In bed the Chief Inspector had bad dreams each time he dozed. He drank coffee in his office, sat heavy in the chair behind his desk while Everett Doyle paced impatiently about. As the Minister for Internal Planning, Doyle spoke with the Chief Inspector daily now, demanding updates on the strike and rebels in the hills, comparing notes and strategies. “About these rumors?” he asked.
“Talk is all,” the Chief Inspector refilled his cup. His office was panelled in old wood, nicks and knots darkly stained, a few random plaques hung on silver nails. “There’s always someone saying something,” he shifted back in his chair. “I’ve heard a dozen rumors today already.”
“All of which might be true.”
“Take your pick,” the Chief Inspector yawned. “Each is as good as the next.”
“And yesterday?”
“The bombings have nothing to do with the strike.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Doyle came toward the desk. “It’s all the same. All NBDF. Nothing But Dumb Fucks. We should arrest every last one of them.”
Warez set his coffee down and rubbed his face. “We’re exploring our options. We’ve arrested plenty.”
“What about those in the hills?”
“I’m a policeman, Everett. Insurgency I leave to the General.”
“It’s all insurgency,” Doyle resumed pacing. He had nervous hands, even when stuffed into his pockets his fingers managed to crawl out. He went to the window and glanced down at the street, calculated once more the money lost each day during the strike. “We have to do something.” His pug dog face stretched north and south. He turned to Warez and asked again, “What are they up to really? If you have information, Franco. If you know what’s going to happen.”
The Chief Inspector held up his hands, too tired to laugh. The whole of what there was continued to expand. He shifted his body deeper in his chair and on squeaky hinges answered, “Christ, Doyle, this is Bamerita. If you haven’t figured out by now what’s going to happen, my telling you isn’t going to help.”
CHAPTER 6
By mid-summer nearly all of our foods and fuels and daily staples were gone. If our strike had legs, they were wobbly now. I had to shave my head with old razors, the hairs cut back, pulling and snagged at the root. Katima would lather my scalp with the nub of soaps, would work the razor around as if guiding the blade of a damaged plow over rough fields. “There,” she said each time she finished, kissed my head and patted me down with a towel. Not once did she suggest I simply let my hair grow out, understanding why I couldn’t, as foolish as it seemed, the way it would look to others and what it would mean to me.
Soon more cracks in our solidarity appeared. Teddy’s dealings with America, the loans he took, his sale of our businesses and natural resources, our farmlands and mineral deposits and exportation of Bamatine, our bottled water drawn from the sea, gave him leverage when he asked the States to assist in putting our movement down. We heard rumors of American soldiers being sent in, of troops coming to protect western interests, and rebels in the hills being ready to fight. The hardship of our strike lead to much second guessing. I rode my bike around the capital, offered encouragement and answered questions as best I could. As part of my pitch, I told people what Gandhi said of his own efforts to mount peaceful resistance, first in Newcastle and then in Champaran and Ahmedabad, how those committed must be willing to endure unconditionally until the very end. I did not tell them what else Gandhi said, how “Those who can not summon courage enough to take this line of action should return to work.” This they seemed to figure out on their own.
In July, a handful of stores, small groceries and restaurants broke ranks and reopened for business. Those loyal to our strike threw bricks at their windows, while others came and bought meat and sugar, new shoes, tobacco and toilet paper. Teddy sent his soldiers in to protect the shops, had their shelves restocked with imported foods and goods, promised additional provisions to families who also quit the strike.
Discouraged, I thought of what else I could do, considered fasting to rally support, though I doubted people would care about me starving when they were hungry themselves. Such enterprise was likely to be construed as desperate, and what if by chance my fast caused friends to panic and resort to violence? How foolish would I feel then, as Gandhi regretted most when his passive protests lead to bloodshed in Delhi and Bombay, in Ahmedabad and worse, as Don Pendar noted, in Jallianwalla Bagh.
I returned home early one evening and found Don Pendar waiting for me in my front yard. “This is for you,” he handed me a newspaper clipping. “For posting,” he pointed up at my tower. We’d spoken little since the start of the strike, both of us busy with different concerns. The article he gave me described a recent rebel attack in Columbia where the National Liberation Army had coordinated a large offensive, killing nine soldiers in an ambush along the Panamanian border in Choco Province. I folded the clipping and put it in my shirt pocket. The shadow from my tower fell between us as I wiped my forehead and offered Don Pendar a glass of water. “We’ve bottled a few gallons. Come inside.”
“No, thank you,” he stepped further into the shade and out of the sun. “If you don’t mind, we can talk her e.” His clothes were rumpled, his hair brushed by fingers, his skin creased with dust. He looked thinner, standing there with his shoulders held back and eyes wide.
“Alright,” I took off my sunglasses.
Don Pendar said, “About the strike. We’ve all been patient, André.”
“Patience is good.”
“It isn’t working.”
“A few rough patches, nothing we can’t fix.”
