The Godsend - Urs Frei, ebook
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URS FREITHE GODSENDIN THE ONE-ROOM TERMInal the heat was intolerable. An air conditioner resting ina window licked at the pavement outside with a tongue of rust, while itsblackened vents inside made one surmise an ancient rupture. The attendant was ablack man in gray dungarees, small and hard, as if kiln-dried in the line ofduty. He seemed oblivious to the heat, and confirmed placidly that the airconditioner was out of order. Fortunately noon was still an hour away, and onthe west side, the runway side of the terminal, was a strip of shade wide enoughto wait in. Half an hour later, when it had shrunk by half, the attendant cameout to confirm that the plane would be late, and at that moment Arthur Nkobesavored the unusual clarity and certainty of his premonition that everythingwould become much worse before the day ended. This would only be in keeping,after all, with the general deterioration of things since his arrival fromKhartoum two weeks ago to administer drought relief in the southern Sudan. Hehad found awaiting him in Juba a suite of air-conditioned offices, awell-prepared staff -- but no supplies. The French, British, and Americans hadpromised aid, but the French supplies had never left Paris, the British supplieswere lost among shipments to Ethiopia and the Sahel, and now the Americans,instead of aid, were sending their own administrator to decide how it should bedistributed.He was affected strangely by the heat. Several times already he had been surethat he could see the plane; twice he had turned to his assistant, Cecil Deng topoint it out, only to find when he turned back that it had disappeared. He wasso affected that he felt no embarrassment; he felt only now and then winds ofirritation. He had no one to vent them on, and Cecil was too experienced to givehim an excuse. Cecil wore a frown of concentration and held his head cockedtoward the six Dinka chieftains conversing several yards away, in their even,musical and slightly female voices. Arthur Nkobe was irritated again, since hisassistant, who had been hired primarily as an interpreter, hardly understood aword of what they said.And yet he was a Dinka himself, his name originally Kiir Jal, and could bedistinguished from the chiefs only because his suit happened to fit. He hadmoved north when he was a child. Arthur Nkobe could not decide whether Cecil'sunease in their presence meant fear or contempt, or something of both. Certainlyhe had been taken aback to find that for this meeting with the representative ofAmerica the Dinka had decided to wear suits. Perhaps they embarrassed him, butto Arthur the tall slender chieftains with their prominent bones managed intheir innocence, in spite of the sleeves that came halfway up their forearms,not to look ridiculous. But he did not understand why, with their people in sucha plight, they had made the effort to be here. Cecil Deng could only shrug.The plane appeared at last out of nowhere in the middle of the sky, and in aminute landed on the runway in a cloud of heat and stopped a hundred feet away.A door opened near the front. Two black men struggled with a ladder which theyhooked onto the doorframe. The ladder swayed as they came down one-handed,carrying luggage in their free hands, and at the bottom they made adjustments tofix it to the tarmac. Then the American, a white man, appeared in the door. Hewas so large that Arthur Nkobe wondered for a moment if he were seeing two men.Cecil Deng snorted with astonishment. Nkobe held his breath until the Americanhad reached the bottom, for the plane seemed to sag as he climbed down. TheAmerican stood for a minute in the shadow of the plane, panting. The Dinka hadbecome silent as he descended. Then as he began to cross the tarmac their voicesrose in alarm and they set out in his direction. When they had reached him oneof them took off his jacket and all six held it up as a screen for him to walkunder. Arthur Nkobe shook his head at the sight of the stately, comicalprocession. Cecil, when Arthur caught his eye, could only shrug. At the terminaldoor the American shook their hands."David Johnson," he said. "Call me Dave. Now get me out of this damn heat, willyou?"In the restaurant of the European hotel all three air conditioners were turnedto full. Their noise made conversations at other tables inaudible and gave anair of imminent disaster to the normally placid interior, with its paneledwalls, Parisian lampshades, and portraits of the contemporary European monarchy.Arthur Nkobe and Cecil Deng waited at one of the tables for David Johnson tofinish washing. They discussed the Dinka languidly but without broaching whatwas still puzzling them.The American had changed into loose white cottons which slightly