Kitabı oku: «Blood is Dirt», sayfa 3

4
Cotonou. Saturday 17th February.

There’d been no harmattan this year. That cooling, drying wind, which made all the Africans miserable and me feel human for once in the year, never arrived. It stopped about 100 kilometres north of Cotonou and wouldn’t come any further. Some said it was the pollution, others that it was just a weak harmattan this year but most put it down to the devaluation – anything out of the ordinary just had to be.

Now it should have settled down into the dry season before the April rains, but the weather, like the currency markets, the world economy and my left foot was a mess this year. Cotonou, and other cities along this stretch of coast, had been thumped about by short, savage night-time storms which had left it flat on its back, with no power and secreting fluids from orifices which should have been free and dry. The town got up groggy in the mornings, the people pasty-mouthed and irritable. The buildings shed their conference paint jobs and looked bruised and broken, with mud spattered up the sides from the rain’s kickback. The mud roads were steaming lakes and the first post-conference potholes opened up in the new tarmac like a teenager’s nightmare acne.

There was nothing refreshing about these storms. The sun eased itself into position in no time at all and hammered down so that at eight in the morning, out on the railway tracks, it was already close to eighty degrees, and a thin mist like kettle steam hung in the air. The place stank of putrid salami. My head was coming apart like a coconut after the first machete blow and there was the same flesh-tearing, sucking noise in my ears.

Bagado was walking ahead of me, pacing the sleepers between the tracks, towards a group of people who were standing around Napier’s body. Bagado was looking over the toes of his shoes for clues, small change, anything that might get him through his current lean patch. I limped behind. Yes, it was back.

I wasn’t really thinking about the harmattan. I wasn’t that upset by the night-time storms, which I slept through anyway. The heat and the humidity were hell but you either got used to that or you got out. I wasn’t even torturing myself over Napier Briggs. Bagado had talked me out of that kind of thinking some time ago. Not even the gout was penetrating. It was rolling over a short few minutes with Heike that had left me feeling uneasy.

After Bagado’s news about Napier the flag was well down by the time I’d come back to the bedroom. Heike was lying there with her arms folded across her bosom with no expression in her face.

‘I suppose you don’t like me now that I’m not the birthday boy?’ I’d said. It was a joke but I could see from her look that there was some truth in it.

‘Bagado with some bad news?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘I won’t.’

I’d pulled on my clothes with her not saying anything and the room full of it. How had it happened? How had the dynamics changed? It hadn’t been Bagado’s call. She was resigned to that kind of intrusion once in a while.

‘Don’t be late for the meeting this afternoon,’ she’d said.

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

I’d pulled her to me and kissed her goodbye. She was stiff, wooden, unyielding as if a stagehand was standing in for the leading lady.

The policemen standing around the body parted as we arrived. Some of them knew Bagado and there was an exchange of pleasantries, the asking after immediate relatives which can take some time in Africa. Then Bagado tried to get down to business with them and they froze. He was speaking to them in their own language, Fon, and they were looking sheepish in more ways than one.

‘They’ve been told not to talk to me,’ said Bagado. ‘They won’t touch the body until the senior officer on duty comes. Commandant Bondougou.’

‘Your favourite. Is he out of bed yet?’ I asked, and he shrugged.

‘Let us, you and I, Bruce, go and sit for a while and … mull.’

‘Mull? You’ve got some vocabulary on you, Bagado.’

‘Education-the only thing they can’t take away from me.’

We crouched down and sat on another rail in the siding. Some crows had collected on the corrugated-iron roof of a warehouse opposite. Their toenails clinked on the hot roof, their wings clasped behind them, polite, waiting for the police to have their fill before they moved in. Bagado and I mulled.

‘I made some expensive calls after you left for lunch yesterday,’ he said.

‘What’d you want to do a thing like that for? He wasn’t even a client.’

‘Professional reaction.’

‘Who’d you call?’

