Bingo's Run (19 page)

The Thaatima shook his head. His lips were dry. He wet them. It was costing Mrs. Steele more for the Thaatima to read my contract than it had for me to get Kepha Kepha to write it. “It is hardly nonsense,” he said. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the largest gold pen I had ever seen. He wrote on my copy of the Kepha's contract the numbers 1, 2, 3, and 4. Then he turned the contract toward Mrs. Steele. “Look, Colette, the
contract is in four sections.” He pointed to the “1.” “The title and signatures are obvious, and they are in order.”

Mrs. Steele said nothing.

The Thaatima pointed to the “2.” “This paragraph conveys the entire contractual terms.” He read from the paper, “ ‘This is a binding contract between Thomas Hunsa (the Master Artist) of Nairobi and Mr. Bingo Mwolo of the Ameru (the Dealer). The contract is that the art works of the Artist be sold exclusively and solely for a five calendar-year term, from today, by the Dealer.” He said to Mrs. Steele, “That's a standard five-year, one-way exclusivity.”

Scott turned to me. “Bingo, that means only you can sell the works of Thomas Hunsa for five years. However, you are not prevented from selling the works of any other artist. That is what is meant by ‘one-way.' ” Now I understood. With a hooker, it means something different.

The Thaatima looked back at Mrs. Steele. “The next clause is very tight.” He read, “ ‘The Dealer will withhold less than fifteen percent of the sale price. The Artist will receive no less than eighty-five percent of the sale price.' This is pure Kepha,” the Thaatima said. “It's all about protecting rights.”

He turned to me. “Here, Bingo, Kepha Kepha says you will give the artist at least eighty-five percent of the selling price. That means that if you sell a painting for a thousand dollars you have to give Hunsa eight hundred and fifty, or more.”

“Or more?” I said. I was not planning to give the Masta anything except the white he needed to keep going.

The lawyer nodded. “Kepha Kepha is careful about this. She expresses the primary term both ways, so that there cannot be any dispute. That is why she writes that you, Bingo, the dealer, can only take less than fifteen percent; that is, less than a hundred and fifty from a thousand-dollar painting.”

Mrs. Steele thought the Masta's paintings were worth millions. Fifteen percent of one million was still $150,000. It was not so bad.

The Thaatima went on. “There is more. Kepha ends with: ‘And so, in plain English, the aforementioned matter has been concluded.' ” He underlined the words with the gold pen and looked at me. “Bingo, there is a push across the legal community, especially in underdeveloped countries, to write legal contracts in what is called Plain English Standard. This means that everyday English is used to write contracts so that they are easily understood. It makes the law easier to apply and cuts down on legal fees.”

Mrs. Steele looked sharply at him. Before, Mrs. Steele had laughed at legal fees. Not this time.

“Here, Bingo,” the Thaatima continued, “Kepha Kepha is telling us that the contract follows Plain English Standard.” He turned to Mrs. Steele. “Colette, this contract would probably withstand challenge as Right of Ownership even in a U.S. court.”

Mrs. Steele made three short coughing sounds; the Kenyan coffee must have choked her. She added more milk from a small jug. “How about all the Latin gibberish afterward?” she asked.

The Thaatima said, “Colette, the Latin is there for a simple purpose. It was common for criminals to add elements to legal contracts after they were signed. By using these multiple lines of Latin, the Kepha stops anyone from adding anything to the contract.”

I said, “People cannot write more on it because the page is full?” It was like poking a dog.

The Thaatima said, “Precisely, Bingo. As long as it is not English, it cannot be Plain English Standard.”

I grinned at the Thaatima. “Kepha Kepha good, ya?”

The Thaatima nodded. “Indeed.”

I wanted to climb on the table, rip off my clothes, and dance. The tree rustled its leaves as if it was happy, too. But the silence that followed was painful. Mrs. Steele stared so hard at her coffee, I thought it would spill. The Thaatima's smile thinned. His light blue eyes turned to me. “Bingo, listen. Understanding the lengths that Mrs. Steele has gone to adopt you, and the incredible opportunities you will have in America, I hope that I can persuade you to part with that contract. Look, Bingo, we're all one family now. We live together, we eat together, we play for the same team. After all, you are now part of Colette's family. What is hers is yours. What is yours is hers. That is the way it is in America. We share.” He sighed. “You have to understand, Bingo, selling art isn't as simple as it seems. Think of it this way—you and Colette are partners.”