disguised hiscorpulence, and sat down with a sigh. He was astonishingly, almost pitifullyugly. Whatever expressiveness his face might have had was lost in fat; the shapeof his mouth reminded Arthur of the head of a fish he had once been served in ahotel on the Red Sea. His eyes in contrast to those of the fish were almostinvisible. He wore a gold ring embedded with diamonds, and so embedded in fleshthat the very idea of trying to remove it was unpleasant. His voice was smallerthan himself and seemed condemned to eternal complaint."Another one of those damn places where you can't get a proper shower," he said."Water rationing," Arthur Nkobe said. "We're--""Oh please. Don't tell me it's different any other season. Where did you go toschool, Oxford or someplace?""London.""For some reason all you people go to Oxford or Harvard or someplace like that.God am I hungry. Service!" he called, turning as far as he could. "Where didthat waiter go.?"As they awaited his meal the American recounted the horrors of his journey: sixhours delay in Cairo, the incompetence of immigration officials in Khartoum, aplane that should have become scrap iron twenty years ago. He was served a fullchicken and two plates of vegetables, and while he ate, nimbly dissecting thechicken, he did not speak, seemed to have forgotten that he was in company andto be unconscious of being watched. Whenever he looked up Arthur Nkobe wouldglance pointedly at his watch, but the American seemed not even to see him butto be gazing within and savoring the unison of his internal organs. At lengthwhen he had eaten everything, he covered his mouth and said:"Those six men -- those chieftains -- do they always do that kind of thing? Withthe jacket.""No.""Now I don't mean to seem suspicious, you understand, but did you put them up toit?"Arthur Nkobe smiled faintly. "That would have been difficult."Johnson nodded. "I want to meet them this afternoon.""I'm sorry, I thought you knew. They have already gone home.""I see." Johnson stared at him without expression and Arthur wondered what hewas thinking. "Now I don't like to throw my weight around," the Americancontinued, and Arthur could not help smiling, "but I think I should make itclear that I've been given full authority over the distribution of American aid.So--"he sighed--"if things don't go as I say, there won't be any aid. I alsohave to tell you that over in America there's a new philosophy concerningforeign aid, and that is: help people until they can help themselves. Now Ihappen to know that you've got quite a little piece of swamp here, which I guessisn't any use to you, and I happen to represent some investors who'd like to seea little tobacco come out of that swamp. Do you follow me? You've already got acanal half built to drain the thing what's it called--""The Jonglei.""Jonglei canal. It's a disgrace." Arthur Nkobe nodded, though he knew thedisgrace Johnson meant was that it had never been finished, not that it had everbeen undertaken. "As I understand you have the single biggest machine in theworld sitting there rusting away." He shook his head, and the way his lips cametogether conveyed deep sorrow. "Our plan is to feed your natives, put them towork, and put that machine to use. The aid is the first step, but we aim to seethat they never starve again.""By turning them into good American niggers?" said Arthur Nkobe mildly.The American seemed to see him for the first time. Then he shrugged and lookedaway."I'll need an air-conditioned jeep for four days starting tomorrow. I'll need atranslator. I want a good sidearm and some ammunition -- they kept my Colt inbloody Khartoum. I plan to tour the canal site and visit a few of the tribes.""You should not," said Cecil Deng suddenly. "Many are holding feast days. Theywill have no outsiders.""Feast days?" said Johnson sharply."Yes.""These people are about to starve and they're holding feasts?""Oh yes. Yes."The American shook his head. "No. No. I'll put a stop to that.""I think it would not be a very good idea for you to visit them at this time,"said Arthur Nkobe softly, feeling that it was futile but that he had to say thismuch at least."They've never held a suit jacket over you have they?" said the American, risingfrom the table. Arthur Nkobe shrugged.The next day was filled with work. He let Johnson have Cecil Deng as his guideand translator, and after seeing them off in the morning Arthur Nkobe returnedto his office and applied himself to a mound of neglected paper. There wereletters and telegrams from London, Paris, Khartoum and Addis Ababa whichrequired tactful yet pointed replies. This took the whole morning for he couldmanage well enough in English but was terrified of even attempting it in French;on top of th...
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