MAMO HAD hardly recognized his office the next time he went there after the first introductory visit with the Waziri, and one of the ubiquitous guards lounging in the courtyard had to assure him he was in the right room. The dust that had covered the windows and chairs and table and had sent the Waziri scuttling back to his office that first day was all gone, the loose papers strewn on the floor and falling out of the rusty filing cabinet were now neatly packed in a folder and stacked in a corner on the floor—the filing cabinet itself was gone. The window was open, the fan was turning without a creak—someone must have climbed up and oiled it—and even the square outside looked radiant with the morning sun in the trees and a few boys kicking a ball up and down. Mamo took that as a portent that everything would be fine.
After Zara had left him he had thrown himself into settling his father’s affairs, seeking through activity to make his mind numb and not dwell on his loneliness. True, he had always been a lonely person, even when he was with Zara—the only time in his life when he had not felt lonely was when his brother was around—but after Zara the loneliness had turned into a raging pain that almost had him howling like a maniac. It was not the dull ennui he had felt after LaMamo’s departure; this was fire, it burned. It was anger, anger that she had left him for another person.
And so he had traveled daily to the state capital to meet with bankers, and to the neighboring villages to meet with cattle owners from whom Lamang had bought his cattle. At one point he had even considered going into the cattle business, but after the meetings—a whole month discussing nothing but how to turn cows into money—he had decided that he might not be suited for that line of work. His uncle Iliya supported his decision to sell everything—the trucks and the warehouses—and to pay off the drivers and assistants and put the remaining money in the bank. He also sold his father’s Honda after deciding that he really had no need for a car. Only after he had finished doing all these things did he realize that what he had done was erase all traces of his father as soon as possible so that only intangible memories remained, and impersonal banknotes locked away in the bank vaults.
But now, after all the activity, he found his mind swinging again to Zara, like iron to a magnet. She had typed his essay and posted it to him, and now even the words on paper reminded him of her. And just then, as if to take him outside himself, the Waziri breezed in. He sat down in the chair facing Mamo and took off his turban, and then he stretched out his legs and looked round the room, nodding with approval.
“Good morning sir,” Mamo said, pointing around the room.
“Good, good. Do you like the office; is there anything you need? I told them to clean it and make sure you are comfortable,” the Waziri said, and then before Mamo could answer he leaned forward, placing both hands on the table, and abruptly changed the subject. “Tell me, how do you intend to begin?”
Mamo had spent most of the time, when he wasn’t thinking about Zara or settling his father’s estate, thinking about this. “I see the photo albums and files you sent—I’ll go over them as soon as possible. I’ve also started making rough notes, mostly introductory… a mere guideline. I’ll need to do interviews, preferably with the Mai first. He is my primary subject, so I’ll talk to him first—whatever I gather afterward from others, and from documents, will be used to support his story.”
The Waziri leaned back and closed his eyes, as if to assess what Mamo had just said. He stayed like that for over a minute, beating a tattoo on the table with his fingers, and then he opened his eyes and pulled at his long wispy beard. He nodded. “Good idea. I like your enthusiasm. I like your eagerness. Remember, if there is anything you need to clarify, come to me first. I know more history than almost any other person in Keti. I was the Waziri to the Mai before this one. I have seen history being made right in front of my eyes. So, ask me anything, interview me.” He waited, an expansive, indulgent smile on his thin, narrow face, the off-focus eye swiveling about.
“You mean now?” Mamo asked hesitantly.
“No time like now,” the Waziri said. “I can tell you about the early Mais, the ones that ruled before the present line began. Take Mai La Kei, for instance, he was deposed by the first district officer, Mr. Graves.… I am sure you’ve never heard of Graves—oh, you have? Good, good.”
“Well… thanks, about the interview, sir… but I’ll need to think about it, to write down the questions.… I wouldn’t… want to waste your time with inconsequential things.”
The Waziri considered this for a while, looking a bit disappointed, but he nodded and stood up. “You are right. I am a very busy man.” He put on his turban and strode to the door. “The Mai will see you for the interview in a day or so.”
Mamo nodded.
“In the meantime, let me know if you need anything. Ask me any questions, anytime. Have a good day, secretary.”
Odd, Mamo thought, that the man would thrust himself forward so forcibly to be interviewed. Was he trying to police what went into the biography, or was he only trying to ensure that he got a mention in the book? If the Waziri was trying to snag himself some mention in the book, some gratuitous immortality, then Mamo could certainly understand that. In books and stories the vizier’s lot had not always been an envious one—he was forever doomed to reside in the shadow of his king, getting whatever renown or benefit he could only by association, and so he was always depicted as envious and conniving, and in some cases downright mutinous. The stories often stereotyped his physique as crippled and twisted, a figure of fun that could never compete in any way with the more imposing figure of the king. But of course, once in a long while came the wise benevolent counselor to the sometimes haughty and arrogant king—a rarity: the wise vizier whose self-effacing judgment saved the kingdom. Mamo wondered what kind of vizier the Waziri was—his shifty eyes, his repulsive, serpentine demeanor all screamed evil, but so far he had been nothing but the opposite. A sheep in wolf’s clothing; or a wolf in wolf’s clothing. Mamo decided that one of the things he needed to do alongside his research into the life of the Mai was find out as much as he could about the Waziri.