Читать книгу The Song of Mawu - Jeff Edwards - Страница 24

18

Mick Sloane drove his dusty Land Rover into the refugee camp, and slowly wove his way through the narrow aisles that separated one row of corrugated iron shanties and tents from the next. In the narrow alleys crowded the unfortunate residents who were forced to inhabit the desolate camp, along with whatever livestock they had managed to bring with them into exile.

Dogs, chickens, goats and even the occasional oxen gave way to his constantly blaring horn as he traversed the camp.

Finally, he stopped outside a structure that stood out from the rest of the buildings surrounding it. This shanty was much larger than the rest and unlike the temporary housing that surrounded it. This one had been built of concrete blocks before being painted a bright sky blue. Now, only a short time after its construction, an accumulation of dust and smoke from the camps cooking fires had rendered it a dirty grey in colour.

Inside, he found Eliza surrounded by a sea of small pre-school children who were sitting quietly and listening to her read from a story book.

The Blue House had become Eliza’s pet project. It was to this cement and tin shed that the smallest of the camp’s children made their way each day. Here they could find food, clothes and sometimes the medical attention that eased the misery in their lives, as well as a very basic education.

The children were encouraged to talk about their circumstances and it was from these tales that Eliza was able to determine which families were most in need. She found many families where the parents were forgoing food so that their children might eat, while other families were forced to watch as their relatives died from the lack of basic medicines and health care. Eliza notified the workers from World Vision and they called on those most in need. Many a refugee had been saved by Eliza’s timely intervention. It was a job she loved and the reason that she had wanted to return as quickly as possible.

Mick stood at the back of the room as Eliza continued her story. A few of the children became aware of his presence and flashed him bright smiles before returning to the story. He thought Eliza’s work and the miracles she was performing would make a great human interest story, but understood that Eliza was not the sort of person that sought recognition for the works that she was doing. The touch of a grateful hand was reward enough.

Finally, with good having triumphed over evil, the story was over and small sachets of long-life milk were handed out to each child, along with a piece of fresh fruit. The children filed outside to eat in the meagre shade offered by the surrounding buildings.

When the last child had gone, Eliza turned to Mick with a smile; ‘Have you heard the good news? The Fund has agreed to Lattua’s terms. We’ll be able to return to the camp up the valley! I’ll be able to get my teeth back into some important projects, instead of hiding out here at the Blue House.’

‘You’re doing wonders already.’

Eliza nodded sadly, ‘It’s not enough. There are still so many that are missing out. I don’t find out about many of them until it’s too late. Most of the worst-hit families don’t send the children here in case they infect others, or because there are no adults left in the house. I know of too many cases where small children are forced to look after their brothers and sisters.’ She threw Mick an apple before taking one herself and leading him out of the schoolroom. ‘I have to keep an eye on them while they eat,’ she explained, ‘there are any number of desperate people around here who are not above snatching the food out of the children’s mouths.’

Eliza saw a small altercation was taking place between a pair of small boys, and she made her way over to settle the dispute.

As she was doing so, Mick became aware of a group sitting on the ground beside the door, their meagre ration finished and their hungry eyes on the apple in his hand. Smiling, he took his Swiss Army knife from his belt and cut the apple into thin slices before passing them around. But even slicing the pieces as thin as he could manage meant that there was still not enough for everyone and he noted with anguish the silent stares of those who had missed out. He felt guiltier now than if he had eaten the entire apple himself before their hungry gaze.

He was saved by the return of Eliza, ‘What brings you to the camp. I thought you were up north somewhere?’

‘I need your help with something, but I’d prefer not to talk about it anywhere around here. Can you get away for a few days?’

‘Is it that important?’

‘I believe so.’

Eliza saw the look in his eyes and nodded, ‘I’ve been organising some of the children’s mothers into a sort of executive committee. Give me an hour to sort them out.’

Mick nodded.

Two hours later, as the refugee camp disappeared into the heat haze behind them, he began to talk.

***

Two hundred exhausting kilometres later the Land Rover pulled into a ramshackle service station located on a desolate stretch of what had once been a main arterial highway between provincial capitals. Now, the stretch of road was barely passable. Potholes of varying sizes made it easier to travel along the verge rather risk damage to a vehicles differential in the middle of the road. Storms had washed away whole sections of the road and at those places some attempts had been made to effect repairs, but these seemed to have been done by drivers seeking to get through rather than by any form of organised governmental road works.

The decaying garage consisted of a pair of hand pumps, with one for petrol and one for diesel. The ‘office’ was a small corrugated shed, which, judging by the patch of vegetables growing by its side was also the residence for the station’s only employee.

At their approach, an old man seated on a rickety chair in front of the shed, rose slowly to greet them, a lighted cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. He seemed completely ignorant the dangers his smoking posed in this environment.

‘Top it up,’ ordered Mick, indicating the diesel pump.

Mick and Eliza climbed out and stretched as the old man finally flicked the stub into the middle of the highway, before opening the Land Rover’s fuel tank and laboriously pumping fuel.

Unseen to Mick, Eliza reached up as though stretching her neck and pressed the back of her shoulder in a seemingly random manner before closely studying the old man before them.

