“Never.”
“Very pleasant guy, apparently. He failed Sandhurst twice.”
“Perfect.”
“The British High Commissioner’s son failed with him.”
“Even better!”
“Plus, he’s got a daughter trying to get into Harvard.”
“Any hope?”
“Not a chance.”
“Guess he’ll need a bit of help with that.”
“Well, education is important, Dad, as you’ve always said.”
When Mary crept into the office the next day, all was silent. Faces ashen. Expressions hollow. Cheeseman anchored motionless. She scrambled into her tank, catching a quick view of Beano, head in hands, she supposed, since all she could see was hair.
She clicked on to a news website. TransAqua had once more made the front page. She could only hope that some other dupe in the company had taken the heat off her. But she noticed yet another of Barbara’s photographic masterpieces of her, alongside images of Cheeseman, the CEO, Sinclair and even a short-haired Beano, circa Sewage era.
It was not the usual reportage—they had unveiled a new narrative style so engrossing that even Mary could not wait until the denouement. Beautifully designed graphics described how Sinclair had tricked Nigeria’s president into assassinating rivals to protect those his team at TransAqua supported. And, the kicker: an entire paragraph outlining Sinclair’s manipulation of her.
With enormous effort, Mary raised her eyes and saw the entire office staring at her-some eyes reflecting Kolo’s demon, others Sinclair’s dupe. Mary felt violated. That slug, may he dance in the flames of an everlasting hell, had stripped her of all dignity, watching all her naked intrigues with a lecherous grin of expectation. She hated Sinclair, loathed him, wished he were still alive so she could watch him die again. More than that, she abhorred the person who had unveiled her humiliation for the world to see. Barbara. How much more ammunition did her sister have stored up, ready to detonate just as Mary recuperated from each successive blow?
Her door still open, Mary waited for a sound but heard only the rustling of a newspaper or the clicking of a computer mouse as the staff read the narrative of their own downfall. She rose, shut herself in and, regardless of this defining catastrophe, renewed her onslaught on Barbara. Her sister must have purchased explosives. That would ruin her career.
Mary picked up the phone. “Brad Chambers, please.”
“Okay, hon, just a minute,” an anonymous voice sparkled.
“Brad Chambers speaking.”
“Oh, hi there, Brad. It’s Barbara. Just trying to wind up this Nigeria thing. Congratulations on the forensic thing, by the way. I saw some diagrams in a magazine. Those Nigerian systems and things. Pretty inventive, huh?”
“Ms. Glass, they exhibited a degree of perfection that is hard to imagine as the creation of a human mind. To describe its sublime formations would lie outside the narrow confines of language.”
She almost swooned. “And yet predatory-you can feel the carnal nature of its invention, Mr. Chambers.”
“There is a saying that tells of the inexpressible beauty of Nigerian financial structures: ‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must pass over in silence.’ Are you familiar with the aphorism?”
She put her hand to her chest. “Wittgenstein. Tractatus. Proposition 7. So, are Nigerian accounting systems of such exquisite design?”
He passed over this question in silence.
“You must be highly talented, Mr. Chambers.”
“I am a seeker of beauty only, Ms. Glass. The builders are the talented ones. Like your sister.”
“Who? Mary?” she sneered.
“No, Ms. Glass. Barbara.”
Mary’s inhalation caught: outwitted again. The magic of the last few moments dissipated into the polluted air that sustained Barbara’s breathing. “Where is she? Standing next to you? Let me speak to her.”
“I think she’s at home.” Brad sounded discomfited. “She, um, believes in the energizing qualities of the afternoon siesta.”
“I do apologize for that unwarranted outburst, Mr. Chambers. How did you know I wasn’t Barbara?”
“She knows nothing about accounting, Ms. Glass. None of its mystery and awe.”
“And yet you call her talented. You should know better, Mr. Chambers. She’s completely harebrained.”
“Her thinking is …” long pause, “… non-linear, like many …” another ponderous pause, “… creative people. But she alone had the faith that we could challenge a corporation or topple a government. And her speeches … very powerful, Ms. Glass.”
