She was beaming when she came down again.
“Well, what’s our route?”
“We drive to Ibadan, about two hours to the north, and then another hour to Oshogbo. There’s a studio there run by the Austrian artist I told you about, Roxanne Reinstadler. It’s grown into a thriving artistic community. After we meet with her, I’ll leave you there to do an interview while I keep an appointment with another dealer. Then I’ll come back to pick you up.”
“Sounds good.” She patted her tape recorder. “Martin’s packed us a lunch—it’s just sandwiches and warm Cokes. Don’t expect it to live up to your beach extravaganza.”
“It’ll be fine. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 11
Even in the best of times, the hot and dusty drive to Ibadan was not easy. Lindsay had heard that it could be downright dangerous, with armed gangs ambushing cars on the open highway, leaving passengers stranded, broke, and lucky to be alive. James, however, was as relaxed as if they were driving through southern France.
Lindsay had insisted on driving the first shift, saying it relaxed her. She did in fact begin to unwind. She hadn’t realized how much her reporting had spooked her. She felt an urge to tell James about it, partly to work it out in her own mind and partly to impress him.
“Do you think we’ll run into trouble on the road?” Lindsay asked.
“I don’t think so. There used to be many more bandits. The government has cut down on a lot of it. That’s one good thing they’ll say about Olumide, he made the roads safer.”
“Mussolini made the trains run on time, but he was still a fascist,” Lindsay said. “I found Olumide pretty scary when I interviewed him.”
“How so?”
“He tried to charm me, but he tried to scare me too. There was something . . . I don’t know . . . sinister about him.”
She paused, hesitating for only a moment. “Don’t repeat this. But I heard from the American ambassador that Olumide was planning to have Femi Fakai arrested. He’s determined to stay in power, and why shouldn’t he be? He gets richer and richer every day from his piece of the drug trade.”
She tried to reach under the seat for her bag. He beat her to it.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“My sunglasses. I can’t see a thing.”
He fished around, pulling out some bunched-up papers and a bulging Cartier makeup bag before he located the glasses, out of their case and dusty from accumulated debris. He wiped them and handed them to her.
“What good would arresting Fakai do?” he asked.
“Oh.” She put on her glasses. “The idea is that the arrest will set off protests that the government can use as a pretext to cancel the elections. He denied it, of course.”
James didn’t answer, so she looked over at him. He was staring at her in an intimate, suggestive way that, under the circumstances, was almost condescending. She decided to continue.
“Anyway, the ambassador warned me to get out of the country. I can’t believe he thought I would.”
James grunted skeptically. “But why you, in particular? Aren’t there other journalists who would cover the story if you left?”
“There’s Maureen, but she’s due to fly back to London in a week. The others are all British hacks. Most of them are pretty burned out. They travel a lot and spend as little time in Lagos as they can get away with. It’s not hard to pull the wool over their eyes.”
“This is too byzantine for me. Who is trying to pull the wool over their eyes?”
“Look, James, I imagine you think I’m paranoid and of course it’s possible that the Americans are playing it straight. Maybe they’re even the good guys in this situation. But maybe not. Maybe they have a secret agenda. There’s a guy here who is listed as political officer, but I know he’s a spook. The other reporters don’t want to rock the boat. So it might make sense for the CIA to try to get rid of someone like me who’s always asking too many questions.”
“A secret agenda? Like what?”
“I don’t know.” She shifted in her seat. “Maybe they’re trying to bolster Olumide? He may be a drug lord, but he doesn’t bother the international oil companies. Fakai criticizes U.S. policy and keeps making speeches about redistributing wealth. That kind of talk upsets Washington.”
“If the CIA wanted to get rid of Fakai, how would they go about it?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe work with Olumide to set Fakai up so Olumide can arrest him. Maybe just assassinate him.”
He made a gesture of impatience. “This is sounding a little farfetched. Why would our government go so far as to assassinate him?”
