Facing the Son, A Novel of Africa

by M L Rudolph

  It was nearly dark now; the mechanic had got the job done by nightfall. Matt admired Jean-Louis. He created a village event from which everyone would take away something valuable: a little extra money, an introduction to the mystery of engine repair, or the memory of a little girl’s innocent glee.

  Later, after the mechanic drove away in his flatbed truck, the mothers herded the children back inside the enclosure where they all gradually settled in for the night. Matt and Jean-Louis shared a dinner with Madaadi of fried beef, millet, mango, and banana. While they rested on their mats in the old man’s hut, the far-off sound of a scooter pierced the night.

  The boy returned from Koudougou with news of the American Karl Reiser.

  Chapter 37

  At Monday daybreak, outside Madaadi’s hut, the old man was reading to a group of boys from a worn French paperback when Matt approached to thank him for his hospitality.

  “I want you to know when I find my son,” Matt said in English. “Somehow, I’m going to get word to you.”

  Madaadi’s eyes brightened as he nodded, and though the old man didn’t understand, he communicated his good wishes through a rough handshake. Last night, Madaadi had watched Matt’s reaction at learning Karl’s whereabouts—the look of disbelief transformed to gratitude as the cloud of uncertainty lifted and Matt first hugged Jean-Louis, then the boy, and finally Madaadi.

  Matt woke today feeling like he’d struck it rich and wanted to share his wealth with the children of this village who lived with so little and looked forward to so much less than the teens he taught at Harrison High. The hardscrabble African existence was no longer merely a grainy photo on a postcard, but now a community to which he owed his well-being, if not his survival.

  “What if?” he let go of Madaadi’s hands, “a book?” He tapped the French textbook. “What would be best? For them?” He motioned to the boys. “I’d like to show my appreciation.”

  The boys sat watching this exchange.

  “Français?” Madaadi asked.

  Matt nodded in agreement. “Français. Yes. Sure. French primers. How many?” He flashed his fingers. “Ten? Twenty?”

  Madaadi laughed and held up his thumb.

  “Twenty?” Matt took the thumb for an okay sign.

  Madaadi shook his head. Raised his thumb again.

  “I don’t understand. You say oui,” he held up a thumb, “and you say no,” he shook his head.

  “I’ll send twenty.” He flashed his fingers again. “And not just French. I’ll send some history books and geography and literature. I could send books every few months, like for semesters. I’ll develop a curriculum.”

  “You will make him happy if you agree to one French primer,” Jean-Louis interjected, walking up behind Matt.

  “But, it wouldn’t take much. We could establish a small library.”

  “If you want to thank him then you need to listen to what he says. Agree to one French primer. It is a grand idea.”

  Matt’s inclination was to insist—what could be wrong with sending books, loads of books, to an intelligent man who knew how to use them? But the old man’s earnest aquamarine eyes, the simplicity of his request, told Matt that overwhelming him was the wrong approach. It would be arrogant to impose his will.

  “Maybe two?” Matt said with a smile, holding up two fingers.

  “Okay,” Madaadi said, and lifted his thumb once more.

  Chapter 38

  It took Jean-Louis and Matt less than a half-hour to reach the rugged town of Koudougou. There the road returned to asphalt for the remaining forty miles to the capital city of Ouagadougou. Everything ran smoothly and Matt’s spirits soared with his knowledge of Karl’s whereabouts. For the first time since his arrival, he had a destination: a water project two to three hours northeast of Ouaga.

  The overhead sun dominated the late morning. Pedestrians, bikes, scooters, donkey carts, jitneys, compact sedans, buses and long-haul trucks competed for right of way along the dusty-red main road leading to the center of town.

  “Fifteenth century local hero, Wubri, leads his tribe to defeat a neighboring tribe that was always invading. Then in honor of the battle, Wubri names the place Wogodogo, meaning where people get honor and respect. Four hundred years later, the French, the fucking French, you know I got to like that Kolarik, the fucking French take the local name and make it theirs like everything else they found here.”

