music, food, that kind of thing.”
Lindsay rolled her eyes in exasperation. Editors! She was talking about real news, and he wanted a goddamned feature. Still, she could always do something on African art—she’d talk to James.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she said.
“Right. Good.”
There was a slight pause.
“So,” said Lindsay, “what’s going on there?”
“Same old shit. The big news is that Greenberg’s secretary Anna, who as you know is married, just had a baby boy that looks a hell of a lot like Greenberg.”
“No kidding.”
“Gotta go, kid. Page one meeting’s about to start. How you doin’?”
“Not so great. But I’m surviving. Can’t wait to finish up, frankly, and go home. It’s tough being so cut off, really. . . .” She waited for a response but could hear him talking to someone else on the desk.
“Well, hang in there and keep in touch, Linds,” he said hurriedly.
“Right. Wait. Just check with the recording room to see if they got it all, okay?”
“Sure. Hold on.”
A long pause.
“They lost you, Lindsay. They got a few graphs but then just static.”
“Oh no. I’ll try again,” she started to say before the line went dead. Her only hope now was the AFP man, whose office, luckily, was just a few blocks away.
She found Georges Pontier, drink in hand, looking at the lagoon behind his house. Introducing herself, she reminded him of their correspondence.
“Ah, yes,” he replied graciously. “The telex. I remember.”
“How amazing that you’ve got one working. I heard you paid a big bribe to get it.”
“Yes, I did.” He smiled and shrugged. “Unfortunately, it seems it was not quite big enough. The line has been dead since I returned from leave.”
“But how do you file?”
Pontier smiled laconically. “When the desire to file overtakes me, which isn’t often anymore,” he said, sipping his scotch, “I usually lie down until the impulse passes.” He grinned at his adaptation of the famous quote. “But when I have to file—you know, a coup or something—I do what you will have to do. I wait in line at the government message center. Oh, sorry, can I get you a drink?”
“No.” She knew she looked agitated.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, chuckling. “We call it WAWA.”
“WAWA?”
“West Africa Wins Again.” He poured himself another scotch.
“I simply can’t let that happen,” she said. “Thanks anyway. I’ve got to go.”
As John pulled away, she cast a rueful glance back at the house. A Nigerian man in a dark Western suit sauntered onto the porch. He spoke to Pontier and then fished in his pocket and handed him something. Pointier pocketed it and the two of them broke off their conversation to look at her car.
She wondered if Pontier’s phone line was really out or if he’d been bribed to force her to file through official channels. She told John to head for the public communications office, nervously peering through the rear window to see if she was being tailed.
Filing was, as she had anticipated, an ordeal. She didn’t trust the slow Internet connection, so she decided to wait for the telex. It was three hours before she got back in her car to go home. Two blocks away, she spotted the yellow and white truck of the Nigerian Telephone Company, hardly an unusual sight since the technicians were often out and about, climbing telephone poles and busily poking around the bird’s nests of tangled wires that constituted the Nigerian telephone system. Inspired, she stopped to talk to one technician who was about to climb the pole outside the Ghanaian embassy. She told him that her phone was dead and she desperately needed it fixed.
“You go call company,” the technician said, his back to her.
“Well, actually, I can’t call anyone, that’s the problem.”
The technician shrugged and started his ascent. Halfway up, he yelled down at her: “How much you pay?”
“Whatever it costs.”
“You pay dollars.
Lindsay rolled her eyes in exasperation. Editors! She was talking about real news, and he wanted a goddamned feature. Still, she could always do something on African art—she’d talk to James.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she said.
“Right. Good.”
There was a slight pause.
“So,” said Lindsay, “what’s going on there?”
“Same old shit. The big news is that Greenberg’s secretary Anna, who as you know is married, just had a baby boy that looks a hell of a lot like Greenberg.”
“No kidding.”
“Gotta go, kid. Page one meeting’s about to start. How you doin’?”
“Not so great. But I’m surviving. Can’t wait to finish up, frankly, and go home. It’s tough being so cut off, really. . . .” She waited for a response but could hear him talking to someone else on the desk.
“Well, hang in there and keep in touch, Linds,” he said hurriedly.
“Right. Wait. Just check with the recording room to see if they got it all, okay?”
“Sure. Hold on.”
A long pause.
“They lost you, Lindsay. They got a few graphs but then just static.”
“Oh no. I’ll try again,” she started to say before the line went dead. Her only hope now was the AFP man, whose office, luckily, was just a few blocks away.
She found Georges Pontier, drink in hand, looking at the lagoon behind his house. Introducing herself, she reminded him of their correspondence.
“Ah, yes,” he replied graciously. “The telex. I remember.”
“How amazing that you’ve got one working. I heard you paid a big bribe to get it.”
“Yes, I did.” He smiled and shrugged. “Unfortunately, it seems it was not quite big enough. The line has been dead since I returned from leave.”
“But how do you file?”
Pontier smiled laconically. “When the desire to file overtakes me, which isn’t often anymore,” he said, sipping his scotch, “I usually lie down until the impulse passes.” He grinned at his adaptation of the famous quote. “But when I have to file—you know, a coup or something—I do what you will have to do. I wait in line at the government message center. Oh, sorry, can I get you a drink?”
“No.” She knew she looked agitated.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, chuckling. “We call it WAWA.”
“WAWA?”
“West Africa Wins Again.” He poured himself another scotch.
“I simply can’t let that happen,” she said. “Thanks anyway. I’ve got to go.”
As John pulled away, she cast a rueful glance back at the house. A Nigerian man in a dark Western suit sauntered onto the porch. He spoke to Pontier and then fished in his pocket and handed him something. Pointier pocketed it and the two of them broke off their conversation to look at her car.
She wondered if Pontier’s phone line was really out or if he’d been bribed to force her to file through official channels. She told John to head for the public communications office, nervously peering through the rear window to see if she was being tailed.
Filing was, as she had anticipated, an ordeal. She didn’t trust the slow Internet connection, so she decided to wait for the telex. It was three hours before she got back in her car to go home. Two blocks away, she spotted the yellow and white truck of the Nigerian Telephone Company, hardly an unusual sight since the technicians were often out and about, climbing telephone poles and busily poking around the bird’s nests of tangled wires that constituted the Nigerian telephone system. Inspired, she stopped to talk to one technician who was about to climb the pole outside the Ghanaian embassy. She told him that her phone was dead and she desperately needed it fixed.
“You go call company,” the technician said, his back to her.
“Well, actually, I can’t call anyone, that’s the problem.”
The technician shrugged and started his ascent. Halfway up, he yelled down at her: “How much you pay?”
“Whatever it costs.”
“You pay dollars.
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