On the riverside of promise (4 page)

Once inside, he saw a man in his late
fifties, short and miniscule. The man wore a thick mustache, had an
almost completely bald scalp and a pair of old-fashioned
ebony-rimmed glasses. The label on his desk read `Isidor Bloom -
Director of Cultural Affairs’. He looked up from his seemingly
casual reading material and immediately popped a smile. Even though
they had only occassionally met at a couple of embassy dinners, he
offered his hand in a lively, warm way and said:

“How do you do? Jolly good I hope, old
friend. Please, do have a seat. Now, what was it that you wanted to
speak to me about? I believe on the phone you said it was an urgent
personal matter that somehow involved my desk. Would you care to
elaborate? I can only be of real help if I know what we’re dealing
with here, dear fellow. In the strictest of confidence, of
course.”

Ethan shook the hand but still felt somehow a
little out of depth, his inherent distrust of spies kicking in
despite the man’s cordial manner. Unaccustomed to protocol and
etiquette, Ethan dived straight into the matter and said
bluntly:

“Mr. Bloom, I need a cover.”

Isidor Bloom blinked once or twice with an
unwavering, somewhat unnatural smile, and seemingly quite baffled,
replied:

“I beg your pardon, what kind of cover are
you talking about Mr. Whittmore?”

Before Ethan had time to elaborate, Mr. Bloom
had furrowed his brow, waving a `no-no’ finger at Ethan. He got up
from his chair and leisurely closed the door of his office. Ethan
could only frown with genuine puzzlement while Mr. Bloom sat down
again comfortably, lit his smoking pipe and had a puff. He then
asked Ethan while looking him directly in the eye, his gaze
strangely unnerving:

“Do you ask for a cunt when walking into a
brothel, Mr. Whittmore? In such delicate matters, a little more
room for maneuver is usually required. You’d ask for a girl or a
woman, perhaps even some company. Not for a cunt, which what
brothels have on offer. Are you following me, son?”

Ethan looked ever more perplexed, especially
by the sudden change of mood in the middle-aged man. He understood
he had been too blunt, but while trying to think what to say next
and especially how to apologise, the public servant leaned closer
to Ethan before continuing:

“Listen, old chap; everybody knows what we’re
doing here and everyone, including us, knows we’re just doing
pottery and traditional art exhibitions. On Thursdays there’s a
bagpipe night, though. Savvy?”

Ethan nodded numbly despite not actually
understanding all too well what the man was trying to get at. Mr.
Bloom saw the confusion written on Ethan’s face and after sighing
slightly, continued:

“Right. Well then, let’s make things easier
for you, and expediate the process. Is there someone I can call on
your behalf? Someone who can help me, help you?”

At that, Ethan replied automatically, as if
he had been waiting for that question for some time:

“Yes, sir. That would be Ian Ruthers, a
personal friend.”

As suddenly as before, Mr. Bloom’s attitude
switched back to his jovial, well-mannered and quite expedient
self. Wearing an almost disconcertingly wide grin on his face, he
picked up the phone on his desk, dialed a single number, and
said:

“Hello? Jenny? Put me through to Bristol.
Yes, yes, definitely.”

A small wait ensued, which was reason enough
for Ethan to start sweating even though the temperature inside the
room was quite pleasant. Mr. Bloom kept smiling and nodding in a
reassuring fashion, which only accentuated the weird stressful
feeling of anxiety that had overcome Ethan. Mr. Bloom was then
heard talking over the phone:

“Hello? Leonard? Yes, it’s me Isidor. Long
time no see, but it’s business again I’m afraid. Is Ruthers one of
yours? I see. Is he hot right now? No? Ah, splendid. Could you tell
him to give me a call please? Yes, my office. Well, right about now
would be indeed a perfect time. I’d like to get on with this before
lunch. Yes, well she’s fine, working on her garden and all that.
How’s Marie? Loved her cherry pie last Christmas, marvellous stuff
really. Would love to, old chap. Have your man call me, alright
then? Goodbye Leonard, don’t forget to give my regards.
Goodbye.”