“I assure you it’s not out of the question. The oil companies, which our government represents, hate Fakai. He supports the activists in the east who claim that the local people aren’t getting any benefits from the oil. He points out that the pipes are old and bursting and safety measures are lax. There was an explosion last year that killed thirty people. Fakai supported the demonstrators. Instead of making the fields safer, the company hired private security guards.”
“That doesn’t explain why the CIA would eliminate Fakai.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Jesus. I’m glad I’m in the art world. All I have to worry about is fraud.” He casually dropped his hand to her thigh, as though he hadn’t realized he was touching her. “Politics everywhere is a giant cesspool, Lindsay.”
She moved his hand away.
“So what do you do if Fakai is arrested?” he asked.
“Get ready to cover the riots, I guess. What about you?”
“Well, normally, I’d get the hell out as fast as possible. But with you here, I don’t know.”
Lindsay was touched, but said, “James, if we’re going to spend any time together, you can’t think that way. This is my job and I’m pretty good at it. I always stay where the trouble is or I fly in looking for it. I want you to care about me. But I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“Maybe we’d better slow down.”
“No, I didn’t mean I wanted that. I—”
A police car raced by, its siren blaring.
“That was close,” James said. “Getting stopped for speeding is the last thing we need. I can think of better ways to spend my money than on a big dash for him.”
Lindsay laughed, relieved.
They drove the next few miles in silence until James took the wheel and pulled onto a bush road he knew. It was unpaved and rutted. Green hemmed them in on all sides—palm fronds, sugarcane, and banana trees. Every so often they came to a small village of rounded mud huts. Naked babies toddled in front yards, chickens ran free, pecking at the ground.
They passed fields where they saw women planting or cutting the tall grass with machetes. The men, as usual, were nowhere to be seen. Some, Lindsay knew, were working in the cities sending money to their families. Others had fled to the slums and did little of anything, trying to scrape by, often getting into trouble.
After driving another ten minutes they came to an even narrower road that led to the outskirts of Oshogbo. They passed a crossroads of fruit and vegetable stalls, drove up a hill, and turned left onto a long driveway surrounded by thick woods. At the end was a modest white European-style house with a slate roof.
James filled her in about Roxanne Reinstadler, how she’d come here some twenty years ago to teach. Slowly, a group of talented Nigerians had formed around her, and together they painted in bold colors, made batiks, and started selling their work, mostly to foreign visitors. Roxanne, as good at marketing as she was at teaching, encouraged her students to depict various Yoruba gods and christened them the “Oshogbo School.” For some time now their paintings and sculptures were de rigueur in most expatriate homes in Lagos and Port Harcourt.
“By now, Roxanne believes in the gods she paints and sculpts,” James said, parking the car. “She’s devoted herself to the goddess Oshun, the Yoruba goddess of water and fertility. Follow me.”
He led her into the woods along a dirt path past flowering bushes and scrub trees. Before long they came upon two gigantic stone statues placed side by side: huge, pendulous women-gods with bulging bellies and spreading, thick thighs. Lindsay saw many more of them, rising from the ground, angular, imposing, lifelike. Soon they were surrounded, and the copse looked like a mad Picasso-inspired village. James was right: the place would make a great story. A woman, thousands of miles from the Austrian town of her youth, giving herself over to the creation of a fantastic world in homage to an African deity. In fact, Lindsay could imagine returning with a film crew to do a documentary.
“What do you think?” asked James.
“It’s absolutely amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Come and meet her.”
“Is she expecting us?”
“No. But she’s always at home and she loves receiving guests.”
They retraced their steps and he knocked on the door. It was opened by a hearty-looking woman, about seventy, with the kind of fair skin that was rosy and smooth in youth but now deeply wrinkled. She wore no makeup except rouge, which she applied too heavily, making her look a bit like a Kabuki doll. Her eyes were pale blue, lively and curious. She was wearing a long shapeless batik dress in a riot of yellows, blues, and oranges, and her long white hair was held back by an ebony comb with a carving of the Yoruba goddess Oshun on the top.
“James,” she said, with a thick accent. “Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise. Are you visiting me? Are you buying? And what have you brought me?”
