Eduardo de Silveira switched on the television at 8:45. Normally an assistant would have put it on for him at one minute to nine. He sat watching a Nigerian woman giving a
talk on dressmaking, followed by the weather forecast man who supplied Eduardo with the revealing information that the temperature would continue to be hot for the next month. Eduardo's knee was twitching up and down nervously as he waited for the address by the new president. At nine o'clock, after the national anthem had been played, the new head of state, General Obasanjo, appeared on the screen in full-dress uniform. He spoke first of the tragic death and sad loss for the nation of the late president, and went on to say that his government would continue to work in the best interest of Nigeria. He looked ill at ease as he apologized to all foreign visitors who were inconvenienced by the attempted coup but went on to make it clear that the dusk-to-dawn curfew would continue until the rebel leaders were tracked down and brought to justice. He confirmed that all airports would remain closed until Lieutenant Colonel Dimka was in safe custody. The new president ended his statement by saying that all other forms of communication would be opened up again as soon as possible. The national anthem was played for a second time, while Eduardo thought of the millions of dollars that might be lost to him by his incarceration in that hotel room, while his private plane sat idly on the tarmac only a few miles away. One of his senior managers started to take bets on how long it would take for the authorities to capture Lieutenant Colonel Dimka; he did not tell de Silveira how short the odds were on a month.
Eduardo went down to the dining room in the suit he had worn the day before. A junior waiter placed him at a table with some Frenchmen who had been hoping to win a contract to drill bore holes in the Niger state. Again Eduardo waved a languid hand when they tried to include him in their conversation. At that very moment he was meant to be with the French minister of the interior, not with some French hole borers. He tried to concentrate on his watered-down soup, wondering how much longer it would be before it would be just water. The headwaiter appeared by his side, gesturing to the one remaining seat at the table, in which he placed Manuel Rodrigues. Still neither man gave any sign of
recognizing the other. Eduardo debated with himself whether he should leave the table or carry on as if his oldest rival were still in Brazil. He decided the latter was more dignified. The Frenchmen began an argument among themselves as to when they would be able to get out of Lagos. One of them declared emphatically that he had heard on the highest authority that the government intended to track down every last one of those involved in the coup before they opened the airports, and that might take up to a month.
“What?” said the two Brazilians together, in English.
“I can't stay here for a month,” said Eduardo.
“Neither can I,” said Manuel Rodrigues.
“You'll have to, at least until Dimka is captured,” said one of the Frenchmen, breaking into English. “So you must both relax yourselves, yes?”
The two Brazilians continued their meal in silence. When Eduardo had finished he rose from the table and without looking directly at Rodrigues said good night in Portuguese. The old rival inclined his head in reply to the salutation.
The next day brought forth no new information. The hotel remained surrounded with soldiers and by the evening Eduardo had lost his temper with every member of staff with whom he had come into contact. He went down to dinner on his own and as he entered the dining room he saw Manuel Rodrigues sitting alone at a table in the corner. Rodrigues looked up, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then beckoned to Eduardo. Eduardo himself hesitated before walking slowly toward Rodrigues and taking the seat opposite him. Rodrigues poured him a glass of wine. Eduardo, who rarely drank, drank it. Their conversation was stilted to begin with, but as both men consumed more wine so they each began to relax in the other's company. By the time coffee had arrived, Manuel was telling Eduardo what he could do with this godforsaken country.
“You will not stay on, if you are awarded the port contract?” inquired Eduardo.
“Not a hope,” said Rodrigues, who showed no surprise that de Silveira knew of his interest in the port contract. “I
withdrew from the shortlist the day before the coup. I had intended to fly back to Brazil that Thursday morning.”
“Can you say why you withdrew?”
“Labor problems mainly, and then the congestion of the ports.”
“I am not sure I understand,” said Eduardo, understanding full well but curious to learn if Rodrigues had picked up some tiny detail his own staff had missed.
Manuel Rodrigues paused to ingest the fact that the man he had viewed as his most dangerous enemy for more than thirty years was now listening to his own inside information. He considered the situation for a moment while he sipped his coffee. Eduardo didn't speak.
“To begin with, there's a terrible shortage of skilled labor, and on top of that there's this insane quota system.”
“Quota system?” said Eduardo innocently.
“The percentage of people from the contractor's country which the government will allow to work in Nigeria.”
“Why should that be a problem?” said Eduardo, leaning forward.
“By law, you have to employ at a ratio of fifty nationals to one foreigner, so I could only have brought over twenty-five of my top men to organize a fifty-million-dollar contract, and I'd have had to make do with Nigerians at every other level. The government is cutting its own throat with the wretched system; they can't expect unskilled men, black or white, to become experienced engineers overnight. It's all to do with their national pride. Someone must tell them they can't afford that sort of pride if they want to complete the job at a sensible price. That path is the surest route to bankruptcy. On top of that, the Germans have already rounded up all the best skilled labor for their road projects.”
“But surely,” said Eduardo, “you charge according to the rules, however stupid, thus covering all eventualities, and as long as you're certain that payment is guaranteed ⦔
Manuel raised his hand to stop Eduardo's flow: “That's another problem. You can't be certain. The government reneged on a major steel contract only last month. In so doing,”
he explained, “they had bankrupted a distinguished international company. So they are perfectly capable of trying the same trick with me. And if they don't pay up, who do you sue? The Supreme Military Council?”
