Facing the Son, A Novel of Africa

by M L Rudolph

  The driver was soon zipping up the heavily-traveled lagoon highway toward the Plateau neighborhood where Matt and Sally started their shopping expedition. Within minutes he turned into a tree-lined street and stopped in front of a French colonial building, set far back from the street behind a concrete block wall. An American flag snapped in a breeze. Along the sidewalk, clusters of Abidjan natives turned their flat stares toward the Mercedes and its disembarking passenger.

  “I wait,” Jacques said. He pointed ahead to where the street dead-ended at a busy intersection. “Là. Là-bas. On the side. I wait there.” And he let Matt out by a turnstile leading to an arched entry.

  Until now, Matt had spent his entire life in a single Indiana town, his news centered on the tri-state area where ninety-nine percent of the people he dealt with were Americans. Behind these tall walls he would find similar Americans who’d understand his problems and know how to get him back on his feet. Men and women on his team. Who spoke his language. Who could make things happen.

  A local man dressed in Western business attire occupied a security station by the turnstile. “Your passport, please,” he asked in formal, clipped English.

  “I’m here to report a crime,” Matt said by way of introduction.

  “Yes, sir. Name.”

  “Matthew Reiser. I was mugged. My passport and money were stolen. Along with my suitcase and everything in it.”

  “Yes, sir.” The fresh-faced man didn’t show surprise or emotion. He pulled a numbered badge from a hidden drawer and slid it across to Matt, then directed him through a courtyard toward a sign marked Consular Services.

  Inside an anteroom securely walled-off from the rest of the building, Matt explained his case to a second young man who sat behind bullet-proof glass, and who also wore Western business attire and spoke English with an American accent. He directed Matt to fill out some forms, including a Statement Regarding a Lost or Stolen Passport.

  When finished, Matt spent a silent hour on a hard chair examining the official portraits of President Jimmy Carter, Secretary of State Cyrus Vance, Vice President Walter Mondale, and The Ivorian Ambassador, some guy named Monteagle Stearns—that was a good one—who the hell named his kid Monteagle? All four men grinning like a pack of hyenas.

  Matt didn’t vote for Carter. Still didn’t like him. Ford hadn’t been much better. If only Nixon hadn’t imploded. A peanut farmer staring down the Soviets? Melanie said every time his name came up. With that high wattage smile? What’s he gonna do, blind them? Matt couldn’t wait to hear her reaction when he told her Carter’s grin apparently graced every waiting room in every embassy in every country in the world. Something neither of them ever imagined. She’d get a kick.

  A big American clock with sweeping second hand counted off the wait time as the minutes piled up toward the top of the hour, toward four o’clock, or a solid hour of sitting under Carter’s toothy grin. Matt stood up to make sure he hadn’t been forgotten just as an American voice called his name.

  A steel door made a solid metallic crunch and out walked a Consular Officer with his own brand of welcoming smile. A fresh-faced young man in blue oxford cloth shirt, red club tie, and navy jacket over freshly pressed khakis grabbed Matt’s hand with a yank. “Mr. Reiser. Chandler Bigelow.”

  Kept waiting nearly an hour beyond his appointed time, then greeted like an old chum.

  “You’ve had terrible luck.” Bigelow said this like it was a good thing.

  “Well, yeah,” Matt said. Still shaking Bigelow’s hand, astounded at the welcome.

  “I read your correspondence file. I see you’ve been telexing us, asking about your son, Karl Reiser. PCV? Right?”

  “PCV?”

  “Peace Corps Volunteer. Sorry. We abbreviate everything. Come on back. Let’s see if we can help you.”

  Inside Bigelow’s plain square office, he bade Matt sit on a simple wooden chair in front of his government-issued desk. Photos of American landmarks decorated the wall behind him. “When’s the last time you had contact with your son?” he said casually.

  “In person, or…?”

  “Any sort of contact.”

  “We got a postcard after he graduated from Indiana University about three years ago.” Matt smiled, certain his countryman would understand how bizarre, or possibly sad, that sounded.

  “And in person?”

  “It’s been over three years since we’ve spoken.”

  Bigelow scribbled a note in an open file on his desk.

  “His mother has cancer. Her…situation prompted us to try again to get in touch.”

  Bigelow looked up and set down his pen. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, the room suddenly quiet.

  “He wouldn’t have made it through twenty-seven months out here with the Peace Corps without learning his way around, you know,” Bigelow said, as if answering the unasked question. “Chances are he’s fine. We’d have heard something otherwise.” He almost sounded convincing.

  “When his mother learned she was dying, she wrote a letter. It became really important to her that I give it to him, but the letter was with my passport. I lost it with everything else. But even without it, I’m going to find him.”

  Bigelow pulled a telex from the open file on his desk and handed it across.

  Matt scanned the carbon copy note and read the last line out loud. “Last known mailing address US PC Bamako. Patricia M. Byrnes, CONS. Who’s Patricia Byrnes?”

  “That’s the Ambassador. Everything goes out under her name. A friend of mine sent it. Deke Fletcher. He’s my counterpart in Bamako. We were in the same officer training group at State. If he knew anything, he’d tell me.”

