Harmattan (28 page)

We had just passed La Mission Catholique and were approaching a busy junction, when Abdelkrim leaned back and called out over the racket of the engine,

‘Hold on tight!’

I clutched at his tunic and suddenly the bike careered off to the left, dipping at a precarious angle and screeching alongside a blue pick-up truck which had been travelling directly in front of us.

As we nosed past the big vehicle, Abdelkrim looked over his right shoulder and put his arm out to indicate to the driver that he wanted him to stop. At first the driver, an
anasara
, appeared only to be irritated by my brother’s actions, his bloodless looking face a storm, but then Abdelkrim raised his sunglasses and a look of recognition came over the driver’s face. He waved and pulled on to the hard shoulder and Abdelkrim pulled up ahead of him.

By the time the motorcycle engine was dying, the
anasara
was standing beside us, a great toothy smile on his pale face. ‘Hey, Abdel, my friend!’ he said, in the most peculiar attempt at French that I had ever heard. ‘
Ça va
?’

My brother shook the
anasara’s
hand. ‘
Ça va, bien
.’

‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you, man. What’s happening? And who is this?’ he said, nodding towards me. ‘Bit young, even for you, Abdel!’

My brother could not disguise his displeasure. ‘That’s my sister,’ he said, coolly. I was not introduced.

The
anasara
grinned and slapped my brother on the arm as if to indicate that he had not meant to cause offence.

‘Look,’ Abdelkrim said, ‘I need to find Archie. It’s urgent.’

The
anasara
shrugged. ‘Don’t know, man. I haven’t seen him about much lately. Isn’t he at the college?’

‘We’ve tried there. The students have joined the civil servants in another demonstration at Pont Kennedy.’

‘Oh, yeah,
that
…’ He put his hand into a pocket, withdrew a pack of cigarettes and lit one, before offering them to Abdelkrim.

Abdelkrim took a cigarette and tucked it behind his ear. ‘
Merci
. You haven’t seen him then?’

‘Not for a while. What’s the problem, anyway?’

‘Do you have his cell number?’

‘Sorry. I suppose you could try the Rec. Center. If he’s got a day off he might be hanging around there. I think he sometimes goes there to swim and play tennis with a couple of those apes from the Marine House.’ He sucked on his cigarette and then exhaled a great cloud of smoke. ‘Are you in trouble, man?’ he said.

My brother hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. He thanked the
anasara
and kicked the engine into life again. We were back on the road.

I leaned forward and put my mouth close to Abdelkrim’s ear. ‘Who was that?’

‘His name’s Robert,’ Abdelkrim shouted. ‘He’s from Scotland. Owns a biscuit factory out at Gamkale, to the east of the city.’

I thought of Monsieur Boubacar’s beautiful book of maps. An
atlas
, he had called it. I knew where Scotland was because, like Ireland, it was a very small country. And close to Ireland too.

‘Why didn’t you just ask him to take us to Wadata, if he’s a friend of yours?

That is a very fine car.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly call him a
friend
. I’ve met him through Archie Cargo a few times – at nightclubs, parties, that sort of thing. Lots of money. Pompous. Let’s just say I don’t trust him much.’

‘Uhuh. And this Monsieur Archie… he is a true friend?’

‘I think he is.’

‘And he is from Scotland too?’ I yelled, as we flew past scores of cyclists on Avenue du Général de Gaulle.

Abdelkrim strained his head back again. ‘Actually, he’s from Ireland – like your friends!’

Now I was intrigued.

Mademoiselle Sushie had spoken of the American Recreation Center. I knew that it was a place where Americans and Europeans – aid workers, visiting engineers, Peace Corps and VCI volunteers – went to relax, eat and play, but I could not have imagined such a place.

We pulled up at the entrance and parked beside a dulled white Mercedes with rusty fenders. Mounted on a heavy wrought iron gate, a brightly painted metal shield, with the symbol of a beautiful white-headed eagle, indicated that we were about to set foot on American property. Great walls of heavily-scented red bissap towered above us, the roofs of other vehicles peppered with its discarded leaves and petals and a thin veil of dust.

I noticed that my brother was smiling as he dismounted. ‘He’s here!’ he said.

‘How do you know?’