“And the port problem?”
“The port is totally congested. There are 170 ships desperate to unload their cargo with a waiting time of anything up to six months: On top of that, there is a demurrage charge of five thousand dollars a day, and only perishable foods are given any priority.”
“But there's always a way around that sort of problem,” said Eduardo, rubbing a thumb twice across the top of his fingers.
“Bribery? It doesn't work, Eduardo. How can you possibly jump the line when all 170 ships have already bribed the harbor master? And don't imagine that fixing the rent on an apartment for one of his mistresses would help either,” said Rodrigues, grinning. “With that man you will have to supply the mistress as well.”
Eduardo held his breath but said nothing.
“Come to think of it,” continued Rodrigues, “if the situation becomes any worse, the harbor master will be the one man in the country who is richer than you.”
Eduardo laughed for the first time in three days.
“I tell you, Eduardo, we could make a bigger profit building a salt mine in Siberia.”
Eduardo laughed again, and some of the Prentino and Rodrigues staff dining at other tables stared in disbelief at their masters.
“You were in for the big one, the new city of Abuja?” said Manuel.
“That's right,” admitted Eduardo.
“I have done everything in my power to make sure you were awarded that contract,” said the other quietly.
“What?” said Eduardo in disbelief. “Why?”
“I thought Abuja would give the Prentino empire more headaches than even you could cope with, Eduardo, and that might possibly leave the field wide open for me at home.
Think about it. Every time there's a cutback in Nigeria, what will be the first head to roll off the chopping block? âThe unnecessary city,' as the locals all call it.”
“The unnecessary city?” repeated Eduardo.
“Yes, and it doesn't help when you say you won't move without advance payment. You know as well as I do, you will need one hundred of your best men here full time to organize such a massive enterprise. They'll need feeding, salaries, housing, perhaps even a school and a hospital. Once they are settled down here, you can't just pull them off the job every two weeks because the government is running late clearing the checks. It's not practical, and you know it.” Rodrigues poured Eduardo de Silveira another glass of wine.
“I had already taken that into consideration,” Eduardo said, as he sipped the wine, “but I thought that with the support of the head of state ⦔
“The late head of state.”
“I take your point, Manuel.”
“Maybe the next head of state will also back you, but what about the one after that? Nigeria has had three coups in the past three years.”
Eduardo remained silent for a moment.
“Do you play backgammon?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I must make
some
money while I'm here.” Manuel laughed.
“Why don't you come to my room?” continued de Silveira. “Though I must warn you I always manage to beat my staff.”
“Perhaps they always manage to lose,” said Manuel, as he rose and grabbed the half empty bottle of wine by its neck. Both men were laughing as they left the dining room.
After that, the two chairmen had lunch and dinner together every day. Within a week, their staff were eating at the same tables. Eduardo could be seen in the dining room without a tie, while Manuel wore a shirt for the first time in years. By the end of two weeks, the two rivals had played each other at table tennis, backgammon, and bridge with the
stakes set at one hundred dollars a point. At the end of each day Eduardo always seemed to end up owing Manuel about a million dollars, which Manuel happily traded for the best bottle of wine left in the hotel's cellar.
Although Lieutenant Colonel Dimka had been sighted by about forty thousand Nigerians in about as many different places, he still remained resolutely uncaptured. As the new president had insisted, airports remained closed but communications were opened which at least allowed Eduardo to telephone and telex Brazil. His brothers and wife were sending replies by the hour, imploring Eduardo to return home at any cost: Decisions on major contracts throughout the world were being held up by his absence. But Eduardo's message back to Brazil was always the same: As long as Dimka is on the loose, the airports will remain closed.
It was on a Tuesday night during dinner that Eduardo took the trouble to explain to Manuel why Brazil had lost the World Cup. Manuel dismissed Eduardo's outrageous claims as ill informed and prejudiced. It was the only subject on which they hadn't agreed in the past three weeks.
“I blame the whole fiasco on Zagalo,” said Eduardo.
“No, no, you cannot blame the manager,” said Manuel. “The fault lies with our stupid selectors, who know even less about football than you do. They should never have dropped Leao from goal, and in any case we should have learned from the Argentinian defeat last year that our methods are now out of date. You must attack, attack, if you want to score goals.”
“Rubbish. We still have the surest defense in the world.”
“Which means the best result you can hope for is a 0â0 draw.”
“Never ⦔ began Eduardo.
“Excuse me, sir.” Eduardo looked up to see his private secretary standing by his side looking anxiously down at him.
“Yes, what's the problem?”
“An urgent telex from Brazil, sir.”
Eduardo read the first paragraph and then asked Manuel if he would be kind enough to excuse him for a few minutes.
The latter nodded politely. Eduardo left the table, and as he marched through the dining room seventeen other guests left unfinished meals and followed him quickly to his suite on the top floor, where the rest of his staff was already assembled. He sat down in the corner of the room on his own. No one spoke as he read through the telex carefully, suddenly realizing how many days he had been imprisoned in Lagos.
The telex was from his brother Carlos, and the contents concerned the Pan-American road project, an eight-lane highway that would stretch from Brazil to Mexico. Prentino's had tendered for the section that ran through the middle of the Amazon jungle and had to have the bank guarantees signed and certified by midday tomorrow, Tuesday. But Eduardo had quite forgotten which Tuesday it was, and the document he was committed to sign by the following day's deadline.