BAMAKO - Aribert Raphael (red queen ebook TXT) 📗

the airline’s lounge, sat in one of the chairs, read several more pages of her book, and leafed through some of the magazines piled on a table nearby. The second hour was long and boring.
After six hours of uncomfortable sleep on a couch, the loudspeaker calling the passengers to the aircraft “now ready for boarding” awoke Talya rudely.

8
No one was waiting for Talya at Bamako’s airport. No wonder, it was only four o’clock in the morning. Jean-Claude is still in bed for sure!
She went through the same song and dance as she did in Dakar. She picked up her suitcase from the luggage belt, a reliable taxi and on to the hotel. As she pushed through the doors and entered the lobby, a huge hall actually, a foul door hit her. The smell of urine had spread through the place. Observing the letters ‘WC’ painted over a door set into the far wall, she figured the nearby lavatory was in need of immediate attention and thorough cleaning, but she was too tired to ask any explanation from the night clerk.
While he was busy filling out her registration sheet, she looked round the entrance hall. It was barren of furniture, but not of people since it was almost time for early Morning Prayer. Even from inside the hotel she could hear the Imam’s call from the nearby mosque. There were groups of men in thawbs, standing chaplet in hand talking quietly while a couple of boys were polishing their shoes at their feet. These boys were Koran schools’ pupils. Some are orphans while others are boys whose parents cannot afford to feed them. They live with their masters in orphanages where they learn to read the Koran and observe Islamic laws, under the guidance of a ‘Marabout’ or a ‘Mulah’. Unfortunately, these institutions are not subsidized by any organization, so these boys have to fend for themselves; often doing menial jobs to earn their keep, scrounging for food at the market, begging in the streets, or even selling some surahs (chapters) from the Koran to the passers-by. Their masters, on the other hand, receive donations for their deeds in the community. It is a miserable arrangement, one that leads these boys to become insecure and abject or one that seldom engenders respect for one’s elders.
Talya was given a small suite with a balcony overlooking the swimming pool, part of the golf links and the Niger River beyond. Inside from the balcony however, she quickly forgot the sunrise scenery outside. The room reeked of mildew. It was the kind of door that grows from a long period of neglect. The wallpaper was peeling off in corners showing the plastered walls underneath. The veneered furniture was chipped and greasy to the touch. Talya is not a stickler for white glove cleanliness, but a trip to the bathroom told her she should have been. She didn’t bother unpacking, threw herself on the bed and stared at the moisture-ridden ceiling….
After a couple of hours of disturbed sleep—the cooling unit grumbling to a noisy stop at regular intervals—she got up and took a shower, cleaning the recess with her shampoo in the process. Once dressed, Talya ordered breakfast and phoned Jean-Claude. His wife answered.
“Is this Madame Gauthier?” Talya asked.
“Yes it is, Chantal speaking. Oh, you must be Talya. I’m so glad you’ve made it okay. Jean-Claude’s been so worried. We were not able to come to the airport. We thought of calling you this morning but I told Jean-Claude you needed your sleep and to wait a while longer. He had a little accident last night and I’m afraid he’ll have to go back to Brussels….”
Talya didn’t know how to take this sudden onrush of words and the news they conveyed, but she didn’t dare interrupt the flow and she let the woman finish her story.
She must be my kind of woman. Given half a chance, she would never stop talking.
In short, Jean-Claude had fallen down the stairs at home while trying to carry a trunk too heavy for him. He broke his shoulder blade. Sometimes men think of themselves heroes, invincible, unbreakable or some such thing.
When she got Jean-Claude on the line, eventually, he sounded short of breath. “It’s good to hear you’ve made it in one piece.”
“I did, my friend, thank you,” Talya replied. “But I hear you haven’t been so lucky.”
“I guess not. Anyway, let’s not talk about that now. We want to come to your hotel in an hour’s time, if that’s all right with you? I’d like you to meet Chantal before I leave.”
Listening to the faltering voice, Talya was convinced the man should not go anywhere.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Wouldn’t you prefer for me to come to your place instead?”
“No. That won’t be necessary. You’re tired…” How’s that for ‘the pot calling the kettle black’? “And we’ve got a car and a chauffeur ready to take us anywhere.” Talya heard Chantal in the background argue that her house was a mess.
“Sure, if you insist. I’ll wait for you downstairs,” Talya agreed somewhat reluctantly, still concerned for Jean-Claude, and what must have been a very painful injury.
“We’ll see you then.”
“Yes, of course, but be sure to call me if you change your mind.”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

