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Authors: Ross Thomas
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will starve, of course, but starvation is no stranger to most Africans. There is enough ammunition to continue our fight for perhaps five weeks. With care we can make it last for six. We have the wherewithal to last, Mr. St. Ives. The question is: do we have the will?”
“Do you?”
“Our morale is not what it should be. The war has been going on for nine months now and there have been many casualties. Unlike the Jandolaeans, we Komporeeneans are a cheerful people, a gentle people, more concerned with the art of living than with the art of war. The Jandolaeans are, in fact, envious of us because we are what you call in this country ‘quick studies.’ We have taken to technology like a crocodile to the river.”
“Or a duck to water,” I said.
“I was going to say that, but I thought I should employ a cliché that smacked of my own country.” He turned on his five-hundred-watt smile again.
“To continue,” Mbwato said, “we have the highest literacy rate in West Africa. We repair our own lorries; do our own engineering; manufacture our own bicycles; build our own radio stations and keep them operating along with our power plants. We have been able to do all this and more, much more, because we place an extremely high value on learning and we are, I suppose, the most inquisitive people in all of Africa. We seem always to be asking why.”
“It sounds as though you have a good thing going,” I said.
“We do—or did,” Mbwato said, “but the demands of the Jandolaeans became impossible. We had no choice but to secede and go our own way. I think we shall succeed providing, of course, that the morale of the people does not disintegrate. And that’s why I’m in the United States and that’s why I’m having this chat with you.”
“It’s something to do with the shield, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. St. Ives, it is.”
“What?”
“To be perfectly and, I suppose, brutally frank with you, we had planned to steal the shield from the museum ourselves. One of our chaps here is a quite brilliant electrical engineer and he had even figured out a way to circumvent that formidable warning system which the museum employs. It was an absolutely brilliant scheme. You see, the shield’s return to Komporeen would serve as a tremendous boost to morale. It would give our people the will to continue our fight, not just for two or three months, but for as long as is needed. This must be difficult for a European, or rather an American, to understand, but I can assure you it’s quite true.”
“I believe you,” I said. “When were you planning to steal the shield?”
“Yesterday,” Mbwato said. “Sunday.”
“But it already had been stolen.”
“Yes. We found out about it as soon as our source at the Jandolaean Embassy could get to a safe telephone.”
“Well, if somebody had to steal it, I’m sorry it wasn’t you. It sounds as though you could use it.”
“Thank you, Mr. St. Ives. That’s most kind.”
“Not at all.”
“Now then,” he said, “we come to the crux of the matter. We are, as I’ve told you, most anxious to recover the shield, not only because it would tremendously raise the morale in our country, but because it rightfully belongs to us and not to the Jandolaeans. Our source in the Jandolaean Embassy informs me that you will receive $25,000 to negotiate the return of the shield to the museum. I am authorized and prepared to offer you $50,000 to return it to us. I’m sorry and must apologize that it cannot be more. I assure you that it would be if we could possibly afford it.”
When he was through with his proposition he leaned back in his chair and once more turned on his light-of-the-world smile, as if we had just concluded a multimillion-dollar deal that was going to enable both of us to retire to Majorca next week for the rest of our lives.
I smiled back at him and then shook my head slowly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mbwato, but it’s impossible. I can’t go back on my
“Do you?”
“Our morale is not what it should be. The war has been going on for nine months now and there have been many casualties. Unlike the Jandolaeans, we Komporeeneans are a cheerful people, a gentle people, more concerned with the art of living than with the art of war. The Jandolaeans are, in fact, envious of us because we are what you call in this country ‘quick studies.’ We have taken to technology like a crocodile to the river.”
“Or a duck to water,” I said.
“I was going to say that, but I thought I should employ a cliché that smacked of my own country.” He turned on his five-hundred-watt smile again.
“To continue,” Mbwato said, “we have the highest literacy rate in West Africa. We repair our own lorries; do our own engineering; manufacture our own bicycles; build our own radio stations and keep them operating along with our power plants. We have been able to do all this and more, much more, because we place an extremely high value on learning and we are, I suppose, the most inquisitive people in all of Africa. We seem always to be asking why.”
“It sounds as though you have a good thing going,” I said.
“We do—or did,” Mbwato said, “but the demands of the Jandolaeans became impossible. We had no choice but to secede and go our own way. I think we shall succeed providing, of course, that the morale of the people does not disintegrate. And that’s why I’m in the United States and that’s why I’m having this chat with you.”
“It’s something to do with the shield, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. St. Ives, it is.”
“What?”
“To be perfectly and, I suppose, brutally frank with you, we had planned to steal the shield from the museum ourselves. One of our chaps here is a quite brilliant electrical engineer and he had even figured out a way to circumvent that formidable warning system which the museum employs. It was an absolutely brilliant scheme. You see, the shield’s return to Komporeen would serve as a tremendous boost to morale. It would give our people the will to continue our fight, not just for two or three months, but for as long as is needed. This must be difficult for a European, or rather an American, to understand, but I can assure you it’s quite true.”
“I believe you,” I said. “When were you planning to steal the shield?”
“Yesterday,” Mbwato said. “Sunday.”
“But it already had been stolen.”
“Yes. We found out about it as soon as our source at the Jandolaean Embassy could get to a safe telephone.”
“Well, if somebody had to steal it, I’m sorry it wasn’t you. It sounds as though you could use it.”
“Thank you, Mr. St. Ives. That’s most kind.”
“Not at all.”
“Now then,” he said, “we come to the crux of the matter. We are, as I’ve told you, most anxious to recover the shield, not only because it would tremendously raise the morale in our country, but because it rightfully belongs to us and not to the Jandolaeans. Our source in the Jandolaean Embassy informs me that you will receive $25,000 to negotiate the return of the shield to the museum. I am authorized and prepared to offer you $50,000 to return it to us. I’m sorry and must apologize that it cannot be more. I assure you that it would be if we could possibly afford it.”
When he was through with his proposition he leaned back in his chair and once more turned on his light-of-the-world smile, as if we had just concluded a multimillion-dollar deal that was going to enable both of us to retire to Majorca next week for the rest of our lives.
I smiled back at him and then shook my head slowly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mbwato, but it’s impossible. I can’t go back on my
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