Reif Larsen - I Am Radar

“What happened to your husband?” A voice that sounded like his.

Yvette was smoking the pipe. She exhaled, closed her eyes.

“I killed him,” she said. She turned and looked at him. “No. It’s not true. He walked into the forest and never came back.”

The pipe was offered again to Radar. He could barely lift a hand to decline, and so he took more, and the world began to fade.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered. “My epilepsy.”

“My little Proxima,” he heard her say. “Have you ever been with a woman?”

“Yes,” he said. Then: “No.”

“Would you like to be with a woman?”

He could feel himself sweating. The syrup of his gears.

“There’s a girl back home.”

“C’est une fille chanceuse.”

She came close. He could feel her breath on his neck. He could feel her skin, or the dream of her skin. He opened his eyes briefly, and through the scrim of the mosquito net he saw Pascal, the piano player’s dog, watching them.

Radar awoke with a start. He blinked at the canopy of mosquito netting above him. A pile of dead insects had pooled in a low spot. The air was thick and damp. His head was pounding. He tried to remember where he was. This could not be New Jersey, could it? He turned and saw her bare shoulder and the night came flooding back.

Shit!

The truck. He was going to miss the truck. Shit!

He jumped out of bed, naked, and tried to locate his tracksuit among the jumble of clothes on the floor. There was no sign of Ivan or his guitar.

Yvette stirred in the bed.

“You’re leaving?” she murmured.

“I hope,” he said. “They might’ve already left without me.”

“They wouldn’t,” she said, stretching. “They admire you.”

He laughed. “Yeah, right.”

She wrapped the sheet around herself and put on his trucker’s hat.

“Can I keep this?”

He blinked, rubbing his head. “Okay,” he said.

“Will you remember me?” she said.

“Yes,” he said, jimmying his heel into his shoe. “I don’t think I can ever forget.”

“Welcome to the Congo, my little Proxima.” She leaned in and kissed him. “I hope it’s better for you than it has been for me.”

He ran through the lobby and out into the street. The rush of morning traffic. Motos and trucks crawling about. A wash of pedestrians, carrying things, selling things. Almost instantly, a crowd of people formed around him.

“Monsieur, diamants? Diamants, monsieur?” The voice was assured, as if they had known each other forever.

“ Taxi, caïd? Boss, you need taxi?”

“Croisière de fleuve, monsieur? Très belle, très belle.”

“Besoin d’une ceinture?” A little boy held up a stick, from which hung several ratty belts. He was pushed away by another.

“Des cigarettes! Des cigarettes américaines! Authentique!”

“Carottes? Crevettes?” A pot of steaming prawns was thrust into his face.

A gentle hand, pressing at his wrist. “Des femmes, monsieur? Ladies? Very beautiful. .”

Another hissed into his ear: “Du kif? De la cocaïne? Qu’est ce que vous voulez?”

He was helpless in the face of their advances. Hands prodded and shoved him, urging him this way and that. Slowly, he was tugged down the street. He was sure he had already agreed to buy hundreds of diamonds, arranged for four taxis, and bought and sold a kilo of cocaine. In the short time he had been outside, he was already a major player in the Matadi import/export scene.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and panicked. It was no doubt a police officer, arresting him for his substantial black market dealings. Or maybe it was a rival drug dealer, coming to shoot him for treading on his turf. He turned, fearing the worst.

It was Horeb. Oh, Horeb! Savior of men!

“This way,” said Horeb, parting the crowd. “Follow me.” He yelled something, and the masses began to complain, chastising Horeb for taking their prize. With arms outstretched, he guided Radar to a side street, where his moto awaited.

“Thank you,” said Radar. “I didn’t know what to say to them.”

“There’s not much fruit in Congo, so when people see it on the tree, they want to pick it,” said Horeb. “Of course if they grew their own fruit, they would have plenty to eat, but conditions make this difficult. We’ve been taught to make do however we can. It’s Article Fifteen.”

“Article Fifteen?” Radar grimaced. Now that he was safe in the back of the moto, he could feel the full expanse of his headache. A vast, throbbing tundra. He thought he might be sick.

“A gift from Mobutu,” said Horeb, wheeling around the bike. “Article Fifteen is an amendment to our constitution. But it doesn’t exist on any paper, only in the mind of the citizen.”

“What do you mean?”

“According to Article Fifteen, it’s okay to steal a little to get ahead. Not too much, but a little. Because if you do not, you see, your neighbor will. Article Fifteen says that a little corruption is not only expected — it is necessary to survive. Even when Mobutu died, Article Fifteen lived on.”

“Do you steal?”

“Stealing is the twenty-third sin in the eyes of God. The thief shall have his hand cut off.”

Radar was too tired to point out that Horeb had not answered his question. He settled back into the cart and closed his eyes. He felt exposed and naked without his hat.

“I hope they haven’t left,” he said.

“You think they would leave without you, my friend? You are one of them.”

They arrived at the docks to find a flurry of activity, a stark contrast to the evening before. One of the old gantry cranes was creaking and straining as it lifted Moby-Dikt from the hull of the boat. The harbormaster was standing next to Otik and Lars on the docks, watching the crane’s progress. Occasionally he would lift his arms and gesticulate, as if giving directions, though no one paid him much attention.

Radar got out of the moto and hurried over to them.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“As you can see, you aren’t,” said Lars. “Things move very slowly in this town. We had to pay our friend here another bribe. ‘Des frais de déchargement,’ he claimed. Apparently the first bribe did not cover this fee.”

The harbormaster waved his arms. The crane stopped, then started again, belching out thick black smoke.

Captain Daneri emerged on the gangplank of the ship. Next to him was Professor Funes, shaded by a great white parasol. They were deep in conversation, speaking rapidly in Spanish. As they approached, Daneri saw Radar and smiled.

“Our little bird returns! My boy, I heard all about it.”

Radar felt himself turning crimson. “Where’s Ivan?” he asked quickly.

“Mr. Kovalyov has not been seen this morning. He’ll surface. We leave this afternoon, and he does not miss a departure. He, like me, lives to depart.”

After some negotiation, it was decided that Moby-Dikt would be loaded onto the bed of the tractor-trailer, and the container of books would be bolted on top of this. It was a precarious arrangement, made all the more precarious by the age of the truck. Professor Funes hadn’t been kidding. The Mitsubishi looked as if she had been resuscitated from a scrapyard. Many of her parts were in the process of falling off. Yet, like the rest of the country, she endured: when the driver started her engine, there was only the briefest of stutters before she woke up and revved to life. Evidently, she was using the good petrol.

“We must go,” said the professor. “It’s nine hours to the launch on a good day.”