Some of these sailors would have food in their hands and Tammer would look at them with envy and hunger. Meat, Tammer would say, they are eating meat. He would point, and Fredao would spit and say, Yeah, filthy cannibals, they would eat humans as well.
What are cannibals? Tammer asked.
Humans who eat other humans, Fredao replied.
BEFORE I ARRIVED at the bridge, I stopped at a store and bought coffee and cakes. Then I drove down to the spot, parked, and got out. I saw two boys sleeping in a shelter of cardboard boxes and leaning against each other, sharing a blanket. It was Tammer and his friend Skippy the Bug. In a small barrel beside them, a few pieces of coal were glowing faintly beneath burnt pieces of wood. I stood there and waited, smoking and drinking my coffee. And then I moved closer. There were many empty beer bottles and a large bottle of Johnnie Walker, half gone. I was just about to kneel down and wake Tammer when I saw Skippy flip his side of the blanket open and point a gun at me.
Skippy, I said. It’s me, Fly, put your gun down.
He immediately began to giggle, and Tammer, as if he had anticipated everything in his dreams, also started to giggle from beneath the blanket.
Fly, do you have fifty bucks? Tammer said, his voice muffled, and they both laughed.
Wake up, I said to Tammer. And you, Skippy boy, point that thing away from me. Where did you get that gun? I asked him.
My inheritance, Tammer said. What’s up, Fly?
Drink your coffee and let’s go for a walk.
Too cold for a walk, man. Shit, I got to piss. Fucking booze, a massacre, motherfucking massacre that I have to piss out.
While he was pissing against a pillar, I asked him how his mother was.
Not good, he said. She’s still in the hospital. I’m going to visit her tomorrow.
I’ll come, I said. Which hospital is she in?
The one on the top of the mountain there, he said, and flicked himself, buckled up, and asked Skippy to imitate some lady’s voice again.
Skippy started to shout in a high-pitched voice, Leave those Coke cans alone, what are you doing here!
Hey, Fly, Tammer said as I turned to walk back towards my car, could you buy us some hamburgers? And Skippy repeated, Hamburgers.
Not today, I said. Got to go back to work.
THE NEXT DAY I went to the hospital to see Linda. And there was Skippy, smoking and juggling rocks in the parking lot.
Is Tammer inside? I asked.
No, he went to buy cigarettes.
Did he already visit?
Yeah.
How is his mother?
Not good.
Did you go in?
No.
Where do you come from? I asked the bug.
The moon, he said, and laughed. I come from the moon.
You have the gun on you?
He laughed.
Is that why you waited outside?
Yeah, outside, he said. Tammer is coming. Tammer is coming, he said, and laughed.
How is your mother? I asked when Tammer had reached us.
He ignored my question. He just passed me and kept going and Skippy trailed along.
THE WORD ON the street had it that Fredao, after damaging Linda, had lost the respect of his girls, and that they had rebelled against him. A new pimp had already taken over Fredao’s corner and no one had seen him for days. Rumour had it that he’d gotten ill and nostalgic and decided to go back to Angola with a suitcase filled with money.
I went up to Linda’s room. Her teeth were now completely gone. Her jaw was so damaged that she could hardly talk. I had to decode every word she said. When I told her that I had seen Tammer outside, tears went down her cheeks and she reached for my hand and squeezed it. Her eyes and her fingers stayed fixed in the same position for a long time.
Two weeks later, the body of Fredao would be found on the shore of the river. He had been repeatedly shot in the head. The news, in a small article on a back page, would report that three of his limbs were missing. The bites would be attributed to hungry stray dogs, though the report would go on to mention that there were knife cuts and pieces of missing flesh.
BIRDS
ON THE WAY back from the hospital, I saw Zainab on the street, walking towards the bus station. I stopped my car and called to her from across the road. She barely waved at me and continued walking. I made a U-turn and drove up alongside her. I opened my window and asked her to get in. She hesitated, and then she opened the door and sat next to me. I’ll drive you to school, I said.
She was quiet. And then she said, There’s no need. I am leaving.
Home?
Where is home for us, Fly? My home was taken, occupied. I am moving to another city.
Gina, I said.
You saw us?
Yes. I didn’t know.
She was travelling in Jordan and we met and fell in love. And I had to leave. I left everything for her. A relationship like ours is not accepted everywhere.
But Zainab, that is the consequence of those religions you so defend and embrace. I don’t understand you.
Fly, religion is here and it will always be here.
Am I going to see you again? I asked.
I don’t believe so, Fly.
For once you don’t believe.
She smiled and said, Fly, what do you believe in? What do you live for?
What do the stars believe in, Zainab? Where do the dead horses go, what do the birds worship, and what do the rivers live for?
Take care of yourself, Fly.
She leaned over, kissed me, and left, and I’ve never seen her again.
ACT FIVE. CRIMES
NUMBER 6 WAS found shot in the district of St. Lucas Island. His car was discovered six hours after his disappearance. The first alarm was given by his partner, Number 107. They shared the car in two twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. Every morning for the past ten years they would meet at the same taxi stand and exchange the car keys and a few words before the night driver went home and the morning driver started the day. When Number 6 didn’t show up after his night shift, his partner called the dispatcher, who repeatedly tried to reach Number 6, to no avail. At that point, the police were informed.
His car was spotted by a security guard who heard the repeated calling of the taxi dispatcher coming from the radio. Number 6 had been shot in the side of the head. The shot must have come from the front passenger seat: blood was splattered all over the front seat and the glass. The car was held as evidence and couldn’t be driven for months. After fifteen years of driving, Number 107, the partner of the deceased, gave up the taxi business and thought of opening a restaurant.
NUMBER 48 WAS found on his knees, beaten by a rock, down by the train tracks. He was discovered by two hobos who said they heard the loud buzzing of the flies and saw a stray dog escaping with a human limb in its mouth. As they approached the car, they smelled and then saw the dead man. The police came and the newspapers went on a frenzy of photographing the crime scene. The hobos were asked to pose for a photo next to the car. They both smiled and everyone in the editorial office commented on their missing teeth.
Number 48 had a young wife and two young children. His wife, who had no other means of income and no family in this land, decided to go back to Algeria and live with her brother and his wife.
NUMBER 96 DIED of a broken neck. His car was found in a hayfield by a farmer. The radio in the car had been left on and played loud music all night. In the early morning, the farmer took his shotgun and drove his pickup truck to the murder scene. The farmer later complained that the loud radio had echoed all the way back to the barns and scared the cows, depriving them of a good night’s sleep.