Indigo (8 page)

Jerry tried to remember Nurudeen's family name. He wanted to address the woman formally, to tell her that he admired her courage, he wanted to take her hand. “You aren't Nurudeen's stepmother, are you?” he asked.

“Goodness, no,” said Pamela. “I am Marge's friend, the chiropractor. Didn't she write you that I would come?”

Jerry was stunned and then he actually did, for an instant, touch the woman's hand. He remembered Marge's letter and reached into his pocket, fishing around until he found one of her spinal-column name cards.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “forgive me. I've been under such strain. I'm afraid I've been acting like a fool.”

But Pamela put her hand up. “I know,” she said, “I've been reading the papers. I didn't want to bother you, but I did want to fulfill my promise to Marge.”

Jerry had no clear idea why, but he felt downright light-hearted, glad to have Nurudeen out of the picture, happy to have someone new around. He smiled and smiled. “It's good to meet you,” he said. “How is Marge? Please, tell me everything that's new.”

But Pamela didn't want to talk about Marge. She saw that Jerry was on the verge of some kind of breakdown and she gave him a careful look. “You really are a wreck,” she said. “And what an awful situation.”

Jerry was hunched up in his chair, looking at her out of a crooked head. “It's a terrible situation,” he said. “I still have no idea what I will do.”

Pamela nodded and then stood up and began clearing the papers and other items from the broad expanse of Jerry's desk. “This is not proper,” she said, “but it will have to do.” She then slipped out of her shoes and ordered him up onto his desk, telling him to lie down along the desk's near edge. The expression on her face was one of serious calm; it was a professional face, but Jerry was incredulous.

“Not really,” he said, but without answering him Pamela went over and turned the lock on the door.

Jerry Neal was a dignified man, the principal of the school, and if anyone had suggested that he would allow a strange woman to lock his door and order him up on top of his desk, he'd have been shocked. It was during school hours. “On my stomach or on my back?” he wanted to know.

Pamela said that for the moment she wanted him on his side, and as close to the desk's edge as he could get. She then pulled his top leg, the left one, out toward her, making it bend at the knee. “Relax now,” she said. She touched his back and when the muscles there began to loosen she actually fell on top of him, pushing his entire torso toward his chair, away from the natural bend of his upper knee. Jerry heard a line of bones crack, like the tumblers in the school safe. “Hey,” he said.

Pamela had him roll over to the desk's other side, and when he was situated properly again she repeated the procedure. After that she popped his neck, cradling his head against her bosom, the softness there nearly making him swoon. Then she pulled on all his fingers and toes. “Easy,” she kept saying. “This won't do you any harm.”

And Jerry did feel easy. He paid attention to what she was doing, and it felt good and he told himself such a thing was not at all untoward in a widowed man's life.

“That's enough for now,” Pamela said.

Jerry looked up at her. It wasn't enough, he wanted to say, how could anyone think that it was? But when she said, “Well, stand up, walk around,” he propped himself onto one elbow and tried to give her a smile.

Pamela helped him off the desk and watched him as he walked toward the door. He felt marvelous—better anyway than he had before—and when he said so Pamela laughed. “You see,” she said. “Marge was right and you were wrong.” And then she said, “You really should be seeing someone regularly. At least until these trying times are over.”

“Yes,” said Jerry, “I will. What about lunch?”

It was a ridiculous thing to admit, but Jerry had not been smitten since the day he'd met Charlotte, thirty-five years before. Pamela, however, was businesslike. “I don't eat lunch,” she said, “and I really do need to get on with my day.” There was a knock on the door that prevented him from saying more, and when he opened it his secretary was there with news that Lawrence Biko would be out of town through the weekend.

When the secretary left again, Pamela slipped back into her shoes. “It's been lovely,” she said. “Would you like me to call again?”

“Of course,” Jerry said. “I mean, yes, I would.”

They shook hands, and Jerry said that he hoped she'd be back soon.

