Johnson Denis - The Laughing Monsters

Michael produced a cigarette and called for a light, and the barman brought over several for sale. Michael had to try three or four of them before he got one that worked.

Kruger said, “Everything here is fake.”

Michael said, “Only my heart is real,” and put away his cigarette.

I wasn’t taking in much, only the Rider Vodka. Remarks were delivered, there was talk of a Geiger counter, the location of their car, mention was made, in fact, of roentgens, but of all this I registered one exchange only: Michael said, “Nice necklace, brother,” and Kruger said, “I like yours too,” and when Michael thanked him, Kruger added, “It looked good on my friend before you stole it,” and Michael said, “Who? What friend?” at which point, as if time had skipped forward, the three of them were standing up and fighting. The Zulu had Michael from behind in a bear hug, or was trying to pin his elbows, while Michael twisted side to side and the Kruger fellow thrust with a knife at Michael’s chest and belly, then at Michael’s throat.

Another skip — the Zulu lay on his back, wide-eyed, struggling to take a breath. Michael had hurt him somehow. I had an impulse to act, an image flitted through me, I saw myself taking two steps, jumping onto the man’s chest, standing on him, keeping him down. No part of me acted. I experienced it as a question only — shouldn’t I, shall I. I didn’t. Now the seconds passed more fluidly, as if a stuck film had caught in its sprockets, and I watched the movie, which wasn’t like the movies after all, not even like a boxing match on TV. I heard the initial thumps, then my hearing turned cottony, and I remember Michael’s eyes — they watched, they looked, they moved here, there, they gauged — when he had his target, he locked on Kruger’s face, not on his hands, though one hand gripped the knife in preparation for downward thrusts—

Michael danced backward, knocked a bench over between them, plucked at the table — a salt shaker in his hand; he threw it hard, it struck the man’s chest, and Michael followed its arc, picking up the bench as he closed on his opponent, ramming the flat seat against him. Kruger fell backward as Michael’s feet left the floor, one hand at Kruger’s throat, the other still holding the bench in place, and his weight stuck the man to the table. His fingers closed on the carotid arteries, and Kruger lost conscious swiftly — a matter of a few seconds — managing to slash at Michael only once with the knife, which sailed to the floor, along with the bench, as Michael stood and snapped Kruger’s arm over his knee. The breaking of the bone was quite pronounced. Deaf with adrenaline, I nevertheless heard that sound crisply. I heard it echo back into the room from the surrounding hills.

Michael wasted no time continuing the contest. He signaled me, I stood still, he came close, gripped my wrist, and before I formed even my first thought about what was happening, we were both in the Toyota and moving along as Michael steered with both hands, saying, “Wrap my arm, wrap my arm.” His right forearm bled in spurts. He extended it across his chest toward me, steering with his left hand, and I understood at last, and found my bandanna and wrapped it around a long gash that showed the yellowish bone. I tied it with a square knot. “That’s going to need stitches,” was his first remark since the action had begun. “So much for South Africa,” was his second.

* * *

Michael pointed out the White Nile Palace as we passed it. “I want you to drive back here after you drop me at the hospital.”

“Where’s the hospital?”

“I’ve seen the signpost up here a couple of kilometers. We go to the right. After that I don’t know.”

We rumbled across a wooden bridge. Ahead of us a pedestrian, an old man, jumped up on the railing to save himself.

“Well,” I said, “I wasn’t much use to you, was I?”

“But, Nair — what’s there, between your feet?”

“For goodness’ sake.” His red daypack.

“You grabbed my bag. You saved the most important thing. The valuables.”

A couple of minutes off the main road we found the hospital, a campus of one-story structures of concrete and brick, the Church of Uganda Kuluva Hospital, according to the sign at the guard post. The guard waved us down and peered through the window and waved us through when he saw the blood. “Nurse is coming,” he said. “Proceed to Minor Theatre.”

The door to the building called Minor Theatre was locked. Michael squatted on his haunches with his spine against the wall, smoking, while the blood seeped from his bandage and pooled between his feet. His eyes were bright and he gave off a certain energy.

He looked, I have to say, in better shape than I felt. I stood upright, but only to prove I was able. “I wish I’d made one tiny fucking move to help.”

“I didn’t need help. Did you hear his bone breaking?”

“God. I didn’t even drive the car. I’ve always known I’ve got zero courage, but I don’t like to be reminded.”

“There’s no such thing as courage. It’s a question of training. You know, I’m not merely trained in unarmed combat — I’m the instructor.”

“Maybe you should instruct me.”

“I instruct you to stay by my side. You’ll win more fights that way.”

At the entrance to the grounds a car came to a sharp halt, and the man calling himself Kruger more or less fell out of the passenger door into the arms of his driver and the guard. The guard dragged the chair from his shack and sat Kruger down in it, and he and the driver — who was not the Zulu — carried Kruger in it toward another building with his shirt off and his arm bound up in it all bloody.

Michael waved with his own wounded arm. “No hard feelings, mate — next time I’ll kill you.”

Kruger sailed past in his chair with his eyes closed, chalk-faced and uncomprehending. His partner was nowhere around.

“I don’t know what kind of mess we’re in,” I said.

“I think we’re better off in Congo now.”

“How did all this come about, Michael? Who were those characters?”

“I’m sure of this much: they weren’t Mossad. Just a couple of jokers Mossad has on a string.”

“In other words, Mossad has you marked for death.”

“If Mossad wanted me dead, I’d be dead. Mossad works very tight. They use teams of six or seven or even more and they train and plan very carefully, and they get it done every time. They don’t use idiots who attack you in a café. These guys were just associates, like me. But I believe them this far — I believe Mossad gave them money. That’s why that fool pulled a knife. They wanted to keep my payment for themselves.”

“This scam is over,” I said, “finished, okay?”

“Agreed.”

“Because it pisses me off when I go along with stupid ideas.”

“You’re pissed off now. I see that. Okay.”

“I wish I had transcripts of the conversations that led to this,” I said, “the conversations you had with those guys. I bet I could show you a dozen places where they were obviously — obviously — playing you.”

“In the end, you have to go by instinct.”

“You trust too Goddamn much.”

“Is that really a fault?”

“What? Yes . A fatal one. The life you lead, the people you deal with — do you think it’s just teddy bears hugging marshmallows?”

He laughed at me.

I wished Kruger would stab him again. “You trust the wrong people,” I said. “Believe me.”

* * *

This hospital had been established in 1848, according to the sign at the entrance, and originally as a place for lepers, according to Michael’s nurse, who prepared the sutures and such on a tray. No doctor arrived. She stitched the wound herself. “We will close the laceration in two layers,” she told Michael. “It’s deep.”