The Seersucker Whipsaw

Chapter 9

It’s ninety-nine miles to Barkandu from Ubondo and the road is a twisting, high-crowned ribbon of patched asphalt that steams in the African sun. On clear stretches, where the rain forest has been cut away, mirages gleam wetly in the distance. Along the road’s edge rest the hulks of rusting sedans and trucks whose drivers missed their last curve. The wrecks seem to wait patiently for the junkmen of the forest.

The road from Barkandu leads north to the Sahara, and if you follow it far enough, to where the asphalt gives out to red laterite, and the laterite with its washboard ridges turns into sand and dust, you run into Timbuktu. But that’s a long way, farther than most care to travel unless it has taken them an extraordinarily long time to grow up.

Mostly the road to Barkandu is traveled by the mammy wagons which are two-ton trucks with the right door tied open, the driver leaning halfway out, the better to see and the better to jump. The drivers push their trucks down to Barkandu and up to Ubondo and beyond, sometimes making six hundred miles a day, hauling humans and chickens and goats, bargaining for the fare with enthusiasm and flair. What they lack in driving skill they make up for in bravado. Armed with ten-quid juju charms that bear money-back guarantees in case they’re killed, encouraged by a couple of sticks of Indian hemp, they charge the approaching traffic. They must dominate all who pass their way.

You can amuse yourself by reading the names of the mammy wagons as they flash by, the drivers mostly teeth and eyeballs as they lean half-out of their cabs, their passengers jolting around in the canvas-covered rears.

“It’s better than parlor cars, boy,” Shartelle said as William steered the Humber towards Ubondo. “So far, I’ve spotted ‘Don’t Spit in the Wind,’ ‘Sea Never Dry,’ ‘God, Why Not?’ and ‘Death, Where Is Thy Sting?’ You never read any freight train names as interesting as that; weren’t even any names on the Katy parlor cars that could come close.”

He was slouched down in the back seat, his black hat low over his eyes, a black, crooked cigar substituting now for the long-gone Picayunes and the discarded Sweet Ariels. His seersucker suit was crisp and fresh, the vest bottoned neatly except for the bottom button, a red and black paisley tie knotted carefully into the collar of a fresh white oxford cloth shirt. He had his feet, encased in black loafers, propped up on the walnut table that opened down from the back of the front seat.

We had started out at nine that morning. He had given me a careful look, murmured something about it being a pleasant day, and asked if I would like some coffee. We had drunk coffee in the dining room at a table that had a view of the bay. “Some harbor,” Shartelle said after he had ordered his bacon and eggs. He didn’t say anything after that. He was polite.

Anne had left at five in the morning. I had watched her dress and there had been no rummaging to find discarded clothing. She had sat before the mirror of the vanity and brushed her hair and looked at me in the mirror. I had looked back and we had smiled. There was no need to say anything; there would be time for that later. We had time, I felt, to squander.

She came over to the bed when she had dressed and sat down on its edge beside me. She put her hand on my head and stroked my hair. “I have to go,” she had said.

“I know.”

“You’ll call?”

“I’ll call you this evening.”

I had kissed her then and she had risen and walked to the door, opened it and left without looking back. I lay there and smoked a cigarette and felt the unfamiliar emotions churning and bubbling around inside somewhere. It had been a peculiar old-young feeling, something like being a thirty-year-old grandfather, I suppose, and it had been especially peculiar because I hadn’t felt anything towards anyone for a long time. So I lay there and got used to it and watched the sun come up over the edge of the window. After that I got up, showered, dressed, and went down into the lobby to meet Shartelle.

“You know where else I went yesterday?” Shartelle asked around his black and crooked cigar as the car sped towards Ubondo.

“No.”

“I went to pay my respects to the Consul General.”

“I know. I was with you. He wasn’t in.”

“I mean after that. Even after I went to see the little old Englishman in the Census Office.”

“You mean you went back again?”

“There’s more than one Consulate in Barkandu,” he said.

“Okay. Which one?”

“Why, the Israeli one.”

“Clint, I’m not going to sit here and feed you the lines. You went to see the Israeli Consul General. Why?”

“Well, sir,” he said, shifting farther down into the mohair of the Humber’s back seat, “I figured to myself this way: If I was a stranger in a town in a foreign country and I wanted to know what was going on, now who would I go to? Why, I said, I’d go look up the Israeli Ambassador, or if he wasn’t an Ambassador, I’d look up the Consul General.”

“And what would you talk about?”

“Why, kinfolk, boy, kinfolk.”

“Whose?”

“His and mine. I got kinfolk in Israel and this little old Jew boy at the Consulate had some in Cleveland that I believe I know. Good Democrats. That made me a Landsmann, prid near.”

“What kinfolk have you got in Israel?”

