“You didn’t get the weather report? A big storm is working its way here. If you try to drive to the coast you’ll be blown off the road.”
Nirina’s eyes widen but her voice is firm. “Still, we are leaving.”
“Okay. Let’s assume you live long enough to make it to Tamatave and somehow don’t drown on your way to Mauritius. Then what?”
Walt and Nirina look at each other.
“Wait, don’t tell me. You haven’t thought that far ahead.”
Walt tries to smile. “We’ll think of something.”
I look at Speedy, sitting on the floor. “You’re getting out of here too?”
Speedy shakes his head and smiles. “I am just the driver, Monsieur Robert.”
“You have a car?”
Speedy squints up at me. “Not yet.”
“You’re going to steal one.”
“No, Monsieur Robert.” He tsks at the thought. “A friend is going to steal one for us.”
“Why would someone steal a car just so you can get some American out of here?”
“After what you and Walt did to get us out of prison, all the criminals love the USA.”
“Another key demographic swings our way,” I say. “It’ll never work. The police have set up roadblocks all around the city to keep the riots from spreading any further than convenient.” I turn to Walt. “If you drive into one of them they’ll throw you back in jail, even if they have to build a new one to hold you. And, Speedy, I don’t know how you snuck in here, but they’ll probably nab you when you go out to get the car.” I see that none of this makes any impact with them. “You’re all nuts.”
No one argues the point.
Looking at their determined faces, I remember my pledge to get my life unstuck. The moment has arrived to slam on the brakes or keep going.
“Look, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t go anywhere until then.”
A rising wind rattles my Peugeot as I drive out through the embassy’s main gate. Heavy clouds riding over the city give off an odd yellow-gray tinge, like a deep bruise. Lightning lights the sky and rain begins to fall in sheets.
The windshield wipers can’t keep up as I drive along the city’s deserted streets and turn onto the Avenue de l’Independence. And I suddenly see how wrong Pete can be.
Long lines of policemen have formed up in the wide grassy strip in the middle of the avenue, their thin blue uniforms turning dark in the pouring rain. On the other side of the avenue large knots of sullen young men stand under the porticoes of the old colonial buildings, trying to gather the collective will to do something, milling around like extras in a movie to which no one has yet written the next scene.
Things are spinning out of control in my own life and in this unhappy country. I’m about to break out of the norms that have constrained me for more than twenty years. I might end up dead. At the very least, taking off now, leaving the country without authorization, I’ll likely end up dismissed from the service. The old Knott quakes at the possibility. The new Knott says “so what?” If I stick around for Picard’s ax to drop on my neck, getting fired is the least that might happen to me. Besides, I can always try to claim that by taking off in a storm-tossed boat with Walt Sackett I’m demonstrating admirable zeal in assuring that a persecuted American escapes to freedom. It might even work. Over the years, I’ve noticed that the steady water torture of small mistakes dripping onto the forehead of the Department will get you fired, while total jaw-dropping fuck-ups often go unpunished, as if they somehow imply vision or have short-circuited the crabbed imagination of the bureaucracy, leaving it helpless to act.
These thoughts instill a strange sense of exhilaration as I speed out of town. I can’t suppress a wide smile that speaks even to me of irretrievable madness. But I have one more errand to run before heading home.
Rather than turning up route Hydrocarbure, I head toward Ambodivona, the part of town where Paul Esmer lives.
Esmer answers the door holding his son in his arms. He’s a cute kid, about three. I can never remember his name, but Esmer’s a different guy around him, you can see the love in his eyes. He’s a good dad, a loving husband. I try to remember that when he’s driving me crazy.
If his eyes brighten at the presence of his son, they dim again on seeing me. He puts his boy down. “Go to the kitchen and see if you can help Mommy.” Then he says to me, “What brings you out on this dark and stormy night, Robert?”
I squint ruefully at him. “Y’know, Paul, I was thinking maybe you were right. Last night kind of spooked me. If the offer’s still open, I’d like to borrow that gun you mentioned.”
