Oil on Water

by Helon Habila

  —The kidnappers brought her here four days ago, and yes, one of them was the Professor. We try as much as possible to keep out of their way, and they leave us alone. We don’t talk to them, or to the army. But they brought the white woman, here. I objected. But he said they only came because she was seriously ill, and they knew we had a nurse here. They said they’d be on their way in a few days. Well, after two days some of them set out in a boat. They had two boats, and they set out in one, about seven of them, including the Professor. The woman was attended to by our nurse, who diagnosed a fever and diarrhea. We waited for the rest to leave, and when they didn’t I went to their hut and asked what was going on. They said they were still waiting for the Professor to return. They looked uneasy. Well, as we were talking, the Professor came in, with only two men. The rest, he said, had been killed in the fight with the soldiers. He was wounded but he wouldn’t sit. He said they had to leave at once. I left them, then . . .

  The priest stopped speaking and stared silently at the fresh mound of earth in front of us.

  —Then what? Did she die?

  —He came to me just before they left. He brought me here and said, They will come looking for her, if they do, show them her grave. This is for the men they killed. Maybe this will teach them not to mess with us in the future.

  —I DON’T BELIEVE HIM.

  —But he wouldn’t lie to us, surely . . .

  —That’s what I find confusing. Why would he lie about a thing like this?

  I shared Zaq’s feeling. Something didn’t feel right. Not in my wildest dreams did I ever think our quest would end so suddenly, with an unmarked grave in a shrine. Zaq said nothing more all day. He lay on his mat, facing the conical thatched roof, a second bottle in his hand. To my questions he gave only monosyllabic grunts. I slept and woke up around five p.m. I picked up my camera.

  —Where are you going?

  —Taking a walk.

  —I think you should go meet that nurse.

  —Gloria.

  —Ask her what she knows about the Englishwoman.

  —What if she doesn’t want to talk?

  —Didn’t I tell you she likes you? Hold her hand. Kiss her. Just get her to talk. It’s very important. Don’t you like her?

  —She’s a very pretty woman, Zaq.

  I TOOK PICTURES of the cemetery, making sure I had a close-up of the fresh mound of earth, then I turned my lenses to the sculptures. Afterward I walked about aimlessly, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gloria, but I did not see her anywhere. I went and sat on the hill to stare at the water and the faraway gas flares that emerged suddenly from pillarlike pipes, holding up their roof of odious black smoke. I thought of so many things, of the priest’s words, of the white woman, dead and buried all this while, of Zaq’s offer. When I got tired of thinking I descended to join the worshippers for dinner. I found Gloria in the spot where we’d eaten yesterday.

  —I was just coming from your hut.

  She looked beautiful, her smile cheerful.

  —Did you meet Zaq?

  —Yes. He was quite chatty today. I think he’s recovering very well. Just keep him away from the bottle.

  I wondered what she and Zaq had talked about. I wondered what her story was, why she wasn’t married, or if she had been married before.

  —Have you eaten?

  —No. Actually, I’ve been cooking and I was going to invite you and Zaq to come and eat at my place. But Zaq said he wasn’t hungry.

  —So—

  —So you have to eat for both of you. Come on, let’s go.

  I followed her through a path in the woods and after a few meters it was as if we had stepped into a different dimension, away from the sea and sculptures and huts and worshippers. The tall iroko trees shaded the sun completely, and whenever a single ray found its way through the million leaves and branches and fell on our skin or on the dead leaves below, it looked so pure and startling, as if it had been refined through a thousand sieves. But at last we came out of the foliage into the busy village: sudden, noisy, alive with movement, and with smells from a hundred pots in a hundred kitchens. The roads were dusty and open, the houses few and well kept—they had verandas at the front and narrow windows that let in the noise and dust. We passed men seated on chairs, their heads bent, their mouths open, sleeping away the afternoon as chickens poked around for tidbits between the legs of the chairs.

  Gloria’s room was in a huge, rectangular compound with a leafy gardenia tree in the center. She said there were very few such tenement houses in the village, since there wasn’t much need for them, the village being without any form of industry to attract outsiders. Almost every house was a family home. The shrine was the main industry, and after it came fishing. Sometimes outsiders visited the shrine and took pictures of the sculptures. Sometimes they rented a room for the night in the tenement compound. None of her cotenants seemed to be about: the thick wooden doors were shut and silence hung in the air like the black smoke from the faraway pillars.

  It was a tiny room, and, seated in the only chair, I constantly had to move my feet out of the way as she bustled about to get me something to eat. In a corner was a table with a few jars of body cream, and a hairbrush, and a mirror and a cup with toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste. The wind through the small square window played with the flimsy curtain.

  —So, tell me about Zaq.

  —What do you want to know?

  —Have you two known each other long?

  —No, not really. This assignment is the second time we’ve met.

  —He told me that . . . that . . .

  —That what?

  She turned away, avoiding my eyes, moving about as she spoke, picking up things and putting them down again. She placed a plate of jollof rice before me.

  —He said you told him that you think I’m attractive?

  —Well, yes. I think you’re attractive.