Once he hang up the phone, Mr. Bloom
surprised Ethan once again with his choice of words:

“Fucking cunt can sod off. Now, let’s clear
up a few things: This friend of yours, Ruthers, can sod off as
well. If he’s going to push something for me down my pipe, that’s
fine and all. I don’t give fuckall about the why or how. Do you
understand that? I’m going home to Cheltenham before Christmas, and
this desk can rot on my piss. And just so that you know, the cock
around here tastes awful so brush often and have a care with that
mouth of yours.”

Mr. Bloom put out his pipe, placed it in his
shirt pocket, picked up his hat and strolled out of his office,
careful to smoothly close the door behind him.

Ethan stood frozen in his chair, unable to
fathom what exactly had transpired. The only certainty was that Mr.
Bloom had probably been for too long in the service. Ethan’s
thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. Ethan picked up the
receiver reluctantly:

“Hello? Ian? It’s Ethan Whittmore. Well, what
can I say? Didn’t expect to hear me on this end, did you? What am I
doing here? Well, first of all… Yes, I know I’m terrible. No, it
wasn’t… I know I shouldn’t be even talking to you like this but I
need some help, Ian. No! I’m not married. Can you be serious for a
minute? How you’re working for Six I’ll never understand. Well, now
that I saw the guy in the Nigerian desk perhaps I do understand.
Listen. Just listen. I need some cover. It’s Andy, my brother. I
need to go into Biafra. No joke. There will be no widow to comfort,
so stop being a cunt and help me over here. Right, then. A piece of
paper? I’m on it.”

* * *

James rolled a cigarette. Real imported
tobacco, confiscated from Customs. A smile, a joke and a tap in the
back usually go a long way. Especially when you’re six feet tall
and slightly less stocky than a bull. That was something that Ethan
had said when they had first met. A piece of wisdom from Britain’s
finest.

He lit his cigarette and sat down on a chair
across the kitchen table. A hefty fish lay half-eaten, its maws
showing a slightly serrated set of tiny teeth. The smell of roast
dominated the room and through an open window the grill on the
small porch could be seen; a few coals were settling down, their
heat meaningless in the suffocating summer night of Lagos.

A wedding feast was being held down the next
street, the gathered crowd milling about like a colourful circus
troupe, dancing and singing with vigor despite everyone being
thoroughly drenched in sweat. James peered at the small spectacle
and stared blankly for a minute or two, as if his thoughts were
completely disconnected with what was going on in front of him.

The crowd brought the groom to the fore, the
improptu stage the middle of the street and made a circle around
him. He was all dressed up, smiling brightly. Everyone showered him
with flowers and small gifts, while they danced to a deep, rhythmic
beat of drums. His face seemed to shine almost imperceptibly with a
gold sheen that somehow looked only natural under the light of the
torches.

The burning tip of the cigarette fell on
James’ arm. He shook instinctively, ash marking the spot of the
slight burn on his skin. His face didn’t flinch though, nor did he
seem to notice his cigarette was out. The phone in the bedroom was
ringing with a mindless persistence that only a salesman would
envy.

When James finally got up from his chair, the
phone was ringing again. He stormed outside dressed in nothing but
his shorts and ran towards the moving wedding feast barefooted. As
he ran, he traced his tongue across his lips but couldn’t tell his
tears from his sweat. It could have been Enkele's wedding
feast.

Well met on an ill road

“Hello, Richard Owls. London Times. I presume
you must be Dr. Ludwig Manteuffel. Glad you could take me in on
such a short notice.”

A somewhat plumb, blond-haired man with a
scruffy look and a thin, wiry receding hair line looked up from his
writing pad through thick glasses and saw a red-haired, tall and
almost gaunt man smiling and squinting under the uncomfortably
radiant morning sun:

“There’s room for more, actually. Your
editor-in-chief was very pleasant on the phone and quite
convincing.”

