The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (44 page)

In the spirit of Shobha’s truce, and to bring the former stability back to my home, and because there were no other options, I agreed to join my in-laws in business. The terms were generous and a new episode in my life began.

The photos are old and brittle, six by four inches; they are yellow and easily curl up; the edges are serrated in the fashion of their time. Their contents are everything I expected. There are four of them, one for each victim. In the first one, Mr. Bruce lies on the ground, where he was shot; one knee is raised. There is a black stain next to him that is most likely blood; it disappears under a sofa. The next picture is of a boy’s headless body; he is wearing shorts and shirt, is partly on his side on the floor. There are machete marks on the calves, and perhaps a leg is broken at the shin. The third picture. A girl in her bed, lying sideways, the head separated by an inch from the neck. Both arms raised. The fourth one shows Mrs. Bruce on the kitchen floor, lying face down in a pool of blood; like her husband she had been shot. The children’s gutted teddy bear lies on its back in her blood.

They burn reluctantly like old bones, these photos, and they hurt in their burning. They hurt not only at the thought of what happened to those children but also for what remains in me, the stain I cannot erase. I don’t have a suitable prayer to utter, at this point, except to murmur, May you be resting in peace, wherever you are, dear friends, I wish you had lived and we could have known each other more—I will always remember you.

With tongs I pick up the ashes from the grill on the porch and put them in a plastic bag; then I walk in the dark to the lake and drop the ashes into the water. I look out across the lake and imagine Deepa there.

I have burnt those pictures, Deepa, I tell her over the phone. Just as Njoroge told me to, when he gave them to me. I gave them a cremation and put the ashes into the lake.

She waits a moment, then says, Good. I’m glad you did that, Bhaiya.

I know she has tears in her eyes; tears for me.

Seema walks in a little later and I tell her I’ve given the photos a cremation. Her eyes light up and she comes and gives me a tight hug, as if in condolence. Good for you, she says. It’s the closest we’ve come.

She was about to speak as she came in, I realize, before I interrupted her. Now she tells me, There’s news on CNN, about Kenya. Joseph called and he’s very disturbed.

According to the news, there’s been a massacre in Nakuru. A Kikuyu MP has called it genocide and ethnic cleansing, adding, We shall fight with weapons, if necessary.

And on the Internet, the MuKenya group, the Sons of Mau Mau, have declared war on their enemies who are unnamed but could be the government and its supporters in the Rift Valley. No more machetes! says a rallying cry. We have guns! Come to Kenya and fight!

TWENTY-EIGHT.

We had spoken about it, occasionally, Sophia and I. She might be posted on another route for a long time and not be able to come to Nairobi; she might meet her ideal man to settle down with somewhere; my wife might give me an ultimatum. Sooner or later our relationship would come to an end, and che sera sera.

One morning Rose Waiyaki called me at home and said that a letter had arrived for me at Paul Nderi’s office; there was no sender’s name or address on the envelope, but the stamp said South West Africa. I think it is from that woman who sends you postcards from abroad, Rose ventured confidingly.

She was right. Caro Vittorio, Sophia wrote, I am sure you will understand. I have married a businessman from South West Africa whom I met on a flight to Johannesburg…Ciao baby and remember me sometimes.

As I finished reading the letter, in a coffeehouse downtown, I began to realize just how attached I had grown to my petite Italian mistress, my own private spark of life and joy in an otherwise apathetic existence.

Ciao Sophia, I wish we had burned our flame a little brighter and longer; only I lacked that passion to feed it, as you well knew and understood.

The mouse blows kisses as it nibbles away, was the Javeris’ modus operandi. You ate and let others eat, was the more widely quoted adage of the day, to which all our city’s business people subscribed. Bribes were extorted, offered, paid until they became casual as handshakes. My brother-in-law Chand explained the situation this way, with his businessman’s cynical humour and folksy wisdom: Bribes were a form of taxation; before the Europeans arrived, the Africans collected a tax called hongo which you paid if you passed through their area. Missionaries and explorers had all paid hongo in the past, having learned from the Swahili, Ukiwa na udhia, penyeza rupia: when in trouble, offer a dollar. A bribe today was simply hongo tax, payment for services rendered, or for permission to pass on unobstructed to the next stage of your enterprise. Since the government paid so little to its employees, they simply collected their own hongo, calling it “tea money.” In most of the countries of the world, he claimed, people were used to paying this surcharge.

I had been appointed the Javeris’ facilitator; I could open doors for them that would otherwise remain shut. My influence reached far, for I had been chosen: I had recourse to the fount of all power in the country, I had the ears of the Old Man. For with his abrupt and hurtful dismissal of me had come also a partial benediction, and an offer of lasting friendship.

Consider.

