Changer's Daughter Page 11

  “Lovely,” Katsuhiro mutters, and takes inventory of himself. He is rested though stiff, hungry but not distractingly so, and thirsty. Drinking the water in the bucket will almost certainly make him sick, so he schools himself to wait as long as possible.

  His possessions consist of a now-soiled business jacket and trousers, matching loafers, shirt, socks, and underwear. His captors had taken his belt and tie along with his obvious weapons and money. Turning out his pockets, Katsuhiro finds a small box of aspirin, a handkerchief, a couple of business cards, and three small cubes of gum.

  Two of these he substitutes for the lunch and dinner he has missed, reserving the third against need. The cool tranquillity of the mint soothes him as he hunkers down again and waits, though whether in anticipation or in dread he is not completely certain.

  Loverboy>> I’m going to be a star! :) !! The babes will love me best by far! I’ll wave out of my limo car!! And take ‘em drinking at the nearest bar!! — Hey, what do you think of that? Aren’t those the greatest song lyrics?

  Demetrios>> Yeah, greatest... Georgios... Shouldn’t you think more carefully about the implications of this offer?

  Rebecca>> Those lyrics aren’t great. But this offer. Wow! I don’t know whether to be envious or terrified.

  Loverboy>> Tommy’s offer is all I can think about. Ever since I got his call... I thought it was going to be about the tickets. Then I find out it’s to be in the show. Whoa! Hey, another rhyme. Whoa—Show. Maybe I’m setting my sights too low. Maybe I should ask Lil to manage me. Heh. Heh... Oh, what a babe she is! I’d like to manage her. ;)

  Hunk>> I’m worried about the audition. What should I wear? Will Tommy want us to sing or dance? I haven’t danced in public in years.

  Stud>> And what about our day jobs? Should we keep them if we get in the show? I telecommute—I guess most of us who have “real world” jobs do—do we burn those bridges?

  Loverboy>> Don’t worry about it, dudes! We’ll be rich and famous. Haven’t you read Rolling Stone and People? Rock stars don’t have day jobs.

  Stud>> Are you sure? What about the term “starving artist"? It’s gotta have a source.

  Loverboy>> That’s for the failures, bro. We’re going straight to the top. Check out Tommy’s website—his first album hit gold. Rumor is that Pan is gonna ship gold—or maybe platinum.

  Hunk>> But do we see any of that? I don’t think so...

  Stud>> Good point. We need to make certain to read the fine print on the contracts. I wonder how much Jonathan Wong charges for legal work?

  Demetrios>> I can’t believe the lot of you!! My only relief is that at least there are no fauns echoing your foolishness!

  Rebecca>> Yeah! Don’t you realize that this isn’t about contracts and auditions?

  Hunk>> I think Jonathan would be reasonable. I did a job for a client of his a while ago and he said he’d owe me one.

  Loverboy>> Of course this is about contracts and auditions! Don’t think the fauns aren’t interested. They’re just quieter ‘cause you’re such a dictator. Isn’t this what we’ve been fighting for—a chance to do more than hide? Demetrios may be happy with his tree farm, but I want more and so do my buddies! I’m the speaker for my three roommates here. Stud and Hunk have their own communities.

  Stud>> Yeah!

  Hunk>> Not all of us would get in the show, of course. That’s why there are auditions.

  Loverboy>> True. I’ll get in, I’m sure. I’m the best-looking of the lot.

  Rebecca>> Listen to us! I’ve phoned Chris Kristofer and, though he won’t speak out of turn, he did let on that Arthur isn’t happy about this whole thing. The King’s not convinced it’s a good idea. He’s probably trying to stop Lil and Tommy through some permutation of the Accord.

  Hunk>> Who says you’re the best-looking? You’re bow-legged and your hair is greasy!

  Stud>> “Loverboy” indeed... Are you telling us something? Maybe about boys...

  Demetrios>> Forget it, Rebecca. They aren’t listening. It’ll cost more, but I’ll phone you. Maybe we can figure out what the theriomorph position should be on this issue.

