An African Affair Read online

  “To accidental encounters,” she said, raising her glass.

  “I thought Freud said there were no accidents.”

  “Indeed he did.” He reached forward, put her glass on the ground, and kissed her gently. Then he kissed her again, harder. She responded, pulling him down onto her. They caressed and explored each other with a kind of fever, now one on top, now the other, pushed on by the glare of the sun, the rough texture of the hot sand. The depth of her desire surprised her; she felt herself gasp for breath. But, somehow, she pulled back.

  “No,” she said. “It’s too soon. Please.”

  He responded almost lazily, raising his thumb and running it across her lips. Then he stood up. He walked back to the water’s edge and plunged into a wave.

  She lay in the sand, trying to understand why she stopped him when she wanted him so much.

  James emerged from the ocean and she handed him a towel.

  “What was in that champagne?” she asked lightly.

  “The truth.” He sat down beside her. “We were just much closer to it than any newspaper story.”

  She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the sun baking her skin. He fetched the picnic, spread it on a blanket under a thatched umbrella and ordered her to eat—“Before you fry in the sun.” There were deviled eggs, pâté, caviar (complete with chopped egg whites and lemon), and cold salmon. Who would have imagined? And in Lagos!

  “So, Lindsay, tell me a story.”

  “A story? About what?”

  “Whatever you want. About you. For example, why are you lying on a beach in Nigeria instead of having a picnic with a husband and two kids in . . . where are you from? New York?”

  She took a bite of deviled egg followed by a sip of champagne. “Oh, I don’t know. That was never my goal. Most of the men in my life didn’t like competing with breaking news. I think I was just too independent—I wanted a relationship but on my own terms, and that’s a luxury usually reserved for men.”

  James didn’t answer for a moment, as if he were waiting for her to say more. “Is that it, really? It sounds like the kind of prepared response people give when they don’t want to talk about the real reasons they do things.”

  Stung, Lindsay met his eyes. “And that sounds like the kind of psychobabble people use when they want to sound smarter than they are.”

  He grinned disarmingly. “Whoa. I’m sorry. Have I hit a nerve?”

  “No. Maybe you’ve simply met your match.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  He reached forward and put his hand over hers. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I like you and I guess I was hoping for something more intimate than the story you probably tell anyone who asks.”

  She shrugged. “Most people don’t ask. Besides, we don’t know each other well enough yet.”

  “I hope we will.”

  She was quiet for a while, sipping her drink.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said finally. “Maybe that isn’t the reason. Maybe I just say that to make me feel like it’s not my fault.”

  “I don’t think it’s about fault. I just meant it’s better to start by being honest with each other.”

  “You don’t have some kind of copyright on honesty, you know.”

  “I know. But I try. I’ve learned it’s the only way.”

  After a while, she turned to him and said, “I don’t know why I never married. Of course, it is partly the work and my reluctance to give up my independence. That’s the truth. But it’s not the whole truth. Lately, I’ve wanted some connection I haven’t ever made, some overpowering passion, something like I’ve heard about all my life and seen in the movies. But I’ve never seen it work that well in real life. My parents divorced when I was fifteen—my father left and my mother never really got over it. And I’m just not so sure love and marriage is all it’s cracked up to be. Some of my friends’ husbands come on to me when their wives aren’t around. Is that what I want?”

  He reached over and, once again, brushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “No,” she continued. “But it’s easier to know what you don’t want than what you do, don’t you think?”

  She was genuinely interested in what he thought, but he didn’t answer. He refilled both their glasses. “You know, there’s another possibility. A much simpler one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe you just haven’t met the right man.”

  She met his eyes. “Maybe not.” She dug her hand into the sand, running it through her fingers. “What about you?” she asked. “Is there a wife and a child or two in . . . where are you living . . . London?”

  “New York, mostly, but I have a flat in London too. And no—no wife—anymore. No children either.”

  “I’m sorry,” she lied.

  “No, you’re not. And you shouldn’t be, at least not for my sake. It was a relatively amicable divorce.”

  Lindsay couldn’t help smiling. She picked up her champagne glass, drained it, and held it out to him to pour another.

  In the background, she heard again a faint, persistent drumbeat. “What is that?” she asked. “What are they doing?”

  “Juju. African magic. Someone is casting a spell.”

  “I think someone is doing that here too,” she said.

  “But you don’t believe in spells, do you?”

  “I’m not so sure. There are all kinds of spells.”

  “I believe juju is powerful stuff.” He paused, handed her the champagne glass. “You will believe in it, you know, before we’re through.”

  “Before we’re through with what?” She laughed.

  “With each other. Before we’re through with each other.”

  CHAPTER 10

  James was late and Lindsay was restless. She had seen him a few times since their date at the beach, and he had urged her to join him on an art-buying trip up-country to the village of Oshogbo, outside of Ibadan. He promised she would find an arresting story. At first she demurred. What if she were away when Olumide made his move? Then she remembered Joe Rainey’s request for features. Besides, she liked the idea of spending a weekend with James.

