Please Do Not Disturb

by Robert Glancy

  However, since that first wonderful night a year ago, life had become hard for Stella and me; returns had rapidly diminished. Our engagement party was a shambolic affair, held at the Mirage, with a worried Stu and Fiona looking on. Stella and I had never returned to the Flamingo. I didn’t really like being reminded of her past. And Stella certainly didn’t want to be hanging around her old stomping ground. Not when she could be sitting pretty at the Mirage, which for Stella was the very height of social success. Sometimes I think she only wanted to marry me for my Mirage membership.

  Waving away those pesky memories, I entered the Flamingo and found a seat. My first drink vanished as quickly as it arrived and, looking around, I realised how much I’d missed this place. It was filthy. The air thick as soup, the heat of the day exhuming the stench of old nights. It was grotty as a pair of old Y-fronts and I felt right at home. The Kelly curse alive in me: only feeling I truly belonged when in the most alien of circumstances.

  The second beer improved my mood as I drifted into cosy nostalgia. It was right here – well in the car park actually – that Stella offered me the sort of sex I could only have dreamed of when I was dating don’t-touch-me-there girls from Cork. I smiled, thinking how Stella would laugh at the modesty of all those Irish lasses. And with this thought came a sudden and shocking image of Stella in Cork. Jesus. Just the thought of Stella and Mum in the same country, the same continent. Impossible. Unfeasible to unite such opposing forces. The tiny might of a tyrant, who brought up five kids in the moral straitjacket of the Church, meeting the awesome power of a violent, bloody-minded whore. My feeble imagination simply couldn’t accommodate it.

  Stella would never go to Ireland. And Mum would never come here. In fact I’m sure Mum never fully believed in Africa. Beyond the TV, she was a woman who’d never really seen black people. Surely there couldn’t be a vast continent entirely populated with black folk. When I told her I was off to Africa, she looked at me as if to say, ‘You’re a funny fella, Sean. Just like your dead dad.’ And each time she mentioned it, she said it in a tone of inverted commas, ‘So, Sean, when is it you’re off to “Africa”?’ As if ‘Africa’ was a code for something. This from the woman who told me the moon landing was faked; whole thing was filmed in a ditch in County Kerry.

  Undoing the good work of the second, the third beer swamped me with sadness. Feeling as if I’d been swept off a warm beach into the cold belly of the sea, I was overcome by my predicament. There’s me engaged to a whore, having lost one job, ruined the other, and now wondering how long I had before being deported from this country that I loved with all my heart. This parched place I called home. I wasn’t built to survive anywhere else. I knew now that a long stint in Africa prepares you for only one thing: a longer stint in Africa. To survive here you have to grow as eccentric as the environment. You adapt so much that you can’t live anywhere else. Somewhere along the line, I’d shed my pale Irish self and I was now . . . what? Not an African, obviously. But an expatriate. Neither-here-but-not-quite-there, I was forever doomed to be an in-betweener. Sitting there, I realised for the first time, with immutable certainty, that my body would be buried in African soil. I prayed it wouldn’t be too soon but at the rate I was going . . .

  So as I met the bottom of my third beer, I resolved that the world was – as I’d suspected all along – an unmitigated shambles. And who was I to try and do anything useful about it and surely the very least I could do was soothe my boiling balls. I glanced over to the Madam. I feared she recognised me. She might tell someone I’d been here and the news would creep its way back through the Bwalo grapevine to Stella, who’d then drug me and in my sleep remove my balls with her ivory teeth. We had history, the Madam and I. I’d stolen Stella. Madams don’t take kindly to the theft of their merchandise. If she realised it was me she’d have me beaten to within an inch of my life. But I’d not been here for a year and I suspected if she remembered me that I’d already be out on my arse. Also I presume we white fellas all looked fairly alike to her.

  So after my fourth beer – fifth? – I tried my luck. I strolled confidently to where the Madam sat and knew, straight off, that she hadn’t twigged. I laid the cash down and she said a room number, waving me through.