‘Dupont in France.’

‘I hope it didn’t take too long to find out they’d never heard of Napier Briggs?’

‘It did and they hadn’t and they said they certainly wouldn’t use a shipbroker to sell their product for them.’

‘He might have used another company name.’

‘And an alias to buy the product? I don’t think so.’

‘OK, I’ll buy it. Anything else?’

‘Napier Briggs was a very nervous man. He didn’t want to tell us anything about what he’d been doing and he didn’t want the Nigerian authorities involved. He only wanted a private investigation from here, so we can assume his business wasn’t legal. I mean the original business, supplying what he said were sewage treatment chemicals to Chemiclean …’

‘Who he told us didn’t exist.’

‘But who paid him for supplying the chemicals, so they did exist. They just weren’t legal, they weren’t registered as a company.’

‘Was that another one of your calls?’

‘Yes.’

How does an unregistered company import goods from overseas?’

‘We’re talking about Nigeria, my friend, not Benin. You couldn’t do it here, but over there …’

‘You pay your money,’ I said.

‘So your next expensive call was to …?’

‘Colonel Adjeokuta, the head of the four-one-nine squad, the man I offered to put Mr Briggs in touch with. He hadn’t heard of Chemiclean, but he was going to make it his business to find out if there was anybody in his department who had. He wasn’t surprised about the Benin connection on the second scam. There’s been a number of those recently.’

‘They never stop, these guys.’

‘It costs a stamp and an envelope and there’s a sucker born every day,’ said Bagado. ‘So what happened to you last night?’

‘Do I look that bad?’

‘No worse than usual, but you said you were going to see Napier at the Hotel du Lac. Did you?’

‘I did. He got a call from the boys while I was there saying they wanted to give him his money back.’

Bagado chuckled to himself.

‘So we went and had a look.’

‘You did what?’ he said, setting solid on the rail as if he’d seen a train coming. ‘What did you want to go and do a thing like that for, he wasn’t even a …’

‘Yeah, yeah, Bagado. I know. He offered me ten grand to hold his hand. Dollars. He said there was a big man who’d guaranteed his personal safety. I went because if I hadn’t he’d have gone by himself and …’

‘Got himself killed.’

‘Point taken.’

I told him how it had happened.

‘Now that’s a problem,’ he said, and we did a quick stick-and-paste job on what were going to tell Bondougou if he was predictable enough to ask what the hell we were doing out on the railway tracks at that hour of the morning.

Commandant Bondougou arrived a little after 8.30 a.m. and stood over the dead body with his hat in his armpit. His head was fat and broad with the eyes widely spaced, as sinister as a halloween pumpkin. He passed a hand over his shaved head and plugged a finger and thumb in each of his nostrils to keep his brain in neutral. A junior policeman muttered something. He glanced Bagado’s way and looked as if he’d spit if he could be bothered to drag up the phlegm. I wouldn’t have liked to rely on him for an introduction to Cotonou society, we were lower than bilharzia on his dance card. We kept our distance.

An ambulance arrived. The policemen rolled the body over and stepped back in formation horror. All we could see between their legs was the mass of blood which had poured down Napier’s chest and was now clogged with dust and insects. Bondougou checked Napier’s wrists for a watch and his pockets for money. Nothing. He found a passport in the jacket and opened it. A card fluttered out which a junior pounced on. Bondougou beckoned us over. It was one of our cards. We looked down at Napier. It was a shock.

Around his neck was a length of rope and two knots evenly spaced along it. It must have been used to squeeze the eyeballs out of their sockets because two black holes stared out of Napier’s face. From his ears, protruding about two inches, were the ends of what must have been two six-inch nails. Most horrific of all was his mouth. It gave him the appearance of an African mask because it was set in a terrible grimace-all teeth and gums. Too many teeth, too much gum and too black inside. Whoever had picked him up in the cocotiers last night had hacked out his tongue and then used the knife to cut off Napier Briggs’s mouth.

