24

I parked in front of the Department of Mines, Energy, and Water in the river neighborhood. Rony got out of the car before I could say anything. I was beginning to regret having asked the Serb for help. In the department’s inner courtyard, drivers were napping under mango trees beside a line of shiny SUVs that even a senior official or local minister couldn’t afford on just his government salary. I sought directions from a security officer, who pointed me toward the mining claims sector. I went up a flight of stairs, with my Lebanese bodyguard still on my heels. I knocked on an office door. Rony lit a Gauloise and leaned against the guardrail. I shook my head, then entered. I was now in the secretary’s office. She looked like a real boss-lady type in her sixties and wearing a lavish boubou. She assessed me from behind the thick lenses of her tortoise-shell glasses.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“I’d like to consult a mining file.”

“And what gives you the right to do that?” she responded.

I decided to get on my high horse. “My right as a citizen of Mali to have access to such documents.”

“Are you a reporter?” she asked. Her haughty look had disappeared. She was biting her lip.

I gave her a wink. “If I were, I couldn’t tell you.”

She was silent for a few seconds before handing me a grimy piece of paper.

“You’ll have to fill this out.”

Unable to find a flat surface to write on, I sat down on the other side of her desk and pushed her things out of the way to fill out the form. The secretary sighed but didn’t say anything. I completed the questionnaire and handed it back to the woman, who read over it quickly.

“Did I get them all right?” I asked, pretending to be concerned.

“This’ll do,” she said. Her scornful look had returned. “We’ll call you back once you’ve received authorization.”

“You see, I’d prefer to receive that authorization today.”

“I’m telling you to leave now,” the woman said, rising from her chair. “We’ll call you.”

I settled into my own chair and put my feet on her desk, shoving her clock aside in the process.

“No point in putting you to the trouble. I can stay here and wait, seeing as I have nothing special to do today—or tomorrow, for that matter.”

Clearly insulted by my shoes on her desk, the secretary started muttering vague threats. With my request in hand, she headed toward a door at the back of the room and opened it. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I assumed she wasn’t giving me a very flattering introduction. After a few words were exchanged she reappeared and motioned for me to enter. I found myself in a second office. A man in traditional garb stood up. His desk was covered with piles of what were obviously pending files.

“My secretary says you’re making a fuss.”

“I certainly was not. I was merely trying to meet with you, as you’re the one who makes the decisions.”

He gave me a bothered look. He was tapping my consultation request form in front of him.

“Mr. Camara, you shouldn’t do what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

“You shouldn’t be acting rude and confrontational.”

I pretended to reflect on his comment.

“Ah, I get it! The Malian government already has a monopoly on this type of behavior.”

He smiled.

“It’s a monopoly enjoyed by every government in the world. Why would it be any different for Mali?”

“I hadn’t seen things in that light. As for my request…”

The government employee took the paper I had filled out and slid it under a huge and wobbly pile of similar requests.

“It’ll be processed in due time.”

We stayed there, staring at each other with fake smiles plastered on our faces. I asked him how his family was doing. He explained how hard it was for a good Muslim to take a second wife. Should everyone live together, or should each of the wives have her own home? Then there were the expenses. The two wives had to be treated the same, after all. And then there were the children. They all had to be provided for.

As I nodded in agreement, I opened my wallet and slipped three ten-thousand-franc bills onto his desk. The man pretended to ignore them, calling in his secretary and giving her several instructions. The woman disappeared, but not before I had the chance to give her one of my irresistible winks. The department head feigned diving back into his paperwork. The bills had disappeared. After several minutes of silence, the door opened again, and the secretary reappeared with a meaty file. I noticed her nails were painted purple as she dropped the file in my lap. A small cloud of red dust rose up on impact. I coughed and swatted the air in front of my face. She gave me a cocky smile, and I turned back to the bureaucrat.

“Can I take this home to read?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said without looking up from his papers.

I unwound the string that held down the flap of the manila envelope and began reading.

A good hour later, I left the mining claims office. Rony was waiting for me with the ubiquitous Gauloise hanging from his mouth.

“Did you get what you needed?”

I lit a cigarillo. The acrid fumes made my eyes water.

“So it seems.”