Snakepit (3 page)

Mrs. Kalanda was a fine cook, and she would often prepare something delicious to go with their beer. They would sit outside on the veranda and talk, argue, joke and watch night fall. If there was no shooting, they would stay there for hours, relaxing, enjoying the cool, scented evening air. If rifles started popping, they would hurry inside and Bat would depart when the commotion ended.

Bat received many invitations to weddings. Preparing for and attending weddings had become the number-one pastime in the land, rivalled only by séancing. The ruling class of soldiers, pirates, gangsters and hangers-on showed a huge passion for it. The fact that many of them were Muslims, allowed to marry four wives, and that they had plenty of money to throw around, meant that there was no shortage of big wedding feasts. Nowadays, a man's worth was measured by the number of guests invited to his wedding, the length of the bridal train, the number of bands which played on the day and the bulls butchered. There were weddings which lasted weeks, as the celebrations moved from the husband's family to the bride's family and back, attracting carousers like flies on rotting fruit. Eating, as a sport, flourished, and no wedding was complete without a group of men vying to put away amazing heaps of offal, roasted lamb and goat, gigantic Nile Perch fish cooked whole and huge platters of cassava, sweet potatoes and matooke. The sight of gluttons masquerading as competitive eaters and ending up drooling, vomiting, and getting their stomachs pumped, became part of the spectacle. Wrestling, for one reason or another, had become an integral part of such occasions, with armies of pseudo-wrestlers moving from wedding to wedding, their oiled bodies on display.

There were many weddings Bat attended because General Bazooka or Bureaucrat One had no time and sent him in their stead. It was at one such gathering that he met Victoria Kayiwa. The reception was in the Nile Perch Hotel gardens. The afternoon was dying away, slowly letting in a cool evening. Bat was nursing his drink while listening to an army officer with bad breath who was going on about CIA infiltration and sabotage, and how all missionaries were secret agents stringing for foreign countries. He had tried to attract her attention on two occasions, but each time she had been talking to a bullish general with medals down to his knees. In fact, he had gotten the impression that she was the wife of a general. For many of these northerners a young southern wife was a status symbol to go with the six-door Boomerang 600 or sporty 300 break horsepower Euphoria. The staunch polygamists often paraded their harems, led by fellow northerner first wives and flanked by the younger southern trophies. Finally, he saw her walking towards him out of the corner of his eye. She was impressive, with a lean, tubular frame that made her cow most women. He could see her breasts swollen under the red cloth of her dress, her thighs carved by the long, flowing garment, her head carried by a long neck. As if on cue, the officer who was lecturing him slipped away, making her arrival all the more pleasing. There was a preliminary exchange of greetings and banter, during which both of them knew that something was going to happen between them.

“Which security organization are you representing tonight?” Bat said lightheartedly.

“Are you accusing me of being a spy, sir?” Victoria said, looking Bat straight in the face, the corners of her mouth forming a smile.

“Otherwise, what would you be doing here amidst this sleaze?” he said, making a sweeping motion with his glass.

“I was invited just like you, sir. This is beginning to sound like a police interrogation,” she complained with a face that showed the opposite emotion.

“It is a police interrogation. These days one has to move like a snail, with the antenna up, picking up all the necessary signals for survival,” he replied, smiling.

“You are right, sir,” Victoria said, draining the last of her drink.

“What are you drinking?”

“Soda, just like everybody else.”

Bat signalled a waiter to bring her a drink. His stomach felt heavy with the Pepsi he had been drinking all afternoon to combat the heat and for lack of any alternative. He watched as she picked a glass with care and raised it in a modest toast. To us, to danger, to adventure, he said under his breath, feeling a sweet recklessness rising inside him. He wanted her, this mysterious girl, and he was ready to take the risk. He didn't see much of a future with her, not with somebody floating in these murky circles, but she had to be a terrific fuck, a good way to relieve the pressure of work. After hours of poring over dry material, digesting estimates and mathematical projections, he needed to revel in unreason, and indulge in a bit of impulse. He craved intoxication, real physical satisfaction. What speed could not massage away, a thick crotch might.