  Loverboy>> You limp-pricked jerks! You know who got the most looks from the girls when we were at the Fair!

  Rebecca>> Right. This is degenerating.

  Hunk>> They were only looking ‘cause they couldn’t believe how ugly you are!

  Stud>> I’m the best-looking. Me!

  Loverboy>> Oh, yeah! Says who?

  “Fine!” Anson says, for once truly angry. “Don’t be part of it! I wanted you in for several reasons, not the least of which is that if you’re not with us, you’ll get insulted and start queering the whole deal.”

  “So,” growls Dakar, “you just want me in to keep me from giving you trouble. Why should I do what you want? Why should I let you use my birthland in this way?”

  Anson shakes a long finger at him. “That’s another reason I wanted you in. This is your birthland. Dis contri, you contri. This land is your land.”

  “Well it isn’t your land!” Dakar bellows. “Your stories come from farther north.”

  “How,” Anson says impatiently, “do you know where my story begins? I am far older than you, pup. I could be your father for all you know. Maybe you should show some respect, eh? Omo to baba, like, na?”

  “You’re not my father!”

  “Grandfather, then? Great-grandfather? Great-great-grandfather? Maybe I should forbid you to call me by name and insist that you call me ancestor!”

  “I don’t have to listen to this!”

  “So, go.” Anson turns pointedly away. “Go. Fall down. Get drunk. Fuck prostitutes. Maybe breed a bastard or two if there is living seed in those pendulous balls. You are a nit to me, a thing I brush off my sleeve.”

  Eddie, who has been listening to this argument or versions thereof for the last thirty-six or so hours, decides that once again it is time for him to intervene.

  “You two!” He laughs and rubs the stubble on his cheeks. “You two are good as a play.”

  They both glare at him, still ignoring each other. Eddie faces Anson, then the Dakar.

  “Anson has a plan,” Eddie continues, “a good one not just for Nigeria, but for all of Africa. He knows, though, that to make it work there must be foreign connections, foreign capital that can be trusted.”

  “Trusted,” Dakar grumbles. “Katsuhiro Oba cannot be trusted. He is impetuous, impulsive, mean-spirited, a bully, a cheat, and a liar.”

  “And an athanor,” Eddie says, “so he knows that the long-term picture is important. In the twentieth century, we cannot ignore that the economy is global.”

  “Fuck global,” Dakar retorts, predictably.

  “Yeah. Das right. Tink big, big man,” Anson replies, still not looking at him, his attention apparently absorbed by a half-melted chocolate bar.

  “Oh, shut up, both of you!” Eddie yells. “Listen, Dakar, you’ve been mourning that you can do nothing for the people who heap offerings on your shrines. Here you have a chance to do something that will help them, and you sit on your hands!”

  Dakar frowns, then nods a curt invitation for Eddie to continue.

  Aware that this small victory could vanish in another tantrum, Eddie goes on, “It’s a simple enough plan. Nigeria could be the single richest African nation because of the vast amounts of petroleum it possesses. But what happens? The money gets spent on crazy projects like the capital city at Abuja or on modern improvements that aren’t maintained and so become so much junk. Or the money simply gets embezzled by government officials who have ten cars and gold fixtures on their toilets.”

  Eddie pauses for breath. He isn’t saying anything that hasn’t been said before, but his litany is giving the combatants a chance to stay put, to not walk out on each other because they are being polite to him. After drinking some mineral water from a sealed bottle (thus far he has managed to avoid all but mild gastrointestinal distress by such cautions), Eddie waves his hand in a gesture he had
seen a marketplace orator using.

  “So Anson comes up with a plan.”

  “A spider’s web,” Dakar mutters, “sticky and full of dead bugs.”

  Eddie ignores him. “We make a deal with a market that desperately needs petroleum products. Japan is perfect. It has a first-world economy and currently imports an overwhelming amount of its petroleum—which it depends on not only for modern conveniences, but also for the very industries that maintain its first-world standing.”

  Anson says, “That’s true. They have some coal in Hokkaido and Kyushu but production peaked in 1941. As with lumber, Japan prefers to import rather than diminish its own resources.”