He gave a little snort and kicked at one of the Mercedes’ worn tyres. ‘
That
is his car.’ Just inside the gates, by a little wooden hut with a sign, in both French and English, declaring that the centre was for the use of Americans and their guests only, an official looking man with shiny grey hair was frantically brandishing a broom, doing little other than shifting dust from one place to another, or so it seemed to me. He looked up and nodded as we entered, and for a moment I thought that he was not going to challenge us. But as we approached a tall, white pole from which an American flag hung listlessly, he called out and pointed to the sign.

‘It’s members only, Soldier.’

Abdelkrim stopped in his tracks and turned to face the older man. ‘I know that, Brother,’ he said, genially, ‘but you’ve seen me here before – with the marines and with Monsieur Archie Cargo, the Irishman.’

The older fellow shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Soldier.’

‘Look,’ Abdelkrim said, ‘we’re just here to speak to Monsieur Archie very briefly. About an urgent matter. Then we’ll leave.
Ça va
?’

The guard seemed uncertain. He looked all around and then took a few steps towards us. ‘Fifteen hundred CFA,’ he said, putting his hand out, his voice little more than a whisper.

My brother was in no mood for dealing with petty bureaucrats. ‘You’re a robber, old man,’ he said. ‘That would buy me membership!’ He took out a five hundred note and stuffed it into the open palm. ‘Take that and keep your mouth shut or I’ll have a word with your employers – and mine!’ He took my hand then and we marched on before the guard could protest further.‘How is it that your friend can come here unchallenged if he is not an American?’ I said, as we followed a neat, winding path towards a café and bar area.

Abdelkrim looked down at me and shrugged, as if to say that it was not he who decided such things.

‘I don’t understand.’

My brother sighed. ‘Haoua,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know that there is one set of rules for one kind of person and another for the likes of us?’

Across a canopy of flowering snake plant, I could just make out a throng of children, playing happily behind a tall, wire grid fence. They were taking turns at throwing an orange ball at a hoop. Black faces. Pink faces. The sound of their laughter like a song in the perfumed air.

Further along the path, an elderly
Wodaabe –
forty, at least – was watering shrubs and trees with a yellow hose. He nodded towards us and continued with his work. I looked back over my shoulder to see if I could follow the winding yellow hose to the water supply – the marvel of the faucet – but the overhanging flowers and fronds obscured my view.

Abdelkrim tugged me along as we approached the eating area. Here too everything was in order: the tiles were swept clean and the white plastic tables and chairs were stacked in neat towers. The smell of cooking meat wafted around us and wrenched at my stomach. I had not partaken of meat of any kind for many weeks and had not even considered my hunger before this, but the smell was so alluring that I found myself searching for the source.

A handsome, sullen-looking fellow, perhaps the age of Abdelkrim, dressed in a smart, white tunic, was standing nearby a pristine glass-fronted bar, prodding busily at thick, round slabs of juicy meat on a huge gridiron. On a shelf by his side sat a large silver basket of fat breads. Behind the glass, displayed like one of the pictures in Mademoiselle Sushie’s fine magazines, an array of fruits and vegetables – some of which I had never seen before – tomatoes bulging with redness, clean, shredded carrots, fresh dates, guavas and pears carefully carved into the shapes of stars. Glass jugs, brimming with crystal clear water and little bricks of ice, stood on shelves in a chiller cabinet. Bottles of liquid the colour of gold, the colour of fire, the colour of the sky, lined a mirrored wall. I stood, mesmerised before this cabinet, the anguish and pain which I carried momentarily lifted by the sheer wonderment of it all.

A small group of young, adult
anasaras
shuffled past me, interrupting their chatter to smile pleasantly at me, their pink, half naked, wet bodies dripping onto the clean tiles. They threw down their bundles of colourful, damp cloths and began wrestling chairs from the stacks.

I was only vaguely aware of my brother’s voice. He had let go of my hand and was addressing the cook.

‘…the Irish guy,’ he was saying. ‘Works at the university.’

The cook was eying him with some suspicion. ‘You’re a member?’ he said.

‘No, friend,’ Abdelkrim said. ‘I just need to speak with Monsieur Archie briefly.’

The cook looked at me with distain before answering. ‘He’s over there,’ he said, barely moving his head to one side before returning to his preparations.

Abdelkrim took my hand again and yanked me away from the bar. ‘Jumped up Peulh dog!’ he snapped.

