Snakepit (8 page)

At the entrance to the Mabira Forest, chills went down Bat's spine. The density of it, the height of the trees, the possibilities for robbery and carjacking. Rumours had it that soldiers dumped bodies somewhere in its depths. He put his foot on the gas, adrenaline pumping. Many kilometres later, the sky cleared and he gave a sigh of relief.

The deceased had been a builder, and his house was a stout red-roofed brick structure. The place was crawling with mourners dressed in every colour under the sun. Burials always put Bat on edge. Caught between the corpse and the raw grief of the bereaved, some of whom seemed out of their minds, he felt redundant, an intruder. Words of consolation felt so weightless, so hackneyed. Each time, one was confronted with the fact that people never got used to violent death: it still shocked, the lamentations pierced with genuine sorrow. His feelings were now complicated by the fact that he was expecting a child. It made the insinuation of death in his life more poignant. Before, it had been him against the world; death on the job had seemed heroic, even glorious. But now he felt responsible for the baby; he had to protect it, provide for it. It was the impossibility of protecting anybody with any degree of certainty these days that bothered him most.

Among the mourners were some saying that the killing had a business motive behind it. They claimed that a competitor had hired the killers to get rid of his rival and take over his business. There were cries of “eye for an eye.” The Professor wisely kept out of the commotion.

The deceased was lying in the sitting-room, his jaw tied with a white cloth, his nostrils plugged with cotton wool. The sight of his orphaned children made Bat wonder what words of wisdom a parent could offer a child nowadays. Turn the other cheek? Do good when evil men were having their way? Be sensible when sense was being rewarded with punishment? The legacy to be left for the next generation struck him as one of the hardest things his own generation had to drum up. He had the impression that everyone had been touched by an evil wind, whose chill would grind on into the next generation. Maybe even beyond. How would a generation of passive parents and confused children affect the future?

The burial ceremony ground along for an hour. Bat's attention was beginning to wander when he saw a young woman he had noticed earlier on. When he first saw her, she looked as if she was waiting for somebody. Maybe him. Why he thought that, he could not tell. She was wearing a skirt and a blouse and flat shoes. She had a good shape, soft features and an open face. She seemed the exact opposite of him, but he felt something when he looked at her. He called a boy who was passing by and told him to fetch her. Why did she look surprised? She looked stiffly in his direction as if peeking at something forbidden, but she finally came.

He was leaning against his car, arms on his chest. He liked the warmth of her voice, her rapt attention. She listened carefully, as if looking for faults, lies, inconsistencies in a sworn testimony. It soon started to rain. He took shelter in his car and watched as she got soaked, making up her mind whether to follow him in or seek shelter elsewhere. She sat in the back and he watched her in the driving mirror. Her name was Babit and she had two brothers and three sisters, she said, cracking her knuckles with nerves. As he listened to her voice, he dreamed of taking her with him. Did he want to listen to that same voice year in and year out? Probably. See the same face, lie next to that same body? Probably. How long would it last? Probably very long. Who would give in first? Probably him. Would the good memories outweigh the bad ones in the end? How would he remember her? As a shadow, a feeble sensory perception? A lovable entity? A voice? Or simply as Victoria's successor? How would she remember him?

VICTORIA HAD SEVERED her bonds with General Bazooka and no longer reported to him, partly because there was nothing to report, partly because she knew that if he was serious he had to have other spies shadowing Bat. She was too wrapped up in the world of pregnancy, motherhood, the future, to take much notice of what Bat or anybody else did officially. She loved the feeling of freedom she had. She woke up in the morning with the day to herself and engaged in fantasies. This was the best time of her life. By answering her prayers, God seemed to have forgiven her. By the time the baby arrived, she felt rejuvenated, purged, in sync with the living.

