The witch doctor had come to find out who was thieving money from the Lebanese. He told the first man to kneel and, detaching a bag from his belt, poured a mound of sand in front of the kneeling man who leaned forward over it. He looped a cotton noose over the man’s head and poked the loose hanging strand into the mound of sand. He asked him in his own language if he had stolen the money and the man with quivering thighs said that he hadn’t. There was a pause. Nothing happened. The noose was removed and the man joined the crowd.
The witch doctor repeated the ritual with the others who all passed. The Lebanese was perplexed until somebody suggested the accountant and he perked up. The cry went up and a moment later the small, fine-featured accountant came down the steps of the office building weighed down by his own dignity and an array of pens and a wafer of a calculator in the breast pocket of his shirt. The crowd instantly disliked him.
He refused to submit to the black magic and was rewarded with a low grunt from the crowd. The Lebanese told him there would be no job for him unless he did. The accountant knelt before the mound of sand. The crowd thickened. The witch doctor looped the thread over the man’s head and asked him the question. The denial was on the way out of the man’s throat when it was strangled by the cotton noose which seemed to have been pulled taut by an unseen hand. It bit into his neck, jerked his head down, popped his eyes and forced his tongue out till the stalk showed at his teeth. The crowd surged and the accountant erupted above their heads flailing, the pens and the calculator already gone from his breast pocket, his shirt torn open and his trousers already down his thighs. Moses pushed me out of the compound.
‘They go beat him now,’ he said.
It was midday by the time I’d returned the car and checked into the Novotel whose main entrance backed on to the busy Avenue Général de Gaulle, where you could buy hi-fi, hardware and haberdashery during the day but only whores at night. I sent Moses out to buy a blank VHS tape which, after the car expenses, took me down to the last few thousand CFA I had.
Martin Fall had booked me into room 205 on the second floor which the management changed to 307 on the third because an agronomist convention had taken the whole of the second. I asked at reception if they had any private video viewing and recording facilities and the girl said she would set something up for me. I took my bags up to the room and called B.B.; he wasn’t there. I left a message with his maid that I was in the Novotel.
I came back down with Fat Paul’s package. Moses appeared with the blank tape. I told him to get lost for half an hour. I was taken to a small conference room where a TV and two VCRs had been set up next to a whiteboard and an overhead projector. I broke the seal on the envelope and slotted the original and blank tape into the two machines and played and recorded at the same time.
There was some snow and then the film’s title appeared and, in case you couldn’t read, a lazy, Afro-American dude’s voice told you what it was: ‘Once you tasted chocolate…’ and I realized that this wasn’t the film that the Métis was expecting to have to kill for. I watched it all the same, in case Fat Paul’s ‘business secret’ was thrown in there somewhere. It was a tawdry tale, shot on a low-budget set, of a white, heavily wigged and made-up housewife who, having waved her husband goodbye, is immediately visited by two large black plumbers with tool boxes and wrenches for verisimilitude. The three of them went into the kitchen which shook when the door closed. The woman knelt down to show the plumbers what was going on under the sink and the sorry state of her underwear. At this point there should have been something flashing on the screen for the benefit of all plumbers and would-be plumbers like, ‘This only happens in porn'. In an indecently short time the woman’s skirt was up around her waist and there were two implausibly hung plumbers in front of and behind her. It went on like that. There were a few close-ups of nearly surgical detail and plenty of the rear plumber’s view, who ground into the girl’s bottom with sickening thrusts, which shuddered a butterfly tattoo she had at the top of the cleft. After a few changes of position and what seemed like half a day but was only fifteen minutes it was all over and they left, that’s right, without doing the plumbing job. She didn’t seem to mind which is where the suspension of disbelief really broke down badly. You’d have thought after that they’d have done the work for free. Then the girl was on a sofa and hubby came home and he was straight from the office and dead keen but she wasn’t having any of it and the punchline came up delivered for the non-readers in the same voice: ‘…you can’t never go back to vanilla.’ The double negative giving some cohesion to the film. Then there was more snow which I stopped after a few minutes.
The tapes rewound, I boxed them and I went back up to reception to find Moses sitting in the lobby looking hang-dog at his flip-flopped feet.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I pissing glass, please, Mr Bruce,’ he said a little too loudly for a hotel lobby. We watched the pink newspaper that had been sitting next to Moses close and fold and a businessman took his full head of side-parted hair elsewhere. I sat in his place. Moses shrugged and played with his fingers.
‘What about the condoms I gave you?’
‘They finish.’
‘They finish?’
‘Yes please.’
‘No, you finish when they finish. When they finish you stop.’
‘I don’ understand.’
‘When you no have condom, you stop, you no stop you go get AIDS.’
‘I try,’ he said, showing me a pair of clean palms. ‘They no let me.’
‘I can tell you really protested,’ I said, and told him to get the car.
I went up to my room and split open Fat Paul’s cassette. There was nothing inside it except tape. I stuffed it back inside the envelope with its broken seal. I dropped the copy into reception and kept the original with me. Moses was waiting outside.
We drove around the Baie de Cocody past St Paul’s Cathedral and into the residential suburb of Cocody itself. I left Moses at the Polyclinique and gave him the last of my money.
‘This no catch for nothin', Mr Bruce, please sir.’
‘It’ll have to catch because that’s all I’ve got.’
‘You go-come?’
‘I go-come.’
‘ ‘Cause if the money no catch ibbe big plobrem. They callin’ police and things.’
‘Nobody’ll touch you, Moses, when they know what you got.’
I arrived in Grand Bassam centre ville just after 1.00 p.m. and turned right past a somnolent gore routière and headed out across the lagoon to the Quartier France. This used to be the main trading centre and port of the Ivory Coast until yellow fever hit the town at the end of the last century. The French moved out and opened up the Vridi canal in 1950 which made Abidjan the country’s port. The old trading houses still existed, most of them broken down and crumbling like any African economy you’d care to look at. It was in one of these that I was due to meet Fat Paul. I saw the Cadillac parked outside a building which fronted on to the lagoon. It had a large hole in the wall and a drift of rubble down to street level. I turned left 100 metres in front of the Cadillac and parked up on the other side of the building from it.
I walked up some steps through a cracked and splintered wooden door into a cool dark room whose plaster lay shattered on the floor. There was a short passage from the room into a large and warmer warehouse, still with most of its roof on. At the far end, by the hole, was Fat Paul wearing a short-sleeve shirt of cobalt blue with red palm trees on it. He was sitting on a packing case with Kwabena next to him, up on an oil drum, his trousers tight across his thighs, bare ankles showing, his feet just off the ground. George was leaning against the wall by the hole, looking out over the lagoon and fingering his tie.
The warehouse had a wooden pillared corridor three metres wide. The pillars supported a mezzanine whose floor had been ravaged