My Chocolate Redeemer (29 page)

Zanj

Close the gates

With lacari thorns
,

For the Prince
,

The heir to the Stool is lost!

Okot p'Bitek

Zanj

Atkins International Airport stands in a vast saucer-shaped plain surrounded by a circle of low hills behind which the sun is just dipping and applying delicate colour, like a touch of oyster-pink lipstick, to the saucer's rocky rim. Mine is the only footfall to echo around the big arrival hall. Behind the desk an official in black jacket wearing a peaked cap offers a small careful smile. It is cool in the hall and quiet and empty.

‘Good morning, dear young person.'

He takes my passport between thumb and forefinger and by his touch makes it slim, wafery and strangely edible. He has a cricket's mandible for a mouth and papery fingers and he holds up the book as if uncertain whether to read it or eat it. He seems to wish to savour it first, to linger for some time over the job in hand. He sniffs the passport, riffles through the pages as someone in a bookstore might before deciding whether to buy.

‘Dresseur – Dresseur … A French name. You speak English? I have to speak English to you. It's now our official language.'

‘I don't mind. Speak either.'

‘Thank you. You are most civil. Welcome to Zanj. Would you like to buy a copy of our official history?'

‘No, thank you.'

‘Then I must read it to you.' He picks up a printed card and clears his throat. ‘Our country was the victim of twin colonialisms, French and English. As if it were not enough we were divided among three tribes, the Kanga, the Ite and the Wouff, and we were beset by the mongrels of Europe and obliged to master the tongues of our invaders. Happily, tribal distinctions have been abolished under the beneficent administration of Comrade Atkins. In the interests of modernity it has been decided that English should be our national tongue. So be it.' He peers hard at my photograph and hands the passport back. ‘Your picture doesn't do you justice. Please step forward into the customs.'

Customs turns out to be a large wooden table with a drawer facing outwards; the handle is made of well-rubbed brass. Waiting for me behind the table is the same man except that now he has taken off his black jacket and is in a white shirt and I suppose he looks something like a customs officer.

‘Anything to declare?'

‘No.'

‘I think we'll just have a look in your case.'

He hoists the case onto the wooden table. I like the way he blows on his hands and rubs them together before springing the locks as if he doesn't want to touch them with cold hands. He's less sensitive with my things, holding up my clothes and reading the labels. Sometimes he whistles, sometimes he clicks his tongue, though whether because he approves of the fabric or dislikes the maker I cannot say. He looks inside the fingers of my pink leather gloves.

‘Is this your first visit to Zanj, Miss Dresseur?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you on vacation – or have you come on business?' He's busy now with my make-up. The black hands dip into the bag like feeding birds. He touches a finger to one of my hairpins and whistles at its sharp point. He unscrews the cap of my ‘Contouring Creme-jel' – a non-greasy jel which moisturises, shines and controls my fly-away hair; he
tastes
my ‘Kiss And Tell' lipstick, a strawberry stripe on his tongue. He runs a finger along my tortoiseshell comb and makes a little tune in which I think I hear echoes of ‘Lead Kindly Light'.

‘I've come to see a friend.'

‘How long are you staying?'

‘For as long as necessary.'

He holds up a box of eye-shadow. ‘What is this, please?'

‘I put it on my eyes. I mix the blue with the deep purple and I use ‘Fort Knox Gold' on my brows to get a subtle, stylish effect.'

‘Is your friend meeting you?'

‘I don't know.'

‘I should point out that you will find the forecourt innocent of vehicular traffic.'

Whatever that means it sounds vaguely disappointing. I say, ‘OK.'

‘As a woman very much in the fashionable swim,' – his eyes rest briefly on my turtle-neck top – ‘you'll be fascinated to know that our leader, Comrade Atkins, has commanded that an end be put to the prettifyings and face-paintings among our women. He says, “Woman of Zanj, return to the modesty of your mothers and grandmothers!” '

He is particularly fascinated by my diamond pendant and keeps staring at it with quick, hard eyes.

‘Your jewel is going to get a lot of attention. It is very unusual. You put it inside your dress. OK?'

I do as he says.

