Robert Wilson - Instruments of Darkness

‘And you’d like to make Yvette number three?’

Charlie didn’t react well to that dart into his private life. He’d shown me more than he’d wanted to earlier and, being a businessman always on the lookout for leverage, thought I could be the type to abuse it, which is the sort of thing he would do. The look he gave me told me so. It left me with frost bite down my front. His face lost expression, his eyelids closed a little, and he spoke in a soft voice. ‘We were talking about Steve Kershaw.’

As he said this, Charlie’s brain spun and clicked into a different mode. He was not a man to reveal what he was thinking. I had caught him off guard. Charlie knew that I knew that Yvette had got through, if not to the heart, then at least to the fillet steak. He leaned back with his elbow on the arm of the sofa, straightened his leg and sipped his whisky, licking the liverish lip to show that he was relaxed. He put his glass down on the carpet and rubbed his face with his hand.

‘Steve Kershaw,’ said Charlie in a voice that had a very straight edge to it. ‘Can I call him Steve?’ he asked, not expecting an answer but just to show me he was back in town. ‘Steve Kershaw used to come in here with a lot of different women. He only came in at the weekends. I never once saw him with another guy. I saw him in here with black girls, white girls, Orientals, Indians, tall girls, short girls, beautiful girls and ugly girls but I never saw him with a guy.’

‘He likes women,’ I said, shrugging my eyebrows.

Charlie drew a straight horizontal line with his hand. ‘I don’t trust that kinda guy.’

‘Did you know any of these women?’ I asked.

‘The only woman I knew to talk to was a woman called Nina Sorvino. She works in the trade department of the US Embassy. She liked him but thought he was kinda intense. I don’t know what happened but something went wrong. She was here last night giving me the lowdown. I think he was into weird sex. She wasn’t specific.’

‘D’you mind if I talk to her?’

‘Try her. She’ll tell you more than I can. She might know some other people. I’ll call her tomorrow, let her know you’re gonna be in touch.’

‘Did you ever talk to him?’

‘Uh huh. Like I said. Not my type.’

Charlie poured himself a very stiff whisky and did the same for me. He took a gulp out of his as if it was nothing more than a cold beer. He grunted as the alcohol hit his system. The blinds were coming down in my head and I could see Charlie was beginning to paw the ground with his hoof.

‘Whaddya think’s gonna happen, Bruce?’ asked Charlie, slapping the back of the sofa and lapsing into a more pronounced American drawl. It was the usual thing – Charlie on the hunt for information. He was a businessman, a trader, one of the good ones who realized that information was everything and he didn’t give a damn about the source. He knew better than anybody else that not hearing the vital piece of news in Africa wouldn’t just mean that you missed out on some action, it could cost you your whole business and, in bad times, your life.

He also knew that the boy who packed his groceries last month, or the young army sergeant at the road block could, with not very many twists of fate if he didn’t draw the line at shooting people, become a highranking minister, or even the president himself.

‘The President might survive this one, but it’s going to be painful,’ I said. ‘He’s losing the support of the people. France is edging away from him. There’s going to be a question mark about future US aid. He’s been around too long. It’s happening everywhere else in Africa. The day of the dictator is over. They’re all feeling the cold wind now. Africa’s going to be a different continent by the end of the century.’

‘What about here?’ said Charlie.

‘The army’s the problem. You’re never safe until you’ve got the army with you. The army’s full of northerners from the President’s tribe. They’re not going to want to see their man go.’

Charlie finished half a tumbler of whisky in one tip, poured himself some more and added another half inch to mine.

‘The southerners will get their election. The President probably won’t get in, but whoever does will be under threat from the army from day one.’

‘A coup.’

‘The first thing any civil administration will want to do is weaken the army. Generals in the US don’t like that and they don’t like it here either.’

‘Is anybody talking about this kind of thing on the street?’

‘On the street they just want multi-party democracy. They don’t know what it means beyond free elections with more than one party, but they want it. Some of them think they know what it means but they don’t realize how much choice complicates things. They see France and Germany with democracy and they know how wealthy those countries are. So they think, if they’re rich, we’ll be rich. But there’re some big gaps and a lot can happen in the gaps.’

‘It’s gonna be a fuck-up, in other words,’ said Charlie, his voice thick with the drink.

‘It’s just the next stage. Africa’s been dominated by the Europeans and now it’s going to be dominated by their systems. It’s the only road.’

‘The only road they know is how to fuck things up.’

Charlie started pacing up and down the room. His forehead was glistening despite the air conditioning. Somebody had put a couple of bags of cement on my shoulders. I drank some more to see if it lightened the load.

Some hours later, which turned out to be minutes, Charlie stopped wearing a trail in the carpet and fixed me with a malevolent, drunken eye. Maybe I hadn’t been answering his questions, or maybe it was just the time of night when it occurred to him to start disliking company. I decided not to look back in case it stirred up his machismo and I caught the full force of Hurricane Charlie in an enclosed room. Wherever I did look, things either came towards me or I went towards them. I realized from the silence burning behind his eyes that the subject was going to change, and for the worse. As always with Charlie, it was going to get personal and it was going to be about sex.

‘How’s that babe of yours, Bru?’ he asked.

‘Heike, Charlie. Her name’s Heike.’

‘Yeah, Heike. Kraut, right? Ossa Kraut like inna sack?’

‘Maybe it’s time for me to go.’

‘Come on, Bru, ossa Kraut like inna sack? I went with a Thai chick once, she was tighter’n a duck’s ass.’

‘That’s not something I’d know about.’

‘On account of what, Bru?’

‘On account of English ducks are suspicious of people who come at them with that kind of thing in mind.’

Charlie poured some more whisky into my glass and topped up his own.

‘You think you’re smart,’ he said, shaking his head and panting a little from the alcohol crashing around his system. ‘English people. They think they’re smart. Nina. She likes English guys. Me? I think they’re all faggots. But Nina…when you meet her she’ll tell you she likes English guys. She says: “They don’t fuck you with their eyes.”’

‘Now that’s true, Charlie, once we’ve been told what to do it with, we remember.’

‘You don’t know when to shut the fuck up.’

‘I’m drunk. That’s what happens. It just keeps pouring out of me.’

‘I thought you could take it.’

‘I can. I like it and I can take it. But I can’t take it and keep my mouth shut.’

Charlie drank half his tumbler and nodded to me. I took a gulp which blazed its way down my oesophagus. He topped me up so that I had neat whisky to the brim and did the same for himself.

‘Cheers,’ he said, and took an inch off the top, to show me that the real men were on his sofa. ‘The first English guy I met was at my brother’s. My brother makes films in LA.’