“Michael?” Patience stood in the kitchen doorway; the room behind her was wreathed in smoke.
“The bread won’t come out the slots.” She said this sadly, her head tilted down, gazing up at me through her lashes—an attitude that suggested both penitence and sexual promise.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I told her. “Just pull the plug out of the wall.”
“Sorry about that, Michael.” Rawley was back, his manner more energized, as if he’d received encouraging news. “This particular case I mentioned. We have a witness who’s identified three men and two women he claims turned into monsters. Half man, half croc. He says he saw them kill and eat several people.”
I started to speak, but he cut me off.
“I know, I know. That’s not unusual, either. But this fellow’s testimony was compelling. Described the beasties in great detail. Human from the waist up, croc from the hips down. Skin in tatters, as if they were undergoing a change. That sort of thing. At any rate, arrests have been made. Four of them deny everything. As you might expect. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d let them go. Despite the superstition rampant in these parts, prosecuting a case based entirely on an accusation of sorcery would be a ludicrous exercise. But in this instance, one of the accused has confessed.”
I had been stretching the phone cord to its full extension, peering around the corner of the doorway to see how Patience was doing with the toaster cord. Now Rawley had won my complete attention.
“He confessed to killing and eating people?”
“Not only that. He confessed to killing them while in the form of half man, half crocodile.”
I took a moment to consider this, then said, “The police must have tortured him.”
“I don’t believe so. I’ve spoken with him in the jail at Mogado, and he’s not in the least intimidated. On the contrary, I have the sense he’s laughing at us. He seems amused that anyone would doubt him.”
“Then he must be insane.”
“The thought did occur. Naturally I had him examined by a psychiatrist. Clean bill of health. Of course, I’m not altogether sure of either my psychiatrist’s competency or his motives. His credentials are not of the highest quality, and there’s a great deal of political pressure being exerted to have the case brought to trial. The big boys in Kinshasa don’t enjoy the notion that someone out in the provinces might be practicing more effective juju than they themselves.”
“It all sounds intriguing,” I said. “But I don’t understand how I can help.”
“I want someone I trust to have a look at this fellow. A practiced observer. Someone with expertise in the field.”
“I’m scarcely an expert in human behavior. Certainly not by any academic standard.”
“True enough,” said Rawley. “But you do know a thing or two about crocodiles. Don’t you?”
This startled me. “I suppose… though I haven’t kept up with the literature. Snakes are my thing. But what possible use can you have for an expert on crocodiles?”
Again Rawley fell silent. I had another peek in at Patience. She was sitting by the table, staring glumly out the window, the black toaster plug protruding from her clasped hands—like a child holding a dead flower. She did not turn, but her eyes cut toward me and held my gaze—the effect was disconcerting, like the way a zombie might glance at you. Or a lizard.
“I realize this may sound mad,” Rawley said, “but Buma… That’s the man’s name. Gilbert Buma. He’s an impressive sort. Impressive in a way I can’t put into words. He has the most extraordinary effect on people. I—” He made a frustrated noise. “Christ, Michael! I need you to come and have a look at him. I can get you a nice consulting fee. We’ll fly you into Kinshasa, pay all expenses. Believe it or not, there’s a decent hotel in Mogado. A relic of empire. You’ll be very comfortable, and I’ll stand for the drinks. It shouldn’t take more than a week.” I heard the click of a cigarette lighter, the sound of Rawley exhaling. “C’mon, man. Say you’ll do it. It makes an excellent excuse for a visit if nothing else. I’ve missed you, you old bastard.”
“All right. I’ll come. But I’m still not sure what exactly it is you want from me.”
“I’m not entirely clear on the subject myself,” said Rawley. “But for the sake of the conversation, let’s just say I’d like you to give me your considered opinion as to whether or not Buma might be telling the truth.”
Patience wept when I left. We had only been together a few days, and our relationship had acquired no more than a gloss of emotional depth; yet judging by her display of tearful affection, you might have thought we were newlyweds torn apart in the midst of a honeymoon. I gave her enough money to last a couple of weeks and instructed her in the use of the apartment. Frankly, I didn’t believe I would see her again; I assumed that I would return home to find the place trashed, and myself in need of a new toaster. The tears, I suspected, were the product of her fear at being left alone in the city, a situation she would address the minute I was out the door. But despite this cynical view, I was moved, and tried to reassure her that everything would be fine. I told her I would call from Mogado and gave her Rawley’s office number. Nothing served to placate her. As I rattled about in the cab on the way to the airport, peering out at dusty slums through the mosaic of decals and fetishes that almost obscured the rear window, I felt a twinge of remorse at leaving her so bereft, and I wondered if by conditioning myself to expect the worst of people, I had also blinded myself to their potentials. Perhaps, I told myself, Patience was something other than the typical village girl driven from home by poverty, on her way to death by knife or beating or STD; perhaps she was offering more than I had taken the trouble to notice. But the sentimentality of this idea was off-putting. I pushed it aside and turned my thoughts to what lay ahead, to Mogado and Gilbert Buma, and to Rawley.
My friendship with James Rawley had been launched under the banner of political correctness. Though not so obnoxiously pervasive as it had become in the States, the politically correct mentality was nonetheless in vogue during my year at Oxford, and I believe Rawley perceived that friendship with a black American would effect a moral credential that would immunize him against the stereotyping reserved for white Africans, thereby assisting his student career—and it was for him a career in the purest sense of the word, a carefully crafted accretion of connections and influence. I doubt he was aware of this choice; it was more a by-product of natural craftiness than of any conscious scheme. But I also doubt he would have denied the fact, had I brought it to his attention—he had an intuitive self-knowledge and blunt honesty that made it difficult for him to harbor illusions regarding his motives. For my part, it was not so different. Rawley’s acceptance helped to ease my path at Oxford, and though the artificial character of the relationship was always a shadow between us, we never discussed the subject; we had sufficient affinities and commonalties of interest to allow us to finesse this potential problem.
For a long while, I considered the friendship abnormal, and I suppose it was to a degree, since from its onset it had not been informed by real affection; but as I grew older, I came to recognize that friends, like lovers, have their honeymoons, and that affection, like passion, lasts only for a season unless sustained by concerns of mutual advantage. Rawley and I had manufactured a friendship based on those concerns without the attendant warmth; yet over the years, our orbits continued to intersect, and a genuine warmth evolved between us. It was as if, because we had never bought into the illusion of friendship, because we had initiated our bond on the basest of levels, an enduring and dynamic friendship became possible. Whenever I stopped to analyze the relationship, I couldn’t be certain that I even liked Rawley; yet time and experience had inextricably woven together the threads of our lives, and our dependency on one another for counsel, money, a shoulder to cry on, and so forth had grown so deep-seated, we might have been an old married couple.