“University of Washington, that’s the state of, and how about you?”
“I went to Cornell but dropped out to seek high adventure.”
“And are you finding it?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said.
“You planning on going back?”
“Yes, I think so, but I honestly don’t know.”
The loaders had finished stacking the remaining bags of coffee in the cargo compartment. I went over to the airplane and strapped them down and watched as the woman walked over to the merchant who was paying his loaders. She said something to the loaders that made them laugh. After that she jumped back into the army truck with the two Lebanese men. I walked over to the truck on an impulse. She was now in the driver’s seat.
“Do you ever get to Monrovia?” I asked.
“On rare occasions,” she said.
“The next time you do, let me know. Maybe we can take in a movie or something.” I scribbled my name and phone number on a page in the notebook I kept in my shirt pocket, tore the page out, and handed it to her.
“Maybe I will,” she said with a half smile. “The name’s Samantha but everybody calls me Sam.” Then she waved goodbye, started the truck engine, and disappeared back into the bush.
“What did she say to the loaders?” I asked the merchant on the flight back to Monrovia.
“She told them you have the hands of an old white woman.”
CHAPTER 28
JENNY
I drove over to Robertsfield early and was just finishing my drink at the bar when Jenny’s plane landed. Two airline employees rolled a boarding stair up to the cabin door and I watched as the passengers started streaming off. Jenny was one of the last. She stood at the top of the boarding stair looking around, her shoulder length blond hair blowing in the hot wind. She was wearing a dress with a full skirt, and as she walked down the steps the wind blew it up above her knees. In the glaring sunlight, her face and exposed arms looked more delicate than I remembered.
The passengers were ushered to the terminal where they would go through Immigration and Customs. Memories of my own chaotic arrival in Robertsfield years ago flooded into my head. Mike McCoy had sent a handler to meet me and get me through this pandemonium. Otherwise, I doubt I would have made it. I began to push my way through the crowd looking for Jenny. As more passengers entered the building, the yelling and shouting rose to a near steady roar. Baggage boys were grabbing passengers’ bags, and uniformed Customs officials had started approaching random passengers. Jenny was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, the mob separated, and Jenny appeared, calm and smiling as if she were arriving in Washington, DC. She was being escorted by a diminutive, well-dressed black man. The two were chatting as if the crowd was not there.
“Jenny!” I shouted.
She did not look up. Judging from her escort’s dark suit and manner, he was a wealthy Americo-Liberian. I watched as the man signaled for porters to come. Two porters, pushing and pulling an empty loading cart, wedged their way through the waiting group of passengers to a pile of baggage. The man, with Jenny next to him, pointed out various bags in the pile and the porters immediately began to carefully place the bags on the cart. The man then pointed in the direction he wanted the porters to go, and he and Jenny followed them as they pushed their way through the tumultuous hordes.
When they were outside the roped area, I waved and shouted again to get her attention. She saw me and waved back with a broad smile on her face. I made my way through the noisy crowd to where they were. The man silently signaled for one of the porters to place Jenny’s bag next to her. Jenny held her arms out and embraced me. She felt lean and hard and smaller than I remembered.
“This is Mr. Harriss, Kenneth. Mr. Harriss is an adviser to President Tubman.”
“Very pleased to meet you, sir,” I said, shaking his hand, “and thank you very much for helping Jenny through Customs and Immigration.”
“Please, don’t think anything of it. It was truly my pleasure,” Honorable Harriss said, not taking his eyes off Jenny. He lifted Jenny’s hand to his lips and gently kissed it.
“I do hope you,” he hesitated, then added as an afterthought, “and your gentleman friend can attend. Please call my secretary. You have my card.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harriss, I will,” Jenny said.
I picked up her bag and started walking toward Junebug.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“Oh nothing,” she said casually. “I met Mr. Harriss on the airplane and he invited me . . . us . . . to a reception at the president’s mansion this coming Thursday. I think it sounds exciting. Please tell me that you want to go.”
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll go. It may be the most exciting thing around.”
“God, I hope not,” she said, laughing.
“Jenny,” I said, “I can get you a room in a good hotel within walking distance to where I live. I think you would like it better than my place.”
“Why, what’s wrong with your place?”
“It’s got a couple of not very well-behaved guys who come and go all hours of the day and night and who aren’t very considerate or respectful of anyone’s privacy. And, with a woman there, they may keep everybody awake howling at the moon.”
“That explains something,” she said.
“Explains what?”
“That I almost didn’t recognize you,” she said.
“Really?” I asked. “What’s different?”
“For one thing, you are all tan, and your hair is so long! Actually, I kind of like it, but you’ve lost a lot of weight and . . .”
“And what?”
“I don’t quite know how to say it . . . but you’re kinda grubby looking.”
“Grubby looking! I shaved and showered this morning!”
“Yes, but I don’t know what it is. You just look different. And look at your clothes—a dirty t-shirt and a pair of torn shorts?”
“Okay,” I said, “you got me there. My wardrobe has diminished. But this t-shirt isn’t dirty, it’s just stained.”
Jenny smiled, a little condescendingly. “Is there any possibility at all that you could find a suit?”