  Jean-Louis slowed at an intersection where a broken down donkey sat in the middle of the road tethered to a small cart stacked high with brush. A young boy in a neon green shirt whipped the glassy-eyed beast—dark welts crisscrossing the animal’s mangy pelt. Scooters swerved past the exhausted animal, horns bip-bipping in protest.

  Jean-Louis raced in front of an oncoming bush taxi, regained the right lane, then veered north away from the center of town. He followed a wide urban boulevard through a densely inhabited section of the city, crossed an earthen dam traversing a small lake, then followed the road on the north side of that lake where long grasses and well-nourished trees added character and color to the terrain.

  At the end of a second earthen dam sat the Hotel Silmandé with its lush grounds and tennis courts. Jean-Louis parked in the smooth tree-lined parking lot next to polished Peugeots and Toyotas and Renaults and Fiats.

  The two road-weary travelers got out of the Mercedes with its crumpled grill, brutalized exterior, and cock-eyed headlights, and marched into the clean and spacious hotel entrance.

  The rugged men ignored the sideways glances from the hotel staff. Mud had dried deeply into the fabric of Matt’s horribly wrinkled clothes. His boots left a trail of pulverized river mud on the polished marble floors. A dark beard covered his face. Jean-Louis’s mucky kaftan clung heavily to his sweaty back. Fine red dust infiltrated his hair and sweat streaked his cheeks and neck.

  “We’d like a room,” Matt said to the pretty receptionist with the puffy silken neckerchief.

  She responded with an uncertain scowl.

  Matt pinched his nostrils. “Something in here stinks.” He cupped his hand over his mouth in an effort to smell his own breath.

  “You may be right,” Jean-Louis said and grimaced. “But if I was you, monsieur, I would not throw stones, or whatever you say. You could knock a vulture off an elephant carcass.”

  The image of an ugly carrion-devouring vulture rendered unconscious from his bitter body odor struck Matt as the most bizarrely ludicrous image he’d ever heard, and he burst out laughing. For the first time since he’d been mugged he found something funny. He pictured the buzzard keeling over from the half-eaten rib cage of an elephant, imagined the sight from different angles, the look of shock, of horror, on the bird’s ugly mug as it gasped its last gasp, stiffened, and fell over backwards. He lost his poise and grabbed the counter in a bout of laughter.

  The sight of Matt losing control infected Jean-Louis with the same fit of hilarity. The bewildered face of a tan-suited Frenchman, greasy thin hair pasted to his pate, a tiny Tic-Tac visible between his crooked teeth, only added to the absurd humor of the moment.

  Matt doubled over and leaned forward at the counter to catch his breath.

  “Watch your head, monsieur,” Jean-Louis said and blew out another laugh. “You don’t want to bruise your brain….”

  The men locked eyes and laughed the harder, indifferent to the reactions of the hotel employees and guests.

  The sight of the mirthful mud men caught the attention of a manager from a nearby desk. Along with two emotionless colleagues in blue dashikis, the manager approached the two roughs yukking it up in his lobby.

  “Messieurs,” the manager said with polite firmness, holding up an arm as if herding children. “Veuillez….”

  Jean-Louis quickly regained a bemused composure and interrupted the manager.

  —I excuse us. We are on a very long trip exploring the region and our car, we broke down. We haven’t eaten or slept for days. This American hotelier, Monsieur le Vice Président Ma
tt Reiser from the metropolis of Fort Wayne, Indiana, he is on a special mission for his very large American hotel company. He is scouting properties for a very large major investment by his very large American hotel company. If you would give us your best suite with a good view of the lake, Monsieur le Vice Président Reiser would, I am sure, be happy to include your excellent property on his list of investment calculations.

  Jean-Louis slapped his Ivorian passport on the reception desk. —And of course, Monsieur le Vice Président will pay cash in advance.

  “Phone call,” Matt said. “I need to order the call to Melanie.”

  —And Monsieur le Vice Président will need to order a call to his headquarters in Fort Wayne, Indiana. If you would put it through to our suite, where we will be ordering a late breakfast. And our clothes, of course. We will need them cleaned as a matter of priority, please.

