The Cinnamon Tree

by Aubrey Flegg

  There wasn’t a sound in the room. Fintan picked up his glass of water, but his hands were shaking. He put the water down and pressed them onto the polished surface. When he replied, he did so carefully and precisely, measuring his words.

  ‘No, I don’t think he does. As I told Yola last night, I have always thought of Dad as scrupulously honest. He got the design from the car company or whatever they are – picture of the car on top and all. Look, it even shows where the stabiliser is to be fitted! Then he got permission from the Irish government and from then on didn’t want to know anything more. His one objective is to get his men back to work.’

  ‘If he is not behind this, who is?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about before … before I realised …’

  ‘Tell him about your dream,’ said Yola.

  This time, Fintan told the story as straight as he could.

  Hans got up and walked to the window.

  ‘When are Birthistle and your father due back?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Do they know you have been with us, with a demining organisation?’

  ‘No, I just said I was with a friend.’

  ‘Go Fintan, explain it all to your father and get the first flight home. Mr Birthistle will go free, but there is nothing we can do about that.’

  ‘But can’t you have him arrested … stopped?’ Fintan was genuinely shocked.

  ‘How? On what evidence? On the basis of a dream you had in a plane, 50,000 feet above Africa? Sorry Fintan, but there will not be a jot of evidence against him. The only evidence we have is this actual mine here. You and your father would be arrested, not Birthistle. You would end up in prison here and we would have an international incident on our hands, perhaps even the civil war that Birthistle plans with Murabende.’

  ‘But can’t I get evidence, rifle his luggage or something?’

  ‘You weren’t listening. He will have nothing, not so much as an address book!’

  ‘Please Mr Eriksen, I’ll get evidence! I’ll get him drunk. He gets very talkative with me when we’re alone and he’s drunk, and you can listen.’

  Yola sensed the desperation in his voice. To her surprise, Hans hesitated.

  ‘I’m his blue-eyed boy,’ Fintan urged. ‘He wants me to marry his daughter!’

  Yola’s lips tightened, but Hans said, ‘I cannot get involved. We are a neutral organisation. But I’d like to hear what he has to say. My name is not on this walkman, could you carry this?’

  ‘No, he’s a patter, you know, little pats and pushes, all very matey, he’d notice a recorder at once.’

  Yola could hear bangs and shouts outside as the deminers returned from their work on the bridge. It was four o’clock. There wasn’t much time left.

  ‘I could go!’ said Yola suddenly. ‘I’m Kasemban, he wouldn’t notice me.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Hans.

  ‘No, Hans,’ she said, ‘I mean it. I’ve only been in the hotel once, but there are rooms and alcoves off the bar. If Fintan can get him into one of those, I think I know how I can get close enough to hear and record what they say. But I will need the walkman, and I will need Judit’s help.’

  Hans looked at her suspiciously. Fintan opened the walkman, popped the tape into his shirt pocket and handed the recorder to Yola.

  ‘Well, first things first, let’s get Fintan down to the hotel. Fintan, we’ll talk on the way. Judit, can you bring Yola down later? And take care of that walkman, it’s special.’ Hans turned, but the two girls already had their heads together. He shrugged.

  ‘Look for me in the foyer, Fintan,’ Yola called. ‘Tell me where you are, but don’t expect a reply – remember, I don’t speak English.’

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ Fintan nodded.

  20

  Good Time Girl

  ‘Judit – Judit stop, it’s European lipstick, it will look … mmm.’ Yola’s protest ended in a mumble as the Dutch girl, holding her firmly by the chin, started to apply a thick coat of lipstick.

  ‘Relax, don’t smile, it makes your lips go thin. We must make you look voluptuous!’

  Yola had no idea what voluptuous meant, but it seemed just the right word to describe their last crazy half-hour.

  She was remembering the only time she’d been inside the Palace Hotel. Uncle Banda had taken her in, just to have a look. Most Kasembans could not afford to go in there because one drink alone cost a day’s wages. The only Kasemban women there were the wives of government officials and strange, solitary girls extravagantly dressed, smoking alone at small tables.

