“This scam is over,” I said, “finished, okay?”
“Agreed.”
“Because it pisses me off when I go along with stupid ideas.”
“You’re pissed off now. I see that. Okay.”
“I wish I had transcripts of the conversations that led to this,” I said, “the conversations you had with those guys. I bet I could show you a dozen places where they were obviously — obviously — playing you.”
“In the end, you have to go by instinct.”
“You trust too Goddamn much.”
“Is that really a fault?”
“What? Yes. A fatal one. The life you lead, the people you deal with — do you think it’s just teddy bears hugging marshmallows?”
He laughed at me.
I wished Kruger would stab him again. “You trust the wrong people,” I said. “Believe me.”
* * *
This hospital had been established in 1848, according to the sign at the entrance, and originally as a place for lepers, according to Michael’s nurse, who prepared the sutures and such on a tray. No doctor arrived. She stitched the wound herself. “We will close the laceration in two layers,” she told Michael. “It’s deep.”
“How long do you think this will take?” I asked.
She was jabbing a swab down into the damaged area. “The sutures must go close together.” I took this to indicate a lengthy procedure.
“If I had some water, maybe I’d clean up the car a bit.”
“There’s a stream there”—she pointed with her chin—“running behind the morgue.”
“Where’s the doctor?”
“The doctor is sick.”
The guard abandoned his post and found me a bucket and led me to the creek behind the small brick mortuary, the stink of which came over the transom and into the afternoon, but nobody seemed to notice. I went back and forth with the bucket until I’d flooded the car’s floorboards and turned the bright red mess into a faint pink mess, and then I went about peeping in windows. In a dirty concrete room behind a door labeled MATERNITY WARD, I saw Michael’s assailant, the fool who’d pulled a knife, true name unknown, stretched naked on a bare mattress on a metal bed. He was alone in the room, the only occupant of a dozen such beds. The maternity ward’s only patient. He had a round, simple face, and he breathed through his mouth. His arm lay out beside him, still bandaged with his shirt.
Michael’s nurse, when I returned to them, was being assisted by a young girl dressed in the green skirt and white blouse of the local schools. Work on the wound seemed to have ceased while Michael chatted with a police officer in a close-fitting uniform, all of it — even boots, belt, and helmet — crisply white. His large sun lenses gave him the face of an inquisitive insect.
“Officer Cadribo is making a report.”
“Ah,” I said. “Good.”
“My friend Roland,” he told us all, “will bring my fiancée. Did you see the route? It’s just through the gate to the road, then turn left, then right at the main road.”
“Hannington Road,” said Officer Cadribo.
Michael told him, “We’re staying at the White Nile Palace. We’ll meet you there around suppertime, all right? The incident is hardly worth mentioning, but you have to make a report, we understand that. Let’s make it an occasion. We’ll buy you dinner.” He wrapped my shoulder in his good hand and drew me close. “Go to the hotel, collect our things, and get Davidia. Check out and come back here.”
Just to be talking, I said, “How’s the wound?”
“We’re waiting for just a few more cc’s of Xylocaine,” the nurse said.
Michael said, “We tried finishing without it, but God — it hurts! I can’t hold my arm still.”
Michael and the cop began talking Krio or the local one, Lugbara, faster and faster, laughing, their remarks ascending to the tenor register.
As I left them, Michael said, “Remember — you’re driving on the left!”
* * *
Packing was nothing, three changes of clothes — and now one less, as my bloody jeans and T-shirt went in the trash. I called the desk and asked how to call a room and they said they’d patch me through.
Here, as in West Africa, land-line phones were answered by saying, “Hello?” and then taking the receiver away from the ear and staring at its silence before replacing it to the ear to listen a little more to the silence.
“I said it’s Nair.”
“Nair. I hear you. Where are you?”
“I’m in my room.”
“Go ahead.”
“Can you handle it if things get a bit more up-tempo?”
“What are you saying?”
“Well — just that we’re breaking camp. Would you mind getting all your gear packed in the next few minutes? I’ll help you carry everything to the jeep.”
“What’s going on? What’s happened?”
“Michael’s moved up the schedule a bit, that’s all.”
“Moved it up. What schedule?”
“We really should leave in the next few minutes.”
“God. God. God. Is Michael there? Let me talk to him.”
“He’s tidying up some loose ends. I’ll come round as soon as I’m packed.”
“Nair, this is ridiculous. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then at least pack Michael’s things for him, will you, please? I’m coming to your room. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
When I knocked on the door, she said, “It’s open,” and I found her sitting sideways on the bed. She was dressed, except for shoes.
I saw no evidence of packing. “Do you mind if I shut the door?” She gave a little wave, and I shut us in and said, “The journey resumes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“If we’re going at all, we really should be pretty brisk about it.”
“I’m not kidding. I’ve had it.”
“All right. But I’ve got the Land Cruiser, and if we’re going, now’s the time.”
“Where’s Michael?”
“I left him in conference with some of his cronies. We’ll stop and pick him up.” She didn’t move. “I’m your chauffeur.” Not even her hands. “Sorry if the news is sort of sudden.”
“So here’s a piece of news,” she said. “The lyrics for ‘Smile’ were written by two guys I’ve never heard of named Turner and Parsons.”
It seemed to me they had two soft suitcases and two knapsacks. “What if we just shovel your worldly goods into your luggage?” I took some shirts off the rod. “Do you want the hangers? Let’s leave the hangers.”
“But the melody was written by Charlie Chaplin for his 1936 film Modern Times.”
I stopped messing around. “How did you find this out?”
“I went online in the manager’s office. It was driving me crazy. I thought maybe Irving Berlin — I was rooting for Irving Berlin, I don’t know why. I guess I’ve always liked the name.”
“I see. Did you get a chance to catch up on your e-mail, then?”
“No. Michael doesn’t want me to. You know that.”
“Have you been in communication with anyone?”
“No! I just said no!”
“Right. I just wondered.”
“Is it any of your business?”
“That’s just the thing, Davidia. Our business is getting all mixed up together now. Yours and mine. I hope you realize that. If you realize it, this is going to be a whole lot easier.”
“What is? What’s going to be easier?”
“Can I take a chair?”
“You’re taking my things. Why shouldn’t you take a chair?”
I sat down. “There’s a lot you haven’t been aware of. Nothing sudden is happening here. More is just suddenly being revealed.” I took a moment to frame my thoughts. I don’t know why. I’d imagined telling her this many times. “We talk about how the world has changed since the Twin Towers went down. I think you could easily say the part that’s changed the most is the world of intelligence, security, and defense. The world powers are dumping their coffers into an expanded version of the old Great Game. The money’s simply without limit, and plenty of it goes for snitching and spying. In that field, there’s no recession.”