“A suit! What on earth for?”
“You know, the reception, the party.”
I stopped in front of the Ambassador Hotel and got her bags out of the front of the car. She followed me in. The desk clerk looked up and smiled as though he recognized me. Jenny was given a room on the second floor. It was like most rooms in the hotel: plain, clean, and small with a slight view of the ocean and beach.
“Will you show me where you live?” Jenny asked.
“Sure thing, but let me show you the beach bar first.”
She followed me downstairs out the glass doors, across the street and down the short walkway to the bar area.
“Missah Ken!” Joe said with a smile. “An who dis pretty young lady ya ha wit ya?”
“This is Jenny. She’s visiting from the States—Washington, DC,” I said, anticipating his next question.
“Washington, DC? Oh, I hear about Washington, DC. Oh, so sorry about yo riots. I hear ees very unsafe dere. We are so fortunate not to have gangsters like da in Liberia. Ya will be safe hee. What can I get ya, my dear lady?”
Jenny ordered a vodka and tonic and I ordered a scotch straight up.
“Please, my dear lady, go fine a table an ah wil bring ya yor drinks,” Joe said.
We found a table near the end of the concrete deck near the beach. The ocean breeze was pleasant but not sufficient to cool us, and small beads of moisture stood out on Jenny’s forehead. She picked up a napkin and gently blotted the moisture from her face.
“You must be exhausted,” I said. “Don’t you think you should take a nap or something?”
“I’m just a little disoriented. But I’m too excited to sleep. Besides, I want to take advantage of every moment I have here. And perhaps . . . even take the opportunity to convince you to come home.”
&n
bsp; “I think that might be a conversation for later on.”
“You’re right,” she said, “and right now I want to find out all I can about Liberia.”
“Where would you like to start?”
“Is what Joe said true, that they don’t have crime here?” Jenny asked, squinting in the fading sunlight.
“Oh, they have crime here. It runs through life here like water.”
“How do you mean?”
“Bribery, for example. In the states it’s considered a crime. Here it’s just a measure of how much you want something. A man can kill his wife, and if he can show he had good reason or pays enough dash, he can get usually away with it.”
“Really? I read that Liberia is one of the wealthiest nations in West Africa, has a high GNP, and is politically stable.”
“All true,” I said. “It’s one of the best examples of the trickle-down theory that I know of, and you’ll get a chance to see it in action when we go to the party.”
Joe brought the drinks and set them on the table in front of us. The light breeze from the ocean moved Jenny’s blond hair slightly across her face. She turned to look at the ocean.
“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes. It is very beautiful.”
“Kenneth, I want to go to the party and I want you to go with me. It’ll be a chance to see the people in power close up. It’s a rare opportunity, don’t you think?”
“I have to admit, it sounds like a cut above the local bar scene or hanging out at the beach, which is all that I can offer.”
She smiled and turned to face me, then took a sip from her drink. “This is good,” she said.
We talked for a long time about friends and family back home—her parents were doing well. She had spoken to my parents just before leaving. They were concerned since they hadn’t heard from me in months.
The president’s party was several days away, so before then I wanted to show her the “better side” of Monrovia. We had lunch at Heinz and Maria’s bar, where she was a hit with the aging Luftwaffe pilots. Then more lunches at the Gurley Street Bar where the rowdy RAF guys gathered round her. We had dinner at the Ducor Palace Hotel and spent many hours on the beach.
The evening of the president’s reception I managed to find a clean, pressed shirt and trousers but had a lot of trouble finding the only necktie I brought with me to Africa. It took several attempts before I remembered how to tie the thing. I buffed the mildew from my dress shoes with an old, worn out sock, then got into Junebug and headed over to the Ambassador to pick up Jenny. She looked radiant in her tropical white dress and white, high-heeled shoes.
The reception was one of several that the president held to celebrate his successful twenty years in office. We stopped at the entrance gate of the presidential residence in Totota. There were two uniformed guards armed with 30 caliber carbines. The guard on my left walked up to my window.
“We’re here to attend a social function,” I said.
“Hav ya an enveetation?” the guard asked.
“We don’t have a formal invitation, but the name should be on your list.”
The guard examined the paper attached to the clipboard he held in his left hand. “Wha de name?”
Jenny leaned across me and said, “Miss Jenny Morgan.”
“Miss Janni Moogan,” the guard repeated as he ran his index finger down the page. “Ah, yas mamah, here t’is, an a guest. Dis mon ya guest?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Den you may go in. Pak on de right where ya see de odders,” the guard said and pointed in the direction that we were to go. I thanked him and slowly drove through the gate following the driveway to where there were other parked cars. I pulled Junebug into the group of stately Mercedes and BMWs and switched off her loudly banging air-cooled engine.
“It definitely looks like we belong here,” I said.
We followed other arriving guests across the parking area and along the newly laid walkways into the residence. Inside, we were directed to a large, central room, which I assumed was the main ballroom. It had been finished in imitation of the French Rococo style, but without the elegance or refinement. Several crystal chandeliers hung from the high, rounded ceiling. Guards dressed in uniforms that looked similar to what might have been worn by Napoleon’s generals were stationed at doorways and along the walls. The sound of a string quartet playing chamber music echoed from the marble walls. An elaborate bar with several bartenders was at the far end of the room, and to the side was a lavish display of European and Liberian delicacies. There was an actual roasted boar with an apple in its mouth.
