Bite

by Nick Louth

  Her eyes flicked up and narrowed, assessing him. ‘Henk said it was you that invited me. Why?’

  Max’s throat dried up. ‘There is a good reason.’ He couldn’t just confront her about the theft, here. She might run, or…Max imagined the damage the big guy could do. ‘I saw you at the workshop. You seemed interested in art.’

  She smiled, and folded her arms. ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘No. Really.’

  ‘Was it you on the ladder?’

  ‘Yes.’ Max started to drain the remainder of his champagne.

  Lisbeth watched him. ‘Did you invite me because you want to have sex with me?’

  For a second Max inhaled his drink. He coughed and spluttered, shaking drops off his hand. Lisbeth produced a handkerchief and mopped his shirt. When he got his breath back, everyone was watching him.

  ‘Full marks for directness, Lisbeth,’ he whispered.

  ‘I am Dutch,’ she shrugged. ‘We say what we think. It saves a lot of time.’

  ‘If that’s what you think, then I guess you wouldn’t have come unless…’ Max realised the dangerous direction of his words.

  ‘Very big assumption, Max. I might just like art.’

  Max ducked the stare and glanced at the big guy, who was now lounging on a couch with a bottle of champagne grasped by the neck in one meaty paw, and an art magazine open on his lap.

  ‘Does your boyfriend like art?’

  ‘Janus likes sculpture. But he isn’t my boyfriend.’

  ‘What is he then?’

  ‘Many years ago someone who loved me went away, and asked Janus to look after me until he returned. Months later, bad news came from abroad, my lover had died. At the funeral, Janus promised me he would look after me, always.’

  ‘That was a nice gesture.’ Max guided her towards one of the huge windows, and looked out over the darkened rooftops, the canals as smooth as oil. He sipped his champagne and let the bubbles fizz on his tongue. ‘To be honest I invited you because we hadn’t had many people walk into the gallery in the last few days, and we wanted to make sure we had a chic crowd for tonight. And you seem pretty cool to me.’

  She stared into his eyes, as if trying to divine some hidden meaning from him. ‘I see. Like an extra in a film, then?’

  Max laughed. ‘Yeah. Except you don’t get paid.’

  Behind Max the floorboards groaned. Lisbeth’s gaze left his face and moved high over his shoulder. Max didn’t have to turn around to know who was standing there.

  ‘Max, meet Janus,’ Lisbeth said. ‘European power-lifting champion in...1999 wasn’t it, Janus?’

  ‘It was 1998,’ Janus said, switching the half-full champagne bottle to his left hand and with his right briefly swallowed Max’s hand to the wrist.

  ‘And how many champagne bottles could you lift in 1994?’ Max asked, looking pointedly at the Moet et Chandon.

  ‘More than you drank in your whole life,’ he said, swigging from the bottle. ‘And I still can.’

  ‘Maybe we can use you to shift the empties outside to the garbage later.’

  ‘Sorry, I thought this exhibition was about the garbage you shifted inside.’ Janus’s dark eyes danced.

  ‘He’s very droll isn’t he,’ Max remarked to Lisbeth. ‘Where did you find such an amusing Dutchman?’

  Janus shrugged. ‘I’m not Dutch. I was born in Belgium of Slovak parents. And I do not like your work.’

  Max smiled. ‘That’s your privilege. Art is a matter of taste. Not everyone can appreciate the unfamiliar.’

  ‘Unfamiliar? No. Too familiar. Your figures are weak imitations of Giacometti, the settings obviously derivative of Caro. Your welding is messy too.’

  Max had run out of niceties. ‘But I see you are enjoying my champagne.’

  ‘Yes. Surprisingly good.’ Janus held up the bottle and examined the label before turning to Max. ‘But that is one thing you didn’t make yourself, I believe.’ He turned to Lisbeth. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  At the door an ever-attentive Henk handed Lisbeth her jacket and scarf. Max took Lisbeth’s arm and whispered. ‘Can I see you again?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  She smiled and flicked her scarf gently into his face. ‘So I was right.’

  Janus stepped up and put a big protective arm around Lisbeth. As he guided her to the door he looked over his shoulder. The dark eyes locked on to Max’s and for a moment neither man moved. Hostility crackled between them before Janus turned away.

