6

Deep in dreamland, I felt someone shake me. I groaned and buried my head in the pillow. They shook me again.

“Boss, wake up!”

I recognized Drissa’s voice.

“What the hell is going on?” I grumbled. My eyes were pasty, and I had a nasty taste in my mouth. Drissa was standing there in his briefs and a stained undershirt that was full of holes.

“It’s the police. They’re asking for you!”

I sat up. My alarm clock read 5:39. I sighed, got out of bed, and stumbled over to the chair where I had thrown my boxers and T-shirt.

A guy in a sky-blue uniform was waiting by the gate. He was standing in front of a pickup that had “Police nationale—commissariat du 7e arrondissement” painted on it. The paint job was drippy. I introduced myself, still half asleep and in my underwear. He didn’t seem bothered by that.

“The commissioner has requested your services, Warakalan Jeman,” he said.

He refused to provide any more information. Annoyed, I took a lightning-fast shower while Drissa prepared my coffee. I put on the same clothes I had worn the day before, wrapped my tagelmust around my neck, and quickly gulped my beverage. It was thick and black like gasoline, but honestly tasted much grosser. With my faculties nearly restored, I joined the police officer. We rode in silence. After crossing the Martyrs Bridge, we went through the Niarela neighborhood. Traffic was still light, but the sun was already sizzling in the cloudless sky. It was going to be a stifling day, I mused while yawning. I wondered what Kansaye wanted from me. He wasn’t known for being an early bird, and the case had to be awfully important for the powerful police commissioner to show up at a crime scene in person. At least that was my impression of things. I was starting to feel an omen-like gnawing in my gut.

Through the Toyota pickup’s grimy window, I saw women doing their ablutions in the gutters and guys brushing their teeth with whistling thorn branches. Busted-up heavy-goods vehicles were parked along the street in the industrial part of Bamako. Drivers were sleeping in their ancient trucks because they were allowed to drive in the capital only at night, when traffic was lighter. At last, we arrived in the Sotuba neighborhood. My official chauffeur parked the pickup in front of an agricultural center, beside two navy blue police vehicles and a white Renault Laguna coupe, which I recognized as belonging to the criminal investigations unit, formally known as homicide. Officers were dozing in the front seats of their vehicles. My driver laconically indicated a small group of people along the riverbank, then leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Fractions of a second later he was snoring.

To meet up with the other cops, I needed to cross an industrial wasteland with tall weeds that made me incredibly nervous. I was afraid of sneaky reptiles hiding in the grass. The riverbanks were infested with snakes, most of which were poisonous. I hated those creatures. Not a soul could convince me that God had anything to do with their creation. So I advanced with caution. I batted down the brush and placed my foot down only when I was absolutely sure no scaly beasts were slithering beneath.

Dressed in his light blue boubou, Kansaye was conversing with one of his associates, Pierre Diawara, a tall friendly-faced guy in his fifties, who was wearing a light short-sleeved shirt and khaki slacks. Pierre, the chief inspector with the criminal investigations unit, was listening to Kansaye, but when he spotted me, his face lit up. Kansaye followed his gaze.

“Finally, you’re here,” Kansaye said, glaring at me. “Was it that hard getting your toubab ass out of bed?”

I saluted him ceremoniously, and Kansaye twitched as he picked up the sarcasm beneath my formal groveling. I turned to Pierre and gave him a hug. Over the years, he had become one of my few true friends in Bamako.

“Commissioner, to what do I owe the pleasure of being brought here at the crack of dawn?”

“Quit being a jackass, Solo.” Looking at Pierre he said, “Show him, Diawara.”

Taking me by the arm, the chief inspector led me to the riverbank.

He didn’t have to point. I saw it. She was bobbing in the waters of the Djoliba—the Mandinka people’s name for the Niger—her hair rippling gently in the water and her wide eyes fixed in an expression of unspeakable surprise.

Bahia Tebessi.

The submerged branch of a river shrub was holding her up at the armpit. Her throat had been slit so brutally, her spine was all that held her head on. She was naked, and her dead white skin looked like an obscene glob on the dark water. Rising bile burned my esophagus. I had to look away. I turned my eyes toward the skeleton of Bamako’s third bridge, which was under construction upriver. Dozens of Chinese workmen were scurrying over it like ants. She had probably been thrown in from there.

“She must have known more than we thought.”

Kansaye was standing next to me, his face inscrutable.

“It certainly looks like she did,” I answered, feeling bone weary.

“That was your client?”

“No, her sister was my client. A lawyer from Paris.”

He nodded and said nothing for a moment. “I tried to get hold of you,” he finally said. “Do you ever answer your phone?”

I took my cell out of my jacket pocket, where it had spent the night. I had a dozen missed calls. All from Kansaye and Farah Tebessi.

“Has anyone contacted her sister?” I asked.

~ ~ ~

She got out of the cab. Her face was red and puffy. She took hesitant steps, glancing around with distraught eyes. They went right through me, as though I wasn’t there. The cops had stopped what they were doing and were staring at her. I started walking toward her just as she caught sight of her sister’s body on a stretcher, covered with a damp sheet. Some men were carrying it to an old black Mercedes station wagon. I caught her as she began running toward them and took her in my arms. She tried to pull away but finally slid to the ground, shaking with silent sobs. I crouched down and held her face in my hands.

“I know what you’re feeling right now.”

She looked at me with a tormented expression.

“What am I going to tell my parents? What am I going to tell Samia?”

“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” I said as I helped her to her feet.