  The manager shared a look of incredulity with his receptionist, but, as the conditions of entry had been met—identification and money—he agreed to accommodate these two odd men, and so indicated to his staff with a deferential and sweeping gesture of welcome.

  Chapter 39

  The air-conditioned junior suite on the fifteenth floor of Hotel Silmandé included a shower with hot water, soap, and cotton towels. Simple luxury.

  Matt napped on the king until the laundry returned his clothes with apologies for the state of his vest and slacks. “Impossible, monsieur.” His shirt, underwear, and socks, though, came back washed and folded, his boots meticulously brushed mud-free.

  Jean-Louis bought a short-sleeved cotton shirt and a new pair of denims at a hotel shop; he stuffed his muddied kaftan and clothes into a plastic sack for later repair. Then he dialed up a pot of coffee, a fresh basket of madeleines and toast with marmalade, tamarind juice, and two large chilled bottles of still water.

  Later, rested and refreshed, Matt sipped his coffee while overlooking the copper earth and manicured grounds of this hotel property at the edge of Lake Ouagadougou. “Surreal,” he said, as he watched a fisherman pilot his pirogue across the silken surface of the lake.

  “Which part, monsieur?” Jean-Louis sat on the pullout sofa in the sitting room, peeling a small grapefruit.

  “The suddenness.”

  “I paid a surcharge, if that is what you mean. They are always waiting for work in the laundry.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean looking down on that world from this world up here.”

  “Yes. It is a good hotel.” He concentrated on sectioning his grapefruit.

  “I guess you could say that about any first class hotel,” Matt mused. “Looking down on the street life below. But it’s more extreme here. It’s either dirt poor or filthy rich. Nothing in-between.”

  “But as you can see, the dirt is rich.” Jean-Louis bit into a wedge of grapefruit.

  “That fisherman. He probably lives in a hut like Madaadi.”

  “Probably does.”

  “And will never know this view.”

  “Probably will not.”

  “And everyone who stands here like me will never know the view from inside that fisherman’s hut.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” Jean-Louis said, chewing. “You Americans surprised to discover Africa is a real place, or the fucking French,” he smiled at his new locution, “who know very well we are real, but go right on fucking us. Which do you think is worse, monsieur, the naïve or the profane?”

  “You’re going to piss me off again with that naïve talk.” He finished his coffee and parked his cup and saucer on the room service tray. “There are plenty of places in the world I don’t know anything about. And the same for you. What do you know about Bangladesh, for example? Or Bolivia? Probably about as much as I do?”

  “Ah, but I don’t go to those countries and tell them how to run their affairs.”

  “Neither do we.”

  “Not true. Our poverty opens the door for all of you—the French, the Soviets, the Chinese, the Germans—to fight your proxy wars. You’re all the same. Paying for influence, control. And there is no shortage of open palms willing to take your money.”

  “Not surprising with everybody’s hand out.”

  “Naïve once again. You think we are the only people in the world who use money to get things done.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t take bribes to coach my team. I’d get tossed out on my ass. Here it’s business as usual.”

  “Can you tell me you never put a boy on your team that did not belong there? Perhaps the boy’s father came to see you privately, or the boy belonged to a family you knew well.”

  “It’s a game. We teach discipline, fitness, teamwork. Everyone contributes. Everyone learns.”

  “That is not what I asked. I am sure every boy learns. But did you select only the best boys, or did one or two get on your team who were not there for ability but for your relation with their family? Answer that question.”

  Matt grabbed a small banana and decapitated it. “Listen. I don’t know your country as well as you do. You don’t know mine. But I never had to grease the wheels at home like I’ve seen it done here. And if that attitude goes right to the top of the country, to the president, it’s no wonder there’s nothing between the fisherman in the pirogue and the minister in the Mercedes.”

  “Mali and Upper Volta are the poorest countries in the world,” Jean-Louis said. “For those of us born here, we work with what we have. If you were born here, I am not sure you would be that different from me.” He offered a piece of grapefruit. “Would you like some?”