  Max showed them to the door and listened to the rapid percussion of footsteps, one set heavy and one light, fading out down the stone stairs.

  You know something is happening when the forest goes quiet. I had awoken early, and wrapping my sarong around me, had come down to the lily pond to bathe in privacy, to see the flowers and to think. There were monkeys moving above, hooting and grunting, crashing through the branches and a pulsing buzz of crickets.

  A shrill call from a bird silenced the monkeys. Not a branch stirred. The insects’ whine seemed to be throbbing inside my head. The monkeys’ fear chilled me too, and I picked up my sarong from a bush and wrapped it tightly around me. I felt I was being watched but could see nothing among the slanting shadows of the canopy and the damp, heavy foliage.

  Distant voices and the crack of machetes carried from the forest beyond. It was four hundred yards back to the village, the first half steeply uphill, the last half flat but exposed. I thought it safer to hide, and ran to the edge of the pool, squatting down in the cover of bushes, with cool mud oozing between my toes.

  I had been looking at him for some time before I saw him, just five feet away. I gave a little gasp of surprise to see a western face, striped with mud, staring at me. He held a finger to his lips and widened his eyes to emphasis that I must stay silent. I took in his filthy Zairian Army fatigues, his shaven head, huge rucksack and the thin unwavering barrel of a stubby gun pointing at my forehead.

  The voices and machetes came still closer, and my heart began to hammer. I turned to the face for guidance, and a mud-caked hand beckoning me to lower myself flat into the mud. I did as he showed me, and he winked his approval, before turning to face the direction of sound.

  There were about twenty of them, walking in single file into the clearing. Mostly they were bony adolescents, wearing flip flops, ragged shirts and stained shorts. A few wore boots and carried heavy worn-looking rifles instead of machetes, and two older ones carried squat weapons which looked like mechanics’ grease guns. Many were struggling with heavy packs or metal boxes.

  They moved to within ten yards, then stopped, volubly discussing their route. After plenty of pointing they veered to my right as if to follow the valley upstream and skirt the village. One gangly and tired straggler of about twenty years remained behind, dumped a battered ammunition box on the grass and walked towards my bush. He pulled up the leg of his shorts and urinated noisily into the leaves. It was only when he looked down to stow himself that he saw me.

  He got only halfway through the inhalation of surprise before my companion pounced like a leopard. One moment the youth was standing, the next he was folded into a close embrace, his head resting tenderly on the man’s huge shoulder. It was only when I saw the long jagged knife pulled from under the youth’s ribcage and the hand clamped over his mouth that I knew what had happened. The whole silent process of ending a life had taken perhaps four seconds.

  The man picked up the dead youth in one arm like he was a bundle of sticks, and with the other clenched the wound, keeping it at the highest point of the body. He laid the corpse in the mud between us, drew his knife again and sliced off the left ear. He smiled at my horrified expression, and stuffed the bloody morsel into a bulging plastic bag in his pocket. I watched him stand, then rest his boot on the young brown forehead, forcing it down until ochre water rolled into the open mouth, and washed over the soft brown eyes with their fine long lashes. He trod the body into the goo leaving only an outline of
raised mud. He waved his hands towards me, urging me to slop mud over the body, to break up the outline of the corpse.

  Revolted, I opened my mouth to refuse. He hissed at me to be silent. His narrowed predator eyes flecked yellow and brown in the sun as if they too were part of his camouflage. He pointed to the body then wrote four letters in the mud: KPLA. Perhaps he had saved my life. I had my little part in the cause of this death, so did as I was told. Then I wiped my muddy hands all over my legs and arms, smeared my hair and sarong, starting to think like a guerrilla. He nodded with approval.

  The soldier scanned the bush, then stepped over to the metal box. He opened the hinged lid and looked inside at what first appeared to be dozens of dull green, metallic fruit. He picked one of the hand grenades up, squinted at it. A thick pin went through the top of the grenade, with a ring on the end. To this ring he tied a foot long piece of wire, then buried the grenade under the others so only a few inches of wire protruded. With his knife he broke the hinge on the box. He tied the wire to the underside of the lid, then replaced it, and closed the catch, checking that the damage to the hinge could not be seen.