Ethan laughed politely and replied, tilting
his head only barely so he could shade his eyes at least:

“He’s a wily bastard, I’ll say. When he can
tell his arse from his elbow that is.”

The doctor extended his hand casually and
smiled, a bit puzzled:

“I hope he’s not exhibiting a cognitive
disfunction of such proportions. It could prove quite problematic
in his line of work.”

Ethan shook the doctor’s hand with some
hesitation, shaking his head in ignorance:

“I can’t say I’m quite following you,
doctor.”

Dr. Manteuffel wiped the sweat on his
forehead with the arm holding the writing pad and exhaled briskly
with the hint of a slight laugh:

“Distasteful doctor’s humor, Mr. Owls. Can I
call you Richard? Please call me Ludwig, we’ll be on the road
together for some time. This isn’t exactly a dinner party we’re
going to, yes?”

A number of people around them was busy
loading the Land Rovers with all sorts of crates, bags, and sacks
with everything from gauzes to canned food and flour. Ethan looked
quite accustomed to the heat and the Nigerian sun, at odds with the
stocky German doctor who seemed to be discomforted immensely, even
though he tried his best not to show it. Ethan nodded with a
sparkly grin and said:

“Can’t see any drinks on offer, and the
timing’s off too. Ludwig, then?”

The german doctor motioned with his pad to
the paltry shade offered by a nearby tent, filled with crates
stamped with the sign of the Red Cross and Ethan lead eagerly. The
doctor replied:

“You can also call me Baron. It’s a nickname
my colleagues often use, jokingly of course.”

“No real title then?”

“Oh, the family name is old and at some point
there was some land associated with it. The land was sold but the
title stuck. The war, you see.”

Ethan put down his knapsack and welcomed the
shade, settling on a crate. His eyes seemed suddenly old, staring
outside at the crowd of volunteers when he said:

“There’s always some kind of war going on.
Isn’t that why you’re here now?”

The doctor put down his pad on one of the
crates, pulled a fold-up chair from a corner of the tent, spread it
open and sat down, his relief obvious in the way he splayed his
feed, heels on the dirt. He took a few short breaths before
answering in a peculiar, thoughtful voice:

“I’m here to help in what way I can. Famine
and disease are just as lethal as bullets from what I’ve seen. But
why are you here?”

Ethan frowned in puzzlement and smiled in his
usually disarming way. He tried to sound casually baffled when he
said:

“Tell the world what’s going on in Biafra.
Take some pictures. Perhaps ask London for a raise too once I’m
famous.”

The doctor put one leg on top of the other
and seemed somewhat distraught, perhaps worried:

“So, a professional. I was hoping for a bit
of a romantic you see. Every help we can get is better than none at
all. And frankly, you look like you don’t need much help in these
parts.”

Ethan crossed his arms against his chest,
purely an instinctive defensive motion that only helped to show his
nervousness. His charm didn’t seem to work as intended, and his sly
grin was his way of showing he genuinely liked the plump Prussian
doctor for his openness:

“What can I say, I’ve been places. Suez.
Kenya. Angola. Vietnam.”

The doctor reached into his sweat-stained
shirt’s pocket and procured a pack of Camels. He put one into his
mouth and proffered one to Ethan as well, who politely nodded his
refusal, the grin unwaveringly attached on his tanned face. The
doctor got up from his seat, while searching around for something
to light his cigarette. His reply came with a slightly muffled
voice:

“I’m sure you enjoy travelling. A lot, I
might add. Light?”

Ethan laughed and felt somewhat unburdened.
He offered Dr. Manteuffel a lighter from one of his pants’ side
pockets:

“I can’t really say what’s on your mind,
Ludwig.”

The doctor lit his Camel and seemed to
cherish the moment before answering, his eyes squarely meeting
Ethan’s gaze before asking him straight:

“Are you going to be trouble? We don’t need
any more trouble where we’re going.”

Ethan took his lighter back and answered, the
sudden quietness in his voice the only indication that he himself
was somewhat uncertain:

“I want to stay out of trouble as much as you
do.”