American Spy

by Lauren Wilkinson

  One of the notes was about electoral reform and the different candidates who were anticipated to run in each party. I was stunned when I read the name of the ULCR candidate. It was Blaise Compaoré. I couldn’t believe it. Thomas’s closest friend was collaborating with the CIA to betray him.

  * * *

  —

  I LEFT THE EMBASSY parking lot and was on the road toward downtown when I noticed the soldier behind me again—he was obvious because the street was otherwise almost empty. How had he found me? I followed the major boulevard that led into the heart of the city, commuters on scooters and bicycles speeding along beside me in the outer lane, went through a roundabout with a statue of Yennenga on her rearing horse in its center (she was a legendary warrior princess, the mother of the Mossi empires, so her image was ubiquitous), and into downtown Ouagadougou. As I idled in traffic, vendors crisscrossed the street selling bagged limes and small electronic gadgets.

  There my defensive driving training kicked in, and I made a sharp turn against the light and stopped in front of a café that lay between a dirt access road and the busy two-way boulevard. Unable to make the same maneuver, the soldier kept going. He hadn’t been very good at tailing me, so I thought I was supposed to know he was there. Maybe it was a threat. I pushed the XS1 along the access road, rolling over a Democratic Defenders flyer in the dirt, then parked it beside a tree with a weathered foosball table chained there to attract the neighborhood kids. The café was essentially a giant table with a square cut out from the center. It stood beneath a canvas roof and had a few tall metal stools bellied up against it. I sat and looked out at the boulevard, which was strung with one-room ateliers belonging to men selling potted plants, using sewing machines, building cabinets.

  A waiter, who looked like he was ten or so, was kneeling on one of the stools, rubbing the tabletop with a rag. I asked him for a bottle of water, and when he didn’t understand, I pantomimed drinking from a glass. He went under the bar to the fridge there and put a bottle of Coke on the counter in front of me. I took it.

  I’d never thought of myself as having much of a sweet tooth—it was through feeling like I was going through withdrawal in Ouagadougou that I discovered I was completely addicted to sugar. I walked around desperate for it, practically shaking, and celebrated when I stumbled upon a boulangerie within walking distance of the house, only to be devastated when I found that the closest thing they had to cookies were tiny bready wafers that I found inedible.

  A man came toward the café with a radio in hand. He went under the bar, popped up in the gap, put the radio down beside the microfridge, and introduced himself as Asalfo. He was an energetic man in his late twenties with a round face and small pointy ears, who it turned out owned the place. He seemed very happy to chat with me during the morning lull. After hearing me speak he asked if I was American. I nodded and said I was from New York.

  “I have a cousin there. He lives in the Bronx.”

  I nodded again and looked toward the street, keeping an eye out for the soldier. A group of boys appeared, and two began to play a game of foosball; the waiter went over to watch. Asalfo pointed to the radio and told me that it had been broken for a while, but he’d finally gotten it fixed for the anniversary of the Political Orientation Speech. Thomas had given the orientation speech a few months after the CNR came to power, and because it had outlined the guiding philosophy for the revolution, it had taken on symbolic importance.

  Fiddling with the radio dial, Asalfo found the station he was looking for and turned it up to full volume. A reporter explained that he was broadcasting live from Tenkodogo—a town a few hours north of Ouagadougou—and that Thomas would soon speak. Asalfo called for the young waiter to return to the bar. He told me that he wanted to make sure the boy, his cousin, heard Thomas’s speech.

  The voice on the radio introduced Jonas Somé: He was speaking not only in his capacity as the leader of the university’s CDR, but as the president of the National Student Union. I listened to him praise the country’s Committees for the Defense of the Revolution for putting political power back into the hands of common people. He added, “I believe we should establish a more advanced political organization in the country, our multiparty system; we don’t simply have to imitate a foreign system of revolution. That’s what the CNR does now. That’s why their revolution is built on evil spirits and unhealthiness!”

  Asalfo began to boo the radio. “He’s calling the PF a stooge for the Soviets! Do you see, Ms. America! These are tricky, poisonous people! Somé is a reactionary, which is why the ULCR supports him. The party is full of selfish, corrupt men who are threatened by a real revolutionary.”

  Somé finished his speech and was greeted with some light applause. When Thomas’s voice came on the air, Asalfo snapped his fingers and hissed to the boys playing foosball, presumably telling them to be quiet. As I listened to Thomas I felt that same sensation, now familiar, of something opening up, that I had when I’d first heard his voice at the UN.

  Today we celebrate the fourth anniversary of our guide to revolutionary action and ideology—the Political Orientation Speech. It’s the collective achievement of the Burkinabè, of all who are a conscious part of making the democratic and popular revolution. Our revolution is not a public speaking tournament. Our revolution is not a battle of fine phrases. Our revolution is, and should continue to be, the collective effort of revolutionaries to transform reality, to improve the concrete situation of the masses of our country. Our revolution will be worthwhile only if, in looking back, in looking around, in looking ahead, we can say that the Burkinabè are, thanks to the revolution, a little happier. Happier because they have clean water to drink, because they have abundant, sufficient food, because they’re in excellent health, because they have education, because they have decent housing, because they are better dressed, because they have the right to leisure, because they have enjoyed more freedom, more democracy, more dignity. Our revolution will have a reason to exist only if it can respond concretely to these questions.