  “So,” Eddie says brightly, as if there had not been an interruption. “Japan would love a sweetheart deal for Nigerian oil, but local politicians don’t have the connections or are too swayed by dash, by OPEC politics, by tribal concerns. The sarimen in their neat suits aren’t going to be impressed by some African wearing too much gold braid on his uniform and insisting on being addressed with a string of titles he has stolen, not earned.”

  Dakar says, “The Japanese are the most bigoted people on this earth.”

  Eddie shrugs. “They’re island-born. What can you expect? We can use that insular attitude to our advantage. We athanor are an island in our own way. Katsuhiro Oba may be Japanese, but he is also athanor. He can see that a stable inflow of hard currency will help keep Nigeria from becoming the dupe of whatever foreign power wants to play games.”

  “Ah, Biafra,” Anson says, invoking in two words the civil war that had nearly destroyed the burgeoning nation in the early 1960s.

  During the Biafran War, backing by foreign powers had turned what was basically a traditional tribal conflict into a war responsible for thousands of deaths. Only the rising demand for oil had saved the reunited nation, but the boom economy had collapsed in the early eighties when the demand for oil decreased once more.

  “So,” Eddie continues, “we make a private deal with Japanese investors who must work through Katsuhiro. Nigeria’s interests will be directed by athanor who care not only about Nigeria, but about the continent as a whole.”

  Dakar actually looks at Anson, signaling that he at least will not stomp out without further provocation. Anson does not make any overt gestures of reconciliation, but when he next reaches for his soda he turns as if by accident so that all three men are facing each other.

  Heartened, Eddie continues: “Now, we cannot completely bypass the Nigerian government. That would be impossible, but here in Monamona there is a government official who is also athanor. As you know, he has agreed to work with us on this.”

  He stops, ostensibly to reach for his mineral water, in reality to see if Dakar will explode again. Shango’s role had been almost as much of a problem for him as Katsuhiro’s had been. Dakar keeps his peace, and Eddie swallows a grin along with his water. This is actually going to work!

  “So, we meet with Shango—he’s calling himself Percy Omomomo these days—tomorrow morning. Then, while you keep an eye on him, Anson and I go to Lagos and get Katsuhiro.”

  Pause again. No eruption. Dakar only grumbles:

  “Shango is another outsider. I was the first king of Ife!”

  Eddie ignores this and goes on. “What do you think? Shall we at least give this a try?”

  Dakar nods. Anson nods. Eddie sighs.

  Some vacation this is turning out to be! He realizes with a guilty start that he hasn’t called Arthur or checked his e-mail in several days. Never mind, no need to ruin Arthur’s day with this. Let him at least enjoy quiet routine and peace.

  As a precaution against being followed by witch-hunting neighbors, Aduke’s family had moved mainly after dark. Therefore, it is not until the next day that Aduke realizes how very different their new home is from the apartment they had left.

  She had sensed the cavernous vastness of the building’s lower story when they had entered. She had heard the echoes of their feet and seen how the beams of their electric torches were swallowed before they touched a wall. In the upper story, the light had come mostly from a few low-wattage yellow bulbs set in cages high on the walls in the corridors, enough to guide them, but not enough to reveal detail.

  Now, awakening on a floor mat in the room where she had bedded down with several nervous children, Aduke looks around in mingled awe and appreciation. The room is easily thirty feet on each side, larger than two rooms from their apartment combined. Two large casement windows admit light and air. They even have screens, a luxury she hadn’t dared hope for.

  The walls are papered with brightly colored diagrams which, after studying them for a while, Aduke decides are instructions for assembling something, though for the life of her she cannot decide what it is. Perhaps part of the instructions are missing or perhaps the person reading them was presumed to understand some essential point that has not been included.

  Gently moving the sleeping toddler who has his head pillowed on her lower leg, Aduke rises and goes to explore further.

  Entering the main corridor, she finds three other large square rooms like the one in which she had awakened. These four rooms are separated from each other in one direction by the main corridor, in the other by a shorter corridor. At one end of this short corridor there is an indoor washroom and at the other is the largest closet Aduke has ever seen.

