Please Do Not Disturb

by Robert Glancy

  Making his way slowly across the room, that painful gait, he stared at me like everyone does now, fear tainted with revulsion. But it wasn’t his expression I focused on. It was what he held in his hand: my manila folder. Scared my knees would buckle and betray my fear, I went and sat on a stool, reaching over the counter to grab a bottle of whisky and two glasses. My hand shook as I poured the shots. David stood close to me, looking as if he was about to reject the drink, then he took a slug and sat down, his hump heavily pronounced as he placed his elbows on the bar.

  When it became clear that he wasn’t going to start the proceedings, I said, ‘So is this where the righteous drown their sorrows?’

  ‘I’m not a righteous man, minister. I’m a grateful man, grateful that you took pity on me, hired me, made me a man of importance when so many others mocked me.’

  I checked to see if he was being serious, only to find he was. ‘Well you shot yourself in the foot, David. Ransacking my office, taking this tourist, what the hell!’

  ‘I never moved him. I was racing around to find you.’

  ‘Racing around a brothel?’

  ‘No, I had to hide, hide when I found this.’ His fingers tapped my folder. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you what I am going to tell you.’ And he flipped the folder open.

  My pounding heart rattled everything out of focus, and initially all I saw were pale pages floating in a manila blur. Flicking through the folder, my vision gradually clearing, I struggled to find Patrick or Levi’s pages and then, when I couldn’t see my spidery handwriting anywhere, a powerful relief rushed in. This was not my folder. My heart calmed, and exhaling a long-held breath I smiled as I stared at one of the photographs. As the image came into focus, my relief turned to queasy confusion as I realised I was looking at Essop. A grainy photograph of Essop sitting opposite Jack Franklin in the interrogation room of the airport. David pointed at Essop as he said, ‘This man, this man took the tourist. Your friend from the palace, Essop.’

  ‘You’re wrong! Again you’ve got it all wrong! This man has nothing to do with any of this,’ I shouted, but David pounded the bar with his fist and I flinched, surprised by his anger.

  We sat in silence, until his tight fist opened, and when he spoke again it was in the embarrassed tone of a youth, reluctantly explaining to his elder that he has been mistaken. ‘No. You are the one who is wrong, minister. The guard was lying about the camera. I forced him to show me the footage.’ As I stared at the photograph of Essop, I understood that everything I thought I knew was wrong. David wasn’t the enemy. He was trying to impress me; he’d always been trying to impress me. I remembered Essop in my office, helping me up when I fainted. Showing me that old photograph of uMunthu. Had he been trying to warn me to run? I remembered him calling me on my way to see Patrick at the market. Then my brain, like some weary teacher, recalled Essop’s favourite saying: we never look for the devil in the right place. This made me laugh hysterically, which caused David to look at me as if I’d lost my mind. David said, ‘Something is happening, minister. The airport guard was terrified. He told me that your friend Essop is part of something terrible.’

  I turned to him. ‘David, listen to me now. Go home, get money, clothes and get out of the country.’ David nodded, obedient to the last, and I said, ‘Tonight the roads will all be blocked. But the weak point is first thing tomorrow when the army and the police will have to man the stadium. Go first thing. Do you understand me?’

  When he stood, I expected him to leave but realised he was waiting, with his hand hanging awkwardly between us. I shook it. David walked out the door, swallowed into the bright light. I heard him get into his car and drive away.

  I finished my drink and stood to go but stopped when I heard the sound of a car arriving. I listened to the clunk of doors, the whispering of men, and watched a shadow form in the glowing mouth of the entrance. ‘Josef? It’s me.’

  ‘I’d recognise the crappy sound of your car anywhere,’ I said.

  ‘Anyone else here?’

  When I said, ‘Just me,’ two more figures broke through the light, men with machineguns, soldiers, Boma’s boys. ‘I didn’t realise we needed to bring guns,’ I said.

  He walked towards me, saying, ‘Let’s go outside, my friend, on the khondi will be safe.’

  ‘Safe? With you? Safe as the tourist who vanished?’

  Essop smiled awkwardly and I followed him, taking the whisky and two glasses. The soldiers came with us, checking the balcony and the fields below, then Essop said, ‘Both of you, wait at the main entrance.’

