Indigo (12 page)

Jerry spent the day writing memos. He had no idea who would take his place, but he had run the school for three years and its orderly continuance was important to him. There was still the problem of the visas to attend to, still the inequitable salaries of the locally hired staff, and any number of students with whom he had special contracts concerning behavior and academic improvement. Had someone asked him earlier he would have guaranteed that, though some of those contracts might surely be broken, they would not be broken by him.

At four o'clock Joseph sent his crew to work on another part of the school and stood guard outside the copy-room door. Inside the room Jerry was nervously pacing around. Sunday was there and had stacked the reams of paper off to the side. Jerry had told Joseph and Sunday of the plan out of a sense of camaraderie and trust, because they had worked together for years, but he had not told Lawrence. He had relied on his attorney, it was true, but he wanted Lawrence's denials of involvement to be authentic. Also, he wasn't sure how Lawrence would react if he absolutely knew that Jerry was going to run.

The copy-machine doors were open, its internal compartment gleaming. Jerry had practiced getting in and out of the machine a couple of times, and when word came that the repairman's truck was there, he ducked down quickly, taking only his thermos and a sack lunch, and not, in the end, saying good-bye to anyone. It was a tight fit—though the copy machine could hold fifty reams of paper, it was only five feet long—but he pulled his knees up and twisted his shoulders around, and when the doors were closed he felt the machine move off the ground. Joseph had called his crew back, and when they put him down he could hear them getting the replacement machine off the open back end of the truck. When they lifted him once more he felt the truck's bed under him and he heard the tailgate slam.

Jerry was afraid that the copy-machine doors might swing open again but he couldn't get his hand around to hold them. He heard Joseph ask the driver when the machine would be returned and he heard the man say, “Don' know, but les tie 'er down good.”

There was silence then. The driver had a rope in his hands and wanted to string it around the machine, through the hooks at the side of the truck's bed. Jerry felt his stomach fall. Why hadn't they anticipated this? Had Lee Logar believed Jerry would simply be able to slide out of the machine freely, crawling over and jumping off the side of the moving truck? Good God, here he was, already locked inside the copy machine before realizing how stupid the whole plan was.

Jerry could hear Sunday stalling for time, telling the man that his ropes were old, that it was better to go without them than to risk having the police see the condition they were in, but the driver immediately believed that Sunday was trying to steal his ropes, so there was nothing left for them to do but allow the man to tie the machine down tight.

“OK,” said the man, “have 'er back before too long.” He checked around, satisfying himself with the way the copy machine sat in the back of his truck and trying to speak to them, now, in a friendly way.

Not only was Jerry tied down, but all this was taking a great deal of time. He could see from the luminous dial on his watch that it was after five. And though he had been inside the machine for less than fifteen minutes, his legs ached from the position they were in, and he was having trouble taking a full breath.

Joseph's crew had moved across the school grounds again and Sunday had taken the truck driver inside to get him a drink of water when Jerry heard another voice nearby. Pamela was there, standing at the side of the truck and asking Joseph where Jerry lived. Jerry was sure she had continued to watch the school, but since she couldn't see inside the rooms, how could she possibly know about the copy machine? Jerry imagined that it was all a coincidence because of his asking her to visit him once again, and in his mind's eye he saw her pointing off toward the flats. He saw Joseph shifting his weight, searching for a good reply.

“His flat is that very one, madam,” Joseph finally said. “Firs' floor, lef side.” Joseph paused then, and Jerry could feel him holding on, trying to decide whether to let the woman walk toward the flat or to tell her that he was away. Jerry, however, had suddenly had enough. He'd need spinal adjustments for the rest of his life after this and it was, finally, all too odd, and too much against his view of himself, for him to let it go on. Let Lee Logar find another way of spiriting him away.

“Joseph,” he said, and there was another long pause.

“Yessir,” Joseph finally said.

“Tell the lady to wait a minute and then get a knife—get me out of here.”

But immediately Pamela spoke again. “Never mind, Joseph,” she said, “I think I understand.”

“But I'm tied in here,” Jerry said. “I can't get out and I'm so late that I might even get left in here overnight.”

That possibility hadn't occurred to him until he'd said it, but Pamela said, “Shh, here comes the driver again.” What, had she now completely come over to his side? Was she now going to help him find Lee Logar in the downtown Lagos streets?

Jerry knew that Joseph would not ignore his request to be freed, but as soon as Sunday and the driver got back Pamela asked the driver for a lift into town, asking him where his shop was and saying it was near where she wanted to go. Jerry imagined her with her hand on Joseph's arm, keeping him quiet with her eyes and tone.

So in a minute Pamela and the driver got into the cab of the truck and Joseph and Sunday stood around the tailgate at the back.

“Sir?” Joseph said quietly, once the driver had turned the engine over and put the truck into gear.

“Never mind, Joseph,” Jerry heard himself say, “let's give it a try.” And then, as the truck lurched forward, he said, “Thank you and good-bye.”

That was all. He was away from the school, away from his pleasant and orderly life with no more fanfare than that given a broken copy machine. The ride into town was long, and though Jerry had never been more uncomfortable, he remained still and tried to think of other things. He thought of the memos he had placed inside some of the files, the lists of things to do that sat on his desk, the little insights he'd tried to relay to whoever would next occupy his chair. He thought of the pride he'd taken in being appointed principal of such a school, the unblemished quality of his long and good career. And of course he also marveled at Pamela, helping him out of it, riding along as his aide.

The truck had been moving well, zooming into town, but Jerry was suddenly jarred by a quick stop. Horns blared, and after that the truck crept forward, stopping for long periods before rolling slightly forward again. They were in a go-slow, a Lagos traffic jam, and he pushed at the copy-machine doors, so that he might see out a little.

Boys surrounded the truck, hawkers from the side of the road, and Jerry thought of the ironing board he'd bought. He could hear the truck driver buying something through his window and he could tell from the sound of things that both the driver and Pamela had their windows down, were exchanging comments with the hawkers who walked by. The truck was not moving and he could hear, now that the traffic noise had dimmed, a certain give-and-take, a friendly sort of chatter. Pamela had bought something to eat, and when a beggar approached he could hear her telling him to wait while she searched around for a coin. Jerry had never done that. When beggars approached him he always stared straight ahead until they went away. He ignored them all, even the legless ones who scooted through the traffic on those horrible skateboards of theirs.

By the time the go-slow broke up the sun was down, and when the truck stopped again they had reached their destination, were inside some kind of garage. Pamela got out of the cab and the driver ran off somewhere to report his arrival.

“Cut me loose,” said Jerry.

“Shh. Give us a moment,” Pamela said.

She untied the ropes from the side of the truck and had pulled them from the main body of the copy machine when the driver came back with a friend.

“I only thought I'd give a hand,” she said, but the driver and the other man laughed, telling her that it was late, that they could take the machine off the truck in the morning when they had a full crew.

“Come, madam, let us lock our door,” said the new man, and Jerry heard the three of them walk away. He heard the big double doors close and he saw the light leaving and he heard the quiet coming in. When he moved against the copy-machine doors they opened a foot before becoming entangled in the ropes. Still, he was able to get an arm out, and then a shoulder, and soon he was on his knees in the bed of the truck, born of the copy machine but looking pretty much like himself. He lay down and pointed his toes and stretched his body out.

Jerry was in a new and different world, but in a moment he remembered that businesses in Lagos often had night guards and he froze, listening. Maybe the guard was not on duty yet or maybe he was still outside, standing in the road with the guards of other businesses nearby. Surely, if he were in the shop he'd have heard the noise Jerry made and come to investigate by now.

The copy-machine repair shop wasn't large. The truck, in fact, occupied most of it, and around the truck copy machines were stacked, their doors and lids fallen open like unhinged mouths.

Jerry let his eyes adjust and then grabbed his lunch and stepped over the side of the truck, landing lightly and tur-reting around like a military man, his thermos held above him like a club. He had been athletic as a youth and continued to be proud of the fitness he had maintained.

The smell of copy-machine toner was everywhere but Jerry could see, from the mix of broken parts, that he should never have sent the school's machine here. Though they might fix whatever was wrong with the machine, they would steal from it as well, switching newer parts for poor ones like an organ bank in America might do.

Just as Jerry stepped around the back of the truck, the front door opened and the guard came in. Jerry had seen the man's face in an outside slice of light and he stepped up to the man quickly, before he could secure the door.

“Good,” he said loudly. “I was afraid I was going to have to call for help.”

“Allah!” said the security guard.

But when the guard saw Jerry's white face he calmed and Jerry said, “I fell asleep in the truck. I guess they forgot to wake me, must have forgotten I was there.”

Jerry pointed back over his shoulder as he spoke, then asked the guard to open the door. The security man still had his hands on his chest, but in a moment he did what Jerry asked, letting the door slide open far enough for Jerry to walk through it into the unfamiliar night. “Is no good down here for de white man,” the guard said, but Jerry didn't reply. He wanted to get far enough away so that if the guard decided to seek him out again he wouldn't be easy to find.

The area outside the shop was candle-powered, and there was a low burning fire with men standing around it. Jerry remembered Pamela and hoped she might be waiting nearby. Would it be better to let her find him or to slip away? Surely Lee was waiting as well and would be furious to find Pamela.

“Oh, dare you are,” said a voice, and since it wasn't Pamela's or Lee's, Jerry tensed, ready to punch and run. “Who's there?” he said. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I am wounded now,” said the voice. “You forget me quick like dat? Time get better a man don' remember ‘is own pas' friend, dat's de trouble wid people dese days.”

Jerry looked then and saw a face he knew. It was Parker Akintola, his old cell mate, the Bob Marley ticket man. “Parker,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Same ting I was doin' in jail,” said Parker, “workin' on takin' care o you. I work for Lee, de been-to from America. Louis Smith-Jones is my driver.”

Jerry thought it was impossible that Parker worked for Lee. Surely Lee would have mentioned him. But before he could respond Pamela came out of the dark. “Is this man bothering you?” she asked.

A few of the nearby street people had begun to take an interest in what was going on, so Parker led them back past the repair shop and down an alley. Jerry had hoped to see the red diplomatic plates on Lee's embassy car but what he found instead was a Lagos taxi, the driver's door open and, sure enough, Louis Smith-Jones behind the wheel.

“Where's Lee?” asked Jerry. “What the hell's going on here?”

But Parker shook his head. “Lee can't be out here his own self. Dis is only stage one. Lee is our stage-two man. And so far everything has gone wrong. You was supposed to come alone, widout a lady frien'. You was supposed to come early and you come late. Lee will be upset. I don' even know if he is still at our number-two rendezvous place.”

Parker got in front, so Jerry and Pamela both slid into the backseat of the cab. Louis jerked the car once and in a moment they were rolling out of the alley and onto a road that seemed to lead farther into this unknown part of town. Jerry had not been told anything about what would happen after he left the school, but now that he thought about it, he realized how idiotic he was to have followed instructions that Lee had sent him in a note. Anyone could have sent that note. He looked at the others in the car, trying to gauge something by the way they sat, but he couldn't tell a thing. His heart fell a little, though, when he remembered that when Pamela approached him on the street, Parker hadn't been surprised.

After Louis drove past the same spot three times, after he'd gone around the same roundabout and up the same drive, Parker said, “Dis is what I was afraid of…. Lee has not waited. I don' see any sign of de stage-two vehicle either.”

There was still a chance, of course, that Parker was telling the truth, that he really did work for Lee, so all Jerry said was, “What do we do now?” It was Pamela, however, who responded. “We aren't far from my house,” she said. “Let's all go there.”