  “Thanks. No.” Matt looked back down at the fisherman dragging his net alongside his pirogue, and tried to imagine what it would be like to balance on the water to pull in a living wage. “If I lived here…I suppose I’d teach.”

  “And if I lived in America? What would I do?”

  “Whatever you’re trained for.”

  “Ah. So I could be a concièrge. Or perhaps a thief,” he said with a smile.

  Matt turned to face Jean-Louis. “I can’t accept your involvement with that gang. Nothing you say can change my mind, no matter how difficult life is here. There’s no justification for preying on tourists, or anyone else. But,” he stepped in front of his traveling partner of the past seven days, “I’m glad I got to know you and your family.” He extended his hand. “Even under these circumstances. And thank you for sticking with me, for bringing me here.”

  Jean-Louis considered the outstretched American hand for a moment, then stood up and took it. “I thought you would not last,” he smiled. “But you fight when you have to. I did not expect that from you.”

  “Well, that’s progress of a sort,” Matt said, and not comfortable extending this moment of male affection, he stepped back. “Now let’s get dressed and go find Karl.”

  Downstairs in the lobby on the way to the car, the receptionist called out for Jean-Louis. —Your telephonic communication to Indiana has gone through, monsieur. Will you take it now or must I order it for a later time?

  “Your call, monsieur.” Jean-Louis stopped Matt at the door. “Will you take it?”

  “I was hoping to have Karl with me,” he said, hesitating. “But yes. Of course.”

  Upstairs, the phone was ringing when Matt reentered the junior suite.

  It was the next door neighbor, Annie Perry.

  “Where are you? I tried to call you in Mali, but…,” she said right away. “I’m so sorry, Matt.” She paused, sobbing. “Melanie died Saturday night.”

  Matt, stunned, couldn’t make sense of the news. He’d just spoken with her. “But she said she was feeling better, getting stronger. She sounded happy. She said you were going for walks.”

  “She said what?”

  “She said you walked in the rain. It was fresh, refreshing, she said.”

  Echoes of overseas pings and scratches filled a brief silence before Annie said, “We tried, Matt, but she didn’t, she couldn’t make it past the end of the drive.”

  �
�I don’t get it.”

  “Since you left, Matt, she’s barely been able to get out of bed. Her last chemo just knocked her out. I thought she told you that.”

  “No. Just the opposite. She was getting better.”

  “I checked on her every day. I saw her right after your last call on Friday. Talking to you gave her such a boost. Like that was the climax of her day. But when she finished she fell back and took oxygen immediately afterwards.”

  “But she promised.”

  “What?”

  “She promised she’d tell me if she took a turn for the worse.”

  “She said you found Karl. And you were going to put him on the phone the next time you called. That’s why you called today isn’t it, Matt? You found Karl.” Annie trailed off, her hand muffling the sound of distant sorrow.

  Matt could picture Melanie sitting up in bed taking his call; but he’d also imagined her striding around the block, her arms swinging over her long and beautiful legs, breathing deeply, soaking in the fresh air and sunshine.

  “She wanted so much for you to find Karl.” Annie came back on. “You two are so alike, she said. Neither one of you would ever take the first step, so it was up to her.”

  Matt took Melanie’s letter out of his passport pouch and set it on the bedside table: To Karl, in her handwriting on the lilac envelope.

  “She promised.”

  “I can have the doctor call you. I’ll call her as soon as we hang up. Would you like that, Matt? I’m sure she’ll call.”

  Matt found himself going through the motions of reading the number from the phone, but stopped midway. “Never mind,” he told Annie. “Nothing she can say will make any difference.”

  “She was so proud of you and Karl. She was building up strength for the next call. It’s what she wanted more than anything. For you and Karl to be together.”

  Matt heard himself thank Annie, tell her how much Melanie loved her, then he listened to her sobs as they said goodbye. Afterwards, he sat on the sofa and stared at his distorted reflection in the TV screen until Jean-Louis came back up to the room to check on him.