  “So that’s who I should ask for when I go up there?”

  “By all means. I’m not sure he can tell you any more than that, but sure,” Bigelow said. He jotted a note on the file. “I’ll let him know you might be asking for him.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Matt thought for a second. “There must be more info you keep on Americans in country, isn’t there? Don’t they register with you? I was hoping you could help me track him down.”

  “It’s not like that. If he would have listed you among his emergency contacts, with the Peace Corps that is, then they would have answered you by now. Just the fact they wouldn’t give you an address means he didn’t list you, so you see, they can’t release his information to you.”

  “But I’m his father. And this is an emergency.”

  “Yes, but he’s an adult. Unless he puts you down.…” Bigelow trailed off. “I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, then,” Matt changed tack. “I guess I should concentrate on getting a new passport. How long is that going to take?”

  “Not too long, if you can prove your citizenship. Did you report the crime to the local police?”

  “Why should I go to them? Not like I speak French. Anyway, I thought you guys would be more helpful. I didn’t think getting them involved would amount to much.”

  “All the same, we require the police report number on the DS-64.”

  “The what?”

  “This report you filled out.” He held up a preprinted form full of Matt’s handwriting.

  “So you’re saying I have to get a local police report to apply for a new passport?”

  “Well,” Bigelow drew out the syllable as if it was a curtain hiding a family secret. “It is required. We don’t get involved in matters involving local crime. But we want the crime on record. In the case of stolen passports, we let Interpol know. American passports are in demand by certain criminal elements. Who knows? Maybe the information from your theft will provide a critical bit of information about the people who deal in stolen passports.”

  “Can’t I just report it here? To the Embassy, I mean. Unless you’re telling me the local police are going to help me get my stuff back. I just need a passport.”

  Bigelow dropped his eyes to Matt’s paperwork for a moment. “We can issue an Emergency Passport, but according to what you w
rote here, you don’t have any other form of ID.”

  “I have nothing.”

  “And I’d guess, since you’re traveling alone, you can’t produce another American with a valid passport to vouch for your identity.”

  “That would be right.” Matt didn’t like where this was going.

  “Another option is to ask for an original copy of your birth certificate to be sent from the States, but I’d imagine that wouldn’t fit with your time frame.”

  If this junior diplomat was going to give him bad news, why didn’t he just come out with it? Matt was short on patience at the best of times. He’d lost everything and been kept waiting for what? To be told there wasn’t anything this young buck could do? Matt scooted to the edge of his seat, ready to storm out, but, well, where would he go? Where else could he take his problem? He listened in growing frustration to his well-groomed countryman.

  “I will tell you this. My first project here was to locate a thirty-six year-old male, Amcit….”

  “Amcit?”

  “Sorry. American citizen. Texan. Last seen getting in a taxi outside his hotel.

  “I spent months on the case. Couldn’t locate a trace of the guy. Was headed out for a meeting with a mid-level functionary at one of the government departments but never showed. Next day he failed to turn up for a breakfast meeting. His bed hadn’t been slept in.

  “Nobody has seen him since. Already eighteen months ago.

  “I’ve seen people get lost for extended periods, disappear temporarily into the hospital system, or just take off on their own without telling anyone. But eventually everyone turns up. If not here, then somewhere else. We get word. But this Texan. I mean. Not a trace. His wife, his company, his parents, they all came here to look for him….” He spread his arms across his desktop, opening up to his full wing span. “Think of it. Gone. I still can’t accept it. If I can’t find him, how am I supposed to help?”

  If Consular Officer Chandler Bigelow wanted to show sympathy for Matt’s search for his son, this anecdote wasn’t working. Matt leaned in ready to interrupt, but Bigelow kept talking.

  “There are a lot of different ways to describe this job. Not everyone would agree with me, but I like to look at my role as helping people who are far from home, and who are temporarily cut off from their usual resources. If you will, I provide a temporary bridge to those resources.” He closed the file on his desk and slid it to one side. “So here’s what I can do for you, Mr. Reiser. Since we’ve corresponded prior to today—with those telexes you sent here—and since it’s clear to me that you are who you say you are, I’ll vouch for you.”

  Matt’s head snapped at the unexpected offer.

  “That means we can issue you an Emergency Passport valid for one year.”

  “I’m, uh, thanks.” That was a load lifted.

  “And as of now your old passport is cancelled, listed as stolen.” Bigelow pulled at his collar, loosened his tie, and leaned back in his chair as if he’d just put his stamp on an important document. “I wouldn’t vouch for you if I couldn’t credibly defend it, you know.”

  “I really appreciate this,” Matt said. “I knew if I could just get to the Embassy.”

  “You’ll need to come back with two passport photos, fill out a DS-11, and pay $7. Then I can walk through the temporary while you wait. You do have cash don’t you?”

  “Some. But that’s another thing.”

  “Western Union.” Bigelow pulled out a sheet of paper and passed it over to Matt. “Here’s a list of banks, Western Union offices, and the like. You’ll probably want to wait until you have your new ID. Then take your pick.”

  Bigelow stood. “I hope I’ve been able to help you Mr. Reiser.” He shot his hand across. “See you tomorrow then. And don’t forget to bring a copy of the police report.”