‘Some of our people are crazy – for jewels. Stone crazy.'

I watch him repacking my case, taking special care to square off a patterned red shawl. He has a passion for neatness, this man. The way he kneads the toes of a pair of my best black tights gets me seriously mad.

‘Listen, have you found something you don't like?'

He closes my case and snaps the locks. ‘You're absolutely fine.'

‘Can I go?'

‘Just one small thing.'

‘Yes?'

‘You're overweight.'

‘Overweight? But that's something they check before you fly. I've already landed. I'm here. How can I be overweight?'

‘Don't worry. You're only a few kilos over the limit. Shall we say a charge of one hundred Zanjian dollars?'

‘I don't have any of your currency. They wouldn't give me any, they said the banks here were closed.'

‘US dollars will be acceptable. Twenty. OK? Open the drawer in front of you and place them inside.'

I count out twenty dollars from my purse. The drawer slides open with a delicate, subdued hiss.

‘Now close the drawer. And open it again.'

I do as I'm told. The drawer is empty.

He grins delightedly. ‘Magic. And you're my witness, I didn't touch it.'

‘Can I go now?'

‘What's the name of the friend you're going to meet?'

Now it's my turn to look at him hard. All sorts of options are open, I think – well? – shall I tell you the name of the friend whom I'm here to find? Your dear departed ruler, the lively, lickable fellow, the king thing, the edible dictator?

‘Brown.'

His face is hard, beaky, without expression.

‘Some people in Zanj called him the Redeemer.'

A tray of cups smashes. He opens his mouth. He's laughing – I see that now.

He laughs long and hard and in the darkness of his mouth his teeth twinkle like landing lights. ‘Miss Dresseur, someone's been fooling you. Maybe you've been reading lies in the Western press. There is no one answering to that name here. The only leader we possess, our Head of State and beloved helmsman, is Comrade Atkins.'

Oh yeah, I think, and Mohammed is his prophet. ‘How long has Comrade Atkins been in charge?'

‘For as long as anyone can remember.' He pushes my case across to me and indicates that I am free to go. ‘I wish you a very happy stay in the People's Republic of Zanj.'

At times like this I wish I had my music back and had not plunged it into the lake along with poor Clovis. On the day I left La Frisette I hired a boat from old Leclerc and paddled out to the spot where I estimated Clovis had disappeared. The hawks watched me as I took off my walkman. I would have liked to put up a plaque on the rocks above the deep water where he drowned. Instead I gave him my walkman and all my tapes. Heavy metal sinks fast. What I think I'd like to be listening to now is something good from the soft lips of Divina and his latest chartbuster, called ‘Suck It And See', which, as the entire universe knows, is the big one from his first film of the same name. OK, so they say he keeps this collection of frozen dwarves in a special cryptogenic chamber, that he's got these mummified corpses of these famous dwarves in there and talks to them like his friends, calls them his ancestors and kneels and prays to them. At least, that's the story you get in the music sheets that specialise in peddling in this dirt. The sorts of papers that print the stories about his latest leading lady in
Suck It And See
before she got fired in favour of Wanda Tremoy for refusing to go nude in the big bed scene and they say that Divina ran shrieking from the set, because the boy may be the most tender lover in the world but he's also a blushing violet. Just because I drowned my walkman along with poor drowned Clovis doesn't mean the music won't go on. The spool between my ears keeps turning.

I walk out into the main concourse which is big and utterly empty; there are no chairs, no flightboards, no people. At the far end of the hall a notice above a little stall tells me that coffee is supplied by the Consumer Unit of the Department of Trade. A second notice tells me that there is no coffee. On the wall is a picture of Comrade Atkins, who wears a tunic which buttons up to the neck and has a high collar; the face is young, boyish, and looks very like that of a fat peacock, the lower lip juts, almost touching his nose which is thin and beaked. Altogether Atkins has a pavonine look about him. The inscription beneath the portrait reads: ‘
Comrade Atkins, Number One Peasant
.'