“Second cousins on my daddy’s side. I figure I’m about one-sixteenth Jewish by blood. Of course, I’m not of the persuasion although I do lean towards their oneist’s notions.”

“Their what?”

“Their oneist’s notions. You know, like the Unitarians.”

“I thought Shartelle was French.”

“It’s purely French, but I think it’s also a little Jewish-French, at least that’s what my daddy said.”

“Okay. What did the Israeli Consul General have to allow?”

“Well, he’d heard about Renesslaer already. He said that there was a team of four through Barkandu three days ago heading north by plane.”

“Did he mention any names?”

“No. He said they opened a five-figure pounds sterling account in Renesslaer’s name at one of the Barclay branches. High five-figures, he said. He also said that two of them were colored — Stateside colored — and the other two were white.”

“We can check them out through London.”

Shartelle nodded. “I figured Pig might do that.”

“What else did he have to say?”

“Well, he swore he’d deny he said it, but his government is afraid that the British are pulling out too quick. He said he thought that there could be trouble, especially if the election wound up in a donnybrook without a clear-cut win for one side or another — or at least for a strong coalition. He also said he thought he’d never see the day when he would admit that the British could leave any colonial possession too quick. But in this case they were.”

“Everything considered, it was quite an admission,” I said.

“You haven’t seen Martin Bormann around, have you?”

“Who?”

“Martin Bormann. You know, old Hitler’s deputy Führer who supposedly escaped from the bunker just before the Russians moved into Berlin.”

“No,” I said, “I haven’t seen him around; not lately anyhow.”

“If you do, let the Israeli Consul General know, will you? He’s been out here about three years and he figures he could get back home to Tel Aviv if he could get his hands on Bormann — or any other Nazi who’s still on the loose. He asked us to keep our eyes open.”

“I’ll do that.”

“You know where else I went?”

“No, but I’m sure I’m going to learn.”

“Well, after I had tea at the Israeli’s I wandered down around the marketplace — where all those plump little old gals are all gussied up in their blue wraparounds?”

“What did you find out?”

“Well, I bought some razor blades here and some more of these cigars there. Bargained a bit, told a few jokes, and just funned them along. They’re real nice little old gals. A bit on the plump side, but neighborly.”

“Neighborly,” I said.

“Uh-huh. So we got to talking about the election. And they got to arguing back and forth, you know, one of them being for Chief Akomolo and another one being for old Alhaji Sir and the other being for the other guy, the one from the east, uh—”

“Dr. Kologo,” I said.

“Doctor, lawyer, merchant-chief,” Shartelle said. “Maybe I can keep them straight that way.”

“So what was the consensus?”

“The consensus, boy, was that they just don’t give much of a shit one way or another because they — the little old plump gals — think they’re all crooked and just out for the quick buck.”

“We should be able to work that to our advantage.”

“You know I told you yesterday I figured we’d have to whipsaw it, but I hadn’t quite figured it out and I thought it was nudging around in the back of my mind?”

“I recall.”

“Well, it came to me last night and after I got the big one, then the rest of it sort of fell into place. I think I’ve got it, but it’s going to cost a packet and its success’ll depend upon the venality of some and the patriotism of others. But successful politics usually does. I’ll be needing some fancy writing.”

“Such as?”

“Used to be an old newspaper boy that worked on one of these combination morning and afternoon papers that were supposed to be rivals, but are really owned by the same outfit?” He made it that kind of a Southern rhetorical question, the inflection rising until it keened out on the last word.

“Uh-huh.”

“This old boy would get up in the morning and go down to his typewriter and whang out an editorial knocking hell out of FDR and Harry Hopkins and all that New Deal crowd. That was for the afternoon paper. Then he’d go out and get a couple of belts into him and come back and whang out another one — this time hoorahing it up for Mrs. Roosevelt, Jimmy, John, FDR, Jr. and calling down the wrath of God Almighty on their enemies and detractors. Now he was what I would call a versatile writer.”

“I wonder which editorials he believed?”

Shartelle shoved back his hat slightly and looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Why, he believed both of them, boy. Wouldn’t you?”

I sighed and leaned back on the mohair. “You’re right, Clint, I probably would.”

“Well, I figure you’re going to be doing some writing something like that old newspaper boy used to do.”

“I’m your man. Just put the paper in the typewriter and I’m off. Either side.”

William slowed the Humber, turned around and looked at us. I winced as a truck called “It Pains You Why?” nipped by us a couple of inches away.

“Mastah want beer?” William said and redirected his attention to the road.

“Beer?” I asked.

“Yas, Sah, we stop for beer always at halfway house.”

“Well, I never had anything against beer in the morning,” Shartelle said. “Let’s stop.”

“Fine.”