Esmer looks at me like he’s thinking of telling me, “I told you so,” but I’ve sunk so far in the embassy hierarchy that it’s not worth the effort.
“Sure,” he says.
Leaving me standing in the doorway, he goes down a hallway and comes back a moment later carrying a nine millimeter automatic. He holds it in his open hand. “You pull back this slide to put a round in the chamber. See? I didn’t actually pull it back just now because it’s loaded. If you go around with this tucked in your waistband and a live round in the chamber you’ll end up blowing your dick off.” He hefts the gun. “After you’ve pulled the slide back you just squeeze the trigger for each shot. Fifteen round clip.” After demonstrating once more, he hands me the gun with the air of a dad handing the car keys to a teenage son. “You want an extra clip?”
“No. I just want a little protection. I’m not storming the Winter Palace.”
“Whatever. Just bring it back when you’re through.”
Through with what, I wonder. I make a little wave with the gun by way of thanks, stuff it into my coat pocket and get back in the car.
I arrive home to find Jeanne has cleared out the broken chairs and lamps and thrown blankets over the slashed furniture, doing her best to tidy up the previous night’s wreckage.
I dash up the steps to the bedroom and start throwing things into a bag.
“What are you doing, Monsieur Knott?” Jeanne stands in the doorway. “You’re not going to leave me in this house alone, are you?”
“I’ve got to make a trip. I’m not sure if I’ll be back.” I take a wad of francs from my wallet and open a cabinet in the bathroom, missed by last night’s intruders, where I keep a little more. I shove it all into her hands. “Here, take this. It should be at least three month’s pay. It’s yours.” Trying not to look at her frightened eyes, I kiss her on the forehead and run downstairs, calling over my shoulder, “If anyone calls, you didn’t see me.”
A pounding on the front door. I freeze. I look at Jeanne and cock my head toward the door. “See who it is.”
Deep worry lines form on Jeanne’s brow, but she goes to the door and opens it. “It is Miss Gloria,” she calls to me.
Gloria brushes past Jeanne, her hair a mess, her raincoat buttoned all wrong. “Where’s Speedy?”
I hesitate, but decide I’d better tell her at least part of the truth. “He’s at the embassy.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do so! When I came home he was gone. He’s risking arrest just by going out the door. And I’d bet anything you’re encouraging him.”
I should have known that if she ever fell in love it would be with everything in her overachieving soul. And there would be no lying to her. “He’s going to drive Walt and Nirina to the coast. They’ve got a boat waiting to take them to Mauritius.”
“In this storm?”
“Walt wants to take his chances. Speedy is just doing the driving. If everything goes right, he’ll be back tomorrow.”
She eyes my bag on the floor. “You’re not going too are you?”
“Maybe. Listen, I’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want to explain.”
She stares at me as if I’ve gone crazy. She’s probably right.
I cock my chin in the direction of the distant embassy. “Don’t tell Mom
, okay?”
“Oh, I’m supposed to just go home and keep quiet and wait and see if you and Speedy get yourselves killed?”
“That’s about it.”
“So I didn’t come here tonight. I didn’t talk to you. I don’t say a word to anyone.”
“Pretty simple, isn’t it?”
She sees the finality in my face and can only whisper, “Get Speedy back to me.”
“I’ll do my best. I really will, Gloria.”
Her fists clenched, she leans in toward me. I brace myself for a scene. To my surprise, she kisses me on the cheek. Less to my surprise, she then punches me in the chest hard enough to hurt, and walks back out into night.
A few minutes later, bag packed, I’m heading for the door.
Jeanne takes a deep breath. “Goodbye, Monsieur Knott.”
“Goodbye, Jeanne.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to die, Mr. Knott.”
“So am I, Jeanne.” I wonder at the logic of getting myself drowned or driving off a cliff in a hurricane to avoid getting shot. I try to forge a smile for Jeanne. “Well, small loss.”