  Chapter 6

  The late afternoon sun threw deep shadows between the skyscrapers and the air conditioning blew cool in the back of the Mercedes. The embassy meeting went far better than expected. Chandler Bigelow, despite having a name that put Matt in mind of a prep school brat with a sense of entitlement as large as his trust fund, showed unexpected empathy and went the extra mile.

  Reflecting on the embassy visit, Matt was glad he missed the earlier phone call with Melanie. She always picked up on his mood, and if he’d told her about the mugging, she would have fretted about something over which she had no control. Now he could give her the good news with the bad.

  Matt relaxed enough to enjoy the drive south along the lagoon highway. In the distance, the Charles De Gaulle Bridge surged with traffic and abounded with street life where he’d hiked shoeless and exhausted after being ambushed by that spineless chauffeur at the airport. But that was yesterday. Today he was on the mend, seeing Abidjan with the eyes of the traveler, beginning to wonder about the people who lived here. He caught sight of two men poling a dugout canoe at the edge of the lagoon, aiming toward the deep green foliage of an opposite shoreline where modern buildings jutted above the jungle fringe.

  “Where are you from?” he asked Jacques.

  “Bamako,” the driver said to the mirror.

  “I was headed there next,” Matt said, reminded of his stolen plane tickets. “Was supposed to fly out day after tomorrow.” It would cost him, but he could probably resurrect his original itinerary with the help of the concièrge.

  “You have family there?”

  The driver nodded. “My wife.”

  “Any children?”

  His eyes lit up the mirror. “A boy.”

  “How old?”

  He held up two fingers.

  “Why did you come to Abidjan?”

  “To work.” He pointed at the steering wheel.

  “No work in Bamako?”

  “No money.” He rubbed his thumb across his fingers.

  “Do you go back?”

  “Oui,” he nodded. “One time.”

  “You see your family once a year?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “That’s tough. Do you fly? Is it an easy flight? I mean, to get a seat on short notice? Not too expensive?”

  “I drive.” He patted the steering wheel.

  “Drive?” It didn’t seem like a realistic option. On the way here, Matt flew over vast tracts of jungle and empty desert. “What are the roads like?”

  “Good. Not so good. Bad.” He shrugged.

  Matt considered this. “How long does it take?”

  “Two days.”

  “You like the drive?”

  Jacques met Matt’s eyes in the rear view mirror, answering with a look that said it didn’t matter whether he liked the drive or not. Then he screeched to a halt, a bang at the hood. The blazing sun at the windshield. Matt flew forward into the seat.

  Jacques had briskly turned the Mercedes up the hotel drive with an eye on Matt and obviously hit something. Jacques pulled the handbrake. Matt scrambled out to see what happened.

  A moped lay beneath the front bumper. A young man frantically kicked to free himself from under the car. Matt instinctively reached down to help and recognized the oafish boy from yesterday’s lovers’ spat with Sally.

  An orange taxi wheeled into the drive and skidded to a stop narrowly avoiding a rear end collision with the Mercedes. The taxi driver leaned out his window, honking and gesturing furiously.

  A hotel maid breathlessly burst from the entrance, waving her arms and yelling in French.

  The boy on the ground gripped Matt’s arm for support, righted his bike, and hopped on the seat in one swift motion, knocking Matt viciously backward into Jacques and making space to roll his moped down the drive between the Mercedes and the hotel. The maid approached, yelling. Jacques dashed around the other side of the car as the rider kick-started the bike and desperately threaded the narrow space beside the stalled taxi until he zipped into the street. Jacques ran down the center of the drive in pursuit and disappeared around the corner of the building.

  At the hotel entrance a
small crowd of guests and hotel employees had gathered. The screaming maid stopped in front of the Mercedes and turned to the mystified Matt. She raised her fists, shaking with rage, and screeched at him.

  “The hell did I do?” was all Matt could think to say.

  Inside the lobby the concièrge station was abandoned so Matt tried the lone receptionist at the front desk.

  “The accident just now. Out front. Do you know anything about that?”

  The young clerk responded with utterly unhelpful friendliness.

  “That maid who ran outside. Why was she so angry?”

  “I cannot say, monsieur. Can I help you with anything else?”

  Matt could feel she was playing dumb. “Is the concièrge here? Jean-Louis?”

  “He is busy elsewhere, monsieur.” Not a muscle twitched in her face.

  “Can you tell him I’m here?”

  “Voluntarily, monsieur. But I believe he is occupied.”

  “Can I leave him a note?”

  “Of course, monsieur.” She motioned to a hotel notepad.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  She pulled one from out of sight and graciously placed it on the counter.

  Matt wrote: Jean-Louis, Please call me ASAP. Matt Reiser

  Then he reconsidered and added: PS. Embassy went well, but need police report. Can you help?

  He folded the paper and handed it to the clerk. “Now. If you please, I’d like to place a call to the United States.”

  Early that night after a shower and a simple room service dinner of pepper steak, fries, and a Coke, Matt was finally put through to Melanie. The phone connection echoed with crackles and whees that intensified the feeling of separation.