The Seersucker Whipsaw (32 page)

“But different?”

“Every place is different, I reckon.”

The Ile nodded, apparently satisfied. The page came back with three bottles of beer. The Ile handed him a beer opener that was welded to a three-foot long steel rod. He gestured at the opener. “Strange, is it not? I serve much beer. For a while I tried to keep openers for the bottles, but the people took them away for keepsakes. It became too expensive, so one of my sons suggested the steel rod. We have lost only two in the past year.”

The beer was cold and we drank it from the bottles. The Ile watched us, apparently pleased that we were thirsty.

“Mr. Upshaw, I have been told that your home is in England. Is that not strange for an American?”

“One sometimes works where one is paid best,” I said.

“And the English pay better than the Americans? I did not know that was true.”

“I work for an American.”

“And whom does he work for?”

“He is in business for himself.”

“In England?”

“Yes.”

“He could not earn a livelihood in America?”

“He apparently can earn a better one using his American skills in England.”

The Ile nodded and sighed. “I find it all very strange. I have more than sixty-five years and the farthest I have been from this place where I was born is Barkandu. That was four years ago. The Queen was there.” He paused. We remained silent.

“Are these Americans doing a good job of work, Chief Jenaro?” He was direct enough.

“An outstanding job, Ile of Obahma.”

“I have heard the drums these past few nights. They keep repeating the phrase that is on the medallion. People are beginning to talk about it. Did the Americans suggest the drums?”

“They did.”

“One might weary of the same message.”

“It will be changed at frequent intervals.”

“And Akomolo, is he well?”

“Very well.”

“And Dekko, is he well?” The old man seemed to put a little more interest into his question.

“He, too, enjoys excellent health.”

“That is good.” He paused and seemed to be reflecting. “You are the cunning one, Jim-Jim. In this election, who will win?”

“Our chances are improving daily, Ile of Obahma.” “There is a chance?”

“There is.”

“A good chance—or a fair chance?”

“A good chance.”

“Would you agree, Mr. Shartelle?”

“I would indeed, sir.”

The round face of the Ile went into repose. His lids almost closed over his eyes. His voice seemed low and distant. “You have heard of no trouble, Jim-Jim?”

“None.”

“No potential danger?”

“None that I can name.”

“No threat?”

“I have heard of none, Ile of Obahma. News reaches your ears more quickly than it reaches the wisest of us. Have you heard anything that we should know?”

The Ile's eyes were closed now. He leaned back in his chair. “The policeman's death was unfortunate. I do not know that it was connected with the election. Yet, it is not what I have heard, Chief Jenaro.” The diminutive was gone. “It is what I sense. There is bound to be violence between now and the day of the election. There has always been some. I say that as long as the people are allowed to vote, there always will be. But this which I sense is something else. I have not been able to determine what. But it is similar to the quietness of the air before a storm.” He opened his eyes and looked at each of us, one by one. “Should there be danger, come here. None dare violate this Palace. I will make you welcome.”

He stood up. The interview was over. We rose hastily. “In your car, gentlemen, you will find a small token. But it does not equal your gift. Mr. Shartelle, I have heard that you admired my automobile when I arrived at Chief Akomolo's last week. It is yours. It will be delivered to your house this evening.”

I had seen Shartelle weather some onslaughts, but he reeled before the Ile's. “I couldn't possibly—”

“Ixnay,” Jenaro said.

“It is too great a gift, Ile. I'm not worthy.” He had recovered.

“It is old. I have several others. Yet I like it. Tell me, could I purchase another LaSalle from the United States?”

“I don't think they are manufactured any more.”

“What a pity.” He nodded briefly, turned, and left the room.

Shartelle clapped his black slouch hat on his head, stuck a twisty cigar in his mouth, and shook his head in wonderment. We left, saying goodbye to the Prince who still guarded the door, and made our way to the cars. Jenaro paused. “Well, good buddies, I go for bush one time.”

“Jimmy, is that nice old man really going to give me that fine car?”

“It's yours. I think it's got about nine thousand miles on it.”

“He'd been insulted if I'd refused?”

“Deeply.”

Shartelle nodded. “Look, you got a minute? Pete had an idea while we were driving up.” He quickly spelled out the evangelistic role that the two defectors would play once they recanted. Jenaro's eyes glittered. “A real come-toJesus traveling camp meeting, huh?”

“Exactly.”

“Tent and all?”

“Right.”

“Leave it to me. I'll fix it by phone this afternoon. Don't worry, I'll just lay on the tent, the sound trucks, the advance men, and so forth.”

“Ministry of Information?”

Jenaro shrugged. “Buddy, if we win it, we won't worry about it. If we don't, we'll be a long way off. I don't fancy our jails. I've inspected them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Here.” Jenaro handed Shartelle a piece of paper. “That's my phone number for the next few days. It's the government resthouse. They'll take messages and I'll check with them once or twice a day at least.”

We watched him give the car-watcher another shilling, check to see that his folding bicycle was still intact, and start off towards his district, a medium-sized brown man in Miami wraparound shades, driving an XK-E for bush.

“Tarzan and Timbuktu,” Shartelle murmured. We walked over to our car. Two cases of Gordon's gin were in the back seat. William cheerfully put them in the trunk of the Humber. We climbed in and started off.

“Well, there's one thing, Clint.”

“What's that?”

“You don't have to worry about a freeze busting the block on your new LaSalle.”

Chapter

22

William drove the Humber slowly down the high-crowned asphalt highway that wound through the town of Obahma that lay 70 miles from Ubondo, 169 miles north of Barkandu. Shartelle was slumped down into his familiar back-seat position. The rusty slouch hat sat low over his eyes, the twisty cigar gathered a nice ash.