“She organized all this?”
“Oh yes. None of us would have dared.”
Such counterintuitive information chipped away at the solidity of her knowledge, and the concretion began to disintegrate under the pressure until only the rubble of confusion remained. Had the tilt-headed buffoon been capable of all this? Mary’s mind sped back to their childhood, shuttled back and forth in frenetic recall, desperately trying to reconstruct that which now lay in ruins. Nothing made sense.
At last Mary spoke. “All that energy devoted to one cause. And do you know what that cause was, Mr. Chambers?”
“Water, Ms. Glass. The welfare of the Nigerian people.”
“No, there you would be wrong. One reason only. She did this to wreck my life.” Mary said it simply, but the fact of it hurt her greatly, as if the vessel of her identity had suddenly emptied.
“With all due respect, Ms. Glass, I believe in this matter you may be mistaken. She refused to let us divulge two critical pieces of information until yesterday, to the great …” long pause, “… chagrin of our executive director. The first concerned your financing of the TransAqua bombing.”
“I had no idea that the AWW would do that!” she protested. “I only asked them to discredit Jegede.”
“A great pity. Perhaps you should have told her.”
Mary remembered slamming down the phone on her sister. But, Mary … What had Barbara been about to say? She pictured the turban, the expression of concern, the tilting of her head while displaying cleavage, wanton and depraved. Mary grew physically repulsed at the imaginary sight.
Brad Chambers continued. “The second fact: that you knowingly supplied names to President Kolo. That you, in effect, served as executioner by proxy.”
When Brad described it that way, her actions almost seemed unethical!
“None of the other information could be traced back to you solely or directly,” he continued.
“And Barbara managed to curb herself? Why?”
“Because she has a great deal of respect for you. At least, she always spoke about you with the greatest reverence, Ms. Glass.”
Mary despised her sister more than ever. Since childhood, that buffoon had dared to look down on her. This most recent act—protecting her—only demeaned Mary further. Barbara’s actions would destroy a very valuable corporation, at least, in its present manifestation. This was typical of Barbara’s condescending, holier-than-thou, head-tilting, therapy-dispensing, botched job of a personality.
“I’m ruined,” Mary said. “Everything I ever worked for.”
“Ms. Glass, ask Barbara for help. She’s very creative, extremely bold. She’ll find a way out.”
“There is no way out!” Mary whispered.
“Ms. Glass, whereof one must not be silent, thereof one must speak. This is Barbara’s credo.” His last words sounded prophetic.
Unable for once to contain her emotions, Mary burst into tears, wished a hurried goodbye to Brad and slammed down the phone.
As Brad’s words chiselled away at her convictions, Mary studied the reflective panes of TransAqua’s glass building. The transparent walls sent a clear message that the people within had nothing to hide, yet if that were so, the company would have no need for the walls at all. In fact, she realized, the glass served quite the opposite function: to dupe people into thinking that sight equated to sound. But what could be obse
rved offered no clue as to words spoken, or actions taken, within its cells.
Even if she divulged all she knew of the corporation’s activities, she could not shatter these walls. In fact, they would not even crack. Far from fragile, they were solid, built to withstand earthquakes. Not like glass at all. Another deception.
She heard Cheeseman’s spurs ringing down the corridor, their clinking directed at her office, the sound of a hunted man searching for prey.
In frustration, she picked up her keys and tossed them at a pane. She wondered how far they would bounce. They clacked against the wall and then dropped straight down. The glass had very little give. She sighed-it could not even play games. As she went to fetch her keys, an anomaly caught her attention.
The impact had left a spiderweb crack in the glass. The action did not shatter it and the fracture was no larger than the size of a hand. But the notion that she could chip this adamantine material came as a total surprise.
The door opened and, for once, she allowed an emotion to reveal itself. She smiled.
She had the option of destroying Cheeseman from within TransAqua, as quarry, or from without, by cracking the glass. Either she could maintain the system or she could make a small contribution to changing it. And for once she refused to be rushed into making a decision.
