The Seersucker Whipsaw

Chapter 11

Akomolo’s compound would have been in the heart of Ubondo’s downtown section if the city had had a downtown section. A ten-foot mud wall that needed a new coat of whitewash ran for seventy-five feet along the side that faced the street. The wall had an iron-barred gate that automobiles could pass through once they got by the two tough policemen who guarded it. The top of the wall was encrusted with the bottom halves of broken beer bottles.

Akomolo’s house poked up above the wall and from it rose a flagpole. There was no Union Jack, but there was a blue and white banner that hung limply in the breezeless air.

“What’s the flag, William?” I asked.

“Party flag, Sah. National Progressives.”

“Oh.”

William turned into the drive that led to the iron gate and stopped for the two policemen. They came over and looked into the car, one on each side. “Mr. Shartelle? Mr. Upshaw?” one of them asked.

“That’s right,” Shartelle said.

They looked at us some more and then waved us through. The driveway led past the gate and into a courtyard that was paved with cement. People — men, women and children — stood, sat and lay in the courtyard. Some had small boxes and used their tops to display a grubby collection of cigarettes and kola nuts. Others chatted with their neighbors. Mothers nursed their babies. An old man was curled up in the shade of the wall, fast asleep, or dead.

“Friends of Chief Akomolo,” William said, jerking his head towards the courtyard of people. There were about seventy or seventy-five of them. “He give them chop at night.”

The main building in the compound was a U-shaped, three-story, stuccoed house with windows set deep into its thick walls. It had neither style nor flavor, but it looked sturdy. The driveway ran down one side of it towards the rear. William drove the Humber down the drive and turned right behind the building into another courtyard that was enclosed by the same high mudwall and flanked by servants’ quarters. A collection of automobiles was parked near the rear wall. There were a Fleetwood Cadillac, a Mercedes 300, a Rolls Silver Wraith, a Facel-Vega, two big Oldsmobiles that looked like a matched pair, a Jaguar Mark X, a Jaguar XK-E with the top down and the left front fender crumpled, assorted Chevrolets, Fords, Plymouths, Rovers, and one lonely-looking Volkswagen.

William pulled up beside the Rolls and parked. Shartelle and I got out. A man in a flowing blue ordona hurried over to meet us from the courtyard formed by the Chief’s building. William tugged at my sleeve. “I no have chop, Mastah.”

“Can you find some around here?”

“I get chop from kitchen here. Not cost much.”

“Okay. You be back in a couple of hours. We’ll be that long at least.”

Shartelle was shaking hands with the man in the robes. He said: “Pete, this is Dr. Diokadu. He’s secretary of the National Progressive Party.”

Dr. Diokadu was a tall, thin man of thirty or so with a quick nervous smile, brilliant dark eyes, and a high, smooth brown forehead. He looked smart — the way some people do.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Shartelle.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Are we late?”

“No — not at all. The Leader would like to see you before—”

He didn’t finish his statement. It was interrupted by a piercing, off-key blast of what seemed to be a badly-played trumpet or cornet. Then a drum began to pound. Dr. Diokadu smiled nervously. “You must excuse me a moment,” he said. “The Ile is coming. I must greet him. You might wish to watch his entrance — it’s traditional, you know, and most Europeans find it — oh, well — amusing, I suppose.”

Shartelle and I smiled politely. The trumpet or cornet brayed again and a man dressed in lionskins and a grotesque mask, bounded around the corner waving a stick with what looked to be some raccoon tails attached to it. The mask was red and black and green with a hideously-formed mouth that was carved into an impolite leer. The mask had no nose, but the eyes were red and seemed to flash. The top of the mask was adorned by what, from a distance, seemed to be the model of a destroyer or a battleship. The masked figure waved his stick at some of the courtyard’s hangers-on and they shrank back, not laughing. The man in the lion’s suit shouted something. William was standing by me and he pulled back as the man with the coonskin stick drew near. I saw that the model of the ship on his head was a destroyer and that it had a name: “Ft. Worth, Texas.”

“Who the hell’s that?” I asked William.

“He small ju-ju man,” William said.

Dr. Diokadu stood straight and still in the middle of the courtyard as the ju-ju man shouted and pranced around him, waving his furry wand.

“He get rid of evil spirits before Ile come,” William explained.

“Ain’t this something,” Shartelle said, grinning hugely.

The trumpet blasted again and four men in white robes appeared around the corner. Each carried a tray and on each tray was a single kola nut. The men walked straight ahead after turning the corner. They ignored Dr. Diokadu and he ignored them.