  She smiled and shook her head and for the first time she stopped moving. She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel she was holding, then she hung the towel on a hook. I went over to her. I put my hand around her waist and drew her against me. She turned her face as I tried to kiss her and my kiss landed on her cheek. She looked at me.

  —I’m much older than you, you know. And—

  —And?

  —I have a fiancé. In Port Harcourt.

  Slowly I let my hands slip down from her waist. But she took my hands and put them firmly around her hips, pulling me against her.

  —Are you so easily discouraged? Aren’t journalists supposed to be very, very persistent?

  I tried again, and this time she let my lips descend on her open mouth, her eyes fixed on mine. I spent the night with her, in her narrow bed, and all night long she held me tight, as if to stop me from slipping away in the dark. I woke up once and saw the wind lightly shaking the flimsy lace curtain on the window, and I felt as if the wind were blowing through the fields of my mind, gently stirring up particles in forgotten corners. Then I went back to sleep.

  —TELL ME ABOUT the Englishwoman.

  It was morning. I had dressed but she was still lying in bed, the sheets drawn up to her neck. I could see the outline of her breasts beneath the sheets.

  —Naman told me you were going to ask me that.

  —And?

  —And he said to tell you all I know.

  —We’re reporters, Gloria. It’s our job. You’ll be helping us. Zaq and me.

  She sighed and stared at a hanger on the wall over her bed bearing her nurse’s uniform, white and crisp, waiting to be worn.

  —Well, what do you want to know?

  —Tell me about the woman. You attended to her when they brought her here.

  —Yes. She was in the room where you’re staying now.

  —Naman showed us her grave
. Could she have died from natural causes?

  —She was weak and dehydrated. But that wouldn’t have killed her.

  —Did she talk to you, anything in secret, anything at all?

  —No. I attended to her only once. There were men holding guns in that room. Wearing masks. I was too scared even to look at her properly. I wouldn’t recognize her if I saw her again.

  —Then what?

  —Well, afterwards one of the men walked me out and told me if I talked about the woman or about the men to anyone, terrible things would happen to the community, and it would be my fault.

  —How many were they? Did they talk to you?

  —About ten of them. They stayed for only two nights, and they kept to themselves. They talked only to Naman. They left not long before you first arrived.

  —I don’t know what your plans are, but her death could mean big trouble for the community. As soon as we report it, the police and army will be here. They’re sure to arrest some of your people as accomplices. You have to think of leaving here, at least until this thing blows over. Think about it.

  She appeared unhappy talking about the kidnappers and the white woman.

  —It just doesn’t make sense.

  —What?

  —Her death. It was so sudden. She didn’t look like she was dying.

  —Maybe they killed her accidentally. Maybe she attempted to escape. I have to go now. Zaq will be waiting for me. We have to decide what to do.

  —Will I see you later?

  —Yes.

  THE NEXT NIGHT, around midnight, Zaq woke me up holding a lamp close to my face. He sat down beside me.

  —Our job is to find out the truth, even if it is buried deep in the earth.

  I watched him, an ominous feeling creeping up my chest. He had a crazy look in his eyes, I could smell the drink on his breath, and he hiccuped as he gave his little speech.

  —This is something we must do. You have no choice. Without this our mission will be incomplete. Come with me.

  And, half excited, half petrified, I followed him. The night was silent, broken only by the faraway sound of waves beating against the shore, and what might have been the call of bats or owls or other night birds. We walked through the ranks of the staring statues, which was rather like running an ominous gauntlet, a staring match with the unblinking, unmoving figures. At the edge of the sculpture garden was a toolshed whose rusty lock Zaq effortlessly broke with a single twist. He handed me a pick and a shovel and we set out for the cemetery. I was cold, whether from the chill air or from nerves, I wasn’t sure. Zaq’s portly frame strode before me purposefully, holding up the lamp as if it were a shear cutting through the dense foliage of night. When we got to the white woman’s grave he squatted down beside it, the lamp still in his hands.

  —Dig.

  As I dug he took out the whiskey bottle from his pocket and filled his mouth, and when I paused for breath he handed me the bottle.

  —Drink.

  I drank.

  I drank to make myself insensitive to the accusing ghost eyes in the light’s fringes, eyes whose glow seemed to pierce through my body to my very soul, and with every mouthful, every shovelful, I grew as excited as Zaq, and in my mind I repeated his phrase: Our job is to find out the truth, even if it is buried deep in the earth. I giggled. Already I could see the inch-high headlines: KIDNAPPED BRITON DISCOVERED IN SHALLOW GRAVE. Not as aesthetically accomplished as his nuts-and-bolts headline, but, word for word, much more compelling.

  It was a shallow grave, too shallow to cover a body, I saw that right away. In my mind I had already braced myself for the smell of rotting flesh, the sight of a worm-infested corpse, but all we found was a stone. A huge round boulder sitting insensate, incognizant, like a corpse. Whoever made the false grave had a sense of humor, it seemed. Zaq surged forward when my shovel hit the stone with a dull metallic sound that resounded like a gunshot in the quiet night air. I collapsed onto the mound of earth I had created, breathing noisily through my mouth, the warmth from the fresh earth rising up my body, soothing, reassuring me that the punishing dig was over. I watched him put down the lamp and, like a dog unearthing evidence, he got down on his hands and knees and carefully pushed aside the sandy soil around the stone.