THIRTY-FIVE
Blue Skying
Barbara settled back in her new waterbed, flipped open the British left-wing journal The Internationalist, and scanned a report on the sale of water rights.
After an hour, she turned off her bedside light and turned on a lava lamp. She watched as the globules of wax flowed over each other, slipping, slithering, arching, flexing. Next to her bed, she had laid out an assortment of aids and devices in order of sequence. She closed her eyes, thinking of the wax, considering its shapes, dreaming of a life spent sliding over other shapes, lathered in hot oil, behind a glass encasement for all to see.
At 10:15 p.m., there was a knock on the door. She raised herself with difficulty from her waterbed and went down to answer the door, breasts hanging low in a diaphanous nightdress.
A man stood outside in dark blue overalls and a baseball hat, carrying a toolbox.
“Oh, excuse me, madam,” he exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I didn’t know anyone’d be in. The landlord sent me.”
“The landlord? He hasn’t notified me.”
“I can wait here while you call him, ma’am.” He looked at his watch. A testy note entered his voice. “Or I can come back later.” He leaned in the doorway.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” Barbara stood blocking his entry, hands on hips.
“I’m from the water commission.” The man’s eyes scouted the room.
“Really?” Barbara waited for more information.
“Apparently there’s illegal use of water in here. I have to scan the property.”
“At this time of night?”
“Well,” light eyes shot her a look of utter indifference, “either I come in or you go to jail. Now—what will it be?” He elbowed past her and slammed his toolbox on the floor. “Do you know where the meter is?”
“No, I don’t. You’ll have to look for it yourself.”
“Got pink buttons? Two large pink buttons? You’ve never seen it?”
“No,” she replied. “The only pink buttons I’ve seen recently are these.” She opened her nightgown. “Now, I don’t think—”
“You don’t think?” Giant yellow eyes looked at Barbara in contempt. “I’m the engineer here, ma’am. I’ll do the thinking.” His baseball visor jiggled as he spoke. “As it happens, those are exactly what I was looking for. Now, I just have to get the radar out.” He undid the last two buttons of his overalls and flipped out his instrument.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s see what we have here.” He put his fingers on Barbara’s nipples and twiddled them gently like dials. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Interesting. Very interesting.”
“Look, I—”
“Please, ma’am,” yellow eyes closed in concentration, “don’t disturb me while I’m working.” His penis hardened, activating a quasi-pneumatic mechanism.
“Okay,” he said, looking down at his apparatus, “looks like we’ve got something here.” He turned slightly. “Now, where’s it pointing? What’s in there, ma’am?”
“My bedroom.”
Following his erect dowser, Astro picked up his toolbox and moved officiously to the bedroom. Barbara followed him.
“Uh-huh.” Astro stopped by the bed and flipped open a sheet to display the waterbed. “And what do you call this, ma’am?”
“This? Oh, uh,” Barbara twirled a strand of hair, head tilted, “I didn’t know waterbeds were covered by—”
“Well, they are.” Astro pulled a pen and notebook out of his pockets. “You’ll have to get this licensed—”
Barbara sidled over to him and stroked his earlobe. “Sir,” she breathed, “are you sure there’s nothing I could do … ?”
“It’s more than my job’s worth, I’m afraid, ma’am.” He handed her a piece of paper.
She ignored it and reached out to touch his penis.
“Please, ma’am,” Astro said, “don’t play with the equipment.”
Barbara let her nightie fall to the ground.
“Ma’am,” he warned, “you’re not making this any easier.”
“Look,” she whispered, “why don’t you stay for a drink? Show me how your equipment works. My boyfriend’s in DC. He won’t be back for a couple of weeks.”
He looked her up and down. “That’s against regulations. Anyhow, I’m sure your boyfriend wouldn’t be very happy about it.”
“Aw, he’ll never find out. He works with plants. Believes everything I tell him.”
“I’ve met some pretty intelligent people who work with plants, you know.”