At eleven o’clock, Talya went down to meet Jean-Claude and his wife, and although she was expecting it, as the elevator doors opened, the horrible smell, that still lingered in the hall, overwhelmed her. The porter came to meet her as she crossed the so-called lobby toward the hotel doors. His yellow bouffant trousers and burgundy turban plopped askew atop his head, the whole outfit, reminded her of some sort of sultan’s costume. Frankly, the poor man looked ridiculous. His attire didn’t add anything to the courtesy or deference he was supposed to impart to the guests, quite the opposite in fact.
Being very tall, the man bent forward to ask, “Anything I can get you, a taxi maybe?”
“No thanks,” Talya replied, “I’m waiting for some friends. I just wanted to get some air. It stinks in there.”
The sultan quickly wiped off the grin from his friendly face, shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
This isn’t going to be a pleasant stay by any description.
Soon though, Talya saw a white panel-beaten car lumber to a grateful stop at the front door. With great care and difficulty, Jean-Claude climbed out of it. His wife, a broad smile washing across her gentle face, trotted around the car, arms outstretched, and gave Talya a big hug. She returned the embrace feeling a little awkward. Chantal wore a flowery dress, which billowed around her, elegantly enveloping her well-endowed body.
As Jean-Claude took a couple of steps toward her, Talya noticed immediately that blotches of perspiration stained the front of his safari shirt. It was painful just to look at him. He was a tall man. His otherwise tanned face was ashen and wan, drawing attention to the glimmer of fever that shone in his brown eyes. He was obviously braving the onslaught of tremendous pain.
“Hello, Talya.” He extended his left hand for her to shake.
She took it in both of hers. “My God, Jean-Claude, you look dreadful.”
“And, how do you do to you too,” he replied, grimacing a little and taking his hand away. “This is my wife Chantal.” He nodded in her direction. “She’s going to take my place for the next few weeks. I’m sure she’ll be able to assist you while you’re in Bamako.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Chantal, and I’m sure the sooner we get rid of your husband, the sooner we can relax and get to know each other.”
“You haven’t changed. You are as sweet and as charming as ever,” Jean-Claude said as cheerfully as he could.
At these words, the smile on Chantal’s face froze. Obviously, she didn’t quite know how to take Talya or the relationship she had with her husband. They were only reporting acquaintances of some months, but Talya never had the opportunity of meeting Jean-Claude face-to-face before that moment.
The driver was sent away to park the car as they took a few steps to the hotel’s entrance. When the sultan opened the doors, a whiff of the offensive air inside reached their nostrils. Chantal quickly took out a handkerchief from her capacious bag, and placed it in front of her mouth and nose. She didn’t have to say a word. The disgust she felt was painted on her face.
“Don’t tell me they haven’t repaired the plumbing yet?” Jean-Claude cringed in disgust.
“Maybe the plumber is on holiday?” Talya suggested sarcastically.
“Talya,” Chantal said from behind the handkerchief, “I know Jean-Claude didn’t mention it, with everything that’s happened, but I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a room in another hotel for you.” How thoughtful! Anything would be better than this stinking hole. “Would you like to take a drive with us to the Grand Hotel and see if you’d like to move there?”
“Yes, that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day, thank you. That was very nice of you. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
Talya was still concerned for Jean-Claude. Looking at him, it seemed that he could pass out at any moment.
“Not at all, let’s get out of here then,” Jean-Claude said, waving his able hand to attract the sultan’s attention. He murmured a few words in his ear, presumably to recall the chauffeur, and they all trotted through the doors, instantly grateful for breathing clean air again—albeit hot.
The heat, which was bearable in the open air, was now suffocating. The car was not equipped with air-conditioning, and driving for a few minutes was worse than being in a sauna. Jean-Claude, who sat up-front, was visibly hurting. His greyish hair was matted to his skull. Drops of perspiration ran from his temples down to the open-neck shirt.
This can’t go on. “You people need to go home,” Talya said. “Let’s get to this Grand Hotel. We can talk on the phone later.”
She saw relief in Jean-Claude’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, and before his wife had time to speak, he said, “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’m sure. Just go home and get on a flight out of here as soon as you can. Chantal and I will manage just fine.”
In Bamako the heat, the filth and the dust are ever present. The city is the perfect example of human degradation marrying pride and absorbing faith while this piece of inhumanity is plunged into everlasting fatalism. In some areas, there are no sidewalks and no covered sewage. Green water swamps channel most avenues, streets and lanes, dealing a hand of death at every corner. Diseases are on the menu of the most sumptuous repasts or served with the most meagre meals. The reddish dirt covers the buildings and houses lining the streets. Most of them, built during colonial times, are left as they stand with little or no maintenance. Talya was surprised, however, to see new constructions erected amid the decrepitude. Here, the tree-lined avenues seemed to have enjoyed regular garbage removals.
When they arrived at the Grand Hotel, Chantal and Talya rushed indoors to escape the searing outside heat. Once inside, Talya stopped dead in her tracks in amazement. Through the