  We sat at a wooden table. Essop removed a smouldering ashtray, placing it away from him at another table. I poured the whisky, we didn’t clink glasses. I drank as Essop said, ‘Sorry it has come to this.’

  ‘Come to what?’

  Essop observed me closely as he replied, ‘The assassination of the King.’

  As Essop continued to talk – ‘You should have listened to David: he’s smart’ – I tried to focus, fumbling to make sense of everything, but my concentration was too weak to hold together my thoughts, which kept separating and disintegrating, leaving me with nothing but a blank frustration into which I shouted, ‘You sent the false text? To get me out of the airport? Is the tourist a mercenary? Is he going to kill Tafumo?’

  ‘He’s just a courier,’ Essop said. ‘But when Boma found out you had him . . .’

  ‘Boma? You’re working with Boma? He’s a drunk and a fool. Boma believes only in Boma.’

  Essop’s tone was stern. ‘No. That’s you, Josef. Boma isn’t a refined man but he knows Tafumo has to be stopped.’

  ‘So it’s a coup.’

  ‘No. It’s not a coup. If it’s a coup Boma’s military government might only last a month or two before the world interferes; there is no legitimacy to that. Boma is not the brightest man but he knows that much. So we are using an outsider, a mercenary. Then Boma will step into Tafumo’s vacuum with clean hands to save Bwalo and start afresh. That is why Tafumo will be shot by a white supremacist.’

  ‘Is he a white supremacist?’

  ‘He will be when the papers come out tomorrow,’ replied Essop. And he grinned at my shocked face. ‘Yes, Josef, I’ve learned a thing or two from you.’

  ‘You’ll make Tafumo a martyr.’

  ‘He should consider it our parting gift.’

  ‘Then what? You’ll take over?’

  Essop laughed. ‘An old translator won’t amount to much in politics. No. Boma will form a government. I’ll have some minor administrative role, then go quietly into the wings.’ I felt an odd mix of confusion and fury building in my gut. I looked across at my friend and said, ‘You’re a fool, Essop. You know Boma is just Tafumo’s dumb spear.’

  ‘Sometimes you have to choose between devils.’

  ‘But why kill Tafumo now?’

  ‘The land is rotten. We should have done it years ago. You and I, all of us should have done it the day Levi didn’t turn up at your wedding. Should have forced Tafumo’s hand, forced him out of office. But we did nothing. You did nothing but make excuses . . .’

  ‘Don’t pretend you are better than I am,’ I shouted.

  He cast his eyes down, too embarrassed to even look at me as he confessed. ‘No. I’m no better than you. I knew what was going on. I am culpable. We all are. Though we had different reasons for not doing something, we’re all still guilty of doing nothing. Some of us were ambitious, Josef. Some of us were weak and optimistic, ever hopeful that the killing would stop.’

  When he finally looked up, I couldn’t hold his gaze. Two old friends who’d suppressed the most important conversation of their lives – a conversation buried under years of silence – now too embarrassed to look each other in the eye as we finally spoke it.

  ‘There will be chaos,’ I warned. ‘People will rise up to destroy Boma. Many still love and would die for Tafumo.’

  ‘Few things are as bitter as thwarted hope. So, yes, there will be violence. Boma may only b
urn bright for a short time. All I hope to do is finish Tafumo. The least I can do as my conscience grows heavier each day as I stand by and do nothing for this country that I saw come to life. And the young care not for kwacha, that word we sang, we fought for; that taboo word has sunk back to its base meaning. For young people today it means nothing more than sunrise. For a short time we made it mean something more but look where we are now. Two old men in a whorehouse untying our mistakes. It’s time to clear the earth. Kill the old, let the young remain.’

  I felt my confusion resolve into anger and, trying to claw back control, I shouted, ‘That won’t happen, Essop, I’ll stop you. I will call Tafumo, I will call Jeko, I will call David, and we will stop you and Boma and his pathetic little army and . . .’

  Essop shook his head. ‘No, Josef. No. You won’t, you will let it happen. Isn’t that what you do best? Let bad things happen.’

