Oil on Water (12 page)

—Drink.

I drank.

I drank to make myself insensitive to the accusing ghost eyes in the light’s fringes, eyes whose glow seemed to pierce through my body to my very soul, and with every mouthful, every shovelful, I grew as excited as Zaq, and in my mind I repeated his phrase: Our job is to find out the truth, even if it is buried deep in the earth. I giggled. Already I could see the inch-high headlines:
KIDNAPPED BRITON DISCOVERED IN SHALLOW GRAVE
. Not as aesthetically accomplished as his nuts-and-bolts headline, but, word for word, much more compelling.

It was a shallow grave, too shallow to cover a body, I saw that right away. In my mind I had already braced myself for the smell of rotting flesh, the sight of a worm-infested corpse, but all we found was a stone. A huge round boulder sitting insensate, incognizant, like a corpse. Whoever made the false grave had a sense of humor, it seemed. Zaq surged forward when my shovel hit the stone with a dull metallic sound that resounded like a gunshot in the quiet night air. I collapsed onto the mound of earth I had created, breathing noisily through my mouth, the warmth from the fresh earth rising up my body, soothing, reassuring me that the punishing dig was over. I watched him put down the lamp and, like a dog unearthing evidence, he got down on his hands and knees and carefully pushed aside the sandy soil around the stone.

—Take pictures.

I took pictures.

—You knew there was no body?

We headed back to our hut.

—I suspected.

I could feel the exhilaration in his voice, in his jaunty steps. In the room, after we had washed and settled on our mats, he kept tossing and turning and getting up to walk up and down. At last he lay down and closed his eyes.

—I’d better get a good rest. Tomorrow we leave. We may not be safe here anymore.

—I don’t think the priest would do us any harm . . .

—No, not the priest, but what if he’s being watched?

He was lying on his back, staring up at the roof, taking occasional swigs of his whiskey.

Finally, he blew out the lamp.

—Get some sleep, Rufus.

13

—
Y
our friend, I am sorry to say, is dying.

The Doctor was an overweight cherub and when he breathed he did so with painful effort through his mouth; the wheezing and spluttering sound accompanying it was loud and unpleasant. He was dressed in the same military fatigues and boots as before, but this time without the grubby white jacket, and whenever he leaned forward the shirt buttons across his fraught midsection threatened to pop. The shirt was wet under the armpits. He smoked incessantly, and as he spoke his words came out shrouded in cigarette smoke. How did he manage, in the midst of such aridity and want and barrenness, to look so fat, so gross? But as he spoke, and as I listened, I soon forgot his physical appearance. He was intelligent and sympathetic, philosophical almost, his tiny eyes seeming to probe deep into his listener’s soul, searching for whatever ailment was plaguing him.

Out of a vague sense of decorum he had led me out to break the news, away from the feverish eyes of the soldiers, and from the sleeping Zaq. He offered me a cigarette and when I shook my head he nodded approvingly. Now we were walking back and forth on the edge of the water, and we kept swatting at the midges and flies that flew out of the grass at our feet.

—What exactly is wrong with him, Doctor?

—Have you ever heard of dengue fever?

I hadn’t.

—It’s a hemorrhagic fever, very dangerous. It kills very quickly if not treated immediately.

—Is that what he has?

—No. It’s a similar strain, quite new, still nameless. I’ve come across it only two or three times before in this area. Bugs and the water, you know.

—You mean he won’t live?

He avoided my perplexed gaze and waved his hand around, embracing the whole visible universe in his gesture.

—Somewhere in these godforsaken waters, that’s where he must have picked it up. There’re plenty of bugs flourishing here. And he was in pretty bad shape to begin with. I suspect his liver is gone already.

He wiped his sweaty forehead, giving me a full view of his armpit. I felt an irrational hatred for him and nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to puncture his overfed middle and calmly watch whatever stuffing was inside pour out.

—Well, you have to do something about it.

—I’m afraid I can’t. Not with the tools I have here. You’ll have to take him back to Port Harcourt, to a proper hospital.

—I’ll talk to the Major. We need transportation immediately.

—You could try, but I doubt he’ll help you in any way. He’s not a very obliging kind of person, I’m sorry to say. Do you know, I saved his life, that’s how I ended up here as the doctor, and yet even I can’t be sure of him at any time. Mercurial, that’s what he is. Unpredictable. It’s the oil and the fighting. It affects everyone in a strange way. I’m going to write a book on that someday. I’ve been in these waters five years now and I tell you this place is a dead place, a place for dying.