“Then you haven’t met my boyfriend,” she winked. “Tell you what, I’ll oil your equipment for free.”
Astro thought about it. He put his toolbox down. “Fair enough.”
She grabbed his equipment and rubbed it against herself a few times.
“That’s strange,” she said. “I can’t find the oil button. You’re an engineer. Could you find it for me?”
“I’ll try my best,” he shrugged. “No guarantees, though.”
The next day, refreshed and serene, Barbara donned her brightest purple wrapper for her last trip to the office, leaving a snoring Astro in bed.
Perhaps, she thought, I’ll experiment with some bright pink lipstick. She applied it. She smiled. Then she relaxed the smile and frowned. She mouthed a few words to herself and then giggled. She guffawed and, just as suddenly, gasped. Yes, the lipstick seemed to do its job—a fine accompaniment for the spectrum of emotions she might have to deploy.
Although she only had one more day left at Drop of Life, her heart felt light and open. She sauntered into the office, banging the door behind her.
Gums poked her head around the corner. “Hey, Bar! Awesome day, eh?”
“Not bad,” Barbara replied, using one of her father’s most irritating sayings. “Not bad at all.” She flung her Norwegian cloak on the hook, on top of Brad’s grey scarf. “Could be worse.”
She wondered how her parents were faring with the neighbours, with one terrorist and one executioner in the family. She pictured them answering the questions with numbers.
“How’s Mary?”
“Seven dead, by last count.”
“And Barbara?”
“Over forty. Very determined young lady, our Barbara. Very determined, indeed.”
She marched up to the second floor, where she barked a greeting to Brad. He jumped out of his chair. As far as she remembered. She bowed a Namaste to Jane.
As she rounded the staircase to the third floor, she sang out a “Hiya, hon!” to Mimi before Mimi had a chance to do it first.
Then she entered her office turret. She began packing her belongings. As she looked at her sta
pler, she realized how much she would miss Brad, remembering how much his help had allowed her to achieve, recalling his devotion to her. A small note from him requested her sister’s number. Such an obsessive man—probably planning to audit Mary. She sat back and reminisced over their days of victory. Yes, she would certainly miss him.
Even lions must live in a pride.
She decided to give him the stapler as a gift, and to sign him up for a drama class.
She set the stapler aside, wrapped up her pots of aromatic oils, a tennis ball–shaped figurine of a fertility goddess and Mimi’s halogen lamp. An image of Mimi under a tanning bed flashed into her mind. Without this woman’s dogged determination, Barbara thought. Without her … She set aside a ticket to a sweat lodge for Mimi. Perhaps the moisture would help the peeling somewhat.
She then hunted around for presents for Gums and Jane. She had no trouble finding a gift for Gums: a chit for five unused sessions with her therapist. In that time, the therapist would be able to enlighten Gums as to the unfortunate reality of existence, a realm far removed from the fog of her pathological optimism.
Barbara could not think of anything to give Jane, yet she did not want the effigy’s dementia to erase her from memory. She hunted in her handbag for a photograph of herself. Perhaps it would come in useful in the future. She found a particularly flattering one of her wearing her winter harem pants and a turban. She set it aside.
Trying to stave off an increasingly gloomy mood, Barbara turned on her computer to check the latest headlines.
She read about Kolo giving TransAqua the rights to the Benue River. The country was in turmoil, with the army and police force under siege. There was a picture of the minister of finance shaking hands with the sultan of Sokoto, and another of Brigadier Jamal Abdullah, the newly appointed head of the armed forces, meeting with the American ambassador. Kolo was as good as dead. Sadly, she realized that whoever ascended to power might continue the work Kolo had started, pleasing the superpowers while pocketing the profits.
Barbara sighed. She had failed to protect the one person who could have brought permanent change to Nigeria.
Even though TransAqua’s shares had crashed, it had laid off most of its staff and it had been subjected to audit and public ridicule, it would simply re-incorporate under another name, and its stock prices would rise again.
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