Commandant Bondougou released us at lunchtime. I’d been lucky not to get too much of his ugly attention. Bagado had caught most of that. I’d been lying on a bench outside his office and the few occasions the door had opened I’d seen a surprisingly tranquil scene. Bondougou slouched with his tunic open, his gut humped up under a string vest, a toothpick jammed between his teeth which he was sucking on when he wasn’t talking. Bagado upright in a chair, his mac rucked up on his shoulders, his head still, listening.

We’d both written up short and inconclusive statements about our meeting with Napier Briggs which, after our mulling, fortunately matched. We left the station and picked up some sandwiches at La Gerbe d’Or patisserie and drove thirty kilometres east, nose to tail with a thirty-five-ton Titan, to the Benin capital Porto Novo, for our meeting with Heike’s boss.

We parked in the agency’s compound, empty except for Heike’s Pathfinder and a Land Cruiser, just before 2 p.m. I broke the silence by asking Bagado if he’d mind me doing the talking during the meeting.

‘White man to white man, you mean?’

‘No, it’s just that we have a habit of shouting each other down. I think it’d look better if one of us took control to start with until the meeting turns into a free-for-all. I’m volunteering.’

‘Or insisting?’

‘No. I like to talk. You’re a good listener.’

‘This isn’t what you British would call excluding me in? I’ve been in those meetings before. Token nigger in the corner whose word and opinion doesn’t count.’

We stopped in the car park and faced off.

‘What’s brought this on?’ I asked.

‘Since when have you been or felt excluded?’

‘I didn’t like the way you assumed to be boss.’

‘I have not assumed that. You want to control the meeting, that’s fine.’

Bagado shook his head. He put his hands in his mac pockets and slumped. He didn’t like himself for some reason.

‘What’s going on, Bagado?’ I asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

‘Bondougou said something to you?’

‘Let’s do this meeting,’ he said, morose, looking at the dust on his shoes. ‘You do the talking. You’re right. I’m a listener. I listen too much.’

Gerhard’s office was as large and cool as Gerhard Lehrner himself. The man had all his blond hair on his head and all of his stomach behind his belt, even though Heike had told me he was on the nearside of fifty and had lost one wife to Africa – not killed, just couldn’t take it. He disposed of most preconceptions Englishmen drag up when they hear they’re about to meet a German. He had blue eyes in an uncreased face and a soft, full-lipped mouth which made him look kind to strangers, especially if they were women. He was courteous. He called me by my Christian name. He sat on the front edge of his desk so there were no barriers between us and revealed that he wasn’t wearing any socks under his brown loafers. He spoke perfect English and didn’t sound as if he was keen on extracting something without anaesthetic.

Heike wasn’t in on the meeting, otherwise I might have had to disguise the fact that Gerhard didn’t strike me as a bad guy at all. This, despite the fact that his first question was not one you’d come across in Trivial Pursuit.

‘What can you tell me about the Yoruba god, Orishala?’

Bagado smiled benignly and looked at me as if I’d recently vacated the Yoruba mythology chair at Lagos University. I waved him through.

‘Orishala,’ said Bagado, slitting his eyes, looking through the thin Venetian blinds of the window for inspiration and starting to sound like a lecturer with a roomful of captured arseholes to talk to, ‘is the creator god of the Yoruba. He’s not the supreme god. That is Olorun, “owner of the sky” and creator and judge of man. But the two are connected. In the beginning Olorun gave Orishala the task of creating firm ground out of the water and marsh that existed all around. To do this Orishala was given a pigeon, a hen and a snail shell full of earth. Orishala emptied the snail shell and the two birds scratched around and spread the earth over the marsh so that it became dry land.

