A path less straight (pt. 9)

Ein Kleine Nachtfahr

“So what is Amani Na Miti? Is it a village or somewhere with a proper hotel?” I asked.

“It’s a spot in a forest,” Egg replied. “The punchline to a joke that was not funny even before it was translated through three different languages.”

“Oh, no shower, then.” I sighed.

From the time we had landing in Nairobi I had realised that my perceptions of Africa were too much swayed by wildlife documentaries from the Serengeti to be anything approaching realistic. The city had scared me, too busy, too foreign, too far away from home for my sensibilities that were seeming more provincial by the day. Outside the city things were worse, people stared because we were different and it had taken me a while to work out it was nothing approaching racism, just curiosity.

“How come you never mentioned Machwa?” I asked.

“She’s my half-sister from Mother’s wild days, I’ve only actually met her a handful of times,” Egg explained. “I last saw her about ten years ago, she got into a fight with Aphelia, but we managed to separate them before the lightning and meteors hit.”

Conversely, Egg had taken it all in his stride, drinking in the differences and thriving on them. He had borrowed the four-wheel drive truck from one of Bracken’s business contacts, filled it with supplies from local stores and we had set out as though it were a quick trip to the seaside. It had taken us one day to leave the paved roads behind. When I objected to setting out into the wilds he had offered to turn around and take me back to the city, so I had steeled myself and told myself it was an adventure, something to make Janet’s much vaunted visit to Florida seem tame.

“Do you really know where Amani Na Miti is?” I asked.

“Yes, I spent the summer holidays there once,” Egg replied. “I think Mother was on the run from Interpol, but I was too young to understand that completely.”

Using snippets of different languages, hand signals and occasionally outright bribes, Egg had obtained fuel, services, accommodation and directions. I asked him why he did not just use a map, but he had explained that Amani Na Miti was not on the map and so we needed to get as far off it as we could. Which made as much sense as ever.

“I thought we’d see more animals,” I commented.

“There’s some chickens and a cow,” Egg said.

“I meant exotic animals, that’s just someone’s farm,” I told him.

“That cow’s pretty odd looking,” he said.

Egg had told me that we might have to rough it and had given me the option of flying straight home from Florence, but it was not until I was several days without a proper shower that I worked out the prospect of seeing wild elephants did not really balance out the hardships. Bumping along rutted dirt roads all day was not living up to the romantic level set by our Italian jaunt and I still had not seen an elephant.

“Look! Gazelles,” said Egg. “Or at least some sort of deer with funny head spikes.”

“You're no Attenborough,” I told him.

“And here, in their natural surroundings, we have the lesser mottled, pointy-headed, bouncing deer, ever alert for tourists and spontaneous photo opportunities.” Egg gave his best, but poor attempt at nature documentary voice-over.

On the forth day he pulled off the main track and took us down something that was more of an impression that someone had been along this way once before than an actual path. We stopped early and he cooked a meal of rice and local vegetables under a mosquito net hung between the truck and a tree. He lit a single candle and we watched the sun go down through the gauze. Even though the air was cooling quickly, he was sweating.

“We're nearly there,” he said. “When the sun goes below the horizon we should have about quarter of an hour before the full moon rises and we need to make the most of it.”

“Make the most of what?” I asked.

“The near complete darkness,” he said. “Let's pack up.”

We quickly dismantled out makeshift dining area and got back into the truck. It was then I realised I had no idea what he was planning. He started the engine.

“Shouldn't you put the lights on?” I asked. “Come to think of it, why not wait until the moon is up, it would be easier to see.”

“The idea is that you can't see anything.” He released the handbrake and we set off.

“That's not a good idea,” I told him.

“If you don't know something's there then you can't run into it” We were picking up speed alarmingly, there were no outside visual clues, but I could tell by the engine noise and the way the truck was shaking on the rough surface.

“That's nonsense.” My voice rose in pitch as my terror increased. “If I turn the lights off at home I still walk into the sofa.”

“But you know that's there, think of all the things you manage to walk through,” he said.

“Egg, this is madness! You're going to kill us!” I cried, on the edge of a scream.

I hung onto the seat, fearing that every lurch would mean a fatal collision. Egg had a look of total concentration, sweat beading on his wrinkled forehead.

“