  Martin knocked on her bedroom door to tell her that Mike Vale, her new colleague from the Observer, was at the door. Surprised, she went downstairs. He was dressed in the ubiquitous safari suit that male reporters favored in Africa and, she had to admit, looked dashing. She offered him a cup of coffee, but he had not come for idle chatter.

  “I’m sorry to barge in, but I’ve got a good reason,” he said. She gave him a quizzical look.

  “The murder. At the ambassador’s party. The guy you told me was probably killed by an angry crowd.”

  “I think I said he had a rope mark on his neck.”

  “It’s what you didn’t say. But then, maybe you didn’t know. In which case, I am here to enlighten you—for a price.”

  “Why don’t you give me the merchandise and then I’ll tell you how much it’s worth.”

  “Now why would I do that? But, in the interest of our future relationship, I’ll bite. Apparently the victim was a popular student dissident. This student, Babatunde Oladayo, has been missing since that night.” He waited for her to look impressed, but her expression didn’t change.

  “So how much do you think it’s worth?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. I filed that story and a lot more and it ran in the Globe. Have you been asked to match it?”

  He was quiet for a moment, looking at her. “Shit. My line is dead and no messages have arrived. They’ll be going crazy in London.” He accepted the cup of coffee she offered. “It just proves I was right in coming here. Listen, Lindsay. You’re good. You were on the spot minutes after you saw the body and you got inside. I know I blew that, but I’ve developed some great sources here and in Washington that you don’t have. You write for an American paper, I’m at a British one. We could work together, feed each other information.”

  “I don’t thi
nk so, Mike. I don’t think my editor would like that. And besides, I’m not really a team player. I like beating the competition.”

  “I’ll admit you beat me this time. But you also risked expulsion—or worse. Sure you don’t want a partner to cover your back?”

  “Not yet. Thanks anyway.”

  He turned to go. “Well, if you won’t be my partner, how about joining me for lunch?”

  “I can’t today. Maybe next week.”

  “I’ll count on it.” He walked toward his car. Halfway down the driveway, he turned and winked. She smiled, wondering whether his studied efforts at seduction worked on other women.

  She went back to her room to pack a few clothes, a notebook, a pen, her tape recorder, extra batteries and cassettes, and a camera. She started downstairs, then turned back and pulled a black silk nightgown out of a drawer, stuffing it into her bag. When she returned to the kitchen, Martin was busily mopping the floor.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said. “You go for see traders?”

  “Why? Are they here?”

  Local itinerant merchants stopped at Lindsay’s door almost every day, but she had never had time to look at their wares.

  “I send dem way?”

  She looked at her watch and saw that she had some time to kill.

  “No. Please tell them to come in.”

  Martin admitted two traders. Both had huge raffia baskets on their heads, filled with African artifacts wrapped in brown paper. They placed the baskets on the floor, carefully unwrapping their treasures: horned masks from the Calibar region meant to scare away the evil spirits and graceful antelope masks to bring good luck in the hunt. They showed her calabashes, beaded stools, talking drums, and ibejis dressed in jackets made of cowry shells. She particularly liked a carved wooden staff that was used to worship Shango, the Yoruba god of lightning, and a bronze lion’s head, its lifelike mouth opened in a fierce roar. She gazed covetously at a life-sized wooden fertility statue with angular pointed breasts, its stomach protruding into a sharp point.

  “How much for the statue?” she asked.

  The trader, accustomed to Americans and their currency, bargained directly in dollars.

  “Three hundred dollar,” he said.

  “That’s way too much,” Lindsay protested. “I’ll give you fifty dollars.”

  He laughed. “Fifty dollar? Oh no, madam. I go for starve.” He pulled out a small primitively carved doll from Guinea with a raffia skirt. “Dis be fifty dollar,” he said. “For dis,” he gestured grandly at the fertility statue, “maybe two hundred fifty, last price.”

  “I’ll give you two hundred fifty if you throw in the lion,” Lindsay offered.

  “No, madam. The lion be juju. You rub for head and make prayer. It give you power. You need power, madam?”

  “Yes.” Lindsay laughed. “Everyone needs power, right? I still say two hundred fifty for both, last price.”

  Looking as though he had been robbed, the trader nodded and started to pack up his belongings. He picked the lion up reverentially, and handed it to her.

  “Rub here,” he showed her, pointing to a spot on the head worn so it shone brightly, contrasting with the tarnished, nearly black body.

  Lindsay also bought the Shango staff for another $75. She was feeling pleased with herself when James appeared at the door. She leaped up to greet him, kissing him quickly on the cheek.

  “Don’t worry. I just bought a few things but I’m all ready to go.”

  “So I see.”

  He looked over the masks and ibejis as the traders rewrapped them. Lindsay noticed he was frowning. He picked up the Shango staff, saying, “What an amazing array of junk. You know how they try to imitate the ancient patina? They bury the fake in the earth for a few months.”

  “But these aren’t pretending to be originals,” Lindsay said. “Don’t be such a snob. These are clearly reproductions, but I still think they’re fun.”

  “Do you?” He paused and looked at her as if she had said something more profound than she knew.

  He picked up the lion.

  “See where its head is shiny?” Lindsay asked. “It’s magic. Juju. Rub there and make a wish.”

