“Let’s try to think of the one or two kids,” I said, “that break out of the mold just because you were there. I think that’s pretty hopeful and worth drinking to.”
She looked up, her white teeth gleaming through a wide smile. I had made her happy and that had made me happy.
“I’ll drink to that,” she said, lifting her glass so that some of the beer sloshed out.
A few days before Sam arrived, I had been talking to Madeleine at the airport bar and happened to mention that I was looking for a place to rent.
“I have just the place for you,” she said. “It’s on the beach near where you live now. It’s owned by Mr. Habaka. He owns the Volkswagen dealership plus a few restaurants and a bunch of other businesses. Go by and see him and tell him that Madeleine sent you.”
I drove Junebug into the parking lot of Mr. Habaka’s dealership and, just as at any car dealership in the US, two men dressed in suits approached me with “let me sell you a car” written on their faces.
“I’m here to see Mr. Habaka about some rental property,” I said. Their expressions immediately dropped. One of them pointed to the main office building, a new-looking structure of lightweight metal frames and tinted glass.
“He in de office,” one of the salesmen said glumly.
Mr. Habaka was, as I expected, middle aged and balding. He had a heavy black mustache and thick, round shoulders. He was leaning back in his office chair smoking a cigar. I knocked quietly on the doorframe. He looked at me like someone caught by surprise.
“What can I do for you, young man?” he said, putting down his cigar.
“I’m here about your rental house on the beach. I’m a pilot for Monrovia Airlines and Madeleine at the Airport Bar told me that it is available.”
“Ahhh, so you’re a pilot. I think that is wonderful. I always wanted to be a pilot—such skill, such courage. How wonderful. And how is my friend Andre doing?”
“He’s busy. Andre is a good manager and boss.”
“Yes, so I have heard. That is good, that is good. And you know Madeleine. How is she?”
“Everyone at the airfield knows Madeleine. She’s a very admired woman.”
“Yes. Praise God, and she was a beautiful woman in her day.” He paused. “She’s still a beautiful woman. Truly beautiful women never become anything but beautiful. Don’t you think, young man?”
“I haven’t thought about it very much, Mr. Habaka.”
“Of course you haven’t, young man. At your age, why should you?”
“Mr. Habaka, about the rental house?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Why don’t we go in your car? You did drive, didn’t you? It isn’t far. We could walk, but I think I’m beginning to feel a little arthritis creeping into my left hip.”
He walked with me to where Junebug was parked. He stopped and uttered an exaggerated gasp.
“Young man,” he exclaimed, “you should let me fix you up with a new car. This one looks straight out of a bombing raid.”
“It’ll get us there, Mr. Habaka.”
The house was small but airy. The tiny living room opened up to a porch that looked directly out onto the beach. It was built of concrete blocks and painted white. The small galley kitchen seemed to have the basic necessities and the bedroom was just large enough to fit one double bed and a small chest of drawers. The bathroom had a shower stall that looked more like a three-by-three box stood on end, but the sink and toilet were both clean and new. And it was still within walking distance to the Ambassador’s beach bar.
The furniture was midcentury modern, slightly battered and scarred but clean, and functional. I asked him how much. He said $300 a month. I knew better than to agree to the asking price—if you want to be respected in the Middle East you never agree to the asking price. I offered $200. He countered with $250. I hemmed and hawed for a while then accepted his offer. We shook hands, and I drove him back to his dealership.
A week later, Mr. Habaka informed me that the house was ready. I had gotten our usual room at the Ambassador and the next morning, after coffee, Sam and I walked along the beach to the house that we would be sharing. I had already put a deposit down and was told that I could move in any time. It wasn’t locked, and I opened the front door to show her the inside. Mr. Habaka had had it cleaned, and there was a smell of fresh paint. I could see that she liked it.
“When can we move in?” she asked.
“Now, if you want. Have you got all of your things?”
“Everything I own is back at the hotel,” she said.
“Then let’s get it in and put away.”
After properly placing Sam’s few belongings in the house and in the only closet, we drove to the bunk house. Ku was there as I expected him to be, sitting on a stool in the kitchen.
“I shall be moving out, Ku.”
“Eeh-menh! No, boss, No-menh!” he shouted.
“Yes, Ku. I shall be moving. Miss Sam and I are moving in together.”
“You can do so hee, boss. Dere be plenty o room hee.”
“No Ku, we need more room and we need privacy.”
“You have privacy hee, boss. De other boss, dey will not humbug your woman.”
“I know that, Ku, but we want to be by ourselves. Like you and your wife.”
“Oh boss, ma wife an me, we na ever by ourselves. We ha family always.”
“Then what do you do when you make love to your wife?”
“Dey turn way. Sometimes dey leave. Den sometimes dey watch. Dat de way it is hee, boss.”
I thought about that for a while and really didn’t have anything to say. Then, “Will you come and work for us, Ku? I will pay more.”
“No tanks, boss. I ha very much to do an no time fo odder work. But my cousin, Binji, he need work bad—he will work for you, and he can cook too.”
“Good!” I said. “Have him come and see me. We are at this address.” I scribbled the address on an empty envelope and handed it to him. “It is just down the road. He must know where it is?”
“He do, boss, he do. I tell him today and he come see you jus now.”
I really didn’t have much in the way of material things. My “cold” weather clothes had long since been ruined by mold and mildew. I had left them out on a table near the road with a sign saying “Free.” No one wanted them. I was down to four pairs of footwear—a pair of flip flops, a pair of canvas shoes, and worn out ankle boots that I used when flying, and some badly mildewed dress shoes. I packed my stuff carefully around my Uzi in the duffel bag that I used when I first came to Africa and headed to the new house.
We dumped everything in our small living room and opened the windows to the ocean breeze.
“I think we should name our house,” Sam said.
“What a good idea. Anything in mind?” I asked.
“How about Pineapple Beach? Pineapples are all over the place here and they are the traditional symbol for welcome.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
Thus began many months of a kind of indefinable happiness that I had never experienced before. For the first time since coming to Africa, I looked forward to the rain. With the planes grounded, I was able to spend more time with Sam. When I did fly, she would check in with the Peace Corps offices downtown. They were more than happy to have an experienced worker pro bono, and Sam was happy to help.
I knew that she was opposed to marriage, but I wanted to give her something that represented, in a material way, how I felt about her. It had to be something big and with meaning. Fortunately, I had a flight coming up to one of the diamond mines near the Sierra Leone border. My passengers were two Mandingos, one of whom was Tajan, the man from whom I had bought my first diamond. We were almost friends by now. I told him, on the flight up to the mine, that I needed a special diamond . . . rough.
“For a lady?” he asked, smiling.
“Yes,” I said, “for a very important lady.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Pilot, we will find just de ting.
”
I landed on the dusty airstrip, taxied to the side of the runway, and shut down the engine.
Tajan and his companion deftly exited the airplane and assured me, again, that they would find something suitable. An hour or so later they returned and Tajan came up to me, opened his hand slowly and with a smile showed me a large rough diamond that I estimated to be at least twenty carats. It was an octahedral stone with a light yellow tint. With proper cleaning and polishing it would make a fine piece. I asked him for the price. Without hesitation he said that the price would be three hundred US—a bargain.
I looked directly into his eyes and said, “Tajan, you are a true gentleman.”
He closed his eyes slowly and slightly bowed his head.
I had brought along more cash than I needed and had stowed it in a leather money pouch under my seat. I walked back to the plane, took out the fifteen twenty-dollar bills and paid him. He wrapped the diamond back up in the square cloth and handed it to me. I felt an unexpected sense of pride of ownership. I now possessed something ancient, rare, and beautiful that I could offer Sam.
Once back in Monrovia, I took the stone to my diamond expert, Old Man Louis. Old Man Louis (he was around fifty years old) had operated a jewelry shop since the mid-1940s. He was a Belgian who had fled Europe at the beginning of World War II. He had a thick Flemish accent and looked like he should have been a spy. I asked him to clean and polish it but under no circumstances was he to have it cut. He agreed and said that he could do the job while I waited. It took an hour or longer, but the finished work was excellent. The stone seemed to glow with a deep, pale yellow light yet retained all of its pristine beauty. I bought one of his special diamond gift boxes—finished in red burgundy leather with gold trim—and placed the diamond in the center of its ruffled satin interior. The problem now was how to give it to Sam.
Binji presented himself at the front door, one day, in the pouring rain. “Qua qua, Boss! Qua qua!” he shouted. “Binji heeya! Ee Binji heeya oh! Dews be heavy, so! Dews be heavy!”
I stood there looking at a small skinny boy of no more than fifteen years old. The rain had matted his hair and created ringlets that extended down over his forehead like black dripping icicles. Behind all that he was chattering nonstop in Liberian vernacular, smiling all the while. All I understood was Binji. I stood aside and motioned for him to come inside. Once in, he shook himself off like a dog.
“So you’re Binji? Ku’s cousin?” I asked.
“Ya boss! Das me, Binji! My man, Ku, he tole me you need a houseboy buku buku. He say yo woman ee too fine! Too fine! An you na wan strangers humbug yo! I cook fo you, I clean fo you, and den I hide. I no humbug you. I fine fine boy. I beg you let me be yo houseboy! I hold your foot!”
“Okay, okay, Binji,” I said. “Slow down! You have to talk slowly and with words I can understand. Why don’t you dry off and we’ll see what you can do. First of all, do you know how to make a gin and tonic?”
Sam drove up as I was enjoying Binji’s excellent gin and tonic. She had been in town to buy much needed supplies. I introduced her to Binji and Binji rattled off what he had told me—“I goo boy. I can coo an no humbug yo.”
She seemed pleased with Binji. She asked him several questions about his family, about his school. Binji had dropped out of school to work, which was so often the case with the poor in Monrovia. Sam understood this well.
“Well, Binji,” she said. “Why don’t you start by making us a pot of coffee?”
Binji turned and almost ran into the kitchen. I could hear the sounds of implements slamming around, but I sensed that Binji would figure it out and find everything.
I decided on the direct approach. I would show her the diamond first, then try to explain during the initial shock. I placed the box on the small coffee table in our living room. She put her arms around me and kissed me.
She must have seen the box after she kissed me because she abruptly pushed me away and exclaimed, “What is that? Is that what I think it is? I thought we agreed.”
“Why don’t you open it before jumping to conclusions?”
She hesitated for a moment, her face completely empty of expression, then slowly picked the box up and turned it in her hand as though she were examining a biological specimen before opening it. She stared at the contents for a long moment, then looked up at me with a puzzled expression.
“It’s a rough diamond; it’s called an octahedral, pale yellow diamond. It’s from a mine in Wiesua. It’s for you, if you like it. If you don’t, then it’ll make a very prestigious miniature paper weight.”
With that her mouth opened slightly, and she stared at me wide-eyed.
“It means simply that I’m very happy to have you here. That’s all.”
“It’s beautiful!” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. What on earth should I do with it?”
“Well, it can be mounted as a ring or it can be cut and mounted in earrings. There are a lot of ways to use it. I am glad that you like it.”
“Like it? I love it!” she said, clasping the diamond in both hands. “It’s the way a diamond should be, just as nature made it. I think I’d like to have it mounted as a ring. You remember friendship rings, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“This will be our friendship ring. Is that okay?”
“I know a good jeweler in town. We’ll take it tomorrow and see what he can do for us. As for now, let’s celebrate.” And, as if on cue, Binji arrived with the coffee.
Old Man Louis looked completely comfortable and unconcerned in his disordered and jumbled surroundings.
“Yes,” he said with a wave of his gnarled hand. “I can mount it for you. You want gold, yes?” Sam nodded a yes. “Good, my dear. I will have it for you in two weeks. Don’t bother me until then.”
“How much, Mr. Louis?” Sam asked.
He held the diamond up to the light from the store front.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to cut this for you?’
“Yes, I’m sure,” Sam said. “Under no circumstances do I want it cut.”
Old Man Louis shrugged. “Whatever you want, my dear. The customer is always right.” He looked at the diamond again and said, “I’ll mount it for you for fifty US dollars. That’s my best price. You won’t find anyone what will do it cheaper, I promise you. Wait and I will give you a receipt for it.”
The receipt contained a description of the stone, its weight, and a statement that it was owned by the below signature.
“Thank you, Mr. Louis. We’ll be by in a couple of weeks to pick it up.”
As we were leaving, Sam asked me what would stop him from selling the diamond and telling us it had been stolen.
“We have the receipt, and there is an old law in Liberia that helps protect against such things,” I said. She looked at me and I knew what she was thinking.
“It’s called ‘I’ll blow your brains out if you steal from me.’ Old Man Louis has been here since nineteen forty-five and is well aware of this law, and beside that, he’s earned a reputation for fair dealing and honesty, and that’s what keeps his business going.”
CHAPTER 32
TAKE DOWN
The ring was ready when Old Man Louis said it would be, and he had lived up to his reputation for doing good work. We decided to celebrate, so we drove to Heinz and Maria’s. It was still early, and the only customers were three men drinking at the bar—they were muscular with broad necks and looked like freelance construction workers.
Sam and I picked an out-of-the-way table and we each ordered a beer from the new, pretty German waitress. The construction workers would leer at her from time to time. One of them, with a mass of unkempt blond hair, maintained a constant smile, or maybe it was more of a smirk, when he looked at her. His left ear lobe was missing and, like a prize fighter, he kept unconsciously flexing his right hand. The other two wore their hair close cropped, which accentuated their angular features.
They kept cal
ling out to the girl, “O fraulein! Fraulein!”
The waitress ignored them except to bring them more beer. I noticed the man with the missing ear lobe looking our way several times and I wondered briefly if he recognized us—Monrovia can be a small place.
Sam seemed happy and appeared not to notice the men at the bar. She looked at the ring almost compulsively and touched it with the fore finger of her left hand.
“It’s truly beautiful,” she said. The waitress brought our beers.
We started chatting about the future and as we did so, entered into our own private cocoon of euphoria. We had a host of options before us, and they were all good. It was one of those moments that would stand still for the rest of my life.
I finished the beer and, as often occurs with carbonated beverages, had to relieve myself. I told Sam that I had to go to the necessary room. She smiled and told me not to be too long. I wasn’t long, but when I got back to the table she wasn’t there. I looked quickly around. The man with the missing ear lobe was looking in my direction and sniggering. She might have gone to the restroom, so I waited for a few minutes. The man had stopped sniggering and with a look of utter contempt turned back to the bar and ordered another beer.
The minutes passed. She must be in the car, I reasoned, and walked outside toward Junebug. I could see her in the passenger seat. As I got closer, I could see that her head was bowed and that she was trembling. Once at the car I opened the driver side door. She was weeping into her hands. She looked up at me, her eyes swimming in tears.
The Dung Beetles of Liberia Page 25