  He pointed to my toothbrush and facecloth, so I picked them up immediately. The soldier pointed deeper into the bush in the direction the KPLA had come from, so I followed him. Buzzing flies appeared. Under a bush was a body in Zairean uniform, its face pulped and crawling with blood-coloured ants. A little further was the sign of a campfire, the ashes still glowing.

  Five minutes later a huge explosion rocked the forest and we could hear screams, shouting and sustained gunfire. The soldier pushed me to the ground, then crawled forward, concealing himself behind the corpse. Five teenage KPLA boys came running down the path, spattered in blood, wailing. The soldier’s gun coughed for a moment, then there was no movement, only a pale blue flip flop now dangling and dancing from a bush.

  I lay sobbing for a few minutes while the soldier got up and headed back up the path. I heard his gun twice more in the distance, then nothing. I waited, trembling, for ten, fifteen then twenty minutes. Carefully I made my way back towards Zizunga, up the path to the pond and the stink of burned human flesh. My beloved glade was now an abattoir, the pretty pale-blue flowers scattered with glistening meat and shreds of clothing. A jagged piece of metal box protruded from a tree bough above my head. There were at least a dozen bodies, including some with slit throats. Every one had the left ear cut off.

  (Erica’s Diary 1992)

  Chapter Thirteen

  The guests drifted away as the champagne ran out, and by midnight Max and Henk were clearing away glasses, while Henk’s slim Spanish boyfriend Ricardo cleaned up in the kitchen. When the doorbell went, Henk spoke into the intercom and pressed the downstairs buzzer.

  ‘It’s a Mr Loebe for you,’ Henk said.

  Max opened the door, listening to the heavy breaths and slowing footsteps as the minister trudged up the staircase.

  ‘Ah. Why no elevator, Mr Carver?’ gasped Loebe, who was wearing an enormous cream linen suit. ‘Who said the Netherlands was a flat country? They must all be mountaineers!’

  Max showed him inside and got him a drink, while the minister mopped his forehead and the back of his fleshy neck with a snow white handkerchief.

  ‘Fabulous sculptures, Mr Carver. I saw the exhibition advertised, so I hoped you didn’t mind me coming along to your opening night without an invitation?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Max said, as he showed the minister around the gallery.

  ‘Everyone at the conference is very worried about Erica,’ Loebe said, adding extra ice to his fruit juice. ‘It does seem extraordinary that she should be abducted.’ When he smiled his scars breathed like shark gills. ‘Yet if she was free, I cannot believe she would find anything better to do than appear at the conference to explain how we can defeat the scourge of malaria.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Max said. ‘I’ve never known her do anything like this and I’m real worried.’

  ‘She is a very resourceful woman in adversity. Very strong, very spirited. Very special.’ Loebe’s eyes sparkled, and he pointed a fat finger at Max. ‘You are a very lucky man.’

  ‘How do you know her?’ Max asked, made uneasy by the minister’s over-eager smile.

  ‘Ah. We had a…brief relationship, years ago. I am very fond of her. Indeed, I would like to help you find her if I can. Zaire may have changed its name to the Democratic Republic of Congo, but it is still a lawless place. You can be assured I have some experience in these matters.’

  Max’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘If, as I understand, the forces of law and order are not doing their job, then that also is familiar. I have with me in this country a trusted bodyguard whom I can put at your disposal.’ Loebe formed his hand into a pudgy brown pistol and held it up to Max’s face. ‘Bang.’ He winked obscenely. ‘The wonders of the diplomatic bag.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Max said. ‘I’ll keep it in mind, but I guess I’m not into the summary retribution stage. Not yet, anyways.’

  ‘Whatever you wish, Mr Carver.’ The minister put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a silver cigar case. He opened it to reveal a thick wad of hundred dollar bills. ‘Now I would like to buy some sculptures. This one, that one and perhaps that one over there. U.S. currency is not a problem, I presume?’

  ‘Is it ever?’ Max said, as the phone began to ring. He picked up the receiver as he watched Loebe squinting through his half moon glasses and counting out hundreds. ‘Schipper Gallery.’

  ‘Max? This is Lisbeth. Come with me and Janus tonight. We meet you at one o’clock at Purple Haze.’

  She gave him the address and he wrote it down. ‘What kind of place is it?’

  ‘It is a place to meet me, if you want to meet me. Or is Max short for Maximum Bullshit?’