  He turned it over in his hand, shaking his head. “This is pure commercial tourist fare.”

  “I thought I was fated to buy it,” she said, ignoring his condescending tone. “But this is my favorite,” she said, showing him the fertility statue.

  He examined it carefully.

  “This piece is not exactly a copy, but it’s similar, in a very crude way, to a really beautiful statue from Benin that’s in the Metropolitan Museum,” he said. “Notice the breasts and the stomach. Can you see how Picasso was influenced by this? Did you buy it?”

  “Well, I was thinking about it,” she said. “Just a minute, I need to pay the traders.”

  She dashed upstairs to get some cash. When she returned, she saw James looking intently at one of the small statues. He stared at it, turning it upside down and scrutinizing it from every angle. It appeared to be an ibeji, but whoever made it didn’t try to make it look authentic; it was very lightweight, and the wood hadn’t been aged. James asked the trader in a sharp voice where he had gotten it.

  “It be mine,” the trader said fearfully. “I buy it.”

  “Who sold it to you?” James asked, looking troubled.

  “Don’ know,” the trader answered. “Dis come from many place, some boy found me dis. You like it? One hundred naira, you take it, boss.”

  James extracted a hundred naira from his wallet and, surprising Lindsay, bought the ibeji. Lindsay gave the traders her money and accompanied them to the door. When she returned, James was still inspecting the statue.

  “Is something the matter?” Lindsay asked.

  James looked up. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I ordered a shipment of original artwork from Oshogbo—statues that look surprisingly like this one. I’m exporting them to Europe and I don’t know how this one ended up in a trader’s sack. Some local thievery, I’d bet.”

  He was clearly angry. “And I intend to find out,” he said. “I won’t know how many are missing until I receive my order—if I ever do.”

  “Is it possible that just a few were pilfered?”

  “Yes. Of course. That’s what I’m hoping for. I’m sorry,” he said, turning to Lindsay. “Now let’s talk about your purchases. What did you pay for the fertility statue?”

  “Fifty dollars,” she lied. “And I get the statue plus the fertility. That’s not a bad deal.”

  He smiled. “And the fertility bit doesn’t scare you?”

  “I don’t know. A bargain’s a bargain.”

  “Well, that’s not too bad a price. You wouldn’t believe what some of those American oil company wives pay for this shit,” he said. “It’s obscene. . . .”

  He walked to the door, his mood brightening. “Well, are you ready?”

  “Yes. I’ll get my bag.”

  He picked up the statue of the lion she had purchased. “Shall we bring him?” he asked, playfully. “For luck?”

  “I thought you said he was just ‘commercial tourist fare.’ ”

  “I did. And you were right. It was a snobby thing to say. Let’s take him. We can both use the extra luck.”

  “Done,” Lindsay said with a smile, taking the lion from him and putting it in her bag. “Now, are we taking your car?”

  “Wait a minute. Don’t you want to see your present?”

  Lindsay was surprised. She smiled at him. “You brought me a present?”

  “Yes. I didn’t expect the traders to be here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two small packages, wrapped in brown paper.

  Lindsay hesitated.

  “Go ahead. Open them.”

  She opened the paper carefully to reveal two beautiful ibejis, their deep, rich patina reflecting the light coming in through the windows.

  “These are stunning,” she said. “Truly beautiful.”

 
“They’re authentic,” James said. “I thought you would like them.”

  “Oh, James, thank you.” She threw her arms around him. “I feel such a fool for having bought the fakes.”

  “Not at all. Now, why don’t you put them somewhere secure and we can get started.”

  “I’ll put them in my safe,” she said, and went upstairs.

  She was beaming when she came down again.

  “Well, what’s our route?”

  “We drive to Ibadan, about two hours to the north, and then another hour to Oshogbo. There’s a studio there run by the Austrian artist I told you about, Roxanne Reinstadler. It’s grown into a thriving artistic community. After we meet with her, I’ll leave you there to do an interview while I keep an appointment with another dealer. Then I’ll come back to pick you up.”

  “Sounds good.” She patted her tape recorder. “Martin’s packed us a lunch—it’s just sandwiches and warm Cokes. Don’t expect it to live up to your beach extravaganza.”

  “It’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Even in the best of times, the hot and dusty drive to Ibadan was not easy. Lindsay had heard that it could be downright dangerous, with armed gangs ambushing cars on the open highway, leaving passengers stranded, broke, and lucky to be alive. James, however, was as relaxed as if they were driving through southern France.

  Lindsay had insisted on driving the first shift, saying it relaxed her. She did in fact begin to unwind. She hadn’t realized how much her reporting had spooked her. She felt an urge to tell James about it, partly to work it out in her own mind and partly to impress him.

  “Do you think we’ll run into trouble on the road?” Lindsay asked.

  “I don’t think so. There used to be many more bandits. The government has cut down on a lot of it. That’s one good thing they’ll say about Olumide, he made the roads safer.”

  “Mussolini made the trains run on time, but he was still a fascist,” Lindsay said. “I found Olumide pretty scary when I interviewed him.”

  “How so?”

  “He tried to charm me, but he tried to scare me too. There was something . . . I don’t know . . . sinister about him.”