“They bring kola nut from Ile to Chief Akomolo,” William whispered.

The trumpet blasted again and the drums rolled.

“Talking drums,” William said.

“What do they say?” Shartelle asked.

“They say Ile coming.”

Another figure turned the corner dressed in bright blue robes. He carried a gold staff, eight feet long, that had an intricately-carved bird on its end. He used the staff to walk with. He was old and he chanted in a high thin voice as he came.

“He say Ile of Obahma now comes — he say that he is great man and that all who see him—”

“That’s just a rough translation,” a voice said at my elbow. I turned and a smiling dark man with heavily-framed sunglasses was standing near me. “I’m Jimmy Jenaro,” he said. “I’m the Treasurer of the Party.”

I whispered my name and introduced Shartelle. “I’ll give you the play-by-play,” Jenaro said. “The one who is jumping around out there is a small-time, combination witch doctor and court jester. Don’t ask me where he got the outfit or the Ft. Worth boat. It’s part of his magic. The four guys with the kola nuts are part of the Ile’s retinue. The kola nuts, of course, are symbols of friendship and loyalty. Now, the senior citizen with the gold staff is the court herald. That’s real gold, by the way. The staff is the symbol of the Ile’s authority as the traditional ruler or emperor or king or what-have-you of Obahma. The herald sings his praise. If you’ll notice when he says a phrase, the drums pick it up — the intonation, the beat, the cadence. That’s why they’re called the talking drums. I’ll give it to you phrase by phrase—

“People of this land bow down... for he who is mightier than all does — or doth — come thy way — prostrate thyselves for the son of lightning, brother of the Moon approaches...”

The old man with the staff walked slowly. He would sing out a phrase and pause and the drums would pick it up. The trumpet would blow. And then he would sing another phrase. Jenaro translated:

“Greater than those from the land of Kush... comes now Arondo, son of Arondo, and son of those Arondos who were in the beginning... He camel now... He comes now... prostrate thyselves for mighty is his wrath, his great wisdom unmatched — or unparalleled, I guess — his valor in war feared and remembered and his fecundity the envy of the world.”

The old man had stopped walking and stood near the entrance to the building. He beat the staff on the courtyard in time to his sentences as he chanted some more praise. Around the corner came a six or seven-year-old boy bearing the bell of an eight-foot brass horn on his shoulder. Behind him walked the hornplayer. He gave it another toot. The old man kept on chanting. Next came two men carrying long, skin-covered drums that tapered at either end and were hung around their necks by straps of animal skin. They walked slowly, their heads cocked to hear the chant of the Ile’s herald. When a phrase of the chant was ended, their hands beat out its rhythm on the drumheads.

The people in the courtyard silently listened to the herald. Dr. Diokadu still stood in the center of the courtyard straight and motionless. The kola bearers were slightly to one side of the herald who continued his dry, reedy paean for the Ile of Obahma.

“Here he comes now,” Jenaro whispered to Shartelle and me.

A car poked its nose slowly around the corner of the building. I could hear Shartelle grunt. It was some car. It was a 1939 specially-built LaSalle convertible, painted a gleaming white, with the whitewall tires mounted in the fender wells.

“Looks like somebody fixed that busted block, Clint,” I said.

“Damned if it don’t.”

It was a seven-passenger limousine and in the back seat, by himself, sat a small man with a straw boater. He wore sunglasses and seemed to stare straight ahead. The straw boater had a large ostrich feather stuck into it and it waved a little in the breeze.

As soon as the car and its occupant came into sight, William dropped flat on the ground, his head pressed tightly against the cement of the courtyard. Dr. Diokadu went down more slowly, but he too knelt and pressed his head against the cement.

“It’s part of the game, fellows,” Jenaro said beside us and went down on his knees and pressed his head to the ground. The rest of the people in the courtyard were lying flat. Shartelle waved at the Ile with his cigar and raised his hat — like a gambler in a western who meets the schoolmarm. I just stood there.

The car stopped and the driver got out, prostrated himself in a practiced, hasty manner, got up and opened the door. The Ile took off his sunglasses, tucked them away into the folds of his robe, and allowed himself to be helped from the car. Dr. Diokadu rose from his prostrate position and hurried over to greet him. Jenaro also rose, but William and the rest of the occupants of the courtyard remained flat.

“Plays hell with the threads,” Jenaro said, dusting off the knees of his fawn-colored Daks. He wore a white shirt with a yellow and black ascot at the throat, a black cashmere jacket so lightweight that it actually looked cool, and black suede loafers. From the breast pocket of his jacket peeked a yellow and black handkerchief to match his ascot. I caught Shartelle and Jenaro eyeing each other’s sartorial splendor.