“My dear Miss Morgan,” said Honorable Harriss, seemingly appearing out of thin air. He was dressed in a well-fitted tuxedo. “It is a pleasure to see you. I am so happy that you could make it. I’ve told the president all about you and he would be delighted to meet you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “And I see you’ve brought your young friend?”
Honorable Harriss was, like so many of his fellow Americo-Liberians, well educated and well spoken. He was also very officious and very determined. Being an “advisor” to President Tubman could have meant anything. I knew that President Tubman had many advisors, most of whom had an array of non-specific duties.
He took Jenny gently by the arm. “Come, let me introduce you,” he said, leading her away and leaving me standing alone. I started to follow when I felt a familiar hand on my shoulder.
“Mr. Spike! How are you my friend? And what brings you to this grand celebration?”
I turned to see Honorable Williams. He had a drink in his other hand and was showing his usual broad smile. I explained that Jenny was visiting me from Washington. She had met Honorable Harriss during the flight to Monrovia and that he had invited her to this event.
“She couldn’t very well come without an escort,” I said.
“Of course not, my man. Of course not. Now that you are here, how do you like the president’s new residence?”
“Very large,” I said
The corners of Honorable William’s mouth dropped slightly. “The president wanted it twice as large as the White House. Do you think he succeeded?” Without waiting for me to answer he continued. “I don’t think he quite made it, but I’m not really sure. It has what you call the West Wing with many offices for his cabinet and advisors—auxiliary offices, so to speak—in addition to those in the Executive Mansion in Monrovia. I’m told that he has even ordered a copy of President Monroe’s portrait—don’t know where he plans to hang it.
“I think he had the place designed by one of the top architectural firms in London, working together with German structural engineers. He added a little touch of Hollywood too, don’t you think? Fortunately, he used some, but not much, local labor to build it.” He went on, “Ahhh yes, the use of local labor however small justified the whole thing. It was in all the papers and on television. He will not let them forget it. And they love him for it.”
Honorable Williams smiled a knowing smile and continued, “Just look at this place! What does it say to you? Don’t tell me. I know what you’re thinking. It says power, authority, great ambition, and most of all, permanence. Our president will be president forever and Liberia will dominate all of Africa. At least,” he hesitated, “I think that’s the plan.”
A server dressed in a white uniform with gold epaulets stopped in front of us bearing a tray full of champagne glasses filled almost to the brim with the golden, bubbling liquid.
“You had better take one,” Honorable Williams said. “The president doesn’t dispense his liquor easily.” I took one of the glasses and thanked the server, who nodded politely.
“I suspect,” Honorable Williams added, “that your lady friend will be occupied for some time. Why don’t you circulate? There’s bound to be one or two others here, besides us, who are interested in the future of air transport in this country.”
Honorable Williams patted me on the shoulder and left. I could see that Jen
ny was being introduced to President Tubman. He had a reputation of being charming with women and I could see that he was pouring it on—all smiles and kisses. He was wearing a tail coat and had a blue satin sash draped over his left shoulder that had various ribbons and medals pinned to it.
He was gesturing with his hand toward a group of people near him. He then led Jenny by the elbow over to them and introduced her. Honorable Williams was making his way toward the same group of people. I finished the glass of champagne—never have liked the stuff—and made my way to the bar. The bartender was someone I recognized: Set ’em Up Joe from the Ambassador’s beach bar.
“Hi Joe!” I said, giving him a slight wave. He waved back then came over to where I was standing. “Have you moved up from the Ambassador?”
“Naw, Missa Ken. Dis is a temporary gig fo me and it is no good shit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Des rich bastards, dey not pay worth shit.”
“That’s how they get rich, my friend.”
“Ya right bout dat, Missa Ken. Dey get rich off de backs of de little man. Dis ah know, but ah tell you wha, one day dat’s gwana change.”
“If that happens, Joe, just remember I’m not one of them. I work for them too.”
“Ah know, sah. Ah remember ya. Ya tip large.”
“That’s right Joe, so could you get me one of those rare bourbons?”
“Straight away, Missa Ken, straight away.”
I had lost sight of Jenny. For a moment I thought of trying to rescue her, but I knew that the political science major in her was enjoying it. She was probably quizzing President Tubman about the GNP right now. Joe brought the bourbon—he had made it a double. He saluted me with two fingers and a smile, then went to serve other guests.
“And who are you with?” a woman’s voice said behind me. I turned to face an attractive woman with dark, straight hair, and blue eyes. “Coca Cola, Firestone, American Iron and Steel?”
“None of them,” I said. “I’m a pilot for Monrovia Airlines.”
She looked slightly puzzled, as if wondering how I got an invitation.
“One of the president’s advisors took a fancy, as my Brit friends say, to my girlfriend and invited her, which had to include me. She’s up there now, with him and the president, meeting the Big Men.”
The Dung Beetles of Liberia Page 21