  Up the stairs to heaven I walked, thinking as I ascended how the Madam was a fat, black St Peter for the sexually frustrated. Standing outside the room, cock straining against its corduroy cage, I held the door half open, considering the consequences. I nearly turned from temptation, honest to God I did. But instead, I rushed into merry heaven, yanking my trousers down as I went. In the weirdest way, guilt is the great aphrodisiac. That’s the kink of Catholicism: guilt adds an extra shine to your sin, guilt burnishes the thrill, God gets you harder than Viagra. So I threw myself at the lassie dozing in bed, all chocolate limbs and tropical curves, and me grunting like a pig, snuffling flesh, when I smelt something – something familiar – so I switched on the side light and, like a mongoose and cobra, we reared up to face one another. And I knew who’d strike first. With a sharp knee to the groin I rolled up, tight as a foetus, clutching my balls. She screamed bloody murder but it wasn’t necessary; the Madam was already barging in accompanied by two enormous fellas.

  ‘Problem?’ said the Madam. And something about her tone, the smirk in it, gave away that the old toad had me from the get-go. She’d purposefully put me in with Stella. World’s full of comedians and ain’t the shame that I’m forever the punch line.

  ‘Why are you here?’ screamed Stella.

  ‘Right back at you,’ I yelled, trying to grab my trousers and some dignity, but missing both by a mile. ‘I spend half my life looking for you, Stella, and here you are! Back to your old tricks! Is this where you’ve been the whole time?’

  ‘You don’t make enough money for me, old man,’ she shouted. ‘And now you’re fired, what choice do I have? What choice but this?’

  The big men pulled me off the bed and I thought, thank God my old mam can’t see me now. Hung like a limp dick between two giants, an old fool caught in the act by his own whoring wife. Stella stood naked, not a stitch on her, and shameful man that I am, my cock still twitched hopefully towards her. Not many women can stand naked, legs splayed, face a boil of rage, yet still looking like the sexiest flesh God ever shaped. But her anger quickly blew itself out and with a sad face she asked, ‘How could you do this, Sean?’

  ‘How could I,’ I protested. ‘I’ve not had a shag in months, is it any wonder I was forced back here in search of easy snatch? I can’t even remember what it smells like.’

  Any hope of winning the argument through the sheer force of righteous indignation was scuppered when Stella rubbed her crotch then slapped me. ‘Now you know how it smells, old man.’ We were all stunned. Which, in a whorehouse, a house of shock, is no mean feat. But before Stella and I could resolve the ethical conundrum of who was more in the wrong, I was hustled out.

  Everyone enjoyed the show immensely; me dragged along with my trousers trailing like a corduroy shadow. Me bellowing, ‘Stella!’ in my best Brando impersonation; the Tennessee Williams reference lost on the Flamingo patrons. It wasn’t the first time I’d been persuaded out of a bar. So I knew the drill, which traditionally finished with a little flourish as they tossed me out the door. But this time they just dumped me at the entrance, and as I was pulling up my trousers wondering why they’d been so lacklustre, I saw that my own small problem was being consumed by a larger one.

  Not known for their speed, the Flamingo regulars, soggy with Chibuku and lust, were running, galloping, shoving past one another. The source of their panic was a huge Mercedes, a government car. A guy seized me by the shoulders. ‘Run, bwana, but you must run.’ Streaming from the bar, people were pouring into the bush below, and before I knew it I was sliding down an embankment. I stopped, grasping a stilt that supported the bar’s balcony. I wanted to keep running but I fell on my arse, and by the time I’d yanked my trousers on properly I heard footsteps above me and I froz
e. I saw men and women sprinting away and being swallowed by the cornfields. I wanted to be swallowed too. But I was too exhausted and far too out of shape to run for it now and so I lay back under the safe shadow of the balcony and decided to wait it out. I assumed a minister was just here to pick up a lady and then he’d be off. The music stopped. I heard more boots beat on the wooden slats above me. They were army boots, soldiers, two, maybe three, checking the area was clear. I lay back down slowly, noticing something shining between the slats. Jesus Christ Almighty. My heart raced before my brain could even find the right word. The shining things were machineguns. I realised too late that I should’ve run when I had the chance. That was when I started sweating and praying. The slats gave me some vision and I grew more terrified when I saw that another man was now on the balcony, a minister with exceptionally polished shoes.