“William, you keep poking along like this and we're never going to get anywhere.”

William turned his head around and gave us the big smile, but he seemed nervous.

“Madam ask me to ask you, Mastah.”

“Madam who?”

“Madam Anne, Sah.”

“What she ask you to ask us?”

“If we go now for my village. It is not far.”

“How far is not far?” I asked.

“Forty, maybe fifty miles.”

“When's the last time you were home, William?”

“Two years ago, Sah. I have letter from uncle. He say my brother is now ready for school. For good school, Sah. Madam say to me that she will see that he go to school where she is teacher.”

I looked at Shartelle and said: “As far as I'm concerned, Madam has spoken.”

“You're right. William, we go for village.”

“Thank you, Sah!” He spun the wheel of the Humber, made a U-turn, barely missing a mammy wagon that went by the name of “Poverty Is No Crime,” and sped down the highway in the opposite direction.

“What's the name of your village?”

“It very small. It is called Koreedu. Very nice name.”

“Very nice,” I agreed.

The rain forest thinned out, the farther north we drove from Obahma. It gave way to fields of stunted trees and grass. Palm groves which looked cultivated cropped up occasionally. On a curve, a family of baboons suddenly loped across the road. The rearguard stopped and chattered at us in what looked to be real rage.

Shartelle gave me a poke. “Lookee there, Pete! Ain't that something? Look at him just standing there and giving us billy hell. Ain't he a pistol?”

“Baboons, Sah. They very good chop.”

Shartelle had his head craned around, staring at the baboons through the rear window. “You don't eat those things, do you, William?”

“Very good, Sah.”

“Goddamn it, Pete, that's the very first live animals I've seen in Africa. Baboons.”

“There're supposed to be some elephants left around here some place. And rhinos. At least that's what it says on the map.”

“I'd sure admire to see some.”

“Maybe we'll be lucky.”

We weren't, though. All we saw the rest of the trip were some goats and chickens. That far north, traffic grew scarce, and the Albertian or two we passed gave us a cheery wave and a shout of greeting. We waved back.

William turned left onto a laterite road after we had gone what I estimated to be fifty miles. The washboard ridges in the laterite grew deeper and rougher. The car jounced along, spewing up a cloud of thick red dust behind. Finally, the laterite gave out to a one-car trail with grass growing between the two tracks. William kept on driving, a little faster now, eager to get to his village.

“You sure you know where you're going?” Shartelle asked.

“Very sure, Sah. Not far now.”

“It wasn't far sixty miles back,” I said.

A few people began to appear. I don't know where they came from. There were no houses or huts around. They waved at us and William honked the horn and waved back. In a small clearing, just off the trail, there was a mudwalled building, open in the front, that displayed a faded red Coca- Cola cooler of an early 1939 vintage. William pulled up to the building and stopped. Inside, I could see shelves stocked with a few tins of sardines, soup, biscuits or cookies, canned meat, powdered soap, bar soap, matches, cigarettes and snuff. It was another general store.

“I buy gift for village,” William said.

“Is it the custom?”

“Yes, Sah.”

“We'll buy the gifts. You got any money, Pete?”

I gave William two pounds and told him to get what he thought proper. He came back with boxes of cookies, some cigarettes, some snuff, some tinned jawbreakers, and a half pint of whisky.

“What's the whisky for?” Shartelle asked.

“For village head man, Sah.”

“He likes gin?”

“Very much.”

“Take the whisky back and trade it for some more cookies. We'll donate a couple of bottles of the Ile's gin.”

From the general store it wasn't far to the village of Koreedu. The word had been passed that William was returning, driving a fine car for the two white men. They all turned out to meet us—all seventy of them, including children and dogs. There were some square houses built of mud with round, thatched roofs. There were some shed-like buildings that looked as if they were used to dry crops, if ever a crop were harvested. The street was pale dust. William parked the car and got out. He was embraced by an old man, then by a series of younger men. He answered questions; asked questions, smiled, laughed and talked. His relatives and friends did the same. Shartelle and I stood by the car and watched. It grew too hot for that so we walked over and stood in the meager shade of some palm trees. William ran over to us and asked us to follow him. He led us into the village's largest building. It was cooler inside, but that ended when the village population decided to come in, too.

There were three chairs on a raised platform and the old man whom William had first embraced directed Shartelle and me to sit on two of them. William ran out to the car and brought back the boxes of gifts and goodies. He didn't forget to bring the two bottles of Gordon's gin. Shartelle and I sat on either side of the old man. Speaking in the dialect, William made a small oration and presented the two bottles of gin to the old man with a flourish. That called for a response which took up another quarter of an hour or so. The old man then produced two unlabeled pint bottles of clear liquid and handed them to us. Shartelle rose to the occasion and made a fine five-minute speech on behalf of the United States, Lyndon Johnson, Chief Akomolo, the party, Padraic Duffy, Anne Kidd, the Widow Claude, himself and me. He also threw in a few words about the grave responsibilities and duties which William shouldered in Ubondo. He sat down to thunderous applause.

The old man insisted that we have a drink of the unlabeled liquid. I asked William what it was.

“Gin, Sah. Native gin.”

“Sweet Christ.”

“Very good, Sah.”

Shartelle uncapped a bottle and took a swallow. I watched to see whether he keeled over. He didn't, so I uncapped my bottle and swallowed some. It wasn't bad. I've drunk worse. But rarely. William then passed out cigarettes to the younger villagers, snuff to the older ones, and candy and cookies to the pickins, as the children were so quaintly called. A woman came forward and began to talk to William earnestly. He shoved her away with a sharp retort. She insisted. He relented. Shartelle and I decided to give the native gin another go.