“Where do you live?”

“In the city, like everybody else,” she replied, looking at him over the rim of her glass. “How about you, sir?” she said, baiting him with yet another sign of respect—after all, he was a big man.

“Entebbe, by the lake, near the State House,” he said with boyish airs, unable to resist this opportunity to show off. It actually felt good although it was obviously overkill.

“It sounds very exciting.”

“The setting is so aesthetic,” he said, enjoying yet another boast and realizing that, because he was unable to boast to the Kalandas, this young woman was a perfect victim.

“Ah, that sounds like the name of a car,” she said, looking pleased with her retort.

“Never mind,” he said, knowing well that he was talking to a social climber. It suited him perfectly, for the last thing he wanted was to talk about work or academics with somebody who had been to university but had failed to amount to much. She had probably been to secondary school, judging from the way she spoke, which was fine by local standards. “I am thinking of leaving.”

“It figures if you live so far away.”

“Not necessarily. I drive very fast. It is just that I am tired of this company and the soft drinks.”

“I would not blame you, sir.”

“Do you need a lift or do you drive your own Boomerang?” he said, smiling and thinking about how white her teeth were. He wished his teeth sparkled like hers.

“A lift would be just fine. I happen to be a woman of modest means.”

“You ought to listen more carefully to the radio. They say everything is possible and that everybody can become stinking rich in this country.”

She emitted a sudden gut laugh, as if something had got stuck in her throat, and her body quivered. Watching her gave him a strong erotic pang. Her mouth reminded him of Mrs. Kalanda's: eager, suggestive, packed with a big tongue.

Night had fallen very quickly and the motley congregation was disbanding, with the wrestlers getting dressed, the musicians packing up, the eaters groaning somewhere in the grass and the invited guests leaving amidst waving and cheering. As Bat removed the keys from his pocket, Victoria remarked that she had never seen such a beautiful car. Don't lie to me, he thought. What about the other XJ10s owned by the generals? Have they never given you a lift?

Inside the car she said that she wanted to see where he lived. He touched her hair, to send a clear message to her, and he was pleased that she did not make any sound or effort to resist him. To test her he swung the car violently and took off at high speed. He waited for her to ask him to slow down, but she said nothing. You must be used to the reckless driving of the soldiers or whoever gives you lifts, he thought to himself. I am impressed.

CAUGHT IN THE HEADLIGHTS, Bat's house looked like a precious parcel sitting on its wraps. He looked at it again, admiring its spacious garden, the view it commanded and its big windows, very proud that his very first house was not a dim little affair with an iron roof, but this gorgeous edifice. The fact that there was a beautiful woman beside him, awed by his achievements, made the moment very moving.

As they enjoyed a nightcap, sitting on the sofa and looking out on to the garden, and later when they were in bed, Victoria felt something new, as if she was on the threshold of a new beginning. I can feel it in my bones, she said to herself, yes I can. The fact that this rich man has taken the time to please me, instead of just aiming to fuck and ejaculate, roll over and snore, is a good sign. I am surprised by the way I feel because I originally came here to do a job and play a role. I have participated wholeheartedly in the sex, reaching orgasm easily. That is always a sign. My body and mind felt open to him. He could penetrate right through me. For the first time in two years my dream of having a child may be about to be fulfilled.

In the past two years Victoria had slept with many men who had met a bad end, some of whom she had even advised to flee for their lives. Sex had been nothing but an extension of her work, a tool like a gun or a knife. But it felt different now and she wanted it to stay that way. For that to happen she realized that she would have to disobey General Bazooka, who had sent her to track Bat and bring him to a hard fall. As she lay next to Bat, her hatred for the General rose up in her bosom like a wave crashing on the shore. She wanted to get back at him for derailing her life and turning her into a monster. She wanted to turn her life around and leave behind the madness of the State Research Bureau. All I need is a good plan and a way to Bat's heart, she said to herself.

