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Authors: Denis Johnson
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operation. I talked Michael and Davidia into trying the barman’s martinis. They had a couple each, and danced with one another. Between numbers we listened to the song of a frog who sounded like a duck, an insistent duck.
“I knew it from the start,” I said. “Congo. I knew it.”
“Not Congo, no, not necessarily.”
Davidia said, “Isn’t it time you told us where we’re going? Where are your people located?”
“During the reprisals they were dispersed. We were uprooted and scattered. But they’ve reconvened. Relocated.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Where? Quite near to Arua, in the northwest corner of this country.”
“Uganda.”
“This country where we’re having our supper. Uganda.”
“Not Congo,” I said.
“Not Congo.”
“And how do we get there?”
“We’re taking the bus from Kampala.”
“Come on! We’ll take a plane,” I said.
“It has to be the bus. You can easily see why.”
“Why?” Davidia said.
He meant Horst, and Mohammed Kallon. If for some reason Interpol was on us, they could check the flight manifests out of Entebbe. I saw the logic. I disliked the conclusion.
“You’ll get to view the countryside,” he said to Davidia.
“Good! The bus!” she said.
“Arua is the birthplace,” Michael informed us, “of Idi Amin Dada. In the month of March they celebrate his birthday.”
“What? You mean the whole town?”
“Just a handful of people. But nobody stops them.”
The bus … Out of pity for us all, I didn’t laugh. “So we simply climb aboard,” I said, “and go away.”
“Yes. Day after tomorrow. Can you just come with me?”
“Sure. I’m drunk enough.”
“Good. Stay drunk.”
“What about you,” I asked Davidia—“are you drunk enough?”
“I’m in love enough.”
She had a somber glow about her, a smoldering vitality that warmed the air. She made me hungry. I wanted to smell her breath.
And the nightclub girls, one of them wearing a curly blonde wig, like a chocolate-covered Marilyn Monroe … The bartender didn’t talk to them and they ordered nothing, they only watched me, and waited.
Michael’s tongue was tangled in martinis—“I don’t want to be a thumb,” he said, “in the turd in the punchbowl of life.”
“What?”
Michael was drunk. That meant he was in pain. He gripped a pen, he was writing something on a napkin. He tapped me on the shoulder and handed it to me. In the pleasant darkness, I couldn’t make out the letters.
I told him, “I wouldn’t have expected you to marry black.”
Michael shook his head as if to clear it. Davidia stared at me. “What did you say?”
Right. What had I said? “The drinks are clobbering me. It’s the altitude.”
“You should have put food in your stomach,” Michael said.
Davidia said, “Explain your remark.”
“You mean defend it.”
“Fine. Defend it.”
“I’ll explain it,” I said.
“We’re waiting.”
“He’s always had a weakness for the Middle Eastern type, that’s all. The Persian princess sort of female. I apologize for talking out of turn. I do apologize.”
She laughed. She was angry. “Don’t twist yourself in knots.”
It was only for Michael’s sake I was trying to smooth things, but Michael wasn’t even listening. “Back to another subject,” he said. “I never answered your question about the Tenex corporation.”
“Tenex?”
“Do you remember? At the Freetown airfield. We were talking about uranium. Tenex handles U-235 material from dismantled Soviet warheads. Dilutes it to ten percent pure and barters it to the United States.”
“Jesus, Michael—again, the U-235?”
I’ve always thought it a laugh, Michael’s obviousness when he means to be sneaky. No stage villain ever looked more the conspirator, leaning forward into his face’s shadow, his head cocked toward the game, the trick, his right eyebrow going up, his lip curling in a sneer.
A quick, horrid intuition assaulted me.
Davidia placed her hand on my
“I knew it from the start,” I said. “Congo. I knew it.”
“Not Congo, no, not necessarily.”
Davidia said, “Isn’t it time you told us where we’re going? Where are your people located?”
“During the reprisals they were dispersed. We were uprooted and scattered. But they’ve reconvened. Relocated.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Where? Quite near to Arua, in the northwest corner of this country.”
“Uganda.”
“This country where we’re having our supper. Uganda.”
“Not Congo,” I said.
“Not Congo.”
“And how do we get there?”
“We’re taking the bus from Kampala.”
“Come on! We’ll take a plane,” I said.
“It has to be the bus. You can easily see why.”
“Why?” Davidia said.
He meant Horst, and Mohammed Kallon. If for some reason Interpol was on us, they could check the flight manifests out of Entebbe. I saw the logic. I disliked the conclusion.
“You’ll get to view the countryside,” he said to Davidia.
“Good! The bus!” she said.
“Arua is the birthplace,” Michael informed us, “of Idi Amin Dada. In the month of March they celebrate his birthday.”
“What? You mean the whole town?”
“Just a handful of people. But nobody stops them.”
The bus … Out of pity for us all, I didn’t laugh. “So we simply climb aboard,” I said, “and go away.”
“Yes. Day after tomorrow. Can you just come with me?”
“Sure. I’m drunk enough.”
“Good. Stay drunk.”
“What about you,” I asked Davidia—“are you drunk enough?”
“I’m in love enough.”
She had a somber glow about her, a smoldering vitality that warmed the air. She made me hungry. I wanted to smell her breath.
And the nightclub girls, one of them wearing a curly blonde wig, like a chocolate-covered Marilyn Monroe … The bartender didn’t talk to them and they ordered nothing, they only watched me, and waited.
Michael’s tongue was tangled in martinis—“I don’t want to be a thumb,” he said, “in the turd in the punchbowl of life.”
“What?”
Michael was drunk. That meant he was in pain. He gripped a pen, he was writing something on a napkin. He tapped me on the shoulder and handed it to me. In the pleasant darkness, I couldn’t make out the letters.
I told him, “I wouldn’t have expected you to marry black.”
Michael shook his head as if to clear it. Davidia stared at me. “What did you say?”
Right. What had I said? “The drinks are clobbering me. It’s the altitude.”
“You should have put food in your stomach,” Michael said.
Davidia said, “Explain your remark.”
“You mean defend it.”
“Fine. Defend it.”
“I’ll explain it,” I said.
“We’re waiting.”
“He’s always had a weakness for the Middle Eastern type, that’s all. The Persian princess sort of female. I apologize for talking out of turn. I do apologize.”
She laughed. She was angry. “Don’t twist yourself in knots.”
It was only for Michael’s sake I was trying to smooth things, but Michael wasn’t even listening. “Back to another subject,” he said. “I never answered your question about the Tenex corporation.”
“Tenex?”
“Do you remember? At the Freetown airfield. We were talking about uranium. Tenex handles U-235 material from dismantled Soviet warheads. Dilutes it to ten percent pure and barters it to the United States.”
“Jesus, Michael—again, the U-235?”
I’ve always thought it a laugh, Michael’s obviousness when he means to be sneaky. No stage villain ever looked more the conspirator, leaning forward into his face’s shadow, his head cocked toward the game, the trick, his right eyebrow going up, his lip curling in a sneer.
A quick, horrid intuition assaulted me.
Davidia placed her hand on my
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