He pointed at the faraway orange sky. —Those damned flares. There weren’t that many of them when I first came here. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been here all my life.

—Well, then, what are you saying, what should I do? My friend is dying. Tell me what to do.

—Ah, it is not easy . . .

Happy to find a listening ear, he grew talkative. I could imagine how he must have spent his days here, hunched over his beakers and blood samples, his speculative, philosophical observations met by the groans and whimpers of soldiers.

A leaner, more idealistic man, he had been posted to a village not far from here five years ago, fresh from medical school. The old doctor, who was about to retire, met him at the boat and had boys take his bags to his new quarters, a spacious hut near the dispensary. The next day the old man showed him around the village and the two-room dispensary. The village consisted of not more than twenty families, and each family’s ailments had been neatly recorded and filed in the old doctor’s shaky but neat handwriting and stored in alphabetical order in files kept in two formidable-looking iron filing cabinets in the back room.

—It was a small village. At first I was lonely, and daily I thought of nothing but how to work my way out of that posting, but I soon grew fond of the place and the people. Anyway, the old doctor, before he finally bowed out, took me from door to door, and to the neighboring communities, introducing me to the people. I set up mobile clinics in my boat, I held educational classes in churches and schools, talking to teachers and pastors and community leaders. But I soon discovered that the village’s chief discontent was not over their health; they were a remarkably healthy people, actually. One day an elder looked me in the face and said, I am not ill. I am just poor. Can you give me medicine for that? We want that fire that burns day and night. He told me that, plainly, pugnaciously.

—Well, as if in answer to his request, two years after my arrival in the village, oil was discovered. Be careful what you wish for, they say. Yes, just on the edge of the village, by the water, there was oil in commercial quantities. The villagers feasted for weeks. They got their orange fire, planted firmly over the water at the edge of the village. Night and day it burned, and now the villagers had no need for candles or lamps, all they had to do at night was to throw open their doors and windows and just like that, everything was illuminated. That light soon became the village square. At night men and women would stand facing it, lost in wonder, for hours, simply staring till their eyes watered and their heads grew dizzy. Village meetings, which used to take place early in the mornings on Saturdays in one of the school classrooms, now took place at night under the orange fire: the elders, in their wrappers and holding their walking sticks, would arrange their chairs in a semicircle and hold forth. A night market developed around that glow, and every evening women brought their wares. Some came from the neighboring villages, they bought and sold, they set up portable iron hearths and fried
akara
and fish, which they sold to happy children under that fire. And when Brother Jonah came back from the city, or, as he described it, from the belly of the big whale, after being away for three years, it was under the orange glow that his congregation met every Sunday night. They’d dance, their faces raised up to that undying glow, singing their thanks and joy, their voices carrying for miles over the water. They called it the Fire of Pentecost. I don’t know what that means exactly, but it made them very happy. They said it was a sign, the fulfillment of some covenant with God.

—Well, I did my duty as their doctor. I told them of the dangers that accompany that quenchless flare, but they wouldn’t listen. And then a year later, when the livestock began to die and the plants began to wither on their stalks, I took samples of the drinking water and in my lab I measured the level of toxins in it: it was rising, steadily. In one year it had grown to almost twice the safe level. Of course, the people didn’t listen, they were still in thrall to the orange glare. When I confronted the oil workers, they offered me money and a job. The manager, an Italian guy, wrote me a check and said I was now on their payroll. He told me to continue doing what I was doing, but this time I was to come only to him with my results. I thought they’d do something with my results, but they didn’t. So, when people started dying, I took blood samples and recorded the toxins in them, and this time I sent my results to the government. They thanked me and dumped the results in some filing cabinet. More people died and I sent my results to NGOs and international organizations, which published them in international journals and urged the government to do something about the flares, but nothing happened. More people fell sick, a lot died. I watched the night market fold up and the council meetings cease. The church also folded when Brother Jonah got a job as a clerk with the oil company. Almost overnight I watched the whole village disappear, just like that. I was their doctor, I should have done more than I did. Well, since then I’ve become something of an itinerant doctor. I go from community to community and I try to create awareness of the dangers lurking in the wells and in the air above. They all share the same story, the same diseases. I do what good I can.

I watched his lips as he spoke, watched his cigarette burn and the ash rise in loops high over his head, adding more pollutants to the polluted air, but all the time my mind was trying to make sense of what he had said about Zaq.