‘Later on, Orishala made plants and people but, this is the important bit, he could only shape people. Olorun being the supreme god was the only one who could invest them with life. Orishala wanted to know how Olorun did this, but whenever he spied on him, Olorun would make him fall asleep. This made Orishala unpredictable so that when he saw human beings they would sometimes remind him of his frustration and the powerlessness he felt in his work. It could make him angry, incensed that he didn’t hold the ultimate power of life and because he could shape people he would take revenge by deforming them. This is the Yoruba people’s explanation for occasional aberrations.’

‘I’ve always liked that part about the pigeon, the hen and the snail shell,’ said Gerhard, letting us know he was on top of it all along and getting within a hair of thanking Bagado for handing in a good piece of prep. It was a line that wiped out previous goodwill and made me feel more expensive than I had done yesterday.

‘We have a small project in a town called Kétou just over a hundred kilometres north of Porto Novo. We’re very close to the Nigerian border. The project is agricultural but we have a medical service there too. Pregnant women have been coming from a small village called Akata across the border. They’re very frightened pregnant women. They’ve been talking about the anger of the god Orishala. Five women from the village have already given birth to deformed babies. They’ve been telling my staff about how their livestock are sick and their crops are dying.’

There was a knock on the door. Heike came in. Gerhard didn’t need to stand up, suck in his gut and swell his pecs but he did it anyway. His blue eyes flashed across the room like police lights at night. Now I knew at least one of the reasons why we’d got the job and that made me feel even less cheap. Bagado was leaning forward with his thumb on his chin and two fingers astride the ridge he had coming down his forehead to the bridge of his nose, squeezing.

Nobody misses love walking into a room.

Heike was self-conscious. She knew the attention she was getting and she knew I was there watching her get it. I now realized that she hadn’t let me into the sanctity of her workplace for the simple reason of a cheap job. There were messages. How to read them, that was the thing. There was no doubt that Gerhard had got himself all atremble with Heike in the room, but what was I there for? Was this Heike telling Gerhard, “This is my man, back off''? Was Heike telling me, “I’m still attractive, watch your step''? This could be Heike giving Bagado and I a break, knowing we needed the money, or it could be a little punishment, a helping of self- knowledge.

I didn’t think Heike was going to try anything on with Gerhard. He seemed too reasonable and she’d already run that one past me with another guy she’d worked with – Wolfgang. They’d gone back to Berlin together after some ugly business of mine had spilled over into our private life. Wolfgang had been no match for her. When she’d disappointed him he’d cried in the street, sat on the edge of the pavement with his elbows on his knees and his fists banged into the side of his head and added to the rains in the gutter – inconsolable.

I’d spent some time thinking about Wolfgang’s scene while Heike slept beside me with the sweat of sex still on us. She’d always accused me of holding things back from her, not letting her in, building up walls around myself. Maybe she was right and I was just doing some self-protection, making sure I didn’t end up crouched in a street somewhere making mud out of dust.

‘Bruce?’

I looked up to find three pairs of eyes on me. Bagado’s were the friendliest.

‘What was the question?’ I asked. ‘I was thinking of the good god Orishala.’

‘There was no question,’ said Gerhard, sounding German for the first time, and looking more triumphant than he should have been.

‘You were looking strange,’ said Heike.

‘You’re sending me up country to find out why Orishala is angry and you think I look strange?’

‘Yes,’ said Gerhard, smiling and walking behind his desk to sit in his leather swivel chair, I see your point.’

Heike’s eyes remained wide open, two divots of concern on her forehead, looking good with no make-up, no perfume, just with an African pin I’d bought for her up in Abomey in her hair and a light tan. She softened her mouth into a smile and her teeth showed white against her dark lips with the defined cupid’s bow. Heike wasn’t a model beauty. She had too much intelligence and resilience in her features for that-you’d take your eye off the clothes-but I hadn’t met the guy who wouldn’t sit up straight for her.