  When he finished his speech, Asalfo applauded the radio and the boy joined him. Once more, it was impossible to ignore the effect of sitting with people who saw in Thomas a capacity for a brighter future. I felt buoyed by his words, and felt myself turning toward him and his revolution.

  “Homeland or death!” Asalfo shouted.

  “We will win!” the boy responded in thickly accented French. “Homeland or death!”

  “We will win!”

  “The PF is a great man!” Asalfo was smiling at me, his eyes shining. “Do they know that in your country, Ms. America?”

  He obviously wanted me to say yes, so I did as military music began to pour out of the radio. I picked up my helmet and pushed the guilt away. I started up my bike, and headed toward HDF.

  21

  WHEN I SHOWED UP, I FOUND Nicole sitting on the dormitory steps with one of the women who lived at the shelter. In the dining area I could see the cooks squatting near the metal pots resting on a grate above the fire pit. One of them was stirring a pot. The women often had bouillie de mil, a type of porridge.

  Nicole waved at me and I waved back as I started in the direction of Slater’s office.

  “He’s not here,” she called after me.

  “I know,” I said. I went to his office and put the photos on his desk as he’d asked—even though I thought that was a wildly insecure way to deal with sensitive intel—and returned to the front yard. As I was leaving, Nicole called to me. She said, “I’m glad you’re here. I want to talk to you.”

  “Can it wait?” I wanted to get back to the house. Although I knew Thomas was in Tenkodogo—which was four hours away—I was still worried about missing a phone call from him.

  “No. I wanna know: Are you, like, in love with Daniel?” she said, but instead of calling him by his real name, she used his alias.

  I laughed becaus
e of the sheer unexpectedness of the question. “No. We’re colleagues.”

  From where I was standing I could see into the dorm. It looked like just one large room with a bunch of mattresses on the floor. It seemed clean, but also horribly cramped and dark.

  “You can be honest. He already told me the truth.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t care. Really. I mean I care, but not for my sake.”

  “Nicole. I have to get back to the house.”

  The woman next to her said something in Mooré that made Nicole smile. She said, “This is Fatimata. She says hello. She’s only got here yesterday, which is why I’m hanging out with her.”

  “Tell her I said it’s nice to meet her.”

  Nicole did so, then turned back to me. “I want her to know she’s totally welcome here. Even though we didn’t really have the room I couldn’t turn her away. She made such a difficult journey. And, like, imagine having to leave your house ’cause your neighbors think you’re a witch.”

  Fatimata spoke again quickly. She was clearly upset, and Nicole translated her response into French: “She said her cousin accused her because she made him angry. So, like, Fatimata told his wife that he’d secretly married another woman. Which was true! But he managed to turn the whole village against her. They ran her off.”

  I gave Nicole my full attention, resigning myself to the fact that I was being held hostage in the conversation.

  “It’s crazy. All he had to say is that her eyes are red.” She shook her head. “But she’s an old lady, and she’s spent her whole life cooking over a fire, with smoke and everything getting into them. Of course her eyes are red. Her cousin is a bully. I wish I knew this man.” Fury flashed across her face.

  One of the cooks started to clang the dinner bell. Nicole and Fatimata stood as women emerged from the dorm. As they went down the stairs, most of them warmly greeted Nicole. I watched as women crossed toward the blue tarp.

  “All of these women are, like, grandma age, you see that? Maybe their husbands died. Their children are gone. For some reason they were left vulnerable in their village, and some family member decided to take advantage of it. I’d bet a million dollars that Fatimata’s cousin is living in her house now. And I just think: What if that was my grandma, you know? It kills me. I work hard for these women. And if someone were to take Daniel away from this place, they’d ruin everything I’ve tried to build here. And that person would really piss me off.”

  She looked solemnly into my face. I wouldn’t have said I was afraid of her, but she was suddenly more menacing than I thought she was capable of being. She looked toward Fatimata and brightened. Then they both went down the steps and started in the direction of the dining area.

  * * *

  —

  I RETURNED TO AN empty house—Djeneba must’ve gone to the market. I wondered sometimes about the fate of the people who’d stayed in the house before I had, the operations they might’ve been involved in.

  I crossed the tiny white tiles of the living room floor toward the sofa-styled bench, sat, and went back to waiting for Thomas to call.

  I picked up one of the magazines from the coffee table and flipped through it. The cat found me there and curled up next to my thigh. Then Djeneba returned with several bags full of grain, oranges, and a wriggling straw bag that I assumed contained a chicken. She greeted me perfunctorily as she headed to the kitchen. I went to the bedroom. The radio camera was exactly where I’d left it. After dinner, I listened to the news on the radio for a few hours and went to bed early.

  A loud noise woke me up sharply at four thirty. It was heavy banging on the gate, presumably to wake up the night guard. His watch was from 6 P.M. to 6 A.M., but after a certain point in the evening he was only guarding the inside of his eyelids.