  ‘I’ll do everything to stop you,’ I said, but my anger was already fading. Essop continued to shake his head, as I spoke. ‘What? You will kill me here? Boma’s soldiers are here to kill me?’ I glanced at the soldiers stationed at the door, as Essop said, ‘Calm down, Josef. Trust me when I say that it’s no longer in your interests to save Tafumo’s life.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  Essop waited a moment, sighed, then said as if it were all so self-evident, ‘Tafumo has turned on you, Josef. He wants you dead. You had your suspicions, surely? Jeko has orders to make you vanish, to murder you and Solomon and . . .’ As Essop spoke, the world slowly, rather elegantly faded. Sound drained away like water, leaving Essop silently moving his mouth; shadows slipped from their moorings, puddling like oil, as shapes collapsed and colours bled to black. I could not see, hear, nor feel, waiting – suspended in darkness – until, just as gently, the world seeped back like a stain, colours blooming, shadows rising, and as if from some great distance, Essop’s voice came to me: ‘I didn’t understand why Tafumo would target you, his golden son. It puzzled me.’

  Placing my head in my hands, so tired, so confused, I was embarrassed to hear in my own voice how close I was to tears. ‘Can you help me, my friend?’

  ‘No,’ he replied sharply.

  ‘But you must. Please, don’t let me die; don’t let them take Solomon. Jeko will murder all of us. Please, Essop, please help me. We are friends.’

  ‘No.’ His head shaking slowly, the motion of it heavy with disappointment.

  ‘You are my friend,’ I said with desperate insistence.

  ‘You’re not capable of friendship, Josef.’

  ‘How dare you,’ I shouted but Essop shouted back in a voice I never knew he had. ‘How dare I? How dare you! You sold our friends for little more than some pairs of shoes. You’re a disgrace to all we stood for, fought for, to uMunthu.’ As he spoke I realised that my hand, as if by its own will, was inside my pocket, curling around my knife. And Essop said, ‘So is this how it ends? You stabbing me in a whorehouse? But are you going to actually get blood on your hands for a change? Are you really going to plunge your little blade in me, Sefu?’

  My hand emerged from my pocket, empty. ‘How do you know that name?’

  Essop pulled a brown bag out from inside his jacket. He reached inside the bag, then he placed my folder on the table and slid it towards me. ‘You told me, Sefu.’

  I stared at it, feeling nothing; my nerves snapped like the filaments of burst bulbs, incapable of conducting shock. The emptiness brought with it a sensation of detachment, as I listened to Essop, talking away as if delivering a lecture. ‘It is interesting that the Chichewa word for report, mbiri, also means story and rumour. Ours is an incredibly economical language, which from a starving nation should be no surprise. Don’t waste food, don’t waste words. Well, now, this mbiri of yours is truly fascinating. It explains so much about you, Sefu. It seems you’ve been pulling the strings for some time.’

  ‘You came to my house and stole my folder?’

  ‘Nothing so dramatic. Don’t you remember inviting me for sundowners? When I arrived Ruby let me in, told me you were writing in your study, but I found you passed out, snoring in your wardrobe, clutching this confession, atonement, story.’

  That morning I’d awoken to find someone had placed a sheet over me; I’d assumed it was Ruby. Then the image came to me as clearly as if I’d actually seen it: Essop standing over me, slipping the folder out from under my arm, then gently spreading a sheet over my curled body. ‘When I showed your folder to Boma he said it was the scribblings of a madman. Boma wants you to become a public example of a regime that, from tomorrow, will be gone. He wants you, Jeko and many other ministers strung up for all to see, an example, a scapegoat, put on public trial. You, Josef, the old guard, Tafumo’s bad man. All of it to show that Boma is sweeping away the past.’ Essop left me hanging, watching me twist in my own panic, before he continued. ‘But you’re lucky I’m so persuasive. I told Boma that it’s better to spare you. That one of Tafumo’s closest men telling the world the truth about Tafumo will pave the way for a new regime faster than a lengthy, expensive trial of redemption against you and Tafumo’s cronies.’

  ‘Thank you, Essop, thank you. I’ll do anything if you spare me, spare Solomon. I am in your hands.’ He looked uncomfortable, maybe a little disgusted, as he said, ‘Get out of the country, talk to the international press. Discredit Tafumo. It’s the least you can do for Levi, Patrick, for Hope. A pathetic absolution but a start, I suppose. Certainly more than you deserve.’

  ‘You must understand me when I say that I did what I had to do . . .’

