Johnson Denis - The Laughing Monsters

Michael sat against its base with his legs splayed before him and his machete sticking upright at the midpoint between his feet, his arms limp beside him, his chin on his chest — in Kandahar I once saw a man sitting exactly like that, and he was dead.

I said, “I don’t care if you’re awake, or dead, or what.”

“I’m defeated, that’s all.”

“We need to go, man. What’s keeping you here?”

“Something has to happen that hasn’t happened.”

“What could possibly happen?”

“Davidia might come.”

“Davidia’s not coming. She was disgusted right down through. She didn’t look back, Michael. Not one glance.”

“I put her to too harsh a test.”

“Did you think you’d be the king here, and Davidia would reign beside you as queen?”

“You’re making my experience sound shallow. You’re wrong. This is cutting me very deep. I never meant to keep her here. No, I only meant to bring my wedding to these people as a great gift, and then leave. I always meant for us to leave.”

“Leave how?”

“There’s always a plan for extraction. How many times have I told you that?”

“What plan? Who extracts us?”

“In this case, we extract ourselves.”

“Then let’s do it. For God’s sake, Michael.”

“What are you made of, Nair? Why did you betray us?”

“Will you leave it for another time? Let’s get out of here, if you know a way.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Come and have some Mawa with these folks down the hill. Let’s relax, and talk this over.”

He wouldn’t respond. I walked away in the hope he’d hop up and follow me, as a dog might.

The truth was that we’d finished the Mawa to the last molecule and sopped up all the dregs. For this reason, if I had an errand in walking away, I forgot it.

My feet turned me around, and I stood over Michael once again. “Very good, sir. What’s happening?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Let’s talk a little bit about betrayal.”

“You’re an expert.”

“There’s betrayal, and there’s betrayal.”

“So far I can’t argue with you.”

“I need your help.”

“Go away.”

“Gladly.”

I repeated the same business — I had no control over my words or my deeds. The spirits possessed me. Down the hill became up the hill, and I’m back at him.

“Before I go, I just want to say goodbye to the biggest idiot I’ve ever known.”

“Goodbye then. You won’t get far.”

“I’m resigned to that. Let the Yanks play with me awhile. I’m headed for prison.”

“What do they care about you, really?”

“Do you think you’re the only idiot with criminal secrets and idiotic criminal scenarios, who does idiotic things?”

“You’re raving. If I had some rope, I’d tie you.”

“I’m going to the bottom of the hill and start waiting for these missionaries. They’ve got a car.”

“Excellent. Maybe you’ll pass out, and they’ll run you over.”

The spirits carried me down the hill once more. Demons. Vandals. Fiends. This time a sense of calm overcame me, a desperate counterfeit sobriety in which I realized I’d better talk clearly and persuasively to this stupid asshole.

Michael was actually on his feet when I returned.

“Hey. Where are you going?”

“Don’t follow me.”

“I forgot what I wanted to say before. It’s just this: there’s some business in Freetown I need to conclude in something of a hurry.”

“In a hurry? Where do you think you are?”

“I’ve negotiated the sale of some material,” I said, “and the handoff’s in Freetown with no fallback, and I’m afraid the deadline has gotten very tight. Thursday afternoon.”

“What’s got you so mad for it? Is there money in this?”

“Until the window closes. Can we get to Freetown?”

“There are UN flights out of Bunia.”

“How can we get on a flight?”

“Money and luck.”

“I think we’d better try. Otherwise I’m in a lot of trouble. Yesterday a fellow promised me hell.”

“The promise was true.”

“He meant I couldn’t last on the run, I’ll end up turning myself in, and you’re right about that much — the promise is true. What else can I do but give myself up? Help me.”

“Not now. Go sleep it off.”

“Goddamn it! You said you had a plan. Oh, well. I’d be a liar if I said I ever actually believed you — I’d be a liar.”

“That’s exactly what you are. A liar.”

“Wait. I’m sorry. Wait.”

“I said don’t follow me.”

I called him a cowardly little wog, and a black-ass nigger.

“Shall I knock you down?”

“I’ll get up, you nigger. I’ll get up, and I’ll keep coming.”

“You’re trying to hurt me. And that hurts me.”

And me. He was, after all, the only man in whose embrace I’d spent the night, more than once, on the cold desert ground outside Jalalabad one November, and in the strength of his arms I grew warm, I rested, I slept … I said, “Goddamn you for a fucking coon.”

“Fine. Go ahead. That’s fine.”

“I know every word for you. My mother’s people live in Georgia. They still fly the rebel flag over there.”

“Fine, fine. You forget I spent time in North Carolina.”

“Fort Bragg, that’s right. Fort Carson. Every American fort there ever was.”

“I’ve seen those Confederate flags.”

In the orange moonlight he looked down at his feet, really examined them, lifting one and then the other, and it occurred to me I could get in a couple of good blows while he let this pointless business distract him, I could pretty well box his ears. I must have tried it, because I found myself with the breath knocked out of me and white streaks rocketing around the corners of my head. Sucking at a vacuum, it felt like.

“Aren’t you going to get up? I heard you say you’d keep coming.”

My mouth and nose were in the mud. The demons made no reply.

He knelt beside me and stuck his blade in the ground one millimeter from my ear. I thought he might finish me off quietly with a chokehold.

“This is why you never got promoted beyond your captain rank. Your childish temper.”

[OCT 30 NOON]

Davidia, and Tina—

If this communication has come to you raw, before I’ve had a chance to transcribe these notes properly — or blend them with my someday semi-honest account — then you see the ink. No more pencils. You see my hand is sturdy. You’re looking at a fresh page.

You guess my fortunes have turned. In which direction, I’ll tell you in a minute. This much for now: I’ve had a meal or two, and a wash at a sink, and I’m wearing new clothes. Let me finish the story.

After the fight with Michael, I slept facedown on the ground.

In the morning, Michael woke me gently. He said, “How was the night?”

He seemed very different. He had a liter of delicious bottled water for me to drink. As soon as its mouth touched mine, I drained it away.

The sky was gray through and through. The air seemed soft. Nothing stirred. I wondered if the clan had all died in the night, all of them at once.

When I was able to stand, Michael led me to a part of the creek where I could bathe in it up to my chest with my clothes on, African style. It looked like a genuine creek — a rapids and small falls — a place where folks might come to cool off and to draw good water; but the water was bad, and nobody came.

The clouds blew off and the morning sky turned blue. I came back to life and noticed some gaunt cows and even a couple of young goats pushing their noses around on the earth nearby. I lay out on a warm flat rock in the sunshine. Michael sat beside me, smoking — how, I’d like to know, does he produce cigarettes out of thin air?