Victoria realized that if she showed her face in Bureau circles she would most certainly be killed. She knew that without the General's protection, Tayari or some other assassin might come after her with impunity. Very early in the morning she sneaked out of the barracks with the sleeping child on her back and got on the bus to the west. She avoided the towns where she had stayed with the General in the days when he was still fighting armed robbers in the South-western Region. She followed her nose, cocksure that she would know when she had reached a safe town. The more she pushed west, the bigger the hills became, till they metamorphosed into mountain ranges, with one higher than the other, caught in the blue skies and the hovering mist and cloud, flaunting hanging valleys blessed with rivers. She was now in the region of the earth's tectonic plates. She could see the snow-capped Rwenzori lost in the clouds. To the north and south were a chain of breathtaking crater lakes. Nearby was a hot spring, and valleys carpeted with tea plantations. At around that time she seemed to cease to exist and she found herself observing herself from outside, just like in the period before Babit's head was cut off. Sunshine broke over the Rwenzori, sending columnar legs through cloud and mist. It hit her in the face as the bus turned. She felt a very excruciating pain. Her eyes seemed to explode and her hands flew to her face. She squeezed her eyes, not daring to open them, for fear of finding herself blind. Many kilometres on, in the town of Fort Portal, the pain slowly disappeared and she opened her eyes, trembling with relief. Here in the west, away from the city, with roads leading to Zaïre, to Rwanda, to Tanzania, anything was possible.
THE RIVALRY BETWEEN General Bazooka and Colonel Ashes raged on, fiercer than ever. Both men escaped death-traps on a number of occasions. General Bazooka believed that Ashes was the man behind the plots against him, although now and then he considered the possibility that some coup-plotting generals might be taking advantage of the confusion to get rid of him. Ashes, in his case, concentrated more on beefing up his security than on finding out who wanted him dead. The departure of Dr. Ali had only strengthened his position as Amin's top confidant, and that made many soldiers eager to cut his heart out. As far as he was concerned, there was only one person he had to keep happy: Marshal Amin. By the look of things, the Marshal needed him more than ever. He was lonely, stranded on the razor teeth of his crumbling power and massive paranoia. He was afraid of assassins, capture by the CIA, subsequent torture and incarceration. The fate of fellow dictators gave him sleepless nights. He remembered too well what had happened to Emperor Haile Selassie, who was locked up in a dank cell and starved to death. He had seen what had happened to Emperor Bokassa in exile in France. Heckled by the French press, false accusations of torture and murder thrown at him every single day. Water and electricity cut every other day. Dead pigs dropped in his yard every three days. Pictures of dead black babies mailed every four days. Refusal by Air France to transport him. Boycotted by all whores, black, white, latino.
“What did the poor runt do to deserve such disgrace? Has the world lost all sense of humour?” Amin would ask Ashes over a glass of whisky. “All the bastard ever wanted to be was Emperor Napoleon, and he was. Portraying him very well, including riding a white horse for his coronation. Now the French are rejecting him, saying that they can't recognize him despite the make-up!” Amin would burst into laughter and Ashes would follow suit.
“These are terrible times, Marshal. African leaders are being victimized for the sins of European leaders. Very soon people will be blaming you for Il Duce's mistakes.”
Amin loved that one and he doubled over with laughter. He took a large swig of whisky and took another line of coke. “Well said, friend. It was the reason why I bought that princedom in Saudi Arabia. We Muslims tend to look after our own. The Saudis will take care of me for life.”
“It is one of the best dreams you've ever had, Marshal.”
“I am sure that some swine-eaters would gladly see me treated like Bokassa, pissed on copiously, for exploiting Il Duce to become world-famous, but they will never get hold of me.”
“Not in a million years, Marshal.”
“Friend, have you made any plans? Do you intend to hide behind the Queen's skirts or would you rather use Thatcher's bloomers as a cowl?”
They doubled over with laughter, but before Ashes could answer, the phone rang. Emergency. The dissidents had crossed the border into Uganda. With Dr. Ali's words of warning buzzing in his ears, Amin left to go and address the nation.