A panic-stricken and terrified Dilip came to my office one Monday morning and said, My head is on the block, Vic. Save me. The past Friday he had received a terse phone call, telling
him he was required for a private conference with Mother Dottie in Nyeri, to hear a business proposition. Mother Dottie was like the legendary predator python who, by simply drawing in her evil breath, could suck you in from afar and ingest you within her coils. Mother Dottie’s awesome power derived from the fact that she was a favourite of the Old Man; she had perhaps been his mistress in the past. She struck ruthlessly and her victims were all of the vulnerable sort. Now the evil summons had arrived for Dilip. He flew straight to Nyeri the next day, dread in his heart, and was met and driven to Mother Dottie’s residence. It had been a country club in British times and included a golf course and tennis courts. Mother Dottie, tall and beautiful, dressed that day in a slit Malay-style dress, had a heavy accent in English. She was a graceful hostess, meeting Dilip in person at the driveway, offering him coffee, and then leaving him in the library with her two male advisors to discuss business. In the midst of the discussions, she sent over a club-style lunch, with beer, more coffee and cheese. What impressed Dilip about the library were two ceiling-high elephant tusks on either side of the antique desk, and bookends and numerous other knick-knacks of carved ivory. Mother Dottie was known as the principal dealer in the country’s illegal ivory trade.

There was not much for Dilip to say to the two henchmen, one of whom was a lawyer. They laid before Dilip Mermaid Chemicals’ annual reports and particulars of business on file with the national bank and the tax office. They laid before him information regarding his family, who had bribed officials on several occasions, and one of whom (Mahesh Uncle) had collaborated with communist enemies of the state. They laid before him an agreement he should sign, handing over Mermaid Chemicals to Mother Dottie for a nominal sum.

This extortionist procedure was well known in Nairobi and dubbed “sign on the Dottie line.”

Dilip immediately refused; then, extremely frightened by the chill that met his answer, he said he would think about the matter. On his way out he saw Mother Dottie from a distance,
in the company of a stocky Anglican priest. She waved like a queen, and Dilip bowed in reply and departed almost at a trot.

What can she do? he asked.

Plenty, I answered. Your factories could be closed for any number of reasons.

He stared at me.

Or it could be worse, I added, you can never tell.

Dilip was sitting on a gold mine that was the envy of many. He had licences for beauty products, pain killers, and sleeping tablets; he manufactured antibiotics, which people in Nairobi had acquired a habit of prescribing for themselves. He was expanding into garden and agricultural products. He wanted to hang on to his chemical empire, not sell it at a tenth its value.

Sam Karimi admitted me into the Old Man’s office. The President and I greeted each other in our manner and I sat across from his desk and told him my shida, what troubled me. I narrated at length the story of Dilip and Mermaid Chemicals, up to the events of the previous weekend, which had brought me here. While I spoke, he would rub the backs of his hands as if they itched; the jewelled ring he usually wore on his left hand was removed and placed on the desk before him. Arthritis often bothered him. Now and then he would dart a glance in my direction or grunt to acknowledge what I had said.

Ahh! he said finally, when I was finished, and shook his head sympathetically. Then softly, indulgently, he went on, Sio nzuri. This is not good at all. They actually told him to sell them his business, and at a tenth of its value? How greedy people get in our land…

I suppressed a smile. It was not as if he was unaware of Mother Dottie’s doings. It was just her bad luck that Dilip was my brother-in-law.

He picked up his phone and asked for a line. When he was connected, he spoke to Julius, the lawyer-henchman of Mother Dottie.

Julius, wewe, said Mzee. This, this Mermaid Chemicals…she is interested, but why?…And you have advised her so?…Huna adabu. You have no shame. They are an asset to our country; they export to Uganda, to Tanzania, to Ethiopia. Now what do you have to go and do your ushenzi for and harass them? Call this Muhindi—this Dilip—you tell him you are sorry, it was a mistake. Yes, a mistake. Sasa hivi, mpigie simu, mwambie ni kosa lako tu.

Thus the Old Man. Only he could do that. And I could have bet that Julius was shaking in his dripping wet pinstripe trousers at that very moment.

And what else can I do for you, said Mzee, watching me with benevolent amusement.

Thank you my father, I said, you have been kind and fair. You have given me of your precious time, for which I am immensely grateful. I stood up and presented him with a jewellery box. Please accept this token of friendship from my in-laws.

The goldsmiths, hmm, your in-laws. He smiled, opened the box with mild curiosity and observed for a moment the brilliant necklace and matching earings inside. Yes…they give what they value, the shiny things. But it is good. And what token have
you
brought for your father?

If it doesn’t sound like an affront, my father, Dilip has requested that you accept a ten percent partnership in Mermaid. Just like the British manufacturers say, By appointment to Her Majesty the Queen, et cetera.

He stared at me craftily, then said, That is good—by appointment. I accept.

In gratitude Dilip offered me also a ten percent partnership in Mermaid.

In contrast to his ilk, the Javeris pre-empted extortionist demands through gifts and politic partnerships. Their duty-free airport shops were owned partly by the redoubtable Mother Dottie and did a brisk dollar business on the side.