All I could think about was how Mrs. Steele wanted to outhustle me. They did not know that Charity had told me that the Hunsa paintings were worth millions and that once Mrs. Steele had them, she planned to dump me. “No, fook,” I said. Mrs. Steele looked up sharp. Sparks of white anger flew through her dark eyes like birds. I said to the Thaatima, “Mrs. Steele is not a thief. Fair is fair. The contract is mine and I'z tha deala. I'z the Thomas Hunsa art deala. Mrs. Steele sayz, ‘Neva be a thief.' ” I looked to Mrs. Steele and our eyes hooked together. “Right, Mrs. Steele?” I said.

The Thaatima patted my hand. His smile was empty.

People love things. With Mrs. Steele, it was hustling art. With Father Matthew, it was money. Mr. Edward loved his philosophy. Charity loved everything to be perfectly in line. Slo-George loved food, Wolf loved power. I loved the run. But the Thaatima was different; he had no love. Because love does not trap him the way it traps everyone else, the Thaatima always wins. But the reason the Thaatima always wins is also the reason he loses: his love is
locked inside him, like a nut in a shell that never breaks—no one ever tastes it, and so it is tasteless.

The Thaatima's smile of false kindness tipped into me like milk into black coffee. The color inside my head changed. That is how the Thaatima works: he pours nothing in and you become just like him. He patted my hand again more firmly. “Fine, Bingo,” he said. “Keeping the contract is your choice. But, Bingo, is that really how Father Matthew taught you to behave?” His white emptiness flooded into me, and I feared him. He would have made a good killer.

One evening in Nkubu, Senior Father and me walked home from the field. He stopped suddenly and jammed his long stick into the ground in front of me. When he lifted the stick, a scorpion was beneath it. “Scorpion,” I said. Senior Father, a giant against the sun, said, “Look closa.” Stuck on the shell of the scorpion was a fly. Senior Father said, “Tha ichneumon fly sting make tha scorpion always taste death. Tha' why tha scorpion bite—he afraid to die by himself.” Senior Father lifted his stick and the scorpion ran off. The light blue eyes of the Thaatima made me feel like I was stained inside with the taste of death. The Thaatima said, “Bingo, why don't you leave Colette and me to chat for a while.”

As I walked away, my thinking and my legs both moved unevenly. The Thaatima had mixed up my thinking, and I was no longer sure of what was what.

When I was small, Senior Father and me used to walk home from the field in the evenings. As we walked, he told me the legends. Mama called them “old-fashioned,” but I liked them more than the stories in the Good News Bible. My favorite legends were about the Trickster and his long clay pipe. The Trickster fooled everyone and always came out smiling. I laughed so hard when Senior Father told me stories about the Trickster because I knew the Trickster was me. One day I said to Senior Father, “I am the Triksta.” Senior Father shook his head. “No, Bingo, you'z not tha Triksta,” he said. “You'z tha runna.”

Senior Father said, “The runna can run anywhere. He can run into the sky and into a tree. He can run fast, but sometime he must run slow. He can run right out tha world to tha purple Jwasa.”
^*
He poked my head with his long finger. “Bingo, you iz special. You can run on light. You can run through dark. You can run where everything is nothing. You run foreva, and only when you stop it is tha end.” Sometimes, when he spoke like
this, I thought Senior Father had gotten too much sun on his head.

Mama also said I was special. Many times she said, “Bingo, you'z a special boy. You made from special clay.” But then she would say, “Clean tha floor,” or “Wash ya clothes,” or “Do two pages Bible writing.”

“But you jus' said I'z special,” I would say back.

Quick as a bet, Mama answered, “Bingo, you'z such a special boy—make sure ya clean tha floor special good,” or she said, “Bingo, you so special, you can write out four pages of Bible writing.” That was Mama; she was special quick.