The Ile moved around the courtyard, speaking first to one of the prostrated Albertians, then to another. Some he spoke to did a half-pushup, turning their faces to him as they would to the sun. Onto their foreheads he pressed shillings. They stuck there with sweat. Then the beneficiaries resumed their positions. During the Ile’s tour of the courtyard, Dr. Diokadu followed closely behind, hitching up his robes nervously.

The Ile stopped where William was lying and said something. William did a half-pushup, lifted his face to the Ile, and replied. The Ile pasted a shilling on our driver’s forehead and looked over at us. He was a short man with a smooth, almost round head. His robes were pure white with gold embroidery. He wore the feathered boater with a slightly raffish air. He smiled and showed us a nice supply of gold teeth. He continued to look at us incuriously, said something to Dr. Diokadu, and nodded at Jenaro who bowed. As the Ile passed Shartelle he looked quickly to the right and left — and winked. Then he moved off towards the building and disappeared through the passageway, Dr. Diokadu and the retinue close behind.

“Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,” Jenaro said. “But I got tied up with the Leader. He wanted us to get together either before the Ile arrived or after he left. It looks as if it will be after. They’re going to have to go through the formal greeting routine for a while, so why don’t we have a beer?”

“You lead the way, Mr. Jenaro,” Shartelle said.

“Just call me Jimmy. Ohio State, class of ’55.”

Shartelle grinned. “I took notice that you spoke like a native.”

“Majored in business administration, lettered in golf — believe it or not.”

“I believe it,” Shartelle said.

“I’m just laying my credentials out.”

“They’re impressive,” I said.

“The Leader keeps a little beer tucked away among the lemon squash,” Jenaro said. “I think we can promote three bottles.”

He led us up a flight of stairs, down an outside balcony, and into a room that seemed to be an office. “The Leader’s study,” he explained, and walked to one side where a small three-foot office-type refrigerator sat next to some filing cabinets. Jenaro produced three bottles of beer, opened them, and motioned us to seats. He sat on the edge of the desk.

“I saw Downer a couple of days ago. He said you were due.”

“We got in yesterday morning.”

“Nice trip?”

“Fine.”

“You’re the Treasurer of the Party, right?” Shartelle asked.

“Right. The bag man, the fixer — if you know what I mean.”

“I believe I’ve heard the terms.”

Jenaro put his beer on the desk, and walked up and down the room. “There are three of us going towards the center — the federal parliament. The Leader, me — because I’ve got the safest district in the country — and Diokadu. You just met him. He’s our theoretician. Smart.”

He stopped in the middle of the room, assumed a putting stance, and aimed one at an imaginary hole. I judged it was a ten-footer.

“You hold a post in the regional government?” Shartelle asked.

“Minister of Information,” he said.

“That could be useful,” I said.

Jenaro nodded, aimed another imaginary putt, shot, and sighed. “I missed. I should have stayed in the States and turned pro. Maybe Gary Player and I could have teamed up on one of those Saturday afternoon TV golf tournaments. That would knock hell out of them in Cape Town, wouldn’t it?”

Shartelle stretched his long legs out and took a sip of beer from the bottle. Jenaro hadn’t offered any glasses.

“That’s a nice suit,” Jenaro said. “Seersucker?”

“I had this cloth run up for me special by a little old union-busting mill down in Alabama. I can get you a few yards if you like.”

Jenaro walked over and fingered Shartelle’s lapel. “Could you?”

“I’ll make a note of it,” I said. “We’ll get Duffy to fly it down.”

“Just get it to London,” Jenaro said. “My tailor’s there.”

“How do you see the political picture, Jimmy?” Shartelle asked.

Jenaro took careful aim and sank a twenty-footer. I started to tell him he was wiggling his butt too much, but didn’t. “Very rough. We’ve got the money; all we lack is votes.”

Shartelle nodded. “You can’t run a poll, can you?”

“I’m as close as they’ve got to one,” Jenaro said. “We can’t run a real poll because we don’t have the trained interviewers. And if we did have trained interviewers to do an in-depth thing à la Oliver Quayle or Lou Harris, the interviewers would have to speak ninety-odd dialects. We can take a spot survey, check the voters in the marketplace, on the road, wherever you find them, but it won’t mean much. We’ve got the tribal thing here in the west and over in the east. Up north, the Muslims are putting the fear of God or Allah into the people.”

“How do you figure it then?”

Jenaro walked behind the desk and slumped into the swivel chair. He propped his legs up on the desk and crossed his ankles.