  Josef: my old boss. And he was accompanied by another man: a man who looked too badly dressed to be a minister; he looked more like me, a teacher, or an accountant. I didn’t know the man Josef was talking to and the fluency of my Chichewa was tested, but I could translate enough to at least partly verify the nature of the shit storm I was about to be sucked into.

  Lying low in the grass, my armpits and crotch dampened as my bladder swelled. I waited for Josef to stand up and take his goons away and leave me with a truly great story to tell Stu. But the story wasn’t done with me yet. Worse still: they dismissed their soldiers. That was when my heart began to beat so hard I thought it might crack my chest. When a minister dismisses his own soldiers, his own trusted personal bodyguards, it can only mean one thing: that he’s about to share something so secret that even those closest to him can’t be privy to it. I knew something terrible was coming. After the boots beat a retreat back into the bar, I lay there, praying harder than I’ve ever prayed: I know I’ve gone and fair loaded up your answer machine, Dear Lord, but please pick up. I’m begging you, Jesus. Anyone, even Jude, please pick up. It’s Seanie here and I’m in a situation way beyond my ken.

  I lay still as a dead man – practising for the inevitable – struggling to hear what was being said. But the bits that I heard – the words that floated down between the cracks – and that I could translate, I wished I could somehow un-hear. I didn’t know which man was speaking but everything they said was bad. ‘Who pulls the trigger? A white man, a soldier who is now a mercenary . . . not as expensive as one would think . . . It will be an insane white supremacist. Is he an insane white supremacist? He will be when the papers come out tomorrow . . . I’ve learned a thing or two from you.’

  Finally, the men finished and left, the wood creaking under their shoes. I lay there a little longer, hearing the cars go and listening to the sound of people returning to the bar. I prayed to God, and all of his helpers, for sparing my life and thanked my bladder and bowels for holding true. I resolved to be a better man, to give more to charity, to care for the old and the poor, to love Stella like no Irishman had ever loved a whore before.

  I crept out from that balcony a changed man, from the dark I emerged – the symbolism not lost on me – and as I got to the car park, reaching into my pocket for my keys, I realised I’d counted my lucky stars too soon. People were not returning to the bar; it was merely the sound of soldiers standing, chatting by the Mercedes. One of them spotted me sneaking out from under the balcony like an animal smeared in dirt. But I was a long way away from him and so, like a fool, I started to run. He shouted, ‘Hey! You come back.’

  I didn’t like his suggestion. I knew I had a fair head start on them, I could make it to my motorbike no problems, but what I’d not counted on was outrunning a bullet. The report of their rifles sounded harmless, brief, like the crackle of a fire. And I prayed they were shooting warning shots into the sky as I jumped on my bike and was off. Not down the road but into a field, violently juddering down rows of corn, the organs of my body feeling like they might vibrate right out my arse as I tunnelled through flickering lines. When the field ended I risked life and limb, cutting directly across the road without looking, plunging into the next field, where I rode on until, after many shuddering miles, I finally slowed, breaking out into the next road, pointing my motorbike away from town towards the lake. I was too scared to face any of the roadblocks in town, to risk being caught by soldiers, too scared to go home; I had to get out of the country before I was shot dead by soldiers or thrown in prison by Josef. My brain didn’t rope together a clear thought for a good half hour. All I could do was focus on the road, praying no roadblocks would stop me, praying the soldiers didn’t know I’d heard anything, and had assumed I was just some no-good whore-mongering expat. My mind dashed back and forth over the conversation that I’d eavesdropped on. Did I overhear the whisperings of an assassination? Was Josef involved? You read about such things of course. Mercenaries, even the sons of British prime ministers, plotting the death of African dictators. But when you live in a spot like Bwalo, this slow, drowsy place, such things seem distant, somehow too sensational to be true. So, as I rode further away from town, my mind began to soften the conversation, to blur it, to suggest it was a lot less serious than I had initially feared. Maybe I was translating it wrongly – my Chichewa was far from fluent after all – maybe things were not as bad as all that. I smiled for a second, the wind racing over my face, and then, right at the clear point of conviction, pessimism suddenly overruled me, and I knew there was no hope, that some ugly violence was building in the wings and it was time to get out of the country and run.

