I decided to go in with Deet and one other pilot on the beach house. It was right on the beach and fairly near the Ambassador Hotel. I could walk to the Ambassador in about thirty minutes, and I found I liked walking along the beach to their beach bar. Lilly wasn’t broken hearted. She shrugged and said that I would be back. “Zhey always come back to Lilly’s,” she repeated.
All of my worldly goods went back into my duffel bag, which I tossed into Junebug before driving the few miles to the rental house. One thing I thought I would miss was Lilly’s cooking, although as it turned out one of the guys, Tony, was a very good cook. Being a good chef is a gift, like being a brilliant physicist or pianist—you either have it or you do not, and it isn’t something that you can fake.
Tony was also a major alcoholic, which was nothing unusual among gifted cooks and pilots. He was from somewhere in New York—Syracuse I think—and somehow ended up in Africa. I was careful not to probe. Some said he was escaping an angry ex-wife. Others said he was escaping an outraged husband. I suspected that it was both plus the relentless hounding of creditors. Whatever the reasons, he was here and had gone into business for himself. He had a Cessna 180, and he’d fly around and do light charter work on his own. There was always plenty of work for him, but he only did enough work to pay for the plane, the gas, and his booze. He didn’t really stress himself, and even though he seemed rather old to me, he probably wasn’t more than forty or forty-five. He was burnt out. His face was bloated and red, and he had a giant 1959 rusted-out Chevrolet sedan. His favorite activity, after flying all day, was to go into town and drink until he was, as we would say in college, completely blotto. Somehow he would make it back to his room, sleep it off, then repeat the process the next day. He had been doing this for years before I met him.
The three of us got along much better than I had expected, and after six or seven months we had settled into something close to a routine. Tony was strangely quiet when he was drunk, which was most of the time, and Deet turned out to be upbeat and pleasant to be around. In the mornings on the weekends when we weren’t flying, I would sometimes borrow Tony’s car to go down to the local bakery to pick up some sweet rolls and coffee. One morning I got in his car and noticed that there was a smear of dark brown stuff all over the windshield. I got out of the car to wipe it off and, for no logical reason except a persistent gnawing suspicion, happened to walk around to the front of the car.
I saw that the grill was smashed in and there was a tennis shoe wedged in it. I pulled the shoe out and threw it in the back seat, then went to his room to wake him up. He, of course, was terribly hungover—he usually slept until noon. “Tony, Tony!” I shouted. “Something has happened to your car! I think you hit someone last night!”
Tony rolled over, looking dazed, then said, “Oh my God! I thought it was a dream.”
“It looks like you got the windshield wipers going.”
“Yeah,” he said, looking more alert. “There was stuff all over it and I had to run the wipers so I could see to get home.”
I thought a moment and said, “I think we should report this to the police.”
Tony panicked. He pleaded with me not to, saying over and over, “This is not the US, man! This is not the US!” Then, “It’ll only lead to more palaver that I can’t afford. Even if the person I’m supposed to have hit complains or his family complains to the cops, nothing will be done about it—unless the cops figure it’s some white guy with dash money. Then they’ll burn me good and, I tell you honestly, I haven’t got dash money. I’m shit out of luck.”
Had we been in the US or Europe I would have reported it, but I had to admit that he was right. It was becoming hard for me to draw a line between right and wrong here. I was learning that life could be cheap in Liberia. The ethics and morality that I thought were universal had a price here.
I knew that the probability was that one day Tony would takeoff in his airplane and never be heard from again. The drinking or the jungle would eventually get him. Was it worth putting balm on my conscience to get the police involved and watch as they threw Tony into some dark pit and leave him there because he couldn’t pay the dash?
“I swear,” Tony pleaded. “I won’t do it again. I won’t drink and drive again, I promise.”
I knew he thought he was sincere. I knew he believed he meant it, but I also knew that he wouldn’t live up to it.
“I think you’d better clean your car up, Tony, just in case.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that right away,” he said with relief.
Toward sunset I decided to go to the Gurley Street Bar downtown. I wanted to shake the feeling that I had somehow been corrupted by a foul and smelly deed. I felt knee-deep in it and wanted to get clean.
A very attractive woman in tight jeans and a t-shirt was sitting at the bar talking to the bartender. The ever-present heat and humidity were exaggerated by the crowd of sweaty bodies. Her damp clothes looked like they had been painted on. She spoke excellent English but with a slight French accent that I couldn’t place exactly. I used that as my opener.
“Are you from Quebec?”
“Is it that obvious? I always thought I had sort of a mid-Atlantic accent,” she said, clearly happy that I had spoken to her.
“There are so many different accents around here I guess I’m getting pretty good at it. Are you waiting for someone?”
“Yeah, my husband. He plays guitar at another bar down the street. We just arrived in town so I’m thrilled that he got a gig so fast. I usually wait for him here rather than go back to the hotel.”
“You mean, you don’t have a place to stay permanently?”
“Not at the moment, but it’s no big deal. We always seem to get by. I’m Belinda, by the way, and my husband is Barry. He’s Australian—an Aussie guitar player who plays American country western in West Africa!”
“Hah! Glad to meet you, Belinda. I’m Ken. I’m a pilot here.”
“A pilot! Who do you work for?”
I paused. “For a guy I don’t trust, in planes I don’t completely trust. But at least I have a place to live.”
“Lucky you,” she said.
“Actually, we do have a spare room. If you guys are good for the rent, I can check it out with my house mates. I have to warn you, they are pilots as well, so it can get pretty rowdy at times.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We know rowdy!”
That night I brought it up with Deet and Tony.
“Sounds like a couple of parachuters to me,” Deet said.
“Parachuters? What are they?” I asked.
“Parachuters. You know. Dey just drop in out of nowhere. Dey probably have some vild story of vhere dey have been and vhere dey are going. All lies. Und den, poof! Dey grab vat dung dey can und are gone! You hat better check your coin purse, young man. Vhere did they say they came from?”
“Morocco. They drove down from Morocco in an old Oldsmobile station wagon. I don’t know how they made it. But they did.”
“Ya! Just vat I tought.”
I looked at him. “So you don’t think it would be a good idea if they moved in?”
“I didn’t say dat! If dey got de money, den let dem come. Dey won’t be here more dan a couple of months, anyway. I can guarantee it. Besides, it vill be gut to have a voman around de house.”
Deet was right. It was nice to have a woman around the house. She would set out an occasional flower or two, she tacked up some colorful African aso oke fabric like a tapestry and, all of a sudden, our little beach house started to look homey. Barry too turned out to be a nice guy. We would sit out on the beach with our gin and tonics and he would play the guitar.
Barry played well and sang well, so it was easy to like him. He came up with the idea to drive to Ouagadougou in Upper Volta.
“There is going to be a music festival up there in a couple of months and I’m thinking I could be a part of it. It’s not just African music, it’s all sorts.”
I smiled. “Including country and western?”
“Well, I guess we’ll see!”
I probably could manage the time off, so I said, “Sounds like fun. Count me in.”