The Seersucker Whipsaw

Chapter 27

We were back at the wide-eaved house by seven o’clock. Shartelle had driven and we saw squads of soldiers patrolling Ubondo. They had stopped us once, politely enough, and cautioned us to get off the streets. The house was locked when we got there; no servants were about.

None of us said much on the way home. Shartelle had gone immediately to the phone, and was talking with Claude. Anne sat on the couch, a glass of brandy in her hand, staring at the floor. I stood in the doorway, looking out into the night and drinking brandy. I was trying to decide how I felt and I wasn’t having much luck. My ear ached.

Shartelle finished his conversation with Claude and dialed another number. I didn’t listen. There was nobody in Albertia I wanted to call. I walked into the dining room and poured another brandy. Then I went back into the living room and stood by Anne.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She looked up and smiled. “I’m all right. It’s wearing off. The brandy helps.”

“When Shartelle gets through on the phone, I’ll get us reservations.”

“To where?”

“To wherever the first plane goes. North, south, west — it doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple,” I said. “We’re leaving.”

“I can’t leave. I know you have to, but I can’t. I have to teach school tomorrow. I just can’t leave like that. I can’t leave until I’m through.”

I knelt down beside her. “What kind of crap is that? It’s over, Anne. It’s all over. Done. The good guys are all shot; the bad guys have got the ranch. It’s ended.”

“No,” she said, “it’s not like that. School will open tomorrow. It always does. It has to open — especially tomorrow. You see that, don’t you?” She put one hand out and gently ran it up and down the side of my face where the soldier had struck me with the rifle barrel. “Does it hurt bad?”

I shook my head.

“The children will be there tomorrow. They’ll expect me there and they’ll want me there because they’ll be confused and a little frightened. I’m something constant in their lives. They didn’t lose an election — only the candidates did. I don’t know. Maybe the country lost something, too, but you can’t penalize the children for that.”

“You can resign,” I said. “You’re not indentured. You can quit and we can get married in Rome or Paris or London or wherever the plane lands.”

“I want to, Pete. You don’t know how much I want to. But I can’t leave. And apparently I can’t explain it or make you understand.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I don’t understand words like commitment and dedication and motivation. To me they’re just jargon. I know I’m not going to be welcome around here. I don’t think the new government’s going to like it if I hang around for six or seven months just so I can carry your books home from school.”

She looked at me and I could see the tears in her eyes. “I know. I know you can’t stay, but I know I have to. I just have to.”

Shartelle hung up the phone and walked over to us. He picked up a glass of brandy I’d poured for him and took a large swallow. “That was Jenaro,” he said. “He’s on the run and heading for the Ile’s Palace — driving one of those Volkswagens he bought. He had to make sure that Mamma and the kids would be all right. Dekko and Doc Diokadu are already on their way to the Ile’s. I guess you and me can head up there about midnight in the Humber.”

“You and who?”

“You and me, boy. To the Ile’s.”

“You’re not serious, Shartelle?”

He cocked his head to one side and studied me. “I reckon I am, Pete. Jenaro said they’ve got an emergency plan. It’s part political, part guerrilla. They need some help — somebody to do their thinking, I ’spect.”

“What are you going to do, Shartelle? Team up with some jackleg politicians who’ve gone for bush? Run a guerrilla operation? Christ, you’re not Fidel Castro. You’re not even Ché Guevara.”

“You’re not going then?’”

“To the Ile’s Palace?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No. I’m not going. I’ve got twenty-four hours to get out of the country. If I’m still here after that I might wind up out there on the driveway trying to write the name of whoever it was who stabbed me. No, I’m not going, but then I’m not a guerrilla expert. They don’t need me. I don’t think they really need you. I just think you got whipsawed and it’s tough to take.”

Shartelle walked over to one of the easy chairs and sank into it carefully. He stretched out his long, seersuckered legs. He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling.

“Now I ain’t going to take offense because I know you’re upset, Pete. And it may be just the way you said it. Maybe I was whipsawed and maybe I’m riled about it and acting the fool. But I got some of me tied up down here and if I was to leave like the Major said, it would be like walking off and leaving a good arm or leg or eye behind. I can’t do that. They took something away from me, that slick-talking Major and his crowd. And what they took is all I’ve got. Now I don’t know if you understand, boy, but I aim to try and get it back. I can’t leave without trying and maybe the trying will be enough. But I know I have to do that.”

“What did you lose down here, Clint? A shred of a hot reputation? You didn’t lose the campaign, they stole it from you at the point of a gun. It was a holdup, a heist. The only goddamned thing you’ve lost down here is your mind.”

“He won’t let himself understand, Clint,” Anne said. “If he let himself, he’d stay and he doesn’t want to owe that much to anybody.”

“You staying?”

“Yes,” she said. “I have to. You know that.”

“I know.”

I knew what they were talking about but I also knew it was too late. About thirty-four years too late. I knew it was too late for me to join anybody’s counterrevolution. Instead I got up and walked back into my room, got my suitcase out of the closet, and started throwing clothes into it. I found a blue denim wraparound skirt and a white blouse in the bottom drawer. I put them in the suitcase. Then I took them out and put them back in the drawer. I didn’t seem to need any souvenirs. When I was through packing I carried the suitcase into the living room. Anne was on the telephone. She said “Thank you” and hung up.