The birth of his daughter thrilled Bat in ways he had not expected. He had wanted a boy, but the sight of his daughter lying there, bunching her fat fingers, ignited something in him. A girl would definitely mean more work for Victoria, role-modeling and all. He was surprised to be confronted with this embodiment of innocence. She looked so helpless, so much at the mercy of forces around her. Here she was, an oasis of purity in a desert of madness, a demarcation of what had gone wrong and what could have been. He then felt sad. How was he going to protect her interests? He felt exposed: his character, his limitations. He felt inadequate in relation to the rampant gun-wielding madmen. He was now participant in the eternal rite of passing on the torch. But here he was, devoid of knowledge and wisdom to impart. He had fallen from his lofty sense of independence and superior aloofness. He was now like the very countrymen he had tried to flee, dependent on uncontrollable forces, making stupid mistakes, hurting others out of the weakness of failing to say no to superiors, to temptation, to the possibility of upward mobility, to the susurrations from deep inside the snakepit. Did I return partly to seek common ground, however indirect, with the people, the country? he asked himself. He felt the tender emotions most parents felt, but what would he do with them? He held the baby in his arms and smelled its scalp. It struggled against him, then gradually calmed down; his blessing, his curse. In its searching eyes was something calming, the ability to charm and soothe him. It was his antidepressant.

Whenever Victoria saw Bat holding the baby, her love for him multiplied, surged and kicked in her breast. He seemed so unaware of what he had done for her, the drought he had ended, the suffering he had eased. At such moments she wanted to put herself at his mercy, come clean, confess the sordid past, explain everything. But it was too great a risk to take. She might disgust him. He might never want to see her again. The weight of her secrets compromised her joy at such a time and injected doubt in the proceedings.

She felt blessed because Bat's parents rejoiced when they saw the baby. His father was especially supportive. His mother, however, wanted to meet somebody from her family. Bat's brother showed little enthusiasm. She did not know why she was afraid of him. Was he too silent? He looked like a man sitting on a barrel of secrets. In his silence, he seemed to know everything about everybody, including her, and in his superior knowledge everybody bored him. At the baby's baptismal ceremony he gave the baby a pair of white shoes and then handed Victoria a red Bible. She was shaken: What did he mean? Was it a warning? State Research Bureau identity cards were red; was he telling her that he knew her secret? She remarked to Bat that his brother was mysterious.

“He loves cars too much,” Bat replied.

“But you also do.”

“He is obsessed with them. I am not, but I can sympathize. Machines are docile as long as you treat them nicely.”

“Is that the reason why he is unreachable?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Bat said, turning to look at Victoria for a moment. “But then again, look at the state this country is in. What has a young person got to hold on to, to obsess about? Family? When people get killed and soldiers can force a father to fornicate with his daughter for all to watch? Religion? When God is passive and astrology is the only growing faith? Education? When educated people are the enemy? I can understand what he is going through.”

“Yes,” Victoria said noncommittally.

“Did you like his fireworks?”

“How did he get a licence?”

“Possibly through the good offices of a friendly general. Soldiers love spectacles and the boy is a genius.”

“He is good,” Victoria said worriedly. Her guess was that he was a member of the Public Safety Unit. She had looked for his file at Bureau headquarters, in vain. It could of course mean a few things: Maybe he was known by other names. Maybe his file had been misplaced in the sewers of the Bureau's inventory. She hoped that he wasn't with the Public Safety Unit, the arch-enemy of the Bureau, which would make killing him easier if he blew her cover. She hoped he wouldn't do anything foolish, as she had no wish to impede her rehabilitation.

In due course, Victoria got word that Bat was in love with another woman. She asked two colleagues in the Bureau to get her a picture of this person. A search of Babit's parents' house was made: sofas were cut open, carpets ripped from floors, bedding shredded, coffee sacks emptied. Babit's modest photo collection was found and taken. The damage would have been worse, but Victoria had instructed the men not to take anything else or to harm anyone. To make sure that they followed her orders, she had paid them up front. It had cost her, but she had felt that it was the right thing to do for someone seeking salvation, for someone pursuing a dream.