  ‘Don’t stare!’ Uncle Banda had whispered. ‘Those are good time girls.’

  ‘What are good time girls?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Girls who hope some rich man will buy them a drink or take them to the disco.’

  When Yola got upstairs, Judit already had her small wardrobe thrown out on the bed. Yola made a dart for a bright print, but Judit took it from her.

  ‘No, you are a good time girl, you must wear black,’ and she held a long black tube dress up against a startled Yola. Helpless, in that no man’s land between horror and giggles, Yola let herself be peeled like a banana and then, in an attitude of surrender, inserted into Judit’s black tube dress. The fit was surprisingly good, but Judit wasn’t satisfied.

  ‘You are the wrong shape for the job!’ she complained. ‘What we need is more bosom.’

  Once again, Yola’s vocabulary let her down, however when she understood what Judit meant their whole scheme nearly foundered in uncontrollable laughter.

  Eventually she stood in front of the mirror, truly startled at the transformation before her. All that she had ever wanted, and more! She turned to Judit, intending to give her a hug, but found that when it came to moving, her feet seemed to be tied together. She felt like a goat with its legs hobbled. The black dress might be perfect for a girl with two sound limbs, but for an amputee it was a disaster. Judit grabbed her scissors.

  ‘You can’t!’ Yola exclaimed, seeing Judit on her knees.

  ‘This is your good leg, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ouch. Yes.’

  ‘Well, you are going to show a lot of it!’

  ‘But your beautiful dress!’

  ‘Don’t worry, it will just be the seam.’

  Judit stepped back to view her work. Yola walked over to the mirror and the black dress parted seductively up her thigh. Her artificial leg was concealed. They were impressed, and a little awed by their success.

  ‘I have an evening bag you could put Hans’s walkman in. I reckon you should wear the earphones, it will make Mr Birthistle think you can’t hear. More like you’re waiting for someone.’

  ‘Oh Judit, I can’t. You don’t think someone will want me to dance? I can’t!’

  Judit laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised at all. But I’ll be there to keep an eye on you.’

  Judit’s small car climbed laboriously in and out of the gigantic ruts on the road down to the hotel. Twice, Yola opened her mouth to ask her to forget the whole escapade, but she was stopped each time by the thought of the desperation in Fintan’s voice. They had a moment of panic when Yola, practising with the controls of Hans’s walkman, discovered that he had forgotten to put a blank tape in it. Then Judit had the bright idea of covering the broken-out tabs of a music cassette, which she had in the car, with postage stamps; it recorded perfectly.

  Standing outside the Nopani Palace Hotel, Yola looked longingly after Judit’s homely little car as it lurched towards the car park. She had never felt so alone. Her unnatural bosom caught her eye as she looked down to walk, and the slit in her dress seemed to stretch up to her armpit. A mixed group of Kasembans and Europeans approached, making for the revolving door of the hotel. Yola followed closely – anything to get over this first hurdle. One of the European men stood back to let her into the door ahead of him. Before she could stop him he had crowded into the segment of the door beside her. For a horrifying moment she fe
lt a hand on her thigh. She was furious and made to hit him but there wasn’t room, all she managed was a seductive movement of her padded chest against him. She heard jeers from his watching companions, who pushed on the door and ejected her like a pip from an orange into the entrance hall.

  Gathering her wits and her dignity, Yola thrust through the leering faces and made for the foyer. The one thing she wanted was a mirror to see if anything was out of place. She turned into an alcove and was met by a girl looking anxiously for something. With a start, she realised that it was her own reflection; the alcove was backed by a mirror! She apologised automatically and backed away. She looked down to check her dress, and noticed that she had almost walked into an arrangement of dead flowers in the alcove. But all was well. Her outfit was fine, and the flowers hadn’t fallen over. She turned and surveyed the room, it was full but not crowded. She chose a small table with a view into the bar and sat down; her skirt parted in an alarming manner but she dared not touch it because heads were turning.

