“What countries?” I said.
“Strangely enough, France and Germany.”
“That is strange.”
“Yes, I agree. Britain, of course, is siding with Jandola and your own country has adopted what some have referred to as a ‘hands-off’ policy. In effect, this means that they’re following Britain’s lead. As for Russia — well, Russia is supplying both sides, clandestinely to us, openly to Jandola.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You do not believe it?” he said, and stared at me in a reproachful manner.
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe it; I said I didn’t know it.”
“I’m sorry,” Mbwato said. “I believe I’m becoming hypersensitive. It’s something I’ll have to watch. But to continue, Mr. St. Ives, the support from and recognition by France and Germany seems to hinge on our ability to continue our battle for independence. If we can hold out another month, two at the most, then we are confident that the recognition — and the aid — will be granted forthwith. If we can hold out.”
“Don’t you think you can?”
Mbwato shook his head. “There is food enough for another month, perhaps even two. Some will starve, of course, but starvation is no stranger to most Africans. There is enough ammunition to continue our fight for perhaps five weeks. With care we can make it last for six. We have the wherewithal to last, Mr. St. Ives. The question is: do we have the will?”
“Do you?”
“Our morale is not what it should be. The war has been going on for nine months now and there have been many casualties. Unlike the Jandolaeans, we Komporeeneans are a cheerful people, a gentle people, more concerned with the art of living than with the art of war. The Jandolaeans are, in fact, envious of us because we are what you call in this country ‘quick studies.’ We have taken to technology like a crocodile to the river.”
“Or a duck to water,” I said.
“I was going to say that, but I thought I should employ a cliché that smacked of my own country.” He turned on his five-hundred-watt smile again.
“To continue,” Mbwato said, “we have the highest literacy rate in West Africa. We repair our own lorries; do our own engineering; manufacture our own bicycles; build our own radio stations and keep them operating along with our power plants. We have been able to do all this and more, much more, because we place an extremely high value on learning and we are, I suppose, the most inquisitive people in all of Africa. We seem always to be asking why.”
“It sounds as though you have a good thing going,” I said.
“We do — or did,” Mbwato said, “but the demands of the Jandolaeans became impossible. We had no choice but to secede and go our own way. I think we shall succeed providing, of course, that the morale of the people does not disintegrate. And that’s why I’m in the United States and that’s why I’m having this chat with you.”
“It’s something to do with the shield, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. St. Ives, it is.”
“What?”
“To be perfectly and, I suppose, brutally frank with you, we had planned to steal the shield from the museum ourselves. One of our chaps here is a quite brilliant electrical engineer and he had even figured out a way to circumvent that formidable warning system which the museum employs. It was an absolutely brilliant scheme. You see, the shield’s return to Komporeen would serve as a tremendous boost to morale. It would give our people the will to continue our fight, not just for two or three months, but for as long as is needed. This must be difficult for a European, or rather an American, to understand, but I can assure you it’s quite true.”
“I believe you,” I said. “When were you planning to steal the shield?”
“Yesterday,” Mbwato said. “Sunday.”
“But it already had been stolen.”
“Yes. We found out about it as soon as our source at the Jandolaean Embassy could get to a safe telephone.”
“Well, if somebody had to steal it, I’m sorry it wasn’t you. It sounds as though you could use it.”
“Thank you, Mr. St. Ives. That’s most kind.”
“Not at all.”
“Now then,” he said, “we come to the crux of the matter. We are, as I’ve told you, most anxious to recover the shield, not only because it would tremendously raise the morale in our country, but because it rightfully belongs to us and not to the Jandolaeans. Our source in the Jandolaean Embassy informs me that you will receive $25,000 to negotiate the return of the shield to the museum. I am authorized and prepared to offer you $50,000 to return it to us. I’m sorry and must apologize that it cannot be more. I assure you that it would be if we could possibly afford it.”
When he was through with his proposition he leaned back in his chair and once more turned on his light-of-the-world smile, as if we had just concluded a multimillion-dollar deal that was going to enable both of us to retire to Majorca next week for the rest of our lives.
I smiled back at him and then shook my head slowly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mbwato, but it’s impossible. I can’t go back on my commitment to the museum.”
He shrugged as if he had expected the answer, gave me another smile, and rose. “I was afraid that you would say that, Mr. St. Ives, but I had to try. I think you understand.”
“I think so.”
He moved toward the door, a brilliantly dressed black giant, with a winning smile and a losing country. He turned at the door and gave me the warm benefit of that smile again, but his eyes seemed sad and troubled. “You have been most gracious, Mr. St. Ives, and I want to thank you for your courtesy. And perhaps I can thank you best by warning you.”
“About what?” I said.
“When I was reciting the many virtues of us Komporeeneans, I neglected to mention one that is well known throughout West Africa, especially by the Jandolaeans.”
“What’s that?”
“We are among the most cunning thieves in the world. We will try to steal the shield from the thieves who stole it from the museum. Failing that, we shall surely steal it from you. Good night, Mr. St. Ives.”
Chapter six
Someday, I fear, I shall live in a house in the suburbs with crab grass that I can mow, snow that I can shovel, tax assessments that I can rail against, and a next-door neighbor’s wife who will jump into bed of an afternoon, forty-five minutes before she has to pick up the kids at school. But all of this, like my death, is some time off, and though I view both events with equal trepidation, I meanwhile shall continue to live in the disintegrating inner core of the city and make the most of the privacy it affords, the services that it offers, and the rude wit that can be enjoyed while trying to cross almost any street against the red light. “Whassamattah, shithead, colahblind or sumpthin?” Stimulating.
For nearly three years home had been the Adelphi, a medium-sized, medium-priced residential hotel that catered exclusively to anyone who could scrape up the monthly rent. I had what was known as a de luxe suite which meant that they installed a Pullman kitchen sometime in the 1950’s and the rent had been increased by fifty percent. In addition to daily maid service, the Adelphi offered a restaurant and bar that were steadfastly ignored by all the printed guides to New York, a cigar stand that was always running out of stamps, and a switchboard answering service which got the messages right at least a third of the time. Two aging bellhops, one during the day and the other from four till midnight, ran a small book along with whatever errands the guests might have in mind.
After the shuttle from Washington finally quit circling LaGuardia and the pilot brought the plane in only forty-five minutes late, I took a cab to the Adelphi. The phone rang while I was unpacking and when I answered it, Myron Greene wanted to know what had happened.