making inquiries about any boys fitting Michelangelo’s description and the five men are checking on any families around town.”

“A mosque seems to be a very safe place to be then.”

“It usually is one of the safest places to be,” Mohammed said smiling. “Michelangelo has joined our family and none of the brothers will say anything to anyone so he is quite safe. He has also started talking to us. It appears one of the boys at the orphanage who was trusted to serve at the meetings they held stole an iPad and showed it to Michelangelo. Then they beat the boy until he confessed. And to ensure that no details of that meeting should emerge all the boys, including Michelangelo, were delivered to Brutal Bosco, trusting they would be killed in the fighting with Kariba.”

“Does he remember what was on the iPad?”

“Yes, there were details of the meeting. Those details were apparently transferred by an application that went to an iPhone, belonging to a friend of yours called Cindy. Michelangelo just wanted to clear diagrams so they could play minesweeper and pushed an application called Bump to clear the screen. Kim Yao would have only found out much later that that information had been transferred. She knows, therefore, that Michelangelo has seen that information and that it has been transferred to Cindy’s phone.”

“Do you remember anything that was on the iPad?” Christian said, looking at Michelangelo.

“Yes, the diagrams,” Michelangelo quietly whispered.

“Keep him safe. I have two friends arriving tonight from the National Government Intelligence Agency in South Africa, and they might have suggestions on what we can do. I will call Cindy tonight. She may not realise that information is on her phone and the danger that she is in.”

“Okay, we going to take you back to the market. We will dress you in the black robes and then take you back to our stall. You have my number; we will take good care of Michelangelo. Text me when you have met with your friends and have developed a plan.”

Walking back through the town, Christian knew he was being observed. Now at least he knew how desperate Kim Yao was to get at Michelangelo. Hopefully Mike and Galela would have a plan to deal with her. He walked past the hospital but did not go and check on Matthew. He had enough to deal with, and he knew that Doctor Rashid would be doing his utmost with what they had, to ensure that Matthew survived. He turned left into Sudani’s driveway, hoping the day had no more challenges left. Then remembering he had to contact Cindy, he hurriedly sent her a text message and waited a few minutes, but there was no response. He put the key in the lock to the back door and as it opened, he could smell the fresh coffee. Looking through into the kitchen, he was surprised to see Cindy sitting on one of the chairs. He locked the back door, by which time Cindy was in front of him hugging him as though he was a long lost friend.

“What a wonderful surprise!” he said as she extricated herself from his hug and let him by the hand into the kitchen.

“I just needed to see you and talk to you about what was going on. I have been so scared in the last few days after I found all the details of that meeting on my iPhone and of course I was worried about Michelangelo.”

“Did you bring the iPhone?”

“Oh my God, you know about that?”

“I saw and talked to Michelangelo this afternoon.”

“They demanded my phone but I refused. I realised after I read the information that was transferred, how important it was. I also knew that it was only a matter of time before they just came and took it with force so I caught the bus to you.”