  She had never been the centre of attention like this. The women’s heads turned with sharp disapproval. Men’s eyes swivelled in barely concealed appreciation. At a table nearby a group of middle-aged aid workers tried not to notice her. One had a small silver cross around her neck: a nun. What if Sister Martha came in? Another minute and Yola would have walked out, but then she looked towards the bar. There was Fintan, staring at her as if he had seen a ghost. She smiled with relief and, without thinking, beckoned him with her head. The faces, which till then had been concentrating on her, swivelled towards Fintan. Face flaming scarlet he crossed the room and leant down. Turning his eyes from her exposed thigh he whispered, ‘We’re in the small room directly over from the bar! Please God, I can keep a straight face.’

  Yola tossed her head and told him to get lost in Kasembi, then she took out the earphones of her walkman and pressed the record button. She waited till he had disappeared and then got up in a leisurely manner and followed him across the room.

  There was no sign of Fintan or anyone else in the small room. She sat down out of sight of the door and took up a magazine, hoping that she had got the right room. A waiter appeared with a tray. Speaking firmly in Kasembi, she ordered bottled water with lemon and ice. Judit had told her that this would look like gin and tonic. It cost her a day’s wages for the drink, so she tipped the waiter with another day’s wages and a smile in the hope that he would leave her alone. She glanced at the magazine, but apart from wondering at the name, OHM, could not focus on it. Suddenly she realised that someone had come in and was standing behind her. A man’s voice, magnified in her earphones, said in English, ‘Scuse me Miss, this room’s taken.’

  She smiled up at him, shrugged helplessly and told him in Kasembi that she did not understand. He gazed down, swaying slightly, and asked her where she was from, but his words were slurred so she had no difficulty shrugging again and managing to show a bit more thigh. He patted her on the shoulder. Then, to her alarm, reached down towards her lap. She shrank back, but all he did was take the magazine she was holding and turn it the other way up. As he moved away she heard him say, ‘Seems to speak no English, and I suspect she can’t even read. If it wasn’t for Becky, I’d say you should try your luck, eh lad!’

  Fintan’s reply came with unnecessary vigour. ‘No thanks! Not my type at all.’

  Yola struggled to suppress a grin and stared at the magazine as if her fortune were written in it. That man must have been Mr Birthistle. Then she realised why he had turned the magazine around for her – WHO magazine, of course!

  They seemed to be taking up a conversation they had started before.

  ‘Well done lad, good answer, I’ll let you pick up a chance card for that.’

  Yola was alert – surely this was Birthistle’s arms-game talk! How had Fintan got him started on that? She forced herself to turn a page of her magazine; her fingers were sticky with sweat. Then she realised she had missed Fintan’s reply.

  ‘Nukes, boy? No, no, no. Don’t touch them, put that card back.’ It was so realistic that Yola was tempted to turn to see if they really had cards. ‘Tell you why?’ Mr Birthistle continued. ‘Simple, I don’t want my Becky nuked, and the only people that’d buy an atom bomb would nuke just about anybody. Myself, I don’t mind the anti-nuclear campaign because while they march they take people’s minds off our little business. Who’d bother about banning a machine-gun when they could ban an atom bomb! Let’s throw the dice again.’

  ‘How about this?’ laughed Fintan. ‘Pretend I’ve landed on a square that says Dublin Conference on Arms Control – it starts in a few days – should I buy that?’

  ‘Ha ha, Fintan old son! You want to know what will happen if your Dad has a change of heart, don’t you. Crafty, I like you! You’re like me, you know, two peas in a pod, and you just starting out in life. Makes me feel young to help you. Well … let me see … that conference could be bad news for the toy trade so … how about this. Let’s say I had a little project in Africa, for example, exporting air bag stabilisers to the natives. Suddenly my partner tries to pull out, all that effort, all that money down the drain – all can I do is bring Plan B into operation. Imagine it,’ here Mr Birthistle’s voice acquired a dramatic turn, ‘it’s the first day of the Dublin conference. Everyone is patting little neutral Ireland on the back, cetra, cetra, then up speaks a voice. “Madam President. Do you know that Ireland is making a particularly nasty landmine designed to kill deminers? Here is the evidence!” Gasp – hush – horror. Talk your way out of that, Madam President!’

  ‘But you’d be caught!’ Fintan sounded genuinely shocked.