It was a combination roadhouse and gasoline station. It was built of whitewashed mud and inside it had deep wooden chairs with wide arms that looked like Midwestern porch furniture. The chairs were gathered around low wooden tables. A bar stood near the door, conveniently placed underneath the only ceiling fan, which spun at a leisurely and useless pace. A sign painted in an attempt at old English script hung outside over the door. It said the name of the place was The Colony. We sat at one of the tables. A man came over and in a flat American accent asked what our pleasure was.

“Three beers,” Shartelle said. “Nice and cold.”

“Nice and cold,” the man said. He walked back to the bar and uncapped three quart bottles of Beck’s. He put them on a tin tray, got some cold glasses out of a refrigerator, the kind that had the coils on top, and brought them over.

“Nice and cold, gentlemen,” he said and served the beer. “That’ll be twelve and six.”

I gave him a pound. Shartelle said: “You’re an American, aren’t you?”

The man looked at him. “I lived there for a while.”

“Whereabouts?”

“You name it.”

“Pittsburgh?”

“For a while.”

“You own this place?” Shartelle asked.

The man looked around and smiled faintly. “No,” he said. “I don’t own it. I’m just helping out a friend.” He stood waiting for more questions, a not-too-tall man, about five-eleven, flat-bellied and lithe. When he moved he moved very much like Shartelle. He had a naturally olive complexion which a lot of sun had burned dark. His hair was cut short and it had some gray in it just over the ears.

“My name’s Shartelle, and this is Upshaw.”

“They call me Mike,” the man said.

“You been here long?”

“Not long; I’m just touring.”

“And you’re helping out a friend,” Shartelle said.

“That’s right. A friend.”

Shartelle poured his beer into the glass carefully. The man called Mike stood waiting with the tray in hand, patient and poised. “We haven’t met before, have we, Mike?” Shartelle asked, talking it seemed to his glass of beer. “A long time ago — maybe twenty years back?”

“You meet a lot of people, but I don’t think so.” He put the pound note in his pocket and placed my change on the table. “Anything else?”

I said no and the man called Mike went back behind his bar, picked up a copy of the Times of London and smiled at the personal ad columns.

William drank his beer out of the bottle, belched his enjoyment, and then went out to talk to the men who ran the gas pump. Shartelle and I leaned back in the porch furniture and drank the beer slowly. When we got up to leave, the man called Mike didn’t say goodbye or come back again. He didn’t even look up as we left.

Shartelle slumped into his favorite position in the back seat. “You know, Petey, I think I know that old boy and I think he knows me.”

“He didn’t seem to.”

“It was in France during the war... when I was with Duffy and Downer. He was a sight younger then.”

“You all were.”

“That boy could talk French though — he could fair rattle it off just like he was born there.”

“You sure he’s the same man?”

“I’m sure, but if he’s not sure, then he must have a damn good reason. And he didn’t seem to think that his reason was any of my business so I think I’ll just let it drop.”

The car was back on the road. The traffic was light except for the trucks and an occasional passenger car. I looked out at the rain forest and wondered where the animals were.

I asked William. “Where are all the animals, William?”

“Animals, Sah?”

“Monkeys, elephants, lions, baboons.”

“No animals, Sah. Just goat.”

“I mean wild animals.”

“No wild animals, Mastah. They go long time for chop. We eat them!” He exploded into a fit of giggling.

“Never thought I’d be in Africa and not see any animals,” Shartelle said. “Hell, you can see more wild life on a Kansas highway than you can around here.”

“Maybe they aren’t as hungry in Kansas. Speaking of being hungry, are we invited to lunch at Chief Akomolo’s, or is this a purely business call?”

“Lunch, I understand,” Shartelle said. “He’s having some of the key political supporters in. It’s a major policy meeting. I figure on doing a lot of listening, but if I’m called on to say something, don’t be surprised at what comes out. Just be ready to back me up — with figures, if need be.”

“Figures?”

“Make ’em up as you go along. I’ll correct you a pound here and a shilling there to make them seem authentic. You and me might even haggle a bit.”

“In other words, you want me to backstop you?”

Shartelle pulled his hat down lower over his eyes and slumped even farther down into the seat. “Petey, that’s what I like about you. You don’t ask no goddamned fool questions and you don’t want to be elected to anything. You just keep that attitude and we’re going to be real good friends.”

“By the way,” I said. “I ran into an army major from Ubondo last night. He’s invited us to dinner on Friday. I accepted, for both of us.”

“That might be right interesting. You just keep on accepting all the invitations you can get. Then we can throw a couple of cocktail parties and get some mixing and mingling going. I’m afraid it’s part of the job.”

I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes and thought about Anne. Shartelle fell asleep for a while under his hat and I didn’t have to talk much until we rolled up into the gravel driveway that curved through the acre or so of grounds that formed our compound, and met the five other members of the household staff who were to do our bidding.