He put a hand on my shoulder. —I’m sorry about your friend. I’ll talk to the Major. I’ll try to persuade him to let you go, but I warn you, don’t expect a quick response. Take your friend to another doctor. Get a second opinion, but that won’t really help much, I’m afraid. I’ve seen this happen many times in this area. A man suddenly comes down with a mild headache, becomes feverish, then develops rashes, and suddenly a vital organ shuts down. And those whom the disease doesn’t kill, the violence does. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here; I tell you there’s more need for gravediggers than for a doctor.

I wanted to ask the Doctor if he thought the fighting would end soon, who was right, who was wrong, if he knew where the Professor was, if he had heard about the kidnapped woman, but instead I turned and looked toward the shed where Zaq lay, breathing away his life.

—Thank you, Doctor. I have to go to my friend now.

—By all means. Let’s go together.

He led the way, belching smoke, his fat arms horizontally suspended from his sides, his fat bottom almost popping out of his trousers, and I could hear his wheezing, phlegmy breathing, and I wanted to shout after him, Doctor, heal thyself!

—The Major will speak with you.
I told him about your need to be gone from here as soon as possible. He’s waiting for us in the command hut. Let’s not keep him waiting.

The Doctor led the way, and Zaq and I followed. Soldiers bearing rifles came and went, some nodding briefly to the Doctor as they passed us. The command hut was situated at the edge of the camp, right by the path we took coming in from the boat. The Major met us in front of the hut, waved us in, a smile on his face.

—Hope you had a good night, hope the mosquitoes didn’t bother you.

He was in a good mood today, almost conciliatory, making a joke about the rock-hard bread he gave us and the black sugarless tea in dented aluminum cups. Zaq and I sat on a long hardwood bench that faced the command table, with the Major on the other side of it. The Doctor sat apart, by a square window looking out on the trees by the waterfront. I ate the hard dry bread and sipped the cold tea, but Zaq didn’t even look at the bread, and the tea he downed in a single gulp, more from thirst than from an enjoyment of the bitter, inky taste. He didn’t look like a dying man—he looked rested and alert. The Doctor said it would be like this, good days alternating with bad ones. I hadn’t told Zaq all that the Doctor had said, only that his condition was serious, and he needed to be in a hospital as soon as possible. He had nodded and failed to inquire any further.

I decided to take advantage of the Major’s good mood immediately.

—The old man and the boy . . . when can we talk to them?

—Tell me, what do you know about them?

—They’re simple peasants, trying to make a living. We’ve been together this past week, believe me, they’re not rebels.

—I know these people more than you do. You know the problem with you reporters? You believe everything you read in the papers.

The Doctor laughed, the Major waited for us to laugh, and when we didn’t he went on.

—Let me give you an example. The Doctor here told me that one of your plans on this trip is to interview the Professor, yes? Well, what do you know about him? I’ll tell you what you know: he used to work for an oil company, and one day he grew disgusted with the environmental abuse and he became a militant to fight for change. That’s what the papers say. Well, that isn’t true.

Zaq lifted his empty teacup and put it down again.

—Well, Major, what is true?

—The Doctor can tell you about the deserted villages around here. They used to be well populated, you know, thriving. Now the people have all packed their things and left, because of the violence. People like the Professor are responsible for that, they call themselves freedom fighters, but they are rebels, terrorists, kidnappers. Do you keep up with the news? Ah, yes, you write the news. Well, just now, on that radio, it was announced they just kidnapped a three-year-old girl in Port Harcourt, and you know what, her family is not connected to the oil industry. A three-year-old girl. They don’t care if they’re caught or shot. Their life is so miserable to begin with, and they dream of becoming instant millionaires. It’s my job to pursue them to their swamp hideouts. I capture them, and most times it’s easier to shoot them than to capture them. Saves time, saves the government money.

—Now, let’s come back to this so-called Professor. We have a big file on him, on all of them. His name is Ani Wilson. A secondary-school dropout, a backstreet thug and bully who went to jail for the first time at fifteen. When he came out at twenty he became a party thug in the pay of his local government chairman, who was up for reelection. He was convicted of murder at the age of twenty-two and sent to prison for life. He broke out of jail at thirty, by which time he had realized there was no future in being a petty thug and hired gun. Luckily for him, his politician godfather had reinvented himself as a pro-environmentalist and won a seat in the senate. But they parted ways when Ani was bought by a rival politician, who paid him to kill his erstwhile godfather; the assassination attempt was foiled, and his godfather called the police on him, and that was when he moved into the swamps and joined a rebel group that specialized in kidnapping foreigners for ransom. You know who the leader of that group was?