NOT LONG AFTER, an assassination attempt was made on the Marshal. He was cornered on the way to the State House. Bombs leapt and exploded in all directions. Rocket-propelled grenades hit the presidential Boomerangs and Stingers one after the other. The Eunuchs were mowed down as they valiantly fought back. In the confusion, Amin crawled away, and nobody saw him go. A bullet grazed his back, parried by his bulletproof vest. He made his way to the nearest compound and the petrified family gave him the phone. He called Ashes, who came for him in his helicopter. They spent six days together on the island.
The nation held its breath in suspense. Some said that he had been mortally wounded and was dying, and that the army was busy choosing a successor. Some said a helicopter had picked him up one hour after the attempt and flown him to Libya for operations to remove bullets in his arms and legs. Some said that he had fallen into the hands of dissidents and was being interrogated, spitting teeth and secrets. The sceptics simply kept quiet and waited.
In the meantime, the Marshal was enjoying himself, fishing, swimming in the dazzling waters of the lake, trekking deep into the island to look for parrots. He got the idea to catch a thousand parrots, train them to sing the national anthem, and make them the main attraction at the coming January 21 celebrations marking eight years in power.
“Isn't it a little bit too late, Marshal?”
“It is never too late, friend. We can send a battalion to comb all these islands and come up with as many birds as possible. The rest we can buy on the international market.”
“At the cost of hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Uganda is a rich country. If we can buy the most advanced Russian battle tanks, how about birds with curved beaks?”
Amin scrapped the plan a few days later, saying that the birds were too noisy and produced toxic shit. He went boating with Ashes, travelling hundreds of kilometres in speedboats with a helicopter combing the water and the air for enemies. Somewhere in the islands they came upon a fisherman struggling to save a friend who was caught up in the nets of a capsized boat. Amin dashed out of his boat, cut the man free, helped him right the boat, and gave the men money to buy new nets.
“A civilian saved my life a few days ago. I have saved yours to thank God. In fact, I saw you in a dream; it is the reason why I was here in time. Come and visit me at the State House when you are over the shock.”
The men were too overcome to say anything.
“You risked your life, Marshal, for some useless fishermen. What if they were dissidents?”
“So much the better. It would show them that I am fearless. And if anybody shoots at me, the bullet just bounces back and kills him.”
Ashes enjoyed playing host; big occasions suited him well. He did everything with such dedication as to suggest that he would always follow Amin wherever he went. He was the only person on the island, apart from his guest, who was not on edge. He organized wrestling and boxing and eating competitions, military exercises, Amin's morning drills and afternoon strolls. The days drifted slowly, filled with relaxation and the faint suggestion that they might be the last days before everything changed. It looked like a farewell party, the last event before an institution was closed and the buildings razed. Ashes screened Amin's favourite movies and video recordings. They watched
I Love
Lucy,
joking about how much Lucy in the days when she was a stripper and aspirant actress reminded them of Margaret Thatcher. They watched romantic comedies and war films. They watched Amin's two blockbusters: his portrayals of Il Duce. They recited Il Duce's leitmotif: Better One Day as an Elephant Than One Hundred as a Pig. On Amin's tongue, the Italian words sounded like something very delicious.
Amin initiated Ashes into the difficulties he faced when making movies: the rehearsals, the repeated takes, wearing a wooden jaw, three-hour make-up sessions, the bickering and infighting of the supporting cast. He talked about Hollywood parties, the whores, the tubs of champagne; and he confessed that that was where he picked up his coke habit. Before Hollywood he had been a fan of marijuana. Now he could not imagine life without the magic powder. They watched his commercials for high-powered rifles and explosive bullets. He boasted about his ten wives, his fifty known children, the contributions he had made to the country's development.
“Uganda will miss me dearly, as dearly as I miss Dr. Ali.”