He was stoop shouldered and seemed undernourished, wearing a dirty, oil-stained singlet and a pair of trousers that had seen better days, and had obviously once belonged to a person of much larger girth. Eliza guessed that if he could have stood up straight the old man would have been tall, while on closer inspection his dilapidated trousers appeared to be well-made, as though they had once been part of a business suit. The skin on both wrists his wrists were heavily scarred and Eliza wondered if the man might have attempted suicide at some time.

When he had finished the old man closed the tank and hung up the pump’s nozzle. ‘You didn’t need much,’ he said resignedly. ‘You would have made it to the capital with plenty to spare.’

Mick passed the man a few crumpled notes and received back some change from a small tin box that rested under the old man’s rickety chair.

‘Perhaps we came for something other than fuel,’ said Mick.

The old man stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Perhaps I came to seek someone.’

‘There is only me,’ the old man said slowly.

‘Then perhaps I came to speak to you.’

‘You are mistaken. I speak to no one and there is no one else here.’

‘I have brought my friend with me,’ said Mick indicating Eliza. ‘She will ensure that no one will interrupt us.’

‘There are many eyes that watch this lonely spot.’

‘Yes, I know, and none are friendly.’

The old man regarded Mick and Eliza. ‘What do you know?’

‘I know that I am talking to a man who was once highly regarded. I know that I am taking a risk by talking to you, just as you would be taking a risk if you were to talk to me.’

‘Then why are you here? Go, and save us all from trouble.’

‘I have family news.’

‘I have no family so there can be no family news,’ replied the old man cautiously.

Mick nodded, ‘I can understand why you would deny your son’s existance but you are with friends.’

‘Words. Merely words.’

‘We know your story. How you lost your family.’

A bitter expression crossed the old man’s face and he refused to be drawn into a conversation he did not wish to have.

Eliza had been staring off into the distance, checking to make sure that there was no approaching traffic. She turned to the old man. ‘Your son wears around his neck a very particular item.’

These words startled both the men present.

What the hell is she talking about? thought Mick.

How would this young woman know that? thought the old man.

‘You must be very proud of him,’ said Eliza.

The old man still did not know enough about these strangers to trust them. Perhaps they have taken my son and removed the gift from him, he thought.

‘Do you want me to describe what he wears?’ asked Eliza.

Mick was totally confused. What is she talking about? How can she know anything about this man? I only spoke about him on the way out here.

The old man chose his words carefully, ‘If the person you speak of had such a thing then it would be easy for it to be removed from his dead body.’

Eliza was silent for a few seconds before replying, ‘Then perhaps I can give you the words that were spoken when the gift was given?’

‘For you to be able to do that would be impossible.’

Eliza smiled, ‘Your wife said to your son, ‘From the mother hen to her chick.’’

Mick stood with his mouth open, totally lost.

The old man stared at Eliza, a single tear escaping his right eye. Softly he said, ‘Those were indeed my wife’s words.’

Eliza nodded, ‘And your son continues to obey your wishes by not returning home despite his great desire to do so.’

‘It is far too dangerous for him to return. Lattua keeps me alive for his own reasons.’

‘The President believes he killed all your family. Your eldest son was lucky to be overseas.’

‘He must never return. Someone will recognise him.’

Eliza nodded, ‘You’re right to insist that he stay in England, but he does miss you.’

Mick was recovering his composure and eager to take advantage of the turn of events. ‘If he did manage to return, the two of you could rally the country in opposition to Lattua.’

‘No!’ demanded the old man. ‘Never! There is no opposition. There can be no opposition. It’s too dangerous. I tried once and I failed. Don’t even talk about it. It will get us all killed!’

‘You wouldn’t even consider the proposition?’

‘I sit on my chair here and consider it every day. Every day I see the folly of my ways and how much it cost me. I wouldn’t wish that burden upon my worst enemy.’

Eliza reached out for the old man’s hand. ‘We’ve taken a risk to come and see you but now we have your answer and we’ll leave you in peace,’ she said quietly.

Mick nodded in agreement, ‘Yeah, Mr Zibu. We’ll go and leave you in peace. Sorry to have disturbed you.’

‘My son? How is he?’

Eliza replied, ‘He’s now a surgeon at Guy’s Hospital.’

‘Good. Good,’ whispered a pleased old man.

Mick and Eliza climbed back into the Land Rover and were about to drive off when Chand Zibu waved to stop them.

Mick wound down his window as the old man approached. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I have spoken to many people. In quiet, secret places, your name is spoken. Some hope for your return while others make their own plans for a future free of Joseph Lattua.’

The old man nodded, ‘Perhaps there can be a new future, but it’s not up to me to lead the country to that future. I had my chance and failed,’ he placed his hand on Mick’s arm. ‘Wait a moment.’

They watched as the old man walked over to the rickety chair and picked up the tin box beneath. He opened it as he walked back to the car. ‘I can’t tell you who to trust, but I can tell you who not to trust.’ He extracted a stained, and much folded sheet of paper from the box. ‘I shouldn’t have done this. My life would have been forfeited if they had ever found it. These are the men who betrayed me,’ he proffered the paper to Mick Sloane, ‘Be careful…tell my son he is always in my thoughts.’

Mick took the sheet and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He shook the old man’s hand in thanks. ‘You take care as well.’

Eliza watched out the back window as the Land Rover drove away. She saw the old man light a cigarette while he stood watching their departing cloud of dust. Then he slowly made his way back to the rickety chair and settled down to await his next customer.