  ‘Okay, smartass. I’m coming. I’m surprised Janus wants me to come. We didn’t hit it off real well.’

  ‘He doesn’t know. It’s my invitation. Does that frighten you?’

  ‘Why should it? The world’s full of big, bad-tempered lunks like him. He knows it, that’s why he read some art books to prove he ain’t your average dumb lunk.’

  ‘He’s very smart, Max. He runs a couple of businesses, including an antique shop. You know, it is just because he accidentally crushed that gang of robbers to death that everyone thinks he’s so dangerous and mean. Underneath he’s really nice and gentle and sweet…’

  ‘Whoa. He crushes robbers? That sounds like a nice bedtime story.’

  ‘We were in Rotterdam and he had just gone into a shop when these three guys rushed up and snatched my handbag. I screamed and Janus ran out but one pulled a gun on him. He went for the guy, to grab the gun. The robber fired, but Janus had pushed his thumb over the barrel.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Yes, so he lost the top joint of his thumb, but now the gun is jammed. The muggers pile into their getaway car, a BMW, but Janus is very angry now. He picks up a scooter from a bike bay with his one good hand and throws it in front of the car to stop them driving off. There is no space to reverse and the robbers are too scared to get out of the car, so Janus keeps throwing mopeds and scooters on to the car bonnet and roof. Now there’s screaming from the car because the roof is buckled and they can’t get out, and I’m screaming and there is a crowd gathering and the car horn is blaring, but no-one dares to tackle Janus who is yelling louder than anyone. He works his way down the bay until there’s just one motorcycle left, a big 750 cc Suzuki. It’s very heavy and he needs both hands just to get it on his shoulders. But it is very hard to lift anything so big when you are short of a thumb, and Janus struggles. At first he just intends to frighten them, but he really does drop it in the centre of the roof, flattening it.’

  ‘And they all lived happily ever after?’

  ‘No. One robber had his skull smashed, another was paralysed from the neck down, the third went a little crazy and lives in a special hospital.’

  ‘Very reass
uring, what a cute guy,’ Max said. ‘And you didn’t tell him I was coming?’

  ‘No. It will be a surprise.’

  Even with Henk’s directions and his bicycle it had taken Max fifty minutes to find Purple Haze. He had pedalled through the Red Light Area with its beckoning window hookers like moving lingerie dummies, past a grand old church surrounded by peepshows and porn parlours, down streets and alleyways with jawcracking names like Snoekjesteeg and Bloedstraat, Dollebegijnensteeg and Oudezijdsvoorburgwal, spellings so bizarre you would swear the town clerk had been headbutting the typewriter.

  In the end it was his ears that found the place. A blast and wow of electric guitar feedback and the fast whump of drums spilled from a shadowy alleyway. Down it he could see a small crowd standing outside a dimly-lit entrance, smoking and drinking from bottles. Above the entrance urple Haz was scribbled in violet neon light, the rest of the letters dead or flickering.

  Max walked his bicycle down the alleyway. After locking the bicycle to a railing, Max pushed his way through the entrance, past a skinny woman smoking a joint the size of an ice cream cone. A fat bald guy in sandals took the entrance fee and inked a star on the back of his hand. The coat check looked like a yard sale and was guarded by a skeletal waif with dyed hair braids and a jewelled nose ring. Steep wooden stairs took him down into a torrent of sound that made his ribs resonate. A blackboard listed the night’s bands: Amorphea, Gradgrind Spine and Holy Polio. The place was crowded with kids in their late teens, in grungy clothes with plenty of face metal, hanks of dyed hair, silver nail polish and black lips. There was no sign of Lisbeth or Janus.

  Max walked black-painted corridors, flaked and crispy with old band posters, past lolling androgynous couples, dull-eyed space cadets and jerky-limbed dancers until he entered a strobe-lit room and found the band, crammed between coffin-sized speakers at the far end. Bellowing into the mike was a short, tough-looking woman with big tattooed arms, square crimson-tinted spectacles to match her hair, and a spiked dog collar. Every shake of her head showered sweat onto the dancers in front. Behind her a lanky long-haired guitarist ecstatically fondled his instrument to squeals, wails and staccato coughs, while a bushy-haired flab monster wearing a Gradgrind Spine T-shirt pounded the drums. A svelte female bassist with a ponytail was squeezed behind a speaker.