I head for the car, but instead of getting in, I walk toward the back yard. I have two guards since the break-in, both new, standing under the cover of the carport. They watch me as I peer through the pouring rain toward the Seuss-like tree on the knoll.
I’ve been told that the Malagasy believe certain trees lead directly down into the spirit world. Could there be a separate tree for each spirit? Maybe this is the one that could have brought me to an understanding of this alien land, the Island of Ghosts, if I’d only walked up to it, touched it, breathed in its unknown scent. But I never tried.
It’s too late. The night is dark, it’s raining, and I can’t see it.
Time to go. Like ice breaking on a frozen river, I’ve begun to move and can’t stop now.
I wave for the guards to open the gate. As I get into the car I shout to them over the pounding rain, “There’s a chameleon who lives here. If you see him, tell him the place is his now.”
Then I pull out onto the street and drive away.
20
The wind blows the rain in horizontal sheets, rocking the car as I head for town in the dark. A few hundred yards from the house, the road takes a downhill turn toward the Route Hydrocarbure, which leads to the city. I try to persuade myself it’s only my frayed nerves that makes the Citroen sitting by the side of the road look as if it’s lying in wait for someone. On the other hand, if my mounting paranoia is slipping me some truth this time, I’ve caught them by surprise, coming in a direction they hadn’t expected after detouring by Esmer’s place.
I turn onto the Route Hydrocarbure and the distinctive headlights of the Citroen blink on and turn onto the road behind me. It takes a lot of crust for Picard to have another crack at me the day after his first attempt failed. But Picard has never lacked for crust.
Would it do any good to tell his two thugs that I hadn’t been joking when I told Picard the money was gone, that I’m not just holding back? Probably not. After ransacking the house, they’d only think I was keeping it somewhere else. And besides, at this point Picard probably doesn’t care. He’s been double-crossed and publicly humiliated, both capital offenses in his personal code of jurisprudence.
Yet my mind still harbors hopes that I’m wrong. I decide to test my hopes against my fears. I step on the gas, the car fishtailing a little in the rain. My Peugeot gradually creeps up to more than a hundred kilometers an hour on a road that doesn’t encourage speed on the best of days. Jarring potholes, hidden by the rain, threaten to break the suspension or destroy a tire. If these guys are intent on murder, that would be the end of me. But so would slowing down.
Slowly, the yellow headlights—one of them must be broken, as it gives off a narrow beam of white—grow larger in the mirror as the more powerful Citroen speeds up. All doubts evaporate. They’re after me.
For the first time, I’m grateful for the cordon of policemen in front of the embassy. Even if Picard’s men might try something in the middle of the city, they aren’t crazy enough to grab me or shoot me, or whatever it was they were told to do with me, in front of half a dozen cops. I need to get there before they catch me.
I thread the Peugeot through the roundabout near the railway station at the edge of town. The Citroen has backed off a little as if uncertain what to do now that we’re in the town. That, more than anything, tells me Picard isn’t with them. Not far now to the embassy. I think I’ve got this race won.
I turn up the Avenue de l’Independence—and immediately stand on the brakes, fighting my car to a slithering stop.
In the time it took me to stop by Esmer’s, run home for a moment, and get back into town, the milling students have found the nerve to turn into a mob, spilling out onto the boulevard. The police, batons held chest high, have turned to meet them and the two lines, police and students, face off at a distance of maybe a hundred feet, trembling across all four lanes, blocking the road.
I grind the gears throwing my car into reverse. The engine whines as I back down the avenue.
With nightmare suddenness, the pursuing Citroen fills my back window. He’s going to hit me. Still in reverse, I slew to the right. The Citroen, its horn blaring, slews left, straight over the curb and onto the grass median.
The front-wheeled Citroen shudders sideways in the wet grass, its wheels spinning, throwing up spouts of mud. I jam my car into first and turn up the nearest side street. Nothing looks familiar. This is a hell of a time to realize I should have gotten to know the city better. I imagine twisting aimlessly on these tiny streets until Picard’s thugs catch me. Blindly, I turn up one street and down another.