  I got out of bed. Quickly pulling on clothes, I left the room for the patio. The night guard was having a hushed conversation with someone at the gate. Then footsteps crossed the pitch-black yard. Three men came up onto the porch: the night guard, Sam, and Thomas. The guard looked perplexed and excited. I greeted them, but Sam pushed past me into the living room without a word. He searched the room. He went to an open cabinet and quickly pawed through it, then held up the Montblanc my father had given me when I’d graduated from college. I watched him pull the top off and examine it.

  “What is this?”

  “What do you think it is?” I said testily. “It’s a pen.”

  “Did you think it was a poison dart, Sam?” Thomas asked as he came into the living room. “You watch too many movies.”

  The room clear, Thomas dismissed Sam and the night guard. We were alone.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “The sun’s not up yet.”

  “I’ve been up for hours.”

  “Well, we can’t all be like you.”

  “Do you know what your problem is? You’ve internalized the lazy conventionalism of the petite bourgeoisie.”

  He’d meant it to be funny—he was making fun of himself as much as he was making fun of me—so I laughed. But it was clear he was in a strange mood. I stood closer to him and saw the violently dark circles under his eyes. He seemed a little manic as his gaze darted around the room. When he finally spoke, he asked, “Have you been to Bangr Weogo yet?”

  “Not yet.” He was talking about a nearby park, the bois that gave Zone du Bois its name.

  “We’re going there now for a bike ride. Morning exercise is one of the few pleasures I have left.”

  I watched him move through the living room, still examining it. “I’ve been here before,” he added. That didn’t surprise me. From what I’d gathered, the embassy used it for visitors or as temporary housing for new employees. He could easily have gone there to visit any one of them.

  “I’m glad you’re here now.” I sat on the sofa.

  “I had the impulse to see you.” There was something defeated in his voice and his posture. “I know what you are, and I know I can’t trust you. But I can’t trust anyone. At least you’re beautiful. And we have a good time together.”

  “What am I?” he said.

  “Relief, maybe. But Sam is here.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. He approached the sofa. Sat beside me with a yawn—it seemed he’d spent all of his manic energy. I glanced at him in profile: His earnestness had been surprising and sad and flattering. I put a pillow in my lap and patted it as an invitation. He smiled a little before putting his head against it. I ran my fingers in his soft hair and touched his cheek. We were fully clothed but it was intimate—I’d never seen such a powerful, energetic man in such a quiet moment. I closed my eyes too. In the silence between us the overhead fan worked loudly. I listened to it and to the quiet night and the steadiness of his breath. The cat appeared from the kitchen, jumped up, and flopped beside my thigh on the cushion. I scratched her roughly between the shoulder blades.

  He rested silently for a few minutes before I spoke. “I saw your friend yesterday.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “The soldier you sent to follow me.” I wasn’t sure that was true. I was testing a theory.

  He lifted his head and looked me in the eye. “I would never waste government resources like that.”

  I believed him. “You look tired. Do you want to rest in my bed?”

  He agreed and I took his hand. He followed me to my room, where I clicked the radio and sat beside him on the bed.

  When I leaned forward to kiss him he pulled back slightly. “You know I know what you are,” he said softly.

  “I don’t know any such thing.”

  He leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, then whispered in my ear. “What’s your agenda here?”

  “I’m working on a project for the embassy.”

  He kissed my cheek softly again and repeated the question.

  I laughed lightly. Not
mockingly, but because it was unexpected. “You’re trying to charm information out of me.”

  “Do you have information to give?”

  “I do.”

  “And what’s that?” He kissed my neck.

  “The United States believes that suppressing political parties is dangerous. You can’t create real democracy in such a situation.”

  “Do you have allies in the country?”

  “No.”

  “Who in my government works for yours?”

  “No one.”

  He kissed me. He was gentle at first, contained, but in the press of his body, I could feel the strength of it humming off him.

  “Who in my government works for yours?” he repeated.

  “No one,” I said again, lying as I looked deep into his eyes. The memo from Compaoré flashed through my mind. I felt complicit in his betrayal—I knew his closest friend was working with us to rob him of the presidency.

  His entire demeanor changed, and he stood abruptly. “You don’t understand this place, but you think you know what’s right for it. Democracy isn’t a thing that you conform a society to. We can’t just import a system from the West. Real democracy has to develop in response to the needs of that society.”

  “Thomas.” He was already at the door, but turned to me. “Have fun on your bike ride,” I said.

  He opened the door. Sam was there, apparently having come back in from the garden. They left the house together.

  22

  I ATE THE BREAKFAST DJENEBA MADE FOR me then went to take a shower. I was in a good mood, humming beneath the spray of water as I planned my day: I’d bring the film to HDF. I imagined Slater congratulating me—surely my photos would be incriminating enough to use in whatever propaganda operation they were planning.

  I wrapped myself in a towel and crossed the living room to my bedroom. When I opened the door I found Slater there. He was lying on the bed, lazily batting the knotted mosquito net.