* * *
The Metropolitaine was filled with newly sworn-in Nigerian recruits. Clean-cut and shaven, their new uniforms pressed, they seemed to be having the time of their lives; the next day and wherever in the war that might take them was a thought for another time. Loud roaring laughter mingled with the sound of clashing glassware; some danced to the rhythm of half-drunken, clapping hands while others sang at the top of their lungs. One would think that the war had ended, but that wasn’t so.
James sat on a bar stool on the corner of one bar, sipping quietly at a glass of red wine, his eyes peering through the throng of young soldiers as if waiting for something to happen. Louis was too busy to engage in any of his usually idle chat; he kept filling glasses and mugs with no end in sight.
A white, tall man in his fifties approached James. He had a thick grey mustache and piercing blue eyes, set in a congenial, friendly-looking face. He asked James with an horrible, unmistakably French accent:
“Red wine, in this kind of an establishment?” to which James retorted with a tooth-filled grin:
“Better than a Frenchman in Lagos.”
The two men shook hands fervently and the Frenchman sat down. He waved a hand to Louis, but he did not notice him. The man turned to James, shrugged and said:
“The service is terrible, non?”
“Blame the war, Giles,” replied James and sipped some more wine. He then pointed to the crowd of recruits in the Metropolitaine and continued:
“That’s 2nd Company, 298th Battalion, 1st Infantry Brigade, 1st Infantry Division.”
“Are they any good?”
“No. The ones they’re replacing are mostly dead. It’s just how it works, you know? Work with what you’ve got and so on,” he said and shook his head.
“I see,” replied Giles, eying the soldiers with an inquisitive though hasty look. He nodded to Louis who motioned a hand and almost ran to take his order. Sweating, and nearly out of breath, Louis asked him:
“Monsieur Rafoccat, gin?”
The Frenchman simply nodded before asking James with some hesitation:
“Anything new?”
James shook his head and shrugged, his reaction floating somewhere between genuine ignorance and feigned indifference. The Frenchman went on:
“There’s a lot at stake here. I don’t need to remind you that, do I?” he said and turned to the bar to get his drink. Louis smiled at first, but then saw the look on James face and decided to leave the two men entirely alone, walking away without having spoken a word. James asked Giles then, curtly and to the point:
“Are you ready then?”
The Frenchman seemed a little taken aback, even offended. He frowned and a somewhat uneasy moment passed before he answered:
“Not yet, no.”
He took a sip from his drink and ran it around his mouth before swallowing. James nodded to himself before asking Giles, his voice carrying a hint of urgency:
“What about the others? Is that the only cell in operation?”
The Frenchman shook his head and waved a hand dismissively.
“Would you have put all your… What is it that the English say? Eggs in one basket?” he said to James in a disaffected manner.
“I’m not running this war, Giles,” replied James with suppressed ire.
“But you certainly know your way around one,” retorted the Frenchman, pointing a finger at James, who silently sipped at his wine for a few moments, looking pensive. He then said hesitantly, looking Giles straight in the eye.
“It’s happening soon. A matter of weeks.”
The Frenchman pursed his lips and nodded appreciatively, tapping a hand on the bar with a sense of accomplishment.
“I’ll pick up the details in the usual way,” he said smiling and sipped some of his drink almost triumphantly, before adding: “James?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you’ll stay on until the end or else we will all lose,” said Giles in a suddenly serious, almost solemn way.
“Of course,” replied James without hesitation. Giles smiled thinly before saying:
“There is something else I have wanted to ask you ever since you approached us. Is it just the money? Or do you really feel their cause is just?”
The Frenchman’s tone had a curious ring to it, as if the answer would be exhilarating. James shrugged and sipped at his wine before answering:
“I have my reasons, as you have yours. Is it your sense of duty? Pride in your work? Love for your country?”
Giles seemed to be taken aback once more, James answer in the form of a question not fitting in with what he had expected. “It’s just orders, James,” he said, and smiled unevenly.
“That’s never enough,” replied James through a thin grin, “Not when your life is on the line, Giles. Is it the dreams, or is it the nightmares that keep you going?”
“I don’t have nightmares, James,” said the Frenchman shaking his head lightly.
“Everyone has nightmares, Giles, everyone,” said James and finished his wine in one big gulp. He then got up and left without paying. Outside the Metropolitaine, he grinned widely to himself and looked at the night sky. Heavy clouds hang above; a hard rain was about to fall.
Opening night
“I’m deeply sorry for your loss,” said Father Likembe and nodded solemnly. He struck Ethan as a man of integrity and good will. His words sounded true enough, so Ethan obliged a sincere reply:
“Thank you, father,” he said and nodded pensively, suddenly lost in thought, his eyes fixed beyond the mass of people waiting for a meal. There was a peaceful murmur in the air, rarely broken by the sound of crying children. The people that had gathered weren’t restless at all. He had been expecting something of a riot, and this orderly manner fascinated him. Nicole must’ve thought he was still trying to come to grips when she took him gently by the arm and said to the priest with a tiny shake of her head:
“If you need anything father, please… Anything at all…”
Father Likembe’s mouth formed into a gracious smile before he replied, “I need this war to end, nothing more.”
Nicole nodded skeptically before the plump Igbo priest continued:
“We could always use an extra hand or two. Another couple of mouths to feed are, as you can see, just a drop in the ocean.”
He gestured at the small throng of people, mostly mothers with their children, as well as old folk and quite a few disabled or injured men. Some of those had the stare of a wounded tiger, but for most the truth was that mines, shells, and bullets are quite oblivious to a man’s allegiance and unable to discriminate. They had simply been unlucky and with a bitter smile to himself, Ethan thought that this whole sordid affair reeked of bad luck.
“I can only hope you will consider it. I’d hate to force anything upon you, but do not forget, your brother died trying to keep others from such a fate,” said Father Likembe, trying to sound comforting and encouraging but with little success this time; his words sounded more like an overused, ready-made speech.
Nicole sipped her coffee from a tin and said with a slight dose of uncertainty, careful to meet Ethan’s gaze casually:
“I think I’ll stay on, father. I don’t know for how long, but I feel I should. I can’t speak for Ethan, but I’ll help.”
Ethan caught that gaze and remained expressionless for a moment or two. He was still trying to discern the truth in her eyes, her voice, her face, but he had proven quiet inept at it so far. It helped him though being constantly unsure of her; it enhanced his feelings of being distraught and wary at the same time, because Nicole probably thought he was acting weird as a result of Andy’s death. That should help him find out why she wanted him to think Andy was dead.
The priest smiled thinly and crossed his palms as if in prayer:
“That’s always good to hear,” he said with evident joy in his voice before adding in a more sombre, well-practiced, even tone: