Then she was kissing someone, a man who might or might not have been Carl, and was absorbed by the kiss. Some people talk when they make love, she thought. I like kissing. I like believing that the other person is feeling exactly what I am feeling and is totally there with me. Talking, explaining, asking, offering, and calling out—all that takes you away from being drawn up together, from that place that makes you feel like you are out of yourself; all present and all gone at once.
Then she woke.
The dreams came and went. Carl, Torwon, Charles, Sister Martha, crowds of little kids saying “How are YOU?” her mother in a tennis jumper, her father, a thin man from long ago, cars and jet bombers and machine guns, all jumbled together. The smoke and the man behind her. The gun jammed into her ribs.
The light under the door began to dim again.
Then steps on the concrete. A crunch. Metal on metal in the door, in the lock. A wash of light. Bright white light, blinding her.
Julia was yanked to her feet.
Chapter Twelve
Carl Goldman and William Levin. Providence, Rhode Island. July 18, 2003
CARL STEPPED ON THE GAS OF THE RENTED RED RAV4, ONLY HALF SURE OF WHERE HE WAS going. Hot day, good AC. What do they call it? Ice cold air.
Hard to imagine that this is one planet. Here, driving down Route 146 on a hot day in July, the air-conditioning keeping his skin cool. There, used RAV4s and CRVs are strike vehicles. They come in to the villages after the motorbikes have come through, loaded with small boys and small girls popping pills. Taylor’s boys liked the four-wheel drive pickups better, because you can jam six or eight of the boys into the back, but the RAV4 would be good enough for one of the militias. It was four-wheel drive, perfect for rutted red dirt roads that had potholes as big as lakes. Its high undercarriage let you go places you couldn’t get to otherwise. They burned through RAVs like this one in a couple of months over there. Drive it hard. Burn it out. Abandon it, all shot up, in the jungle or just off the Monrovia road, and then find yourself another one.
Off the highway on Atwells, and then a right on Westminster. He passed Classical High School, and then found himself on Cranston Street, which meant he’d gone too far. He drove a couple of blocks, looking for a place to turn, made a left after a cemetery, and then made another left to come back on Elmwood Street.
Elmwood and Cranston Streets and the places to their south and west were where the immigrant communities lived—the Guatemalans, Dominicans, Hondurans, Hmong, Liberians, Gambians, Nigerians, and the Ghanaians. They lived all together in a colorful part of town between Elmwood, Cranston Street, Broad, and Broadway, near the armory and the parade grounds, their churches and restaurants the only way an outsider could tell each community was there.
South and West Providence had once been the richest part of the city. The grand old Victorians near the armory and on Parade Street and Princeton Street had once been the homes of rich manufacturers. Then a hundred years ago, the old WASP mill owners, bankers, and merchants moved to the East Side, and their houses became the second or third steps for Irish factory workers, Italian restaurant owners, and Jewish merchant junk dealers after the immigrants started to succeed. Those grand old houses were crumbling now. There were fire escapes and paved parking lots where stained glass and grand lawns used to be.
In South Providence were now acres and acres of old wooden houses that needed paint, punctuated by squat brick buildings put up by social agencies that had walls covered in graffiti and storefronts that had signs painted in bright colors right on the glass; storefronts with metal gates that would pull down over the windows at night. The grand old churches and synagogues had been sold years ago. Now they were Pentecostal churches and mosques, with new neon crosses or crescents and bright colored banners and flags. The side streets seemed deserted. There were houses and parked cars but almost nobody in the street.
Carl drove past the restaurant he was looking for twice before he recognized it. He parked out front. Sally’s Liberian Restaurant. It was in an old VFW hall. There was a handwritten sign on the door. They were open from noon to seven but closed Sundays, Mondays, and Wednesdays.
Bells over the door jangled when he opened it and jangled a second time when he slammed the door shut.
There was a big red white and blue Lone Star flag on the wall next to the kitchen, plastic flowers in vases on each table, and a menu written in red magic marker on a white board propped up on a chair near the door. The menu listed three items but had no prices. The place felt deserted, but, hell, the door was open, so Carl took a table in front of a window and made himself at home.