“I am quite busy,” said Pamela. “But yes, sometime soon. We can catch up on everything that's happened. I mean, of course, everything that's happened to Marge.”

Pamela left quickly then, and soon after that Jerry did too. He went home and took another shower and sat alone at the end of his dining table and slowly ate the food that Jules had prepared, washing it all down with wine. Now he was back on track. It had taken time, but he was over the fear he'd felt and ready to face whatever he had to face, ready to clear his name and to get on with the running of his school.

When he finished his meal Jerry took the wine bottle over to his reading chair and went to the bedroom for his dictionary and his copy of
Madame Bovary
, in the original French. Reading this book was a project he'd started in Abidjan but had discontinued nearly a year before. Perhaps meeting Pamela had brought it back to mind, perhaps it had been the English class.

Nothing could have been further from the truth of his own life than the sexual longings of a nineteenth-century French woman, but to read about her made Jerry realize that he might be capable of leading a different sort of life someday. He could decide, for example, to teach again, or he could decide to be less private. He could even decide that his loyalty to Charlotte could continue should he discontinue his marathon homage to celibacy and living alone.

Jerry Neal marveled at himself. He had learned a great lesson from the experiences of the last days and he decided that it had pretty much all been for the good. Unlike Madame Bovary, for him the world was wide. As he read he realized that he was not tied to anything from which deceit was the only escape. That, in fact, was what made him free. Jerry poured himself another glass of wine and felt a sense of well-being and warmth. Christmas vacation was coming and if he was no longer under house arrest by then he would use the time to travel and think. Or perhaps he would stay in Lagos after all, where he could pay close attention to the school, where he could solve the visa problems and look after the continued well-being of his spine.

Two

On Saturday morning at eight o'clock the police came knocking on Jerry Neal's door. Jerry had read until nearly two, struggling through the language of Madame Bovary's life, so though the knocking awakened him, he took his time getting dressed before going out to see who insisted on doing business so early in the day.

The same police captain who'd interrogated Jerry had pushed Jules back into the flat and was glaring at him. Jules had a frying pan in his hand, but when Jerry spoke, suggesting that Jules bring coffee, everything calmed down quickly.

Jerry felt refreshed and in charge, and though he did not take the policeman's visit as good news, he was determined not to be afraid. He waited until Jules had brought the coffee, and while the captain and his assistant took their own sugar and cream he spoke firmly. “Tell me why you are here,” he said. “How can I help you today?”

“There has been a development,” said the captain. He had lowered his voice too far. He did not like being in this man's flat, and he worked his fingers around the edges of his coffee cup before saying, “The minister's secretary has expired.”

Jerry stared at the man, but then he made a small mistake. “I am so sorry,” he said, and when the policeman looked at him sharply he added, “for the woman, I mean, for whatever family she has that remains.”

“Then you are confessing?” asked the incredulous cop. “Right here in my presence?”

“Of course I'm not confessing,” Jerry said. “You know I had nothing to do with that fire.”

Jerry wished the authorities had seen fit to send news of the secretary's death through Lawrence Biko, and he asked why the captain thought it necessary to come himself. “It was kind of you,” he said, “but you needn't have bothered.”

“I am not a messenger,” the offended captain said. “You were released on your own recognizance concerning the crime of arson, one count. Now that you may be charged again you must surrender yourself again. If the chief criminal investigator decides to go forward with this case you will remain in detention until your day in the dock.”

The captain's face had grown sterner as he spoke, and when Jules came back to offer more coffee, he and his assistant both declined, putting their cups back onto Jules's tray. Jerry was looking away from the man, trying to think fast. They were telling him that he had to go with them now. They would put him back in that holding cell with those awful other men. The smell of urine came into his living room but before he could speak again the police captain held up a hand. “If you want to collect a change of clothing, that would be permissible,” he said.

Jerry felt the urge to panic, but he held it at bay. “May I use the phone?” he asked. Then he added, “Surely this can wait until Monday, when my solicitor is free.”