  —Take pictures.

  I took pictures.

  —You knew there was no body?

  We headed back to our hut.

  —I suspected.

  I could feel the exhilaration in his voice, in his jaunty steps. In the room, after we had washed and settled on our mats, he kept tossing and turning and getting up to walk up and down. At last he lay down and closed his eyes.

  —I’d better get a good rest. Tomorrow we leave. We may not be safe here anymore.

  —I don’t think the priest would do us any harm . . .

  —No, not the priest, but what if he’s being watched?

  He was lying on his back, staring up at the roof, taking occasional swigs of his whiskey.

  Finally, he blew out the lamp.

  —Get some sleep, Rufus.

  13

  —Your friend, I am sorry to say, is dying.

  The Doctor was an overweight cherub and when he breathed he did so with painful effort through his mouth; the wheezing and spluttering sound accompanying it was loud and unpleasant. He was dressed in the same military fatigues and boots as before, but this time without the grubby white jacket, and whenever he leaned forward the shirt buttons across his fraught midsection threatened to pop. The shirt was wet under the armpits. He smoked incessantly, and as he spoke his words came out shrouded in cigarette smoke. How did he manage, in the midst of such aridity and want and barrenness, to look so fat, so gross? But as he spoke, and as I listened, I soon forgot his physical appearance. He was intelligent and sympathetic, philosophical almost, his tiny eyes seeming to probe deep into his listener’s soul, searching for whatever ailment was plaguing him.

  Out of a vague sense of decorum he had led me out to break the news, away from the feverish eyes of the soldiers, and from the sleeping Zaq. He offered me a cigarette and when I shook my head he nodded approvingly. Now we were walking back and forth on the edge of the water, and we kept swatting at the midges and flies that flew out of the grass at our feet.

  —What exactly is wrong with him, Doctor?

  —Have you ever heard of dengue fever?

  I hadn’t.

  —It’s a hemorrhagic fever, very dangerous. It kills very quickly if not treated immediately.

  —Is that what he has?

  —No. It’s a similar strain, quite new, still nameless. I’ve come across it only two or three times before in this area. Bugs and the water, you know.

  —You mean he won’t live?

  He avoided my perplexed gaze and waved his hand around, embracing the whole visible universe in his gesture.

  —Somewhere in these godforsaken waters, that’s where he must have picked it up. There’re plenty of bugs flourishing here. And he was in pretty bad shape to begin with. I suspect his liver is gone already.

  He wiped his sweaty forehead, giving me a full view of his armpit. I felt an irrational hatred for him and nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to puncture his overfed middle and calmly watch whatever stuffing was inside pour out.

  —Well, you have to do something about it.

  —I’m afraid I can’t. Not with the tools I have here. You’ll have to take him back to Port Harcourt, to a proper hospital.

  —I’ll talk to the Major. We need transportation immediately.

  —You could try, but I doubt he’ll help you in any way. He’s not a very obliging kind of person, I’m sorry to say. Do you know, I saved his life, that’s how I ended up here as the doctor, and yet even I can’t be sure of him at any time. Mercurial, that’s wha
t he is. Unpredictable. It’s the oil and the fighting. It affects everyone in a strange way. I’m going to write a book on that someday. I’ve been in these waters five years now and I tell you this place is a dead place, a place for dying.

  He pointed at the faraway orange sky. —Those damned flares. There weren’t that many of them when I first came here. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been here all my life.

  —Well, then, what are you saying, what should I do? My friend is dying. Tell me what to do.

  —Ah, it is not easy . . .

  Happy to find a listening ear, he grew talkative. I could imagine how he must have spent his days here, hunched over his beakers and blood samples, his speculative, philosophical observations met by the groans and whimpers of soldiers.

  A leaner, more idealistic man, he had been posted to a village not far from here five years ago, fresh from medical school. The old doctor, who was about to retire, met him at the boat and had boys take his bags to his new quarters, a spacious hut near the dispensary. The next day the old man showed him around the village and the two-room dispensary. The village consisted of not more than twenty families, and each family’s ailments had been neatly recorded and filed in the old doctor’s shaky but neat handwriting and stored in alphabetical order in files kept in two formidable-looking iron filing cabinets in the back room.

  —It was a small village. At first I was lonely, and daily I thought of nothing but how to work my way out of that posting, but I soon grew fond of the place and the people. Anyway, the old doctor, before he finally bowed out, took me from door to door, and to the neighboring communities, introducing me to the people. I set up mobile clinics in my boat, I held educational classes in churches and schools, talking to teachers and pastors and community leaders. But I soon discovered that the village’s chief discontent was not over their health; they were a remarkably healthy people, actually. One day an elder looked me in the face and said, I am not ill. I am just poor. Can you give me medicine for that? We want that fire that burns day and night. He told me that, plainly, pugnaciously.