“I’ve brought you a good friend,” he answered, giving her a hug. He introduced the two women. “She’s a journalist. She wants to make you even more famous, so be nice to her.”
“When am I not nice?” Turning to Lindsay, she added, “Come in, my dear. Would you like some tea?”
James explained that he had an appointment with a dealer and would return shortly. Roxanne led Lindsay to a heavily curtained parlor where she served tea from a clay teapot and even, somehow, produced a plateful of German Bahlsen biscuits. Her voice was surprisingly powerful, considering her age.
“I suppose you think I am a crazy old lady, yes?” she said, smiling. “Many people do. But I believe I was meant to be here. I came on a visit and stayed to teach. Something led me to create these god-figures and through them remind the people of the ancient gods they abandoned. These gods become angry if they are ignored for too long. I believe I am here to prevent that disaster.” She stopped and stared at Lindsay. “Do you believe in fate?”
Lindsay hesitated. “No,” she finally answered. “Not really. I’m afraid I am too Western, too linear in my thinking. But I am awed by what you’ve done here.”
“Stay in Africa a bit longer, my dear. It is the best cure for linear thinking.”
Then she gave Lindsay a tour of the grounds, explaining the symbolism behind each of the statues.
“Think of me as a reverse missionary,” she said, her eyes dancing. “I try to help the villagers to abandon Christianity and return to their true gods. Oh, I know that many villagers think I’m crazy—but they tolerate me. A few even believe me.”
She grabbed Lindsay’s arm. “For them, I am a priestess. They call me the white priestess of Oshogbo. I have twelve converts. Soon we will have a whole community, then a village, and then . . . who knows?”
Lindsay recorded the conversation and shot two rolls of film. Then they walked back to the house, and when James returned he found them still deep in conversation.
Roxanne rose and gave James a peck on the cheek. “Now, my dear,” she said, “I must do some business with your friend.” She led him into an office. Lindsay wandered around the small gallery stocked with replicas of the giant sculptures outside.
After half an hour, she decided to go for another walk outside. As she opened the screen door, she heard a murmur of voices coming from a small arbor. She was surprised to see Roxanne and James talking with a striking-looking man she hadn’t seen before. His skin was almost blue-black, his hair cut close to his head. Although he was probably a Hausa, Lindsay thought, he wasn’t wearing traditional dress. He sported a sharply tailored, expensive-looking white linen sports jacket, a pale blue shirt open at the neck, navy blue trousers, and soft black Italian shoes. She noticed that he was holding an impressive black ebony cane. There appeared to be an ivory dragon’s head carved at the top.
The three seemed deep in some kind of negotiation, speaking softly, presumably working out details of a sale. She didn’t want to disturb them so she walked away, strolling through the woods for another half hour. When she returned, Roxanne and James were in the sitting room waiting for her and the man was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 12
“Who was that snazzy-looking guy you were talking to?” she asked, as they climbed into the car.
“Oh, did you see him?” James looked surprised. “I thought he’d come and gone while you were taking your walk.”
“Just a glimpse. Pretty sharp.”
He grinned. “He’s a local business contact. Did you notice his jacket? A few trips to Italy and now it’s nothing but Armani.”
They stopped at a hotel James knew on the outskirts of Ibadan. He went to register while she parked the car. She found a space next to a black Mercedes government car, identifiable by a black and white license plate with the number 4 in the upper left corner. The lower the number, the higher the position. She pulled out her overnight bag, locked the car, and went to join James in the lobby. He was talking to a Nigerian man sporting a pair of dark Ray-Bans. As she walked toward them, the man moved on to the elevator bank.
“You certainly know a lot of people,” she said amiably, when she reached James.
“He’s from the export bureau,” James said. “I have to have good relations with these guys if I want to get any really old artifacts out of the country. It’s illegal to export antiquities, you know.”
She nodded, already having assumed James greased the wheels like every Western businessman. In any case, who was she to talk? If she hadn’t done the same, she’d still be waiting on line at the public communications office.