The policeman sighed. “If it could wait until Monday I would have come on Monday,” he said, so without pausing further Jerry stood and went over to the phone. He quickly dialed Leonard Holtz's home.

“Come,” said the policeman. “You can telephone from Ikoyi jail.”

The phone had rung five or six times when the police captain took the receiver from Jerry's hand, hanging it up.

Jerry found a loose twenty-naira bill in his pocket and placed it next to the telephone. “One more call,” he said.

He wanted to call the ambassador's house. Even if the ambassador wasn't in, the ambassador's wife was a friend. She would know what needed to be done. But Jerry could not remember the ambassador's home telephone number. He had it on the Rolodex in his office, but he'd called it many times before and should have been able to find it in his head. Finally he dialed the U.S. Embassy's main switchboard, letting the phone ring nine times before a marine guard picked it up. It was one of the guards he knew.

“Eric, this is Jerry Neal,” he said. “You know, from the school.”

“Oh, hi,” said the marine.

“Listen, have you heard about the trouble I'm in? The arson charge and all that?”

“What a joke,” said the guard. “When is this country going to get serious, that's what I …”

“Listen, Eric,” said Jerry. “The police are here at my house now and they are taking me back to jail. Is the ambassador there? Is Mr. Holtz there or anyone with power?”

“No, sir,” Eric said.

“Well, I won't be able to call anyone after this and I need to be able to rely on you. I want you to get in touch with the ambassador and with Holtz, with anyone you can. They are taking me to Ikoyi jail and…”

Though the twenty naira was gone from the table, the police captain had put his finger down on the button, disconnecting the call.

“These things are classified,” he said.

Jerry had somehow regained a portion of his previous composure and instead of protesting, only nodded briefly. He then went into his bedroom to collect his things. He quickly scribbled a note to the teachers, leaving it on his bed for Jules to find. He emptied his wallet of its cash and took his hidden one-hundred-dollar bill out from behind Charlotte's photograph. He found a few one-naira notes on his bureau, so he stuffed those into his pocket toward whatever favors they could buy in jail. What else would he need? Now was the time for careful thought. He packed his razor and his toothpaste and brush. Finally he took Charlotte's photograph from its frame and slid it into his jacket pocket too, where it got hung up on his toothbrush and would not go all the way down.

When Jerry came back out he spoke to Jules in halting French, telling him to deliver the note and to tell everyone where he had gone. Then he told the police captain he was ready. He tried to keep an active mind, searching for something that would help, but all he could come up with was this: In a moment I will be in the police car and a moment after that I will be clear of the school compound and at the mercy of this man. Jerry wondered, absurdly, what Madame Bovary would do in a situation such as this, and when he did so he realized that his fate, too, from that moment on might not be subject to any action of his own.

When they left the flat the policeman made Jerry walk in front of him. Twenty naira for one phone call. He really did despise the rich. If the man had only asked contritely he would have let him make the call for free.

“When it be night no man can see me in de shadow of de bush or tree. No man can see me in de shadow of de house.”

“When it be night no man can see anodder man in dem place, not only you. Properly it mus' be in de day no man can see you in dose very place. Properly in de night you mus' exis' wit' quietude, like only de night go by. In de day you mus' blen' in, become de man anodder man don' see, like de invisible man. Dat is how to get by during de day.”

The man who had spoken last laughed and turned to Jerry. “Of course, we are all of us caught and put in here, Oga. When dat happen talk is cheap.”

These two men were Jerry's only cell mates this time, though the nearby cells held as many as seven. Jerry's cell mates assured him that they were only three because he was Oyibo, a white man. They also said they were glad of it. Across the hall there was another non-Nigerian, an Indian merchant whose sad eyes sought Jerry's every time he looked that way, but this merchant, somehow, was in the most crowded cell of all. He spent his time huddled near the door, like Jerry had during his first, and much worse, incarceration.