  ‘You lie so effortlessly, Josef.’ Then a silence stretched between us before he added, ‘Remember the god Tambuka? He sent a chameleon to tell man he’d be reincarnated. But also sent a lizard to tell man death was permanent. Well the lizard arrived first and man accepted the permanence of death. You, Josef, you are the lizard. You brought the lie that people believed. Now see if you can undo it.’

  It wasn’t until my voice got caught on a sharp sob that I realised I was crying. ‘I didn’t kill anyone.’

  He studied me academically, as one might study a difficult question, nodding at some internal dialogue – as if I was proving all of the terrible things he’d assumed of me – then he said, ‘Hold on to your delusions, Josef. I believe it is your only protection now. For if you faced up to what you really did, you would die of shame.’

  I wiped my tears. ‘How will I leave?’

  ‘Boma has instructed a number of his soldiers to let you go. Leave in the morning before sunrise, when the country will be distracted and most of the force will be at the stadium. Take the lake road, the old dirt one.’

  My fatigue was so strong that I felt my head nodding obediently as Essop said, ‘Your sing’anga gave you powerful muti but it is not the sort you need.’

  I took the tonic from my pocket and stared at the muddy liquid. Essop shrugged. ‘Sorry, Josef, but you’re a very smart man with a lot of spies out there and the last thing I needed was for you to figure out what we were doing. She’s my cousin, the sing’anga. A good woman. I suggest you stop taking the drops. It’s bad muti, my friend, bad muti.’

  ‘Will I die?’

  ‘No, you’ll just be weak for a time.’

  ‘And the fetish? The tooth in my car?’

  Essop had a grim smile as he said, ‘No, my friend, that’s not my style. It seems you are rich in enemies. I’m Tambuka, you know? My relatives slowly overpowering the Ngoni with education, and now we’re sweeping the next great tribe away, your Chewa tribe. But of course, I see that even that was a lie. You and Tafumo are not Chewa, not even Bwalo. Tafumo is the great refugee King. Which makes you what? You and him are boys from across the border, some weak Nguru tribe, little more than migrants. Funny to think that in fact you, Tafumo and I are all the children of slaves.’ I watched him watching me and saw that his expression had shed its academic dispassion, which I now realised was a sort of foil, a disguise. He was just as scared and emotional as
me, his face soaked in a fatigue that I knew only too well. ‘It’s not just that you lost your ideals, Josef. The world is a complicated place, after all, but even when your ideals were tested I prayed, I always hoped, and now I see it was foolish, that you and I were once truly friends.’ He seemed to be awaiting a reply, some sort of explanation, but I looked away from him, over to the blood-orange sunset, shaking my head. ‘I wish I’d listened more to all your silly stories, Essop.’

  ‘No one listens to translators. I’m the voice of other men.’ Then he smiled properly for the first time, that gentle smile, and I felt a terrible sadness that I’d never see it again, that everything was coming to an end.

  When we stood, Essop said, ‘Get out of your house, stay somewhere safe with Solomon tonight, then leave first thing, before the sun rises, by the lake road, the old one, the dirt one.’

  I was so light-headed I could barely walk. Sensing this, Essop tucked himself under my arm and helped me through the bar, back to my car, where he placed me in the driving seat and said, ‘Good luck, Sefu.’ I watched as sorrow swam over Essop’s face and, as if attempting to escape his sadness with speed, he turned and walked away.

  Sean

  I rode the lake road a long time before my blood cooled enough for me to think straight. Not that straight thinking helped; it merely clarified how buggered I was. My wallet was lost in the Flamingo. My mobile was gone, probably vibrating in some cornfield. The seat of my trousers was wet with sweat and piss and darker matter. And I was travelling without a destination. Another great title for my book.

  My plan was to ride until I hit the border and pray that they hadn’t got my name on a list yet, to get out of Bwalo before the soldiers or Josef caught up with me. But what about Stu, Fiona and Charlie? I had to tell them something was about to happen. Maybe I could just phone them from across the border, I thought. And then what about Stella? There was no doubt that we had experienced a violent run and the Flamingo incident was undeniably a low point. But we had both pushed one another to the edge before and peered over the precipice, only to relent, and drag one another back to safety, cradling in each other’s forgiving arms. And at the very least – if all was truly lost between us – I had to pick up my books, the few meagre bits of writing I had at her house, and my . . . passport!