Liberia was hope. Here, as in Ghana, the airport was manned by a vaudeville of armed police and combat soldiers in fatigues. A menacing presence? Like American police (“Round up the usual suspects!”) in the sixties. These guys though were brisk with the new spirit. Mason made his way at Robertsfield among hundreds of Muslims, Lebanese, Kpelle, Bassa, Gio, Bbandi, Lomo, Indians, Mano, British, Americans, even Japanese. Airports, he thought, are metaphors. A metaphor is, he thought further, never quite sure of itself. At the final paranoid-checkpoint (after every inch of his body — except for his asshole — had been searched) he found Professor Thomas Kakotu waiting at the gate. Kakotu held a sign. Horned-rimmed, Kakotu, flashed his gold tooth. The glitter of his smile was most welcome…. First impression at late afternoon — now — was haze and flatness. No sun yet you could feel it coming at you. In the car on the way in, Kakotu quickly proved to be a man of “like spirit.” He was one who understood or accepted the notion that “the imaginative foundation of human existence had some basis in the secular ‘dream’ of our actual journey” yet… In Monrovia they stopped and parked in front of Diana's. Inside, two of Kakotu's colleagues (Jacquelyn Cloves and Samuel Roberts) were waiting for them. Diana's was a simple place in good taste. Round table. They sipped Liberian beer while investigating the menu. The waiter, a boy, wanted to know where Mason was from. Was it that obvious he wasn't from, say, around the corner?… On the recommendation of the waiter they all ordered potato greens — which was made with fish, chicken, bits of pork, potato leaves, peanut butter, palm oil and lots of spices and herbs. It reminded Mason of pungent Soul Food — turnips and hamhocks, black-eyed peas and cornbread. He washed the rich food down with tangy beer. Conversation? Timid and academic. As they were leaving the waiter grinned at Mason and said, “When you go back to New York America you tell strangers come enjoy Liberia everytime, okay.” Yes. Back…?… His room in plush grandiose Ducor was cool. Then at the bar businessmen from Japan, England, South America, chattered away about rubber or iron ore deals. Mason smoked and sipped and wondered at the steamed flowers of his mood. He suddenly wished he had no face, no hands. No history. He took his quinine pill on the tide of a sip of scotch…. Those squatters in the Masonic Temple? Holy-moses, secret societies still. Hall of the oligarchy brought down by Doe: legacy plus a tight-grip of government by the old five-percent from 1821 Americo-Liberians, smashed, ended. Spirit of fourteen thousand originals placed back into the tribal context — no better than a Vai, a Kissi, a Lomo; compelled to take the same holi, barter with the charlies just like everybody else. What was “royalty” anyway? The in-breeding of royalty inevitably produced in its line of offspring the off, the feeble, narrow, nervous, inferior. Real nobility could be found where it had earned its right…. It was relative, too; yes, in deedy. Well, drink up. He had the week-end free. But he did have to find Chief Q. Tee. But where…? He took the envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. It looked innocent enough. Held it up to the light. Only one sentence typed on a folded sheet of paper. The words were not clear enough through the envelope to be read…
It was a Capricorn night: stubborn and grim. He knew he was out of his cotton-picking mind. And although he was in dirty, poor Monrovia — he remembered that for sure — the enemies had surely closed in. What could they want? He was drunk but not blind. And this taxi driver wasn't to be believed: smelling of bamboo and salted herring, he had a license placard with his grasshopper-face on it and his name was Wassily Bruno Ludwig Rottluff. Mason was suddenly afraid. Would they kill him, dump his body in some extragalactic space where nobody but nobody would ever find his remains? The guy was blue-rimmed and haughty even! In front of the dance hall, Mason got out. He reached into the uterus of the machine and pressed a filthy dollar into the crusty black hand. “Thanks.” The joint was jumping. Called The Total Situation, it was on a side street off Broad, the main drag near the Chase Manhattan Bank. Natives were packed at the bar so deep it took Mason a full minute to recognize Reverend Jack Mackins tending them. Now this was some shit! Mason worked his way in and reached for Mackins' hand. The bartender gave him a dirty eye. Mason felt like a fringed-footed lizard. Red lights winked against blue darkness in the mirror behind the Man of God. Being here was like shopping in a supermarket. Mason looked up and down the length of the bar: a woman — the only white woman in the place — was eating peanuts from a bowl. A mug of beer in the other hand. Something about her rung a bell, nearly broke the ding and split the dong. He rubbed his pumpkin-colored eyes: this dame this lass was Little Sally Walker, the porno kitten. Nobody could tell him different. Damnit! The world wasn't that small. The man next to her was eating the placenta of some animal. Steaming hot, it superseded the double shot of whisky at his elbow. His black face was twisted and purple under the light. Mason turned back to the barkeep: “I know you, Reverend. You can't fool me. Remember Attica?” “Are you drunk? Can't serve you if you drunk. You from New York? Thought so.” “Where can I find Chief Q. Tee, Reverend?” “Never heard of a chief by that name.” Upstairs people were dancing and the weight of their festive display and desperate and absolute celebration of life had the lights in the ceiling rocking, releasing pearly iridescent specs of dust and crud. Mason ordered a scotch on the rocks. This place was more vulgar than he'd hoped for. Down the bar Little Sally Walker was licking her fingers. He remembered the tadpole-touch of her inner flesh. It gave him goose bumps and made eggs break against his spine. Later he'd go down and speak to her. She couldn't possibly be part of any plot against him. Could she? But the Reverend? Who could say. Little Sally Walker's glitter and glamor were throwing off a glazed inner rigidity she hadn't had back in Guy Flotilla's world of sentimental flesh and alienated genitals. Now now, be gentle. A commotion at the door pulled him around and his eyes snagged on the exodus: people were splitting like mad. It was moments before Mason could see the body of a bleeding man on the floor half way under a table by the front window with its winking bar sign. A hard muscle in Mason's head turned to spring flowers. His teeth felt like pine cones. He drank the scotch down in one gulp. In minutes uniformed police and soldiers filled the place. Like everybody else he had to show his i.d. People wearing German music hall costumes and American designer jeans and French fluff came down the stairs from sweating and jumping, herded along by the tips of billy-sticks. In the crowd was one white guy. He was German all right. And yes: believe it or not: he was none other than Taurus Heiner Graf with a black woman clinging to his arm. For a moment Graf was only inches from him. Mason reached out and touched his arm. “Graf!” Graf didn't respond. He kept right on as though he hadn't felt the tug. At the same moment little Sally Walker and her date were pushing their way past. He couldn't remember her real name when he opened his mouth. “Rise Sally rise.” She gave him a smile and a wink. Well, well. On the way out Mason looked at the face of the man on the floor. He recognized it but he couldn't place it: it was too far out of context.