“There’s a flight at eleven tonight. That was the Consulate. They’ve already been informed that you’re persona non grata and you’ve got space on the first flight. If you’ve decided to go.”

“I don’t think I’d like the Albertian jails.”

Shartelle was still stretched out in the easy chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Wish you’d reconsider, Petey. Might be a lot of fun.”

“I had enough fun tonight.”

Shartelle sat up slowly, took a notebook and a pen from his pocket, and started to write. He handed the note to me. “William’s back, just stuck his head in the door while you were packing. He’ll drive you down to Barkandu in the LaSalle. I’ll take the Humber and make sure that Anne gets home safe and sound.”

“Thanks. What’s the note for?”

“Remember that little old bar halfway between here and Barkandu — The Colony? The place where the American called Mike was?”

I nodded.

“Give him that note on the way down. Go ahead and read it.”

The note said: “Mike: if you’re running what I think you’re running, I’ll need some. Madame Claude Duquesne in Ubondo is my contact. Shartelle.”

I folded the note and put it in my pocket. “You can get her killed this way,” I said.

Shartelle puffed on his cigar and looked at me thoughtfully. “I reckon that’s my business, boy, and hers.”

William drove the LaSalle to the front of the porch. The top was up. He came in, looked at me, started to say something, changed his mind, picked up my bag and carried it to the car.

“I’d better get packed myself,” Shartelle said. He gave me a half-salute as he moved towards the bedroom door. “If you change your mind, Pete, let me know. You’re about the world’s third-best flack. We could use you.”

I nodded. “So long, Shartelle.”

He paused at the bedroom door, puffed on his cigar, and gave me his wicked grin for the last time. “So long, boy.”

Anne was still sitting on the couch, holding the glass of brandy. I sat beside her. “It doesn’t end here, you know.”

She looked at me and in the eyes that I knew so well there was hurt and pain. “It’ll never end for me, darling. I’m just sick, is all. I’m sick because you’re going and because I have to stay. I’m sick because I can’t be with you.”

“It’s not for long.”

“I’ll write every day.”

“I’ll be moving around.”

“You’re going back to London.”

“For a while.”

“I love you, Pete.”

“The house on the beach. Remember that.”

I kissed her then and held her. “I love you,” I said. And then I thought about the line that went: “... loved I not honor more.” I was fresh out. When I felt her sobs, rather than heard them, I kissed her again gently on the forehead, rose and walked through the door, down the steps, and got into the car. I sat in the front seat with William. He made no objection.

“Let’s go,” I told him.

“Barkandu, Sah?”

“The airport.”

I looked back, then. Anne sat on the couch in the living room of the wide-eaved house. She was framed by the open French doors. She sat very still, holding the half-empty brandy glass in her hand. She didn’t look up as we left. She seemed to be crying.

William drove fast and the old car took the curves well. We were stopped only once by soldiers and made it to The Colony in forty-five minutes. I got out and went inside. The man called Mike was leaning against the bar, listening to Radio Albertia explain the necessity for the coup, and watching his ceiling fan go around and around. There were no customers.

“What’ll it be?”

“Scotch. A double.”

He nodded, moved behind the bar, and poured the drink. He slid it across the mahogany to me.

“Some trouble, I hear.”

“Lots of trouble.” I handed him the note. “It’s from Shartelle.”

He read it and tore it up. He nodded his thanks.

“You staying?” he asked.

“No. Are you?”

“For a while,” he said. “Perhaps business will pick up.”

“Guns?”

He just looked at me. “Have a drink on the house.” He poured us both doubles. I drank, thanked him, and started to leave. I stopped at the door and turned. “Did you know Shartelle before?”

He nodded again. “We met. A long time ago in France. He thought I was French until he stepped on my hand and I called him a son of a bitch.”

“He said he knew you.”

“He has a good memory.”

I got back in the car and William drove to the airport in fifty minutes. It was jammed, but a representative of the Consulate got my ticket confirmed. I had twenty minutes to wait. “I’ll buy you a drink,” I told William.

I had another whisky; he had a beer. “Where’s your brother?”

“He in school, Sah. Very good school that Madam Anne make for him.”

“Will he go tomorrow?”

William looked puzzled. “Yes, Sah. He go every day.”

I nodded. “What do you want more than anything else, William?”

He smiled shyly. “I want taxi, Sah.”

“One of those Morris Minor things?”

“Yes, Sah.”

“How much do you need?”

“Much money, Sah. Three hundred pounds.”

I took out my wallet. I had 132 Albertian pounds left. I gave them to William. “Make a down payment,” I told him. “It’s from Shartelle and me.”

They called my plane before he could thank me. I shook hands with him and he followed as far as Passport Control would let him. I got on the plane and it took off. It was just another plane ride. It flew out over the ocean, turned, and flew back over the Barkandu harbor towards the Sahara and Rome. I looked down only once.

“Some harbor,” I said aloud. The man next to me pretended not to hear.