Well, what do you think, as you look down on us from your great height, from study or cell or stage or wherever you sit in judgement? No doubt you feel there are things to be retrieved in even the most hopeless and horrible cases because you don't see things in terms of black and white, as we are constantly being told, but understand that man is meant to be saved. You could, I suppose, if it came to the push, show redeeming qualities even in the Number One Peasant of the People's Republic of Zanj. I mean maybe he's good at maths or works tirelessly for the eradication of the tsetse fly, or perhaps he plays the flute with majestic virtuosity, his fingers flying over the stops with the athletic assurance of a spider running? Though looking at that hard, beaky face, I have my doubts. But if you have this in mind you do not speak of these virtues, and the portrait on the wall of the Zanj International Airport gives no credence to such hopes.

Which is putting it mildly.

Outside the airport no expense has been spared in laying out the parking facilities. There are magnificent concrete erections marked Long Term Parking, and Buses, Freight and Taxis, but there's not a single bloody vehicle to be seen. It's also very hot and I begin to have my doubts about wearing the swing-coat in dogtooth check, although I'm glad of my black straw picture hat. And Divina's fluting voice vibrates in my ears: ‘
Who says there ain't no Christmas fairy?/Don't knock my faith/Suck it and see
.'

I put him on hold. This needs serious consideration, here I am in the middle of the bush without a car, contacts or accommodation and the only living soul I know is some guy who doubles up as passport control and customs and excise, if that is not to overstate his claim to sentience. The sun stands upon the distant ring of hills and shows their rocky peaks and for miles there's nothing to be glimpsed but rock and sand, not a tree, not a blade of grass, not a petal interrupts the sameness of the scene. I feel like the first woman on the moon except that the people on the moon had a radio and a control tower back home in Houston and a lot of folks rooting for them. Moreover, they were properly dressed. I can feel the sweat beginning to trickle down the inside of my thighs, I always sweat there when I'm overcome by heat – and when I'm scared out of my bloody life.

I might have known that Passports and Customs would have another string to his bow. He draws up in a slew of pebbles in a green Datsun Sunny with a large pink plastic butterfly spreading its wings on the bonnet and, more alarmingly, a compass mounted on his dashboard.

‘How was I supposed to get into town?'

He does not answer until he has loaded my luggage and we are bumping down the dirt road.

‘I warned you about the innocence of vehicular traffic. Most persons arriving at the airport arrange to be met. But as soon as I heard the name of your friend, I knew there'd be no one to meet you. It doesn't matter. I offer a first-class taxi service between the airport and the capital.'

‘But surely just because you haven't heard of him doesn't throw his existence into doubt?'

‘Oh, what do I know?' he asks wearily. ‘I just drive a taxi.' And that's all he has to say on the matter.

The road is long, rutted, dusty and empty. A few thorn trees are dotted about here and there and the soil is red and seamed by erosion. We could be on Mars but eventually we get to the outskirts of the city. I know this because there are little shacks of wood and tin dotted around the place, and I mean
around
the place: everything here seems to spread out, as if the only thing they have plenty of is space. Also lying by the roadside are skeletons and the decaying carcasses of buck, a couple of bush pigs, and what looks like the remains of a donkey. Is this the result of a drought, a blight, a pest?

‘They got shot,' comes the laconic reply, ‘by bandits.'

‘Why do they kill animals?'

‘These brigands are elements of the Zanjian defence force who can't accept the lead given in restructuring the army by our leader, Comrade Atkins. They've deteriorated into scavengers and dissidents who machine-gun their food wherever they find it. They come from the Wouff tribe, mostly. They're animists. They worship stones.'

‘Which tribe are you from?'

‘We don't have tribes any more. Under the new order of Comrade Atkins they've been abolished.'

After the business of passport control, then the trick drawer in the customs department, and now the taxi service, I reckon he's an Ite, and I hear the Redeemer's voice: ‘A people not worthy to go on two legs, a milky, soppy, preachy congregation of hypocrites.' But then he'd been pretty ratty about the Kanga as well. ‘All that bowing and scraping to Mecca, and a knife in the back when the praying's over.' Only about his own tribe, the Wouff, had he been poetical. ‘A lovely strong community, not since ancient Sparta has there been such a fierce and beautiful people, with a special reverence for poetry and the sacred rocks of their forefathers.'