“I don’t know. Unless we come up with something, I’m afraid the Leader, Diokadu and I are going to be the loyal opposition. But then I’m no great strategist. I can tell you down to a penny how much we’ve got in the coffers and how much we can tap a guy for. I know them all because I’ve been playing politics since I was sixteen years old. They shipped me off to the States to get rid of me, in fact. When I came back I made a pile in the import business and I got to know the business crowd — and that’s the same bunch in any country.”

“So what I do is get in my Jag and go for bush. You know, park it at a government resthouse, change clothes and ride off into the boondocks on a bicycle. I talk with the villagers. Most don’t know who I am and I’ve got a gift for languages so the dialects come easy. I talk to them; they talk to me. I find out what they’re bitching about that week, and then come back and try to get it fixed so that the Leader can take the credit. I sometimes think that’s what all ministers should be doing instead of riding around in their Mercedes.”

“Been the downfall of many a politician I’ve known,” Shartelle said. “Let me ask you this: you know the trade union boys pretty well?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How they going?”

Jenaro made a small gesture with his hand, turning it palm up and palm down. “Who knows? Depends on who got to them last.”

“Who’s the top man?”

“The Secretary-General of the Trade Union Congress.”

“That corresponds to our AFL–CIO.”

“Roughly, except the Secretary-General doesn’t have to run for office every two or four years. He’s appointed for life.”

“Dedicated?”

Jenaro looked up at the ceiling. “To a point. He and I have had a few business deals together. He’s not above taking a profit, although it’s a dirty word in any speech he makes.”

“Has he got the power?”

“The real stuff?”

“That’s right.”

“He’s got it.”

“Will he make a deal?” Shartelle asked.

“For money? He doesn’t need money.”

“He needs something.”

Jenaro got up from the desk and walked the length of the room.

“He’d want it in writing.”

“How do he and the Chief get along?” Shartelle asked.

“Okay. Not close. Not distant. They’re aware of each other.”

“Well, I’ve got an idea. It might help do the job.”

“Talk it over with the Leader.”

“Well, now, Jimmy, the Chief seems to be a fine upstanding man who just might not want to get all involved in what I’ve got in mind. What I need is someone who might serve as the Chief’s emissary to organized labor — not out in public, mind you — but somebody who might drop the word where it would be most productive.”

Jenaro sat on the edge of the desk again. He moved around a lot. “We used to have some guys at Ohio State from the South who talked just like you. They’d talk and talk and the first thing I knew I was down fifty bucks in a poker game. But no offense. Wait till you get a bunch of Albertians together if you want to go all around Robin Hood’s barn before you get to the point. First they start out with the parables. Then come the proverbs. After the proverbs come the veiled metaphors. Then — maybe then, if you’re lucky — somebody might get to the point.”

Shartelle brushed a bit of ash from one well-cut lapel. “It’s my Southern upbringing, sir. We put a lot of store by polite conversation.”

Jenaro grinned. “Shit. What you want is for me to make a deal with the Trade Union Congress, right?”

“There’s something like that in the back of my mind.

Also, I might just have another role for you to play in this campaign.”

Jenaro rose and walked up and down the room again. “Clint,” he said, “we might just get along.”

“I’m sure we will. I’m just sure we will.”

An Albertian in a white coat poked his head in the door “Time for chop, Sah.”

“Now you meet the rest of the crowd, including the Ile. Not only does the Ile have votes, but he has money. That’s one reason we butter him up. And, of course, he is the traditional ruler.”

“I think he winked at me,” Shartelle said.

“I know he did,” I said.

“The old boy has been around in his own way. He puts up with the romance and ritual because the people like it — or seem to.”

“My, I thought it was fine!” Shartelle said. “Here he comes on with that old witch doctor prancing around in front of him wearing that Ft. Worth, Texas boat on his head and all those people flopping down on their faces. And then comes that old man with the gold staff a-tappin’ and a-chantin’ his praises. Hell, it was better than Father Divine. And then here comes that eight-foot horn and the drums a-talkin’ and then old Himself, sitting up straight and proud with those Hollywood shades and that straw hat with the ostrich plume floating out of it. Here he comes in that 1939 LaSalle limousine just like my daddy used to have. And then he gets out of the car, just as casual and calm as you please, and walks around sweat-pasting shillings on the folks’ heads. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“Shartelle’s got his own notions of what Africa should be,” I told Jenaro.

“Tarzan and Timbuktu?”

“Something like that.”

Jenaro smiled and turned to Clint. “Just stick with me, Dad. I’ll see that you’re not disappointed.”