The pictures, when they arrived, disappointed. Babit did not measure up to her, looks-wise. She was younger but lacked the height, the poise. It was a mystery to her how a dynamic, rich man like Bat could feel attracted to that stolid person in the pictures. How can this person take my man away from me? she cried aloud. How can she dare to? A plethora of nasty ideas flooded her mind: she wanted to hurt Bat; she wanted to hurt the woman; she wanted to hurt herself. She became afraid that her recovery had not been all that thorough. The old ways beckoned, tempting her with their effectiveness.

She went to the nursery and picked up the child; it was sleeping, oblivious to the storm. She felt a maternal love wash over her. But the child's helplessness only made her fiercer. She had sworn never to fall back into the snakepit after the birth of her child, but now she was not so sure. She felt disappointed with herself, and with the world. She seemed to be pushed back into the same life she wanted to flee. Bat had said that he was not in love. Does that deny me the right to be deeply in love with him? Had I not loved the General despite his being married and continuing to pick up other girls? Maybe I had only been in love with the General's power of life and death. Bat does not have that power and so I am the one with the finger on the trigger. I can very easily destroy him, and this woman and both their families.

When Bat returned home at eleven o'clock that evening, her anger exploded. “Where have you been?” she asked even before greeting him. Her body was rigid, her hands bunched into fists held at her sides.

“Work,” he said looking at her, surprised that she had the nerve to shout like that.

“Where did you go after work?”

“None of your business. If I need somebody to track me, I will move in with the Bureau and the Public Safety Unit.” He wondered why he was bothering to explain himself. Was this not his house?

Maybe you did move in with those organizations, Victoria said under her breath before saying, “It is my business. I am your wife. I have your baby. I am in love with you.”

“I don't remember ever getting married. If I did, maybe I should seek a divorce. Anyway, in this country divorce is unnecessary. One can simply ask the wife to leave. I love my daughter, but I am not about to take orders from her mother.”

“You are not going to get away with this,” she said heatedly. It looked as if she was about to spring and choke him.

“With what?” he said disdainfully.

“Whoring.”

“I don't remember visiting a single whore in my whole life,” he said as if to himself.

It occurred to him to lead a trade delegation to Saudi Arabia and get away from the stress. General Bazooka was bogged down with suppressing a revolt in the army. The Lugbaras, Amin's former favourites, had rebelled since being dropped in favour of the Nubians and Kakwas. They had made a coup attempt, storming the presidential palace with guns and bombs. Now the Hammer, as they called the General, was taking them apart, with the help of the Eunuchs. Bat decided to go to Saudi Arabia.

“Answer me. I am talking to you,” Victoria said, rising from the sofa. In the blink of an eye, she was standing over him, her index finger aimed at his eyeball. It amused him and he almost laughed. The last woman to beat him was his biology teacher during his secondary-school days. He slapped the finger away and ordered her to sit down. She refused. He remembered that he knew nothing about her and had resisted the urge to run a check on her. He had assumed that his status as a high-ranking civil service official would protect him from government conspiracies. After all, was he not the saviour of the Ministry of Power and Communications? Where would General Bazooka be without him? he thought to himself, as if to vindicate his course of action, his complacency. He stood up, pushed her away, and ordered her never to raise her voice at him again.

Blind with rage, she slapped him on the temple. It did not hurt very much, his eyes did not water, and neither did his head rock or his knees buckle. But Bat saw it as a revelation of Victoria's true colours. A wave of fear coursed through his chest. What did I get myself into? he thought, remembering the toast he made to risk, to adventure, the evening they met. He pushed her away and ordered her to leave his house.

Victoria wondered if she had gone too far. But what was going too far when the General had put him at her disposal? Surely a slap was in order. It was better than a hammer, a panga slash, a gun blast. Why did he not make a fight of it and slap back? Maybe we would have rolled on the floor and finally ended up in each other's arms. What Victoria forgot was that Bat was not seeing her as a Bureau agent, bearer of life-and-death powers, but as a helpless woman living in his house, under his generosity.

“I am not going anywhere,” she said defiantly, fists balled, breathing hard from internal exertion.