But the full heat of his righteous anger is reserved for his own masters — those lazy bums in the aid community in Geneva who roll over for the big pharmas every time.
"Those guys who call themselves humanitarians!" he protests, amid more grins from the assistants, as he unconsciously evokes Tessa's hated H-word. "With their safe jobs and tax-free salaries, their pensions, nice cars, free international schools for their kids! Traveling all the time so they never get to spend their money! I seen them, man! In the fine Swiss restaurants, eating big meals with the pretty-boy lobbyists from the pharmas. Why should they stick their necks out for humanity? Geneva's got a spare few billion dollars to spend? Great! Spend it on the big pharmas and keep America happy!"
In the lull that follows this outburst, Justin ventures a question.
"In what capacity did you see them exactly, Brandt?"
Heads lift. All but Justin's. Nobody before, apparently, has thought to challenge the prophet in his wilderness. Lorbeer's gingery eyes widen. A hurt frown creases his reddened forehead.
"I seen them, man, I tell you. With my eyes."
"I don't doubt you've seen them, Brandt. But my readers may. They'll be asking themselves, "Who was Brandt when he saw them?"' were you in the U.N.? were you a diner in the restaurant?" A small laugh to signal the unlikely circumstance. "Or were you working for the Forces of Darkness?"
Does Lorbeer sense the presence of an enemy? Do the Forces of Darkness sound threateningly familiar to him? Is the blur that was Justin in the hospital less of a blur? Lorbeer's face has become pitiful. The child light drains out of it, leaving a hurt old man without his hat. Don't do this to me, his expression is saying. You're my pal. But the conscientious journalist is too busy taking notes to be of assistance.
"You want to turn to God, you gotta be a sinner first," Lorbeer says huskily. "Everybody in this place is a convert to God's pity, man, believe me."
But the hurt has not left Lorbeer's face. Nor has the unease. It has settled over him like an intimation of bad news he is trying not to hear. On the walk back across the airstrip he ostentatiously prefers the company of Arthur the Commissioner. The two men walk Dinka-style, hand in hand, big Lorbeer in his homburg and Arthur a spindly scarecrow in a Paris hat.
* * *
A wooden stockade with a log boom for a gateway defines the domain of Brandt the food monitor and his assistants. The children fall away. Arthur and Lorbeer alone escort the distinguished visitor on a mandatory tour of the camp's facilities. The improvised shower cubicle has an overhead bucket with a string attached to tilt it. A rainwater tank is supplemented by a stone-age pump powered by a stone-age generator. All are the invention of the great Brandt.
"One day, I apply for the patent on this one!" Lorbeer vows, with a too-heavy wink that Arthur dutifully returns.
A solar panel lies on the ground at the center of a chicken run. The chickens use it as a trampoline.
"Lights the whole compound, just with the day's heat!" Lorbeer boasts. But the zest has gone out of his monologue.
The latrines are at the edge of the stockade, one for men, one for women. Lorbeer beats on the men's door, then flings it open to reveal a foul-smelling hole in the ground.
"The flies up here, they develop resistance for every disinfectant we throw at them!" he complains.
"Multi-resistant flies?" Justin suggests, smiling, and Lorbeer casts him a wild glance before he too manages a pained smile.
They cross the compound, pausing on their way to peer into a freshly dug grave twelve feet by four. A family of green and yellow snakes lies coiled in the red mud at its base.
"That's our air-raid shelter, man. The snakes in this camp, they got bites worse than the bombs," Lorbeer protests, continuing his lament against the cruelties of nature. Receiving no reaction from Justin, he turns to share the joke with Arthur. But Arthur has gone back to his own kind. Like a man desperate for friendship, Lorbeer flings an arm round Justin's shoulder and keeps it there while he marches him at light-infantry speed toward the central tukul.
"Now you gonna try our goat stew," he announces determinedly. "That old cook, he makes stew better than the restaurants in Geneva! Listen, you're a good fellow, OK, Peter? You're my friend!"
Who did you see down there in the grave among the snakes? he is asking Lorbeer. Was it Wanza again? Or did Tessa's cold hand reach out and touch you?
* * *
The floor space inside the tukul is no more than sixteen feet across. A family table has been banged together from wooden pallets. For seats there are unopened cases of beer and cooking oil. A rackety electric fan spins uselessly from the rush ceiling, the air stinks of soya and mosquito spray. Only Lorbeer the head of the family has a chair, which has been wrested from its place in front of the radio that sits in stacked units under a bookmaker's umbrella next to the gas stove. He perches in it very upright in his homburg hat, with Justin on one side of him and on the other Jamie, who seems to occupy this place by right. To Justin's other side is a ponytailed young male doctor from Florence; next to him sits Scottish Helen from the dispensary, and across from Helen a Nigerian nurse named Salvation.
Other members of Lorbeer's extended family have no time to linger. They help themselves to stew and eat it standing, or sit only long enough to gulp it down and leave again. Lorbeer spoons his stew voraciously, eyes flicking round the table as he eats and talks and talks. And though occasionally he targets a particular member of his audience, nobody doubts that the principal beneficiary of his wisdom is the journalist from London. Lorbeer's first topic of conversation is war. Not the tribal skirmishes raging all around them, but "this damn big war" that is raging in the Bentiu oil fields of the north and spreading daily southwards.
"Those bastards in Khartoum, they got tanks and gunships up there, Peter. They're tearing the poor Africans to pieces. You go up there, see for yourself, man. If the bombardments don't do the job, they got ground troops to go in and do it for them, no problem. Those troops rape and slaughter to their hearts' content. And who's helping them? Who's clapping from the touchlines? The multinational oil companies!"
His indignant voice is holding the floor. Conversations round him must compete or die and most are dying.
"The multis love Khartoum, man! "Boys," they say, "we respect your fine fundamentalist principles. A few public floggings, a few hands cut off, we admire that. We want to help you any which way we can. We want you to use our roads and our airstrips just as much as you like. Just don't you go letting those lazy African bums in the towns and villages stand in the way of the great god Profit! We want those African bums ethnically cleansed out of the way just as bad as you boys in Khartoum want it! So here's some nice oil revenues for you, boys. Go buy yourselves some more guns!" You hear that, Salvation? Peter, you writing this down?"
"Every word, thank you, Brandt," says Justin quietly to his notebook.
"The multis do the devil's work, I tell you, man! One day they will end up in hell where they belong, and they better believe it!" He cringes theatrically, his great hands shielding his face. He is acting the part of Multinational Man facing his Maker on the Day of Judgment. ""It wasn't me, Lord. I was only obeying orders. I was commanded by the great god Profit!" That Multinational Man, he's the one who gets you hooked on cigarettes, then sells you the cancer cure you can't afford to pay for!"