Bagado had released his face from his grasp now that the sex had subsided in the room and was staring at a wooden African head on Gerhard’s desk, being patient, which was one of his great strengths. Bagado and Heike had become good friends over the last few years. She’d conveniently forgotten how he’d led me off the winding path of my bread- and-butter business work and into the jungle of more sinister crimes. He wasn’t just my partner. He had a much higher status than that. He was a husband, a father and a totally honourable man. I was the lover, the bastard and as dependable as an island of weed in a mangrove swamp.

Heike crossed her legs and cued Bagado.

‘What do you want us to do, M Gerhard?’

‘We respect Orishala,’ said Gerhard, ‘but we are not convinced. I want you to find out what is happening across the border. I can’t, and I don’t want to involve my own people. They have enough trouble in Benin. You will have to be discreet. You’ll have to come up with your own reasons for being over there. Anything that doesn’t bear the agency’s name. Talk to our people in Kétou if you like, they may have something to add. Sie haben den Akten, bitte, Heike.’

Heike gave him some files and he stood them on end and tapped the desk.

‘Perhaps, first, we should talk about money,’ he said.

‘Unless, of course, you don’t want the job.’

‘We’re interested,’ I said. ‘The money, well, the money’s got a little complicated since devaluation. We used to charge a hundred thousand CFA a day for the two of us.’ A wince shot across Gerhard’s brow like a snake across tarmac.’ We’ve been finding it difficult to double our rate since devaluation. But that’s what we’d like to do. Two hundred thousand a day plus expenses.’

‘Impossible,’ said Gerhard.’ I can’t justify that. I have no budget for private investigations, you understand.’

‘You have contingency, don’t you, Gerhard?’

‘Yes, but you are asking me to pay more than three hundred dollars a day which is my budget for the Kétou station, and this is not our business. Our mandate is for Benin.’

‘But it affects you.’

‘Yes, but when the accountants ask, “What is this thousand dollars?” I have to give an answer within the mandate or I have to ask my boss in Berlin to … to … pacify the money men. I can’t do that very often in a year. I need to keep favours in reserve.’

‘Don’t want to use them up early on?’

‘Precisely.’

‘What sort of money did you have in mind?’

‘That for the whole job … including expenses.’

‘Two hundred thousand? You’ve got to be kidding. Three hundred and seventy-five dollars for the lot? It’ll cost seventy-five dollars to get up there and back. Three-day job. A hundred dollars a day. Fifty dollars each if we don’t eat, sleep or bribe anyone. That’s very little, Gerhard. That’s so little …’

‘You might as well do it for free?’ he said, finding some cheek to slap me with.

‘Not that little.’

‘Two hundred and fifty thousand is my limit.’

I looked long and hard into his unflinching, blue, Aryan eyes. The sort that had spent their youth looking out over cornfields and thinking of Valhalla. There wasn’t even a hair line crack of pity in their blue glassiness. I felt Heike’s tension. She was sitting three feet from me and looked ready to snap up like a roller blind any second. She hated talking about money. I did it so rarely I loved it.

‘Gerhard, I don’t know what Heike’s told you about me. I can be difficult. Unconventional. In this case, I believe your intentions are good. I know Heike’s are. If it wasn’t for her we wouldn’t be here so, for that, and because of the charitable nature of the work, we’ll do it. But you mentioned favours earlier, favours from your boss. Favours are something I’m big on. Favours are my kind of barter system. I’ll do this job for two hundred and fifty thousand and one favour.’

‘What is this favour?’

I thought I might get it over with now and tell him to keep his Teuton muscle out of Heike’s fishing limits and go and be handsome, stable and bossy elsewhere. But that would not be cool.

‘I don’t know, Gerhard. It’ll come to me. It won’t be anything dangerous or unpleasant. It won’t involve money out of your precious budget. You might have to put yourself out a little, that’s all. Are we on?’

Gerhard liked it. He leaned across his desk like a winner and shook hands as if he was crushing beer tins. He handed me the file. We all stood and Heike shook herself out. Gerhard’s jaw muscles were as bunched as a chipmunk’s cheeks.