Ashes talked about his youth in Newcastle, the endless fog, the chilly docks, the dirty factories, the pain of not knowing his real father, the shame of hearing his mother fucked by an impostor, the emptiness of school life, the beauty of the first fire he set, and the resultant fire fetish, the excitement of London's pre-war underworld, the seductive gangsters' wives and whores, one of whom took his virginity, his first kill, the war, and the thrill of landing in Africa. These were two men fantasizing, rewriting and reliving their history as it came out of their mouths, ruminating on their dreams, not people balancing on the razor edge of a country spinning out of control. They both agreed that paradise must resemble these intense moments of historical improvisation.
At the end of the holiday the Marshal realized that the country had drooled long enough with anticipation; it was time to reward it with the balm his resurrection would release. He left the island in his missile-proof helicopter. As it soared in the air, Ashes felt it in his bones that his time had come. It was a matter of waiting for the right hour. That night he heard the Marshal addressing the nation on the radio, refuting rumours that he was dead, or had been dead. He said that he had been to Saudi Arabia visiting the Holy Places, making sacrifices, praying to Allah to extend his rule for another fifty, only fifty years, during which rams would be fucking lionesses, and everybody would be driving around in an eight-door Boomerang. Ashes could not control his laughter. “He should have been a jazz musician. Such improvisation!”
GENERAL BAZOOKA WAS currently obsessed with one project: killing Reptile before the government fell. He knew a lot about his movements, how he now and then participated in hunting down and burning smugglers. With luck and diligence he hoped to lure him into the trap, or even to meet him at one of his famed bonfires.
At the beginning of the year the General detailed a group of his men to acquire boats and look for every opportunity to kill Ashes and his men. He had detailed others to seek employment with him and some had succeeded. With this two-pronged attack, he was guaranteed success sooner rather than later. It was now six months though, and Ashes was still alive. He was running out of patience. After Victoria's trial, with his wife's condition remaining diabolically unchanged, he had little to entertain him, apart from the parties. He further stood to lose his right little toe if he failed to get rid of Ashes within a month. A friendly general had challenged him at a party saying that he would never get the chance to finish off the reptile. General Bazooka had insisted that with his new plan it would take five months, at the latest seven. As a demonstration of confidence, the two men had exchanged toes. If Ashes died, the other general would cut off his own toe; if not, Bazooka would snip off his.
General Bazooka's men first posed as smugglers, then they discovered that their plan worked best if they provided security to smugglers operating in Ugandan waters. They staked their claim and sank boats which refused to pay upfront. From then on everybody did what they said. If they gave the order that nobody operate for a week, the lake stayed clean for that duration. That way they gained control over the waters, the ports, the islands, and waited for the chance to strike. They started provoking patrol boats, hiding on desert islands and shooting at them from the rocks with bazookas and machine-guns. Using powerful radios, they intercepted incoming messages, gave conflicting orders and lured patrol boats into traps.
Ashes resisted taking the bait. The territory under supervision was so vast, so treacherous, that he wanted to avoid costly confrontations. He still preferred to surprise smugglers, kill most of the men, capture the rest, sink the boats, and burn the captives as a lesson. Under pressure from their boss, General Bazooka's men decided to heat the water by sinking patrol boats with their crews. They started sending insulting messages to the Anti-Smuggling Unit, calling them cold-blooded murderers, cannibals, soiled sanitary napkins, gorillas, pigs' asses, and boasting how they were going to capture and roast every one of them.
Ashes responded by sending a helicopter to comb the lake and the shores. Soon after, two fishing villages frequently used by smugglers were bombed flat by helicopter gunships. That did not deter Bazooka's men. His chief advisor told them to spread rumours that the CIA was behind the recent acts of provocation. The CIA was a very feared entity in these parts. The presence of American warships in the Indian Ocean was enough to sow fear in anybody's heart. Ashes did not believe that the Americans were interested in Amin or in Uganda. He was still afraid that some crazy CIA boss might send his men to capture him just to kill boredom or to win a bet made in a brothel. After all, he was visible, white, outrageous. There was also the possibility that Interpol might ask the CIA to capture him for crimes committed over the years. Shaming him would shake Amin, and nowadays humiliating the Marshal had become a big pastime abroad.