  At one end of the main corridor there is a staircase going down, presumably the same one they had mounted the night before. After the landing, it extends up to another story. At the other end of the hallway is a large bright room from which comes the scent of coffee. Deciding that exploration can wait until she finds out who else is awake, Aduke trots toward the coffee.

  The room she enters is as long as the entire building and about thirty feet wide. At one end a makeshift kitchen has been set up. Oya sits at a long table talking softly with Taiwo’s mother.

  “We can keep goats downstairs,” the mother is saying, “and some chickens, too. I have missed such things. Is there any place we might plant a garden?”

  “Quite possibly out back,” Oya answers, then she hears Aduke enter. “Good morning, Aduke Idowu.”

  “E karo. Good morning, Oya. Good morning, Iya Taiwo.” Aduke twirls, relishing the feeling of open space around her. “What a wonderful place this is!”

  Oya smiles. “I am glad you like it. It was once a factory for the assembly of widgets for a Belgian firm. Downstairs is what was the garage and warehouse. This floor held some of the workrooms. This”— she gestures broadly with one arm—“was the cafeteria and rest area so that the workers would not have to go outside during the rainy season.”

  “Very thoughtful,” the old mother says.

  “For both them and their workers,” Oya agrees. “The widget, I understand, would have been harmed by too much dirt. That is why there are large washrooms both near the workrooms and at the other end of this room. The Belgians wanted their laborers clean.”

  The mother shrugs. “Good for us, though.”

  “And what’s upstairs?” Aduke asks, crossing to the coffeepot. She pours herself some in a plain white-ceramic mug that has words written in some language rather like French on the outside.

  Oya looks stern. “That is off-limits. As I was telling your mother, strange things have happened in this building. These same strange things chased the Belgians away. I have consulted a babalawo and the indications are that the source of the disturbance is located on the upper floor. No one but me is to go there. I can set some charms to prevent the ghosts from harming you, but these must not be disturbed.”

  “Oh!” Aduke gasps softly, uncertain whether to be frightened or amused. Her good mood at finding herself in this well-lit, open place is such that she decides not to question Oya’s ruling.

  “I will warn the children,” the old mother says, “and tell them that they are never to go upstairs.”

  “Good,” Oya says. “And I will get a lock for it and keep the key.”

 
“We are fortunate,” Aduke says, to show that she also supports the edict, “that this factory has such a strange reputation. Without that, it would certainly be in use, if not as a factory, then as an apartment building.”

  “True,” Taiwo’s mother agrees. “Oya says that the rent is just about what we were paying for the apartment. Water and electricity are included.”

  Aduke smiles. “That’s wonderful! Maybe the orisha did accept our offerings, and now our luck is changing.”

  Later, after the children have been fed, washed, and sent to play in the empty warehouse below, Aduke helps set up housekeeping. One room is to be the sleeping room for the children. Another is set up as sleeping areas for those who are without partners, with curtains between sections. The remaining two rooms are given to Yetunde and her husband and Koko and hers. “There will be new babies soon enough,” Taiwo’s mother cackles happily. “That follows as the rains will follow the winds.”

  Aduke feels a sudden pang, wondering how with Taiwo in Lagos will she ever start another baby. The old mother sees her expression and pats her gently on the arm.

  “I think that we do not want our married couples to get too fond of having so much space for themselves,” she says. “In the daytime, one room can be a workroom for those who need quiet, like Kehinde or you when you are writing to the government for us. The other will be a schoolroom for the older children. The little ones will take their lessons in the nursery.

  Aduke nods agreement, though such care seems hardly necessary. Surely there is space and to spare.

  Looking around the open room, she feels a weight of gloom lift from her, for the first time since her son died. Certainly the babalawo had been wrong. The family cannot be cursed. Or certainly the gods have accepted the many sacrifices, and this relocation is their first gift.

  Either way, Aduke is certain that things are improving for the better. She smiles and goes to write Taiwo about their good fortune.