  Jack

  By the time the next man arrived I felt as if I’d been left alone for an eternity and I was so petrified I could no longer stop myself crying, the sound of my sobs coming back at me echoing off the walls. But the second man didn’t look as terrifying as the first. He had a gentle face and a wild ring of grey hair, reminiscent of a clown, surrounded his bald scalp. Still I assumed he was there to pull out my fingernails, or to beat my face until it turned soft and shapeless as mud. He didn’t speak as he walked behind me and placed a blindfold over my eyes. I felt my breathing slow, my body taking over, short-circuiting my weary mind. He handcuffed me. We walked a long way, I felt us leave the building, the wind on my face, probably going to the middle of a field. I was sat down and waited for the small coin-shaped impression of a barrel to press into my temple. A terrible noise began and I took a deep breath and thought of my wife’s face. A strap clipped tight over my waist, they pushed my head low, so it was between my knees, pulled my hands up painfully behind me, the cuffs clicking open, my hands falling free, the blindfold ripped off. I saw that the strap around my waist was a safety belt and the noise was the engine of a plane. I could see the pilot from where I sat. I looked around and we were the only two people in a small aircraft, which tipped up and took off.

  Josef

  Why would David be at a seedy dive? He was teetotal. I couldn’t see him slumped at the bar sucking back Chibuku. Far too human, too disgraceful an act for a puritan like David. When I arrived my government Mercedes triggered a mass exodus of the Flamingo, drunken men and women racing out and vanishing into the fields below.

  The Madam ran but I grabbed her as she tried to slink past. Realising she wasn’t going to escape, she switched to fawning mode, smiling and purring, ‘Minister, what an honour.’

  ‘Seems your patrons don’t feel the same way. I’m looking for David Cholo.’ Her hands twisted in front of her as I warned, ‘You’ve thrived for years due to me turning a blind eye to this place so . . .’

  ‘He’s here,’ she admitted.

  ‘Why did he come here?’

  ‘He needed to hide.’

  ‘Yes but why here? Are you friends? Are you related?’

  ‘If I was related to a government man do you really think I’d be working in a place like this?’

  ‘Then why would David come here?’

  ‘He used to come to use the bar, minister.’

  ‘He doesn’t drink so I know you’re lying.’

  ‘N
o, I mean he came here for the other reason men come here.’ She smiled, pleased that she’d shocked me.

  ‘Are you sure we’re talking about David? Bent back, hunched a little.’

  ‘He used to come here. But this year, not so much. He fell in love with my girl Stella. Came often for her, only for her. Then we lost Stella to an expat and for a time he stopped coming. But today he asked if he could hide, he was scared, said people were after him.’ For all my years of reading men, I was surprised. But something about it also pleased me. David: human after all. Not puritanical, nor perfect, just a man. His vendetta against the Irishman was nothing to do with principle or Tafumo. It was, like so many things, a petty and personal thing: a woman. I released the Madam’s arm and said, ‘Run!’

  The room contained the anxious silence of a recently vacated space. Tables crowded with beer cartons, smoke rising from ashtrays, spiralling in currents left by departing bodies. Thinking a man was behind me, I turned. But the man was just me: my reflection in a mirror above the bar. I stared at this man, his suit streaked with mud, looking so ill and scared, telling me to run. Expecting at any moment a hand to cover my mouth, or a bright smack to my skull, I started to walk quickly back towards the door but a voice shouted, ‘Stop, minister.’