Djibouti

CHAPTER EIGHT

DARA, THE NEXT MORNING, came out of the wheelhouse to see Xavier on deck scoping the shoreline through binoculars.

"I woke up thinking about a picture I love, but can't remember its name."

Xavier lowered the glasses to his chest but didn't turn to her. "A wine lover takes his buddy to Napa to sample wines. Paul Giamatti's the one who knows wines. Can't stand Merlot, it's so common. I'll think of the buddy's name in a minute. He's a likable lout. He's getting married the next week, but keeps jumping in bed with a girl he meets. Actually he does her standing up."

"Sideways," Xavier said, raising his glasses. "You hear the boats comin out this time?"

She said, "That's why I came up," looking at the shore now, about three miles from them.

"We're meetin the Sheik of Araby in a few minutes," Xavier said. "You anxious to see Idris?"

She said what was on her mind. "Use the little camcorder but keep it under wraps. He might not want to be filmed. I'll decide later if we show him the footage."

"I asked are you anxious to see him."

"Well, he ain't bad."

"For a Arab or a hijacker?" Xavier said. "You don't mind gettin close with a black guy?"

"If I were nuts about him, why not?"

"You sayin that for my benefit."

"You aren't bad either," Dara said. "No, what I like about Idris, he comes off as a free spirit. But is he for real or is he putting us on? Billy Wynn comes off the same way."

"Won't be long we be seein Billy," Xavier said. "And cool Helene."

"Really. You think she's cool?"

"I do, and I haven't even spoken to her." THE CLIP PROJECTED ON the screen showed three boats coming out, their sound rising to a hard whine. Dara said, "They're called skiffs in most of the reports, but they're twenty-four feet long and they're deep." She said, "They sound angry, don't they?"

"Pissed off," Xavier said, "haulin ass for these African muggers."

They watched the boats on the screen reduce speed, creeping toward the Buster now, the Yamahas rumbling.

Or grumbling, Dara thought, and liked it for the voice-over, if it worked. Now she was explaining to someone, anyone: Now I'm laying in a voice-over for my documentary, Djibouti. It's an interesting title, isn't it? Djibouti. I feel lucky I found it. I'm humbled by it.

What does that mean, you're humbled? You've never been humble in your life. But leave it, it might work.

I've only made three documentaries.

But worked my ass off for other people. Cajun was one, a disaster. Limp. Folksy. You should do your own. Maybe call them "docs." It won't hurt you.

I've only made three docs in my life and all three happened to win major awards. Heck.

Try saying shit. You're being humble again.

I've produced three docs that won awards and I'm determined to make a name for myself.

Boring. Who cares? Just say:

There is nothing I'd rather do in the entire fucking world than make documentaries.

Delete fucking?

Just get rid of the docs. "COMING LIKE WILD DOGS," Dara said. "How about 'Coming like wolves'?"

"It's the same thing. But 'dogs' sounds meaner."

They watched Idris Mohammed standing in the lead boat, his yellow scarf around his head and looped under his chin, a long Arab-looking shirt open, and sunglasses. Pirate chic. The first thing she'd say to him. You didn't stop on your way back yesterday. Maybe you didn't hear my invitation. I know it was a bit windy.

Not the invitation, the fucking wind blowing.

But when his boat bumped alongside the Buster, the pirate chief looking up at her in his yellow scarf, Idris said, "It comes as my pleasure to see you again. Forgive me for not stopping yesterday. I knew if I did I would stay with you and my Coast Guard boys would have no one to instruct them."

He called them that, his Coast Guard boys.

Idris was maybe a quarter black, a quadroon? She remembered a scene in True Romance, the one where Dennis Hopper knows he's going to be shot and tells Christopher Walken, a Sicilian gangster, his great-great-grandma was fucked by a nigger. Meaning a Muslim from Africa like Idris.

What she kept wondering, How did Idris get started? Who gave him machine guns so he could hijack ships and make enough to buy whatever he wants? Who was backing this fun-loving pirate?

He said, "Yesterday we had trouble boarding the ship, so we let that one go. What difference does it make, there are so many ships come through our sea. Today," Idris said, "is an easy one. These boys are not mine, they from another clan, with experience. They won't need anyone telling them what to do."

"Good," Dara said. "I'd love to see you in action, but I'll settle for an interview."

He said, "Yes, a chance to be with you. Perhaps make plans for sometime we not doing nothing so important as being together."

He had turned and was speaking Somali to his Coast Guard boys, all armed with AKs, gesturing now for them to get going. He said to Dara, "There is a sailing yacht out there you can't see. It's maybe two miles from here."

Xavier shooting all this with the Canon, recording Idris's voice.

"Two persons aboard. Maybe we know them."

Dara said, "Billy?"

"It could be, yes, I'm hoping so."

"You'd hijack Billy's yacht?"

"Worth two million dollars he told me," Idris said. "How much you think he'd pay to keep it?" Idris grinning now. "I'm kidding with you. We frighten Billy, that's all, as a joke. Show we have a sense of humor. People don't think we have things to laugh at, but we do. Funny things happen to us."

"Climb aboard," Dara said, "we'll go rescue the poor guy."

She turned to Xavier as Idris stepped aboard.

"You get all that?"

"The whole thing," Xavier said.