After a few minutes, a big woman wearing a yellow apron came out of a back room with a plate of fried plantains as if she had been expecting him.
“You waitin’ on somebody?” she said and laughed.
“Ya Mama. Waitin on one. Lookin for another. Just home,” Carl said.
“Le me fee ya. Ga stew. Ga jollof rice,” the waitress said. Let me feed you. We have goat stew and jollof rice.
“Okay, okay, jollof rice then. And more plantains. Love plantains. And a coke,” Carl said.
The bells over the front door jangled again. A white man with a beard came in and looked around. The bells jangled a second time as he closed the door. He looked past Carl, expecting someone else. Oh yeah, Carl thought. America. I’m invisible again.
Carl raised his hand in a half-wave and started to stand.
“Dr. Levin?” he said, when the man didn’t acknowledge him.
“Carl Goldman?” Levin said, catching himself. “Sorry to be late.”
He shook Carl’s hand and pulled up a chair. He had a real grip, though. Carl wasn’t expecting that.
Levin was older than Carl expected. He was wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. He had stringy swept-back white hair and big glasses with thick lenses that made his eyes look large and bulging.
Levin ordered. “You Liberian?” he asked.
“Me? Not Liberian. Not African either. Just plain old African American—a little African, a lot of everything else—a little French, a little Spanish, a little Jew,” Carl said.
“How did you get out?” Levin said.
“Your friendly U.S. Marines. They landed Saturday. Two days ago. Seems like a hundred years ago. Picked up the USAID and State Department folks. Grabbed a few NGO people while they were at it. I’m NGO. That’s what Uncle Sam’s helicopters and Humvees are for, I guess. Semper fi.”
“What were you doing there?” Levin said.
“NGO stuff. Hydrology. Building village pumps,” Carl said.
“Good stuff. Sounds crazy over there, though,” Levin said
“Crazy enough,” Carl said. “You’re Julia’s mentor, right? She looked up to you. Talked about you.”
“Teacher once, a long time ago. Friend and colleague now. I have her car in my spare garage. Start it once a month and try to drive it once in a while. When I remember,” Levin said. “Now she’s the shining star. I’m just a guy with a telescope, looking for her in the sky from a hundred million miles away.”
They fell silent.
“It’s not good,” Carl said. “She got caught in a fight between Charles Taylor’s people and a group of rebels moving up from the south. Taylor is the president, so-called. Taylor’s men burned her vehicle. They killed her driver and her guard. No way to know what happened next. I saw her maybe forty-five minutes before all that. Her vehicle had broken down. She was waiting on the side of the road for a repair truck. She was fine when we left her. When we came back, her truck was on fire, her guys were dead. And she was gone.”
“Damn,” Levin said. “Damn. Damn, damn, damn. No word from her?”
“Nothing,” Carl said. “I called the State Department. Next morning the marines showed up to evacuate Americans. But Julia wasn’t there. I called them. I was worried about Julia, not for the rest of us. The rest of us were okay.”
“Damn. Where is bloody goddamn American imperialism when you need
it most?” Levin said.
“When the marines landed. I thought they would go for Julia first,” Carl said. “I thought she’d be there on the beach when they came to airlift us out. But she wasn’t there. It all happened fast. I can’t believe they left her.”
“It’s a war zone. Shit happens. Where the hell is she?” Levin said.
“Anybody’s guess,” Carl said. “Liberia is the size of Tennessee. She could be anywhere. She’s probably in Grand Bassa or Bong County, just north of Buchanan,” Carl said. “Short of an air force or an amphibious assault, it’s not possible to move around in Liberia right now.”
“Anything we can do?” Levin said. “Strings to pull? Chains to yank? This is Rhode Island. We always know a guy who knows a guy.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know who has her. Or where she is. No way to know if she’s alive,” Carl said.
“She’s alive,” Levin said. “There’s real grit underneath all that privileged white girl crap, all that insecurity and self-doubt. She’s a street fighter, that girl, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“That’s the sense I got from the State Department. That she’s alive,” Carl said. “They aren’t confirming or denying. I think maybe they got some wires crossed. I think they thought she was out. What we’ve got now is just some kind of cover-up. But it sounds like they know where she is and who has her.”
“I got the same bullshit,” Levin said. “They know. They just ain’t talking.”
The food came.
“So are you going in to get her?” Levin said.
“You can’t get to Liberia now,” Carl said. “I checked all the airlines. Even the little African ones. You can’t move around in Grand Bassa County, where she got nabbed. There are roadblocks and militia everywhere—bridges out, trees across the road, checkpoints, you name it. But I’m open to any and all bright ideas. Yes, I want to go in and get her. I just don’t know how.”
“How well do you know Julia?” Levin said.
“Just from Buchanan,” Carl said. “There are about thirty expats in Buchanan, give or take. We’d hang out nights and weekends. Have dinner together. That kind of thing. Potlucks. Drive out to the beach on Sundays.”
“Answer the question. You an item?” Levin said.
“Not exactly yes, not exactly no,” Carl said. He paused. “More yes than no. Maybe more than that.”
“Got it. More yes than no. Enough to be here. Not enough to stay there. Okay, no way in and no plan. So why the email?” Levin said.
“Misery loves company, I guess, “Carl said. “And I’m looking for ideas. I need an army. And an air force and marines. I need help. I need a strategy, and I need a plan. You got any of that?”
“I barely have the clothes on my back. But its sounds like you got religion, brother. Kind of a day late and a dollar short, though,” Levin said. “Anyway, I’m a different kind of guy. I’m a peacenik, not Rambo. And this isn’t about me.”
DOOO-IPPP, DOOO-IPPP, DOOO-IPPP.
The sound was sudden, brilliant and piercing. Painful. Right outside. Close by car alarm.
DOOO-IPPP, DOOO-IPPP, DOOO-IPPP.
Not my problem, Levin thought. No car alarm on his fucked up old car. Barely any car.
Carl turned his head away from the noise. DOOO-IPPP, DOOO-IPPP, DOOO-IPPP. He pulled the keys out of his pocket and looked out the window. Then he jumped up, went to the door, and pulled it open. The bells on the door jangled. Levin felt a blast of hot air. The bells snapped as the door slapped shut and the DOOO-IPPP, DOOO-IPPP, DOOO-IPPP blasted out again, dying out halfway through its cycle.
Suddenly Levin felt ashamed. Ashamed of himself. Ashamed of his life. A great big empty life filled with pot smoke in which nothing was accomplished. He hadn’t really ever loved anyone. All those stupid big ideas signifying nothing. Julia was lost in Africa and nothing anyone, Levin or anyone else, could do to help. This Carl seemed like the real thing, but Carl didn’t have a clue either. Nothing was working. Levin couldn’t do one thing to help the one person in this life he loved and wanted to protect. Nothing else mattered. He was useless.
Then Levin heard a shout from the street.
Chapter Thirteen
Julia Richmond. Grand Bassa County, Liberia. July 18, 2003
SO MUCH LIGHT! EVERYTHING WAS YELLOW, WHITE AND GREY. THEN SOMETHING GRABBED Julia by the back of the neck. It tugged under her arms. He had her shirt. He yanked Julia to her feet. She couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t see him. He dragged her into the hall, spun her around, and pushed, so she stumbled and tried to walk, the bones of her bottom aching, her legs and knees spasmed, cramping and stiff.
He shoved her back toward the big room. The light still hurt. Julia stumbled down the hall, her hands tied in front of her. The man at her back pushed her, one hand on her right shoulder, the cold flat side of a gun between her shoulder blades, in the small of her back.
Julia couldn’t see the man. Every time she tried to look back he jammed her forward with the gun. The pushing came straight across, not down. He wasn’t much taller than she was. There was light in the kitchen windows but not streaming-in light. Kitchen on the east side. So it wasn’t early morning.
The big room had men and boys standing and men and boys lying on the floor, mostly against the walls. Some sat. Some squatted. Some slept. That smell of sweat, beer, gun grease, and pot smoke again, like old wet leather. Guns and ammunition belts lay on the men and boys or just next to them. A few RPG launchers leaned against the wall. Yellow Bandanna was in the room near the front door. Jonathan was standing behind him.
The wooden crates that Julia had seen when she arrived had been rearranged. Some were set up against the wall, doubling as benches and tables. Others were stacked high so as to divide the space, to make rooms and sections. The sun was streaming in the bay window in the back, so it was late in the day. There were thunderclouds low on the horizon, and the sun was just above them. The clouds were orange red, blue, and purple, and rays of light spread over the vista as if the sunlight was the top of a pot or a crown, covering the green and purple earth. It was early evening. The evening rains were moving in.
“My friend who we’ve kept on ice,” Jonathan said. “It’s Madam Orange Juice joining us again. Bring her here. ‘Orange Juice on ice is nice,’” Jonathan sang, his bass voice rumbling across the room. “Orange Juice on ice. Drink real Flo-ri-d-a Or-ange Juice. Orange Juice on ice.”
Yellow Bandanna grabbed Julia’s arm and yanked her forward.
“I’m glad you had time to sit and think,” Jonathan said. “Don’t forget who is keeping you alive.” He took his knife off his belt, and cut the cloth that held Julia’s wrists.
“Sorry about the closet. At least we kept you out of the midday sun. Now I am going to need some help from you. Tell me, what are you hearing from your friends and colleagues in Buchanan?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Julia said. “I’ve been in a closet, remember. You crushed my cell phone. I haven’t exactly been Miss Chatty Cathy.”
“Why did they leave you here? I was expecting a return phone call and a deal by now. I get angry when people don’t return my calls,” Jonathan said.
“I have no idea what you mean. Get me back to Buchanan,” Julia said.
“Your marines landed yesterday,” Jonathan said, “They cleaned out the Americans and the Brits. And some others. They didn’t leave a beachhead. Or any units on the ground. Good of them. Now I need to know why there is no deal for you.”
“I have been sitting in a closet for two days, thank you very much. I don’t know anything about deals or marines,” Julia said.
“Why aren’t you worth the price of a couple of helicopters and a few RPGs?” Jonathan said. “Why has your government abandoned you?”
“Who are you?” Julia asked.
“I’m your worst nightmare, lady,” Jonathan said. “And your ticket to ride. But I can’t keep you for more than a few days. Then we have to move on.
So prove yourself, missy. Show me what you are worth. There is some kind of family back there, in California, yes? And eventually that family will find a senator or a congressman and your State Department, yes? And then your government may discover it is ready to work with us. Perhaps. If we are all still here. If you survive that long. USA. USA. What bullshit.”
“Wait a fucking second, Julia said. “You’re the one that’s stuck; otherwise you’d be on the move already. You’re boxed in. Completely surrounded. Out of options. You have no way out, other than trading little old me for safe passage. Only that’s not working. One of these days someone bigger and stronger, someone with more guns and real soldiers is going to land on your doorstep, and then you’re mincemeat. A smudge on a canyon wall. So you are quaking in your fuckin’ boots, despite all the big talk. Do your soldier-boys know that you’ve led them into a blind alley? That they’re sitting ducks?”
“Who do you think you are?” Jonathan said. “All your friends have abandoned you. They don’t care one whit about your high ideals and self-righteous passions. All they care about is what everyone cares about, about who owns what, where the firepower is, and who is fucking over whom. Maybe they just misplaced you. Maybe someone forgot to tell someone else, and now that someone is covering their tracks. Or maybe they are sending people like you a message: that this is our world, not yours, and the do-gooders and bleeding hearts should stay the hell out of Africa. I bet they are saying you’re already dead.”
“Fuck you,” Julia said. “I need to get to Buchanan. They need me there, now more than ever.”
“You don’t know anything, do you?” Jonathan said. “No one needs you. Your hospital has been overrun. It’s barracks and an ammo dump now. The hospital staff did what the rest of Buchanan did, which is to disappear into the bush. That’s what we do here when there’s a war on. Anyone who can disappears. Quick-quick. No one comes to see the doctor. Our children don’t need to get your shots right now. They need to keep from getting shot. Our people know how to survive. Just like your bureaucrats.”
Abundance Page 17