Victoria was awake to see the day breaking for the first time in many months. She saw the lake and the trees and felt a sense of beauty and a wish to prolong the experience. The lake evoked tender feelings in her and gave her the urge to burst into song. She wanted to share her feelings with Bat but checked herself; it was too early in the game to rhapsodize about the lake or anything else. She watched him going to the bathroom, towel round his waist, his slippers slapping muffledly, and wondered what he was thinking. Does he know who I am? He reminds me of many men who walk unwittingly to their death, to torture, to imprisonment. Instead of the cold detachment I usually feel after completing a job, I feel unhinged, doubtful.

On the way to the city they talked sporadically. He let her know that he had enjoyed himself.

“It can be lonely in such a big house,” she observed, looking out the window at the roadside scenery of market stalls, houses, cyclists and pedestrians going to work.

“I don't mind,” he said almost absentmindedly.

“Most of your colleagues are married,” she heard herself remark.

“It is a job they do better than me. I don't have the time to put in the extra hours in addition to my work.”

“Maybe you have not yet met the right woman,” she suggested, wondering if she was pushing things too fast. He said nothing, and she felt a sharp stab of pain in her breast. Was this outright rejection? She had the giddy feeling of being cast back into the sleaze she was trying to escape. She waited for him to say something about the weather, the road, work, or the statues of Amin, in vain. He kept chasing cars, overtaking them and grinning. In the city, he dropped her off at the Ministry of Works headquarters, and as she watched the car disappear, she was gripped by panic. What had felt like the beginning of redemption the night before had now turned into despair. The blades of violence flashed and beckoned maliciously. She felt herself sinking back into the decay she had just emerged from. How am I going to get hold of him again? How long would this have to go on?

Victoria came from a well-to-do family of textile importers. Her mother and father used to work together. They had been good parents, ever generous and attentive to her needs. Sunday used to be the highlight of the week. Everybody in the family would dress smartly and head for church, where her parents had special seats at the front, since they were pillars in the local Protestant community. Her father's family was well read: there was a doctor and a judge. Her aunts had married powerful men. At school she had suffered from a lack of motivation; it seemed as if there was little to struggle for. Her looks proved to be another distraction, as she believed that she was better than everybody else. She found it hard to apply herself to the duty at hand when her looks fetched her so much attention. Discipline became a problem and it was easy to cheat. Her father urged her to work harder, and she lived with the fear that he would find out that she cheated. In between, she dreamed of wealth, a house in the hills, and holidays abroad.

Then an incident to do with her parents' business turned her life upside down. Customs officials found a box of rifles in a container of imported fabric. Her parents knew nothing about the guns. Her father was arrested, interrogated, and imprisoned. Expensive lawyers failed to secure his release and the business suffered. Letters of credit were withdrawn. Her mother was threatened and she finally closed the business, with the belief that they would reopen as soon as her husband was freed, since he knew no failure. He never got out and the family had to move. Victoria was devastated. She fell into the company of bold but aimless girls, who went out with older men who drove Boomerangs and Euphorias, and had money to spare and appetites to satisfy. One such man took her virginity. She enjoyed the money but hated the wrinkles and the paunches and her self-hatred grew.

In the midst of her pain and confusion, she met Colonel Bazooka. She waved down his Boomerang one day and was surprised to see a soldier in a crisp, medal-festooned uniform. She was struck by the lean, disciplined, affluent air he had, and she could see that he was different from other men she knew. He was a northerner to begin with, a creature of people's fears and prejudices.

He liked her youth, her looks, her boldness and her spoiled manner. She was a southern dream. He was used to picking these girls up, but there was something about this one, a connection they made somewhere in the gut or the brain. Under her brittle shield of boldness was aimlessness, a yearning to be led and moulded. The defencelessness, the emptiness, and the loss showed behind the eyes. The head of the Armed Robbery Cracking Unit never failed to read the signs. He had a highly developed sixth sense, which was the very reason why he was still alive. The affair went on for months, and the more he feigned disinterest, the more she surrendered to him. Her mother finally found out about them. Ground to a pulp by worry, she handled it in the way she knew best. She issued an ultimatum. Drop the soldier or cease to be part of the family, she said.