Instruments of Darkness

‘He’s never been pretty.’

I sipped the coffee. It was that robusta again. It rippled through my system as if I’d mainlined it.

‘They found twenty-one dead bodies in the lagoon this morning,’ said Jack.

The black and white images of last night played themselves through my head.

‘There’s a taxi strike. We’re going to have trouble,’ he said.

‘Who did it?’

‘Nobody knows.’

‘That’s what the guy said to me last night.’

‘Which guy?’

I told Jack what I had seen.

‘Did they say whether they came from the north or south?’ I asked.

‘Both.’

‘A mixture?’

‘No. Some people say all northerners, others all southerners.’

‘Who’s trying to scare who?’

‘I’d say the army were scaring the southerners.’

‘And the army says the southerners are trying to discredit the army and are killing their own people.’

‘Dead people make everybody think about what’s going on. Everybody’s thinking twice about changing their nice, boring stable lives. Trotsky’s bloody omelette; just give me fried eggs sunny side up any time,’ said Jack, with a full stomach and an empty head.

‘Don’t talk to me about fried eggs.’

‘Restraint…’

‘Don’t talk to me about that either. You are no authority.’

‘I myself had an evening of ecstasy and restraint.’

‘Acid house comes to Lomé?’

‘I spent an evening in the company of…’

Jack who was already supine managed to sink even further back into the lounger.

‘Elizabeth Harvey. You don’t waste your time.’

‘It’s my challenge.’

‘What are you doing on your lounger then?’

‘I didn’t restrain myself all night.’

‘I’d hate to think you were slacking.’

I finished my coffee and called the US Embassy and arranged to meet Nina Sorvino at the German Restaurant for lunch. She said she knew who I was from Charlie, so I didn’t need a carnation and a copy of The Times. Her accent was from the wrong side of the tracks. I called Dama, the friend of B.B.’s who had introduced Kershaw. We arranged to meet after lunch in his house up the Kpalimé road.