On the riverside of promise (3 page)

“I know, war’s no place for idealists and
romantics. That’s probably why I’m still alive. That, and an awful
amount of luck, I’d wager. Maybe Andy’s doing a better job than I
ever could. I mean, in the grander scheme of things, him being a
doctor and all that. Can’t really tell why I didn’t stop him. I
just couldn’t, you know?”

James blinked languidly and sipped the last
bit of his wine. He set his glass down with a clang before
replying:

“Someone has to try and save the world.
People like your brother think they can. Like every hero
should.”

James grunted with a hint of disapproval and
Ethan grimaced with slight annoyance at that contemptive gesture.
He lit up one of the last cigarettes in his pack and inhaled
thoroughly:

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I’m not exactly in
the business of saving people, am I? You could say we’re sort of
antagonists, me and Andy. It kind of reminds me, we used to be in
opposite teams when we balled.”

“I didn’t know you play cricket.”

“Haven’t ever since I got a leg injury in
Kenya. Nasty business that was. Almost got myself killed. Young,
stupid and rash. Also, quite a lucky bastard.”

James expression seemed to change somewhat.
He removed his hands from the table and for a moment sat still,
looking at Ethan intensely. He then ordered another drink from
Louis, who seemed to keep a watchful eye at their table more so
than the others and nodded promptly, disappearing at the back for a
couple of minutes. When James spoke next, he was lighting up
Ethan’s last cigarette, Ethan affording nothing but a stunned
surprise and a deep furrow:

“Were you any good at it?”

“What, cricket? I thought you didn’t
smoke.”

“I’m a man of many talents. And some vices as
well.”

“Well, I hope you’re not a Rolling Stones fan
as well. It’d be a real crime to find out you’ve been hiding that
too.”

James drew on his cigarette and threw his
head back, letting off a small cloud of smoke. He was smiling when
he pointed to Ethan and said:

“Not much to hide, Ethan. Sometimes I smoke.
Usually alone.”

Ethan nodded with a sly grin on his face. He
sipped another mouthful from his glass of scotch which was
disappearing fast. James was toying with the ice in his glass when
a slight grin formed on his face, droplets of sweat running down
his forehead, glistening dimly in the hazy, poor lighting of the
Metropolitaine:

“A better chance than cricket, true enough. A
bad leg won’t leave you behind.”

“It isn’t just the bad leg. I’m not a cricket
fan really. Andy loves it though. At least as a kid he did. Used to
drag me along. The bad leg is just a reminder.”

James seemed to stiffen suddenly. He
straightened his back before reaching for his glass, his voice a
bit shallow and distant:

“Which is worse, Ethan? The memories, or the
leg?”

“It’s the memories alright. Hadn’t seen him
in four years. Rarely called. Never wrote. He must’ve thought I
couldn’t care less. But it’s the job, you know? The distance.”

James interjected mildly:

“The scotch too?”

Ethan drained his glass, as if a real thirst
was driving him and answered:

“That too.”

James was looking at him through bloodshot
eyes, his glass of wine empty once more. He sat upright in his
chair, drew audibly through his large nostrils on the thick air of
the Metropolitaine and made a hand signal for another round of
drinks, making sure that Louis brought two glasses of Littlemill.
Ethan’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling fan above them. He looked
distantly thoughtful, grim and withdrawn, far from his usual self.
He turned his eyes to his empty glass and spoke with a touch of
anger behind each sentence:

“I need to find my brother. I’ve never left a
man behind in my life. Brought everyone back. I can’t leave me own
brother behind. It’s Andy for God’s sake, hasn’t hurt a fly in his
life.”

James seemed at once somber and surprised,
his eyes narrowing dangerously:

“Ethan, there’s a war going on. What is on
your mind?”

Ethan picked up their drinks from Louis’
passing tray in mid-air, and replied:

“Go look after him. Find him. Bring him
back.”

James shook his head disapprovingly:

“A fool’s errand. Even if he’s alive, it
could get you killed. The both of you.”