We walked across a clipped blanket of grass – so green that it looked unreal to me – and joined another winding path flanked by mango trees that led to a large, tiled, rectangular pool in which a few people were swimming. The water was bluer, clearer, than any I had ever seen before; not a leaf or twig floated on its surface. At one end of the pool a strong looking
anasara
threw a tiny white baby into the water, and for a moment my heart stopped. I let go of my brother’s hand and covered my face in horror. No-one else seemed concerned and after a few seconds the baby broke the surface of the water and began paddling, furiously, towards a woman at the other end of the pool, who was beckoning the child enthusiastically. She scooped the infant up in her arms as it reached her and they both giggled and waved at the man at the other end.

More tables and chairs were scattered around the edge of the pool, a few of them occupied. Abdelkrim waved to a man at the far side: a fine-boned, wiry
anasara
with long, straight hair, who held up a beer bottle and smiled through a mouthful of crooked teeth.

‘That’s him!’ Abdelkrim said, hurrying towards his friend.

Monsieur Archie Cargo: a man whose kindness and warmth I will recall until my dying day.

Here I was then, standing in front of someone from the same part of the world as Katie and Hope. Had it not been for the circumstances, I would probably have been bursting with questions. As it was, I felt exhausted, hungry, thirsty, scared, shy and, of course, numb.

Monsieur Archie did not rise to his feet immediately when we reached his table. He slapped his newspaper down (a copy of the
Herald Tribune
, which Mademoiselle Sushie sometimes read) and lazily tilted his plastic chair back on two legs, then thrust out his hand towards Abdelkrim. ‘How are you, my friend?’ he said, grinning with pleasure, in an accent every bit as odd as that of the Scottish man in the pickup, but with a great deal more eloquence and a much better command of French. He pointed at some chairs. ‘Sit down. Join me. Will you have a drink?’

There was a silence from my brother, which surprised me. When I looked up I saw that Abdelkrim was shaking his head, a pained expression on his face. For a moment I thought that he was going to weep.

Only then did Monsieur Archie get to his feet. ‘What is it, Abdel?’ he said. ‘Is it your mother?’

‘She died before dawn today,’ Abdelkrim said, quietly.

Monsieur Archie put his arms around my brother and clapped his back. ‘I’m so sorry, my friend,’ he said.

We sat opposite Monsieur Archie and, even before I was introduced, I felt a great sense of warmth towards him. It was clear that Abdelkrim trusted this man. Even through the sadness of their discussion there was a sense of brotherhood. He fetched soft drinks from the bar for us and offered us food. I had been deeply disappointed when Abdelkrim had declined the offer, but understood why he had done so.

‘I am really hungry, Abdel,’ I complained, while Monsieur Archie was away from the table.

‘We will eat later, Little One,’ was all that my brother said.

On the way back from the bar, Monsieur Archie stopped briefly to talk to a young mother at another table close to ours. The woman was dressed in a traditional, expensive looking
pagne
and was nursing perhaps the most beautiful child I had ever seen. She was sitting with her right side towards my left, so that I had to crane my neck to watch her soothe her baby as she laughed and chatted with my brother’s friend. Normally, the prospect of a cold
Sprite
or
Coka
would have excited me. Now, it seemed merely a small detail in a very bad dream. Even so, I sat up straight and smiled as he set the drinks on the table. ‘Thank you very much, Monsieur Archie,’ I said.

‘You just call me Archie, d’you hear? Everyone else does.’ He winked, and I nodded shyly, uncertain that I could bring myself to do so.

He sat down and motioned towards the nursing mother. ‘Do you know Binta?’ he said to my brother. ‘She’s married to that Canadian guy, Walter, who works for CARE.’ He pointed to an
anasara
who had been slowly swimming up and down the pool since our arrival. I had taken note of him earlier, on account of his fat, brown moustache and the fact that he was wearing gold-rimmed spectacles while he swam.

Abdelkrim shook his head and looked in the direction of Binta once again.

‘She is very beautiful,’ he said. ‘That Walter is a lucky man.’

Archie laughed. ‘Indeed he is,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I think he’d follow her to the ends of the earth and back again. In fact, he kind of already has!’

Abdelkrim raised his eyebrows a little. ‘She’s Nigerien, no?’