“Enough is enough.”
“In another week or so.”
“Things will only be worse,” he walked toward the edge of my yard, glanced down the street then came over to me again. “All of this,” he bent forward as if to make himself heard more clearly. “We need you to call it off. People will listen if you tell them. At tonight’s meeting,” he said.
“Seriously now,” the idea was out of the question. I took a half step back and began countering Don Pendar’s request with a more positive review of our strike. He refused to listen. I stopped talking, suspicious then, and holding my arms to the sides asked, “What exactly are you up to? What’s going on?”
After he told me, I put my hat back on, pushed my sunglasses up over the bridge of my nose and replied as calmly as possible. “This is what you’ve come up with? This is what you want me to call the strike off for? I won’t do it.” The sun found my neck above the collar of my shirt. As I turned, my shadow shot out sideways as if it, too, were eager to escape. I excused myself, moved toward my house, said “There’s nothing for us to discuss. Did you honestly think I’d agree to help you with such a ridiculous plan?”
I went inside and turned on the tap in the kitchen, clearing the air from the pipes. The water was not restored, though the electricity was back on. Upstairs I used a basin full of water saved in the tub to wash my face and hands, then stood for several seconds with my face in a towel, before dumping the dirty water into the toilet and returning downstairs.
Katima came in as I was resetting the electric clock in the kitchen. She had eggs, oranges and two tomatoes for our dinner. I turned around and found her dressed in a bar maid’s costume, complete with busk and boned corset, a white chemise and blouse with puffed shoulders and neckline dropped to expose half her breasts. A red and green velour overvest was laced across her middle, her skirt cut above the knee, her high black boots with sharp stiletto heels surrounding shin and calf.
“What’s this?” I stared, hoping there was a simple explanation.
“You like?” Katima in front of the counter, put her hands above her head and did a pirouette high up on her toes. “These nice soldiers gave it to me.”
I tried not to panic, asked only, “When are you scheduled?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And you’re wearing it now?”
“I thought you might like
to see. We may as well get some use out of it.”
“But you can’t,” I shook my head. “It isn’t safe.”
“Safe or not, I won’t go because we’re on strike,” Katima came and squeezed my fingers, twirled once more in her costume then went to the counter, wiped down the cutting board and began slicing the tomatoes. “It’s ok,” she said. “Teddy will make sure enough people show. He won’t miss me.”
I set our plates on the kitchen table while Katima mixed the eggs and tomatoes in a large green bowl, and worried still, I said, “He’ll know you weren’t there. He keeps track of these things.”
Katima reached for the cooking oil, said what I already knew. “Teddy doesn’t need my name on a list to do whatever he wants.” She’d cut her hair short, the sun and salt waters having lightened the color, producing flecks of orange and streaks of sandy roan.With all the pools closed, she swam in the sea, out just beyond the first breaks and back. Her healthier clients joined her on the beach where Katima exercised them in the shallow roll of waves, coaching them without charge in deference to our strike. I went with her at night sometimes, after our meal, taking our bikes back into the capital as Katima stopped and checked on house-bound patients and families she knew were having a rough go.
All the gas in our neighborhood remained off and we relied on the small propane tank Ali brought over. I lit the line he showed me how to run through the stove’s top burner. Katima warmed the oil and cooked the eggs with bits of fried potato saved from yesterday’s meal. Once the eggs and potatoes were done, the bread placed on the sides of the pan and lightly toasted, we sat at the table and ate. Instead of discussing how Teddy had resumed filming with people pulled from their homes, how the American director brought in remained a mystery, and whether American soldiers might soon arrive, we tried other topics, spoke of Anita in the States safe from harm and how glad I was for this. I finished my eggs, moved my plate to the side and reached for Katima’s hands.
I wanted to tell her about Don Pendar, the way he and others got it in their heads to seize the main warehouse and parts of the Port in order to kick start another revolution, but I hesitated. The redundancy of all that was happening felt overwhelming. I thought of myself twenty years ago and here again now, such an old rebel and widower, a one time agitator, no longer fearless and newly in love, a father pale and wanting, worried and wondering what to do. “I love you, you know?” I said, not for the first time but differently here. Katima across the table, tipped her head, put down her fork and asked, “André, what’s wrong?”
Ten minutes later I was outside, in the heat of the evening, peddling north on my bike. I passed Roland Avenue, used my key to unlock Emilo’s door, carried the leftover fried potatoes wrapped in foil, an orange and half a tomato. Emilo was in the front room, his canes beside the chair, his casted feet resting out in front of him, the bottoms black and flat from being dragged along the floor. I put the potatoes on a plate and began searching for a clean fork. “Pour me a drink, will you?” Emilo’s voice was raspy, the air inside the apartment stale, the front window closed.
I brought his food, checked the whiskey left in the bottle he paid one of the neighbor boys to deliver. “There are ways to keep lubricated even during a strike,” Emilo boasted, his mouth seeming to move in three different directions as his lips stretched and curled.