  ‘Don’t worry lad, it’s your dad who’d be caught, hooked and landed, not me. I’m just the agent for a motor company. Look in my briefcase, not a shred of evidence. Anyway, I wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘Why … why not?’

  ‘’Cos I like you lad, marry you off to Becky. Think about it, I’ll teach you all you need to know. But I need to shed a tear now. Old age. Keep my drink warm for me.’

  Yola didn’t dare turn, but Fintan was beside her in a second.

  ‘I can’t go on, Yola. He’s going to trip me up and I’ll wreck everything. We’re caught, aren’t we? Dad must have signed up, and if Birthistle blows the Dublin conference, Dad will go to jail.”

  ‘Nonsense, you’re doing great! This is the first evidence he’s given away and it’s all on tape! And Fintan, he sounds lonely, work on it.’

  ‘Hush, he’s coming!’

  ‘Eh … eh … you leave that black cookie alone.’ The voice was so close, Yola was sure he must have heard them talking. ‘What is she doing here anyway? I’m …’

  At that moment the walkman clicked off. The tape had run out. Yola didn’t know what to do. She must turn the tape over, but she knew he was watching her. She opened Judit’s bag; her hands were shaking. She extracted the walkman and began to turn the tape. All at once there was a sharp tap on her shoulder. She thrust the tape down hastily; the wretched postage stamps stood out like beacons. She turned and Mr Birthistle’s face was only inches from her own. His smile was half menace, half humour as he pointed to her earphones as if he wanted to listen. The waft of alcohol from his breath almost choked her. She passed him one of her tiny earphones and watched him press it into the forest of ginger hair growing out of his ear. Her finger hovered over the play button, but panic swept over her: had she turned the tape or just pushed it back in without turning it? What if he heard his own voice? The hiss as the tape-leader wound through seemed to last forever. Then, with a crash that made them both jump, Judit’s favourite Zairian band burst out. Yola jigged nervously with the music, then she gave the sweaty white man beside her a cheeky look and flicked the earphone from his ear. He tickled her under the chin and returned to Fintan. She waited a tense moment or two and then pressed record again. Birthistle was talking, he seemed relaxed and the charm she had noticed earlier was back.

  ‘Look old boy, I’ve no son, made a bi
t of money, house in England, office in Ostend, but it’s getting towards the time I settled down. I need someone bright like you, not too squeamish either. Interested?’

  ‘Well … it depends, tell me …’

  ‘Ok, scored again Fintan! Pass Go and double your money! Always be careful. So, you want info, here’s info.’

  Birthistle’s voice was thickening but his mind seemed clear. Yola sat riveted, she couldn’t believe it, sometimes he reverted to arms-game talk, but at other times he was naming names: dealers, companies and clients. When the tape eventually clicked off, Yola realised that they had enough evidence to hang the man twice over. She leant back, closed her eyes and relaxed, her skirt slipped further off her thigh.

  ‘Jeepers, look at the time.’ That was Fintan.

  ‘That’s right, beauty sleep for the wicked. I’ll phone Becky that you were asking after her?’

  ‘Er yes, yes, please do!’ Yola ground her teeth. ‘Good night.’

  Silence. Fintan had gone, but had Birthistle? Yola didn’t dare turn. She felt rather than saw the arms dealer come over and looked up. He was looking down at her with what she could only think of as a leer. She fought back panic and forced herself to take her time. She took off her earphones and coiled them down on the walkman; he mustn’t become suspicious of that. Then she looked up and smiled as if she had known he would come. His watery eyes were exploring her exposed thigh. Suddenly all the hate she had bottled up during the evening exploded. To hell with the tape, to hell with it all! Feast your eyes on this! she said to herself. With a seductiveness that she didn’t know she possessed, she slid her dress clean off both knees. Mr Birthistle’s eyes seemed to swell in their sockets. Then he noticed her artificial leg. Good though it was, even he couldn’t miss it. He stepped back, gulping.

  ‘Oh God, oh God, I think I’m going to be sick!’ He lunged towards the door but it was already open, he didn’t see it and walked straight into its sharp edge.