Totally lost now, I fish for the grip of Esmer’s pistol in my pocket, ready to go down in a blaze of ignominy. Through the darkness and the pouring rain, I see the brightly painted sign of a Chinese restaurant I’ve been to several times. Suddenly, I know where I am.
Like waking from a nightmare, I turn down a familiar street toward the embassy. A moment later the Malagasy guard is opening the gate for me. I bring the car into the parking lot just as the Citroen appears at the end of the street.
Picard’s men stop, maybe a hundred yards from the embassy. For a moment the Citroen’s lights glow like the eyes of cat, then blink out. They’ll wait.
It takes me a moment to find the strength to get out of the car and dash through the rain into the embassy. Still trying to breathe normally, I walk up to Post One, the Marine Security post at the embassy’s main entrance.
“Good evening, sir.” Rudy Saenz, the Marine on duty, looks at me from his glassed enclosure. “You gotta be a little crazy to drive in this weather,” he says with a smile.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
He frowns momentarily. “Sir, I thought you were still upstairs with those visitors. I was told they were your responsibility.”
I apologize for the misunderstanding and run up the steps to the second floor, still shaken from the Citroen’s pursuit, knowing that its waiting presence complicates my plan.
It looks as if no one has moved since I left. Nirina is resting her head on the arm of the recliner while Walt blinks as if he’s been dozing. Speedy, sitting on his heels, leans against a wall.
I turn to the young thief. “Tell me how you’re supposed to get this stolen car.”
“It will be in front of a restaurant a few blocks away.”
“You don’t think the cops will arrest you the moment you walk out the door?”
Speedy waggles his head uneasily. “They didn’t arrest me when I came in. I think they’re only interested in Mr. Walt.”
Nirina sees the bag in my hand. “You’re coming with us?”
I avoid the question by saying to her, “Tell me what happens next.”
Walt shifts in his chair. “When Speedy pulls up in front with this car, I guess we’ll just get in and drive away. Pretty simple,” he says, as if trying to convince me—or hi
mself.
“It won’t work. You’ll never get through the roadblocks between here and the coast.” I turn to Speedy. “Go down and ask the Marine to buzz you out the front door so you can fetch the car.”
Walt looks puzzled. “Didn’t you just say—”
“Trust me.” Speedy’s on his feet now. “When you go past the Marine on Post One,” I tell him, “just say, ‘Goodnight, Corporal.’ In English. He’s new. He’ll think you’re one of the local employees going home.”
Speedy experiments with the phrase. “Goodnight, Corporal.” He tries it again with a different tone. “Goodnight, Corporal. Corporal, good night.”
“You’re not after an Oscar. Just say the words. Once. When he lets you out, get this car of yours and bring it up to the gate of the embassy parking lot. I’ll tell the guard to let you in.”
Speedy gets to his feet, a faraway look on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“I wish Miss Gloria could see me now.”
Young love. “She’d have you arrested for posing as an embassy employee.”
He laughs. “Yes, she’s a very serious woman.” He pulls his straw hat low over his face. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
My God, I think, he’s having fun.
“Wait.” Speedy stops and looks at me. “I need to make a change in your plan. After you bring your car inside, I want all of you to get into mine. That’s the one you’ll drive out.”
“You figure we’re better off in an embassy car?” Walt asked.
“That’s only part of it. There are two guys in a Citroen waiting for me out there.” I can feel Nirina’s eyes on me. “They work for Picard,” I tell her. “I think they mean to do me harm. When they see my car leaving, they’re going to follow—especially if you pull out quickly. Speedy, I’m asking you to draw them away, stay ahead of them until you get to the Hotel Colbert. Pull up to the curb there and stop. I’m pretty sure they’re going to come up to the car. You have to let them. When they see it’s you, they’re going to ask where I am. You tell them you have no idea, that I asked you to take my car and you don’t know anything more. They’ll head back here as fast as they can, but it’ll be too late. I’ll be gone by then.”
Madagascar Page 20