After my father left, Mama and me lived in Senior Mother's house. When I was not in school, I went to the field with Senior Father, cleaned the floors, and did my Bible writing. At night, I slept next to Mama and it was good.

Mama and me came to Nairobi after the gang boys killed everyone in my house except Mama and me. Mama tried to leave me at a church outside Nairobi, but I cried so much she kept me. Mama said, “Bingo, we have no monay.” I was twelve. I said, “Mama, I get you monay, I promise.” But Mama got money herself. Mama oiled her skin and smelled good. She smelled so good, men paid to smell her. “So good,” they said—then we got money. Mama was special like me; all the men said that. But Mama wanted none of them. Mama only wanted me; I was her only special man.

I carry nothing now, not even Mama, because she is dead. But I can smell her, everywhere and always.

Walking away from the Excursion Café, the storm inside my head cleared. I smelled Mama in the air. I felt strong and I understood it all. I remembered the Africa Business program; it was all about contracts. Father Matthew had sold me with a contract. I had a contract for Hunsa. The Thaatima had a contract for $750
per hour. Marriage and divorce are both contracts. The Bible is a contract for the churches. Now Mrs. Steele had a contract for me. Everyone has a contract, a thread to tie one to another. I did not have a contract with Charity, but I wanted one.

I ran to the front desk of the hotel. “Mr. Edward, give me string, ya.”

He started to take in air; he was about to talk philosophy. “Mr. Edward,” I interrupted, “I'z in a hurry.”

“Of course, sir,” he said. He reached under his counter and handed me a ball of thick brown string. “Scissors, too?” he asked.

“Ya,” I said, and took them.

“My pleasure,” he said to my back.

I went to my room, switched on the television, and sat on the bed. It was the same Nigerian soap that had been on before. The girl from the village, who had ended up the girlfriend of a drug dealer, was now let out of prison. She went back to her village. When she got there everyone ignored her, even her mother. Her mother called her Disgrace. Disgrace shaved her head and went to live alone in a hut outside the village. A few days later, a little orphan boy, who was also bald, showed up at her hut. The little boy and Disgrace said no words to each other, but she let the boy stay there; like her, he had nowhere to go. The next day, Disgrace made sure that the boy went to school, and she started to farm in her garden. Still everyone ignored Disgrace, but she did not seem to mind. She did not do white or men. She lived with the little boy and seemed happy. The episode finished when the boy got sick and the girl had to take him to the doctor in a nearby village.

As I watched the soap, I cut four pieces of string as long as my hand and one piece twice as long as my arm. I had not done this since I was small. I lined up the four short pieces on the bed and squeezed them together in the middle—it already looked like a spider. I took the long piece and wrapped it around the spider's
middle—round and round. I tied it tight—now the spider had a body. There was enough of the long piece left over to go around the neck. I tied knots in each end of the eight legs—spider feet. It looked so good I thought the string spider would run away.

I opened the door and looked out; the laundry cart was outside a room down the corridor. I ran down the corridor and burst in. “Charity, this for you!” I shouted. A woman straightened up behind the bed. She was four times older than Charity and uglier than a brick. Her voice shrieked, “Charity not here till lata. She comes in at 7:00
P.M
.” I was surprised that her brick voice didn't crack her face.

Tak! I thought. I pushed the string spider necklace into my pocket and went downstairs to the hotel entranceway. I was hungry but I did not want Livingstone food.

Kenyatta Avenue was full of workers getting lunch. I found good food in the bins outside Chicken Heaven and went to the benches at the bus station to eat it. I sat, ate, and listened for an hour to men talk about politics. They went on about the new Kenyan constitution. But they knew nothing. I knew politics; I had run white to a hundred politicians. They are like hookers—they just get paid more. One does prostitution, the other does constitution. It is all for sale; the contracts just get bigger.

I decided to head back to the hotel. I wanted to lie beside the still blue of the pool and wait for Charity to come on duty. I was just about to walk up the Livingstone driveway when
bam
! My head filled with light. Then it was dark, utter black darkness.

A gray blanket lay over me. I was cold. It felt like death was a close friend about to visit. I was in a windowless cell lit by one electric bulb. The door was dark green iron. The bed was wire. The walls smelled of rot.