“Under the circumstances, I expected you to be drinking Port.”
Emilo gave a crooked grin. “Pendar?” “Just now,” I handed him the glass, opened the window, let in fresh air.
He put the plate with potato in his lap. “You shouldn’t be surprised. From day one, it’s always been a matter of time.”
I didn’t agree and told him so. “The only thing inevitable is what will happen if we start a war. It’s crazy,” I said of Don Pendar’s plan. “None of it will work.”
“And still,” Emilo held up a piece of potato on the end of his fork. “Logs on the fire, André. You can’t stop what’s set to burn.”
I left Emilo’s and rode across Unamuno Boulevard, where soldiers stopped me twice at checkpoints. My ID was reviewed against a list of names kept on a clipboard, the time of my arrival recorded, my destination demanded and written down as well. Halfway up Chetlan Avenue I passed Aaron Pemu’s bookstore, the windows shaded and the front door padlocked. Aaron had opened his store shortly after the War of the Winds, had done well with his business until Teddy overthrew Dupala and began marking texts for censure: copies of Gunter Grass, Mark Twain, Vonnegut and Marlraux, Salman Rushdie and Italo Calvino. Aaron cleared his shelves of all such works, turned banned copies over to the soldiers who came to inspect his shop, built secret shelves behind his basement wall to stash additional copies for reading and resale. Three days before our strike began Aaron’s store was raided, a dozen newly smuggled copies of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ One Hundred Years Of Solitude found hidden among the other books. Aaron was arrested and sent to Moulane Prison where we failed in our effort to get him out.
I rode around the far side of the University toward All Kings, which was built in the flat between two slopes a half mile away. In climbing the first hill, I struggled near the top, got off my bike and walked. The view from the crest overlooked Crasilia Park just east of All Kings. Statues done in bronze and stone and blackened iron were set along the footpaths, images of past leaders, larger-than-life casts of deposed presidents Jaope, Alsenda, Kenefie and Dupala, Jai Datisa and King Polanay. The most enormous of all was a silver and steel likeness of Teddy in full military vestment placed in the center of the Park, in a clearing where people took their dogs to piss.
I came down the hill, left my bike at the front of All Kings and went inside to find Ali. The building smelled of boiled cabbage and wet shoes. Ali and Feona were in the cafeteria serving watery soup and small slices of fruit to a hundred or more children crowded about. I kissed Feona, then asked Ali if he could take a short break. We walked down to one of the empty classrooms where Ali stood by the window, the last of the day’s sunlight glowing through. “You look thin,” I said.
“And you.”
“But on me it looks good,” I patted where the soft roll of my stomach used to be.
Ali asked about Katima. I removed my hat and placed it down on the nearest desk. From the hallway the sound of children laughing reached us, followed by several young boys r unning. “Listen,” I cleared my throat and told him my news.
Ali shifted back from the window, the sharpness of his features illuminated. As a child, when troubled, he had a way of drawing his mouth in tight and hollowing his cheeks. He did this then, telling me as I finished, as if he had somehow heard my conversation with Emilo, “I’m not surprised. About all this,” his voice went flat, then rallied a bit, as if trying to find it’s rhythm. “Feona and I have been thinking. Whatever happens we’re making arrangements.”
I didn’t understand. “What arrangements?”
Ali pointed toward the hall. “There are too many kids here now. We can’t keep track of everyone. Some of the boys have gone missing. The soldiers are crazy. We don’t have enough food. Feona and I want to move as many kids as we can before it’s too late.”
“Wait. Slow down.” Again I said, “I don’t understand. What do you mean move them?”
Ali went to the board at the front of the room and found a small piece of white chalk. “We’ve lined up a boat to get us past the patrols, out beyond Kaprischo Point and through the Straits,” he drew the corresponding references. “If we can get some of the kids to the coast.”
“You want to move them through the Straits?”
“That’s right.”
“And then what?”
“A group I’ve been in touch with will help them resettle.”
“What group? Who’s boat? Where exactly?” I walked between the desks toward Ali who promised as I came near, “It’s doable.” He set the chalk back and returned to the window. “If we can get even a few kids out of the country before things fall apart it will
be worth it.”
“But things aren’t going to fall apart,”I started in, then stopped myself, rolled my hands over and asked, “Who’s boat is it?”
“Adeki Moore’s uncle.”
Adeki was a friend of Ali’s, though the uncle I didn’t know. “And he’s willing to help?”
“He’s being paid.”
“I see,” I used the chalk to draw a dollar sign on the board. “And the Straits? And the patrols? How familiar is your captain with them? Has he navigated these waters before, now that Teddy has cut everything off? Do you have the necessary information or are you just leaving things to chance?”
The sun outside had slipped behind the hill, its glow fainter. I approached the window while Ali addressed my concerns with, “It’s the best plan we could come up with.”
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