“It’s not an errand and I’m no fool
either.”

James stare had begun to pierce through
Ethan’s eyes, casting a gaze hard as stone upon him: “You must be
out of your mind,” he said in a hushed voice.

Ethan shrugged indifferently and
retorted:

“I’ve done more than my fair share of
mistakes. I know this isn’t one.”

James voice was slow and determined:

“You’ll need all the help you can get then.
If it’s going to have any meaning or chance of success.”

Ethan cracked a smile and drank a tiny sip of
Littlemill, noticing he was almost out of scotch. Louis then
appeared out of nowhere with the grace of a dancer. He offered them
the bottle of Littlemill he had opened earlier. There was barely
enough scotch in it for just another drink.

“Gentlemen, compliments of the house. And you
can keep the bottle too, if you like.”

Ethan nodded his thanks and laughed despite
himself, while James still sat there looking at Ethan seemingly
unable to discern whether or not the man was simply drunk and
already grieving, making up ideas. He asked Ethan, the stress in
his voice showing he wanted to be convinced:

“Are you sure you are going to do this? I
want to help. But I want to know I’m not risking my neck for some
jungle antiques, Ethan Whittmore. And it could mean my neck,
literally. I need you to be deadly serious. All the way.”

Ethan’s reply was as sharp as his pervasive
eyes:

“I got nothing left apart from Andy. Nothing
that matters anyway. Job’s shit nowdays. No wife or kids. He’s all
I got, James.”

James shrugged, his large set of shoulders
tensing up his fatigues almost to the point of tearing. He then
told Ethan:

“He could be already dead, you know that. He
might be a white English doctor, but no matter how useful he may
prove to any captor, bullets are not very picky.”

Ethan went on, his fists clenching
instinctively, his eyes shining with a crystal clarity that he
rarely exhibited:

“Then I’ll bring back the body to Glasgow and
lay him down in the ground. I’ll do what I can, James. I’ll do
anything.”

James fixed his stare on Ethan, as if he was
measuring him up:

“What are you going to do? Quit first thing
tomorrow?”

Ethan smiled bitterly and said:

“Maybe I should. They wouldn’t let me though.
Operational needs, lack of personnel, that sort of thing. The
service wants to fuck you three ways to Australia if they can.
Can’t even put in for leave, not at such a short notice. Listen, do
you think you could arrange some sort of training exercise? Any
reason that will demand me being attached to somewhere outside
Lagos. Gone for a week or two. If all goes well, then I’ll see what
I’ll do. If not, it won’t really matter from then on.”

James took a mouthful of Littlemill without
preparing himself. Unaccustomed to strong liquor as he was, he
looked as if he was about to vomit on the spot but he managed to
contain himself. He shook his head in affirmation and said:

“I can do that. I can do more than that. I
can keep you informed; give you locations, rumors, troop movements,
any intelligence that passes through me. Anything that would help
you find your brother and keep you alive at the same time. I even
think I can cook up a `real’ operation. We can then use regular
radio traffic to keep in contact without arousing suspicion.”

“Can you do that? I’ll need to leave as soon
as possible. Tomorrow night, the day after tomorrow at the latest.
I have to pack my gear, and maybe borrow a couple of things as
well, with your help. Then I need to do some itinerary
checking.”

“Are you planning to follow the same path as
your brother’s caravan?”

“Yes, all the way. I’ll start from Lagos, to
Benin City, then Asaba, through Onitsha and into Biafran territory.
From then on, it’s Owerri.”

James nodded appreciatively. He asked with a
hint of worry in his voice:

“What happens when you’re in Biafra? What
happens if you find your brother?”

“You mean when I find my brother. Bring him
back, what else?”

“I mean, how do you plan to do that? What if
he’s injured? A prisoner, or a hostage? What if he’s weak, wounded
or sick? Don’t tell me you’ll hitch a ride back or carry him
yourself if you have to.”

“I will if I have to.”

“Are all Scots on their father’s side as
foolish as you? I’ll bring a helicopter. We can arrange a landing
zone through the radio. If we lose contact, we’ll have two
pre-determined landing zones, at two different times. I hope it
doesn’t get to that.”

“You’ll do that?”

“Helicopters fly without flight plans all the
time. I don’t have these pilot wings for show, Ethan.”

Ethan grinned at the hint of mischief. James
shot his hopes down abruptly once more though:

“What are you going to do when you’re inside
Biafra though? How are you going to run around, an Englishman like
you, with no papers whatsoever? Or are you just going to let
everyone know you’re a military advisor for the Nigerians, so they
can perhaps torture you before shooting you on the spot?”

Ethan seemed a little skeptical, but at
length he managed a reply:

“I have something in mind for that. I may
have a contact, through the embassy. An old friend. He might be
able to forge some papers, make me look legitimate. A photographer,
or a journalist. Someone who can get in and out with relative
impunity.”

“There’s no such thing as impunity. Tolerance
maybe. A journalist would be a good cover; they’re always looking
for sympathy from the press.”

Ethan nodded in agreement and paused
toughtfully for a few moments. He then looked at James as if he
knew he was already asking too much of his Nigerian friend, but
nevertheless went on and told him:

“James, you’ve been a good friend while I’m
here, helping me ease into the situation. We’re like-minded, you
are a damn good professional if I’ve ever seen one, your cooking’s
great but why are you doing this for me? It can’t be that you’re
risking so much at such a time just to help a white man. I consider
you a comrade-in-arms, a friend I wish I can drool with over a
bottle of scotch when I’m hopefully old enough to pee on my pants.
But tell me, why exactly are you risking your life and career? If
it’s about money, I assure you I…”

James slapped Ethan hard across the face, the
shock from the hit leaving him dazzled for a while. His voice was
like gravel on a tin, his face trembling with aggravation:

“You insult me. I come to you as a friend,
and you insult me thinking me a gold-digger. You have a knack, all
the Englishmen seem to. You’re so blind to what really is right in
front of you. I consider you a friend too, so I’ll consider this a
slip of the tongue. You’re under emotional pressure, you’ve had
some drinks. I’ll forget you ever said it.”

James exhaled deeply and seemed to calm down.
The timbre of his voice turned to something affable, a voice
unusually soft and mellow, full of memory and sentiment:

“You want to know why I want to help you with
whatever means at my disposal? Because I myself had a brother once.
A brother who bled his hands so I could grow into the man I am
today. A brother who buried our parents with his own hands. I lost
that brother. I lost him and while I could have done something
about it, I simply watched him go away, never to return. I’ve been
in your place Ethan. I know you’re doing what I should have done
years ago. And I want you to find your brother. That, I swear unto
God.”

Ethan looked sullen and embarrassed. He
cleared his throat before saying:

“I’m sorry James. I’m sorry I offended you.
You’ve never told me much about him.”

James laughed without joy before
replying:

“What is there to say, Ethan? Perhaps it was
his fate. Like we have ours.”

“You believe in fate, then? Think all this is
part of it?”

“It doesn’t matter if I believe. No-one can
escape the webs of fate, believer or not. We should do well to
remember that.”

Ethan emptied the rest of his glass in one go
and poured what little was left in the bottle of Littlemill to the
both of them. He then raised his glass in a toast:

“To Andy.”

And James replied:

“To Enkele.”

* * *

The British embassy in Lagos stood out as the
typical colonial building of the Africas, resplendent and austere,
an indubitable legacy from the golden years of the Empire. Its
tall, thin windows shone with the brightness of the noon sun when
Ethan walked through the front gate saluting the guard on duty only
perfunctorily. He ran straight up the stairs to the second floor,
simply ignoring any and all who tried to be of assistance. The door
of the Director of Cultural Affairs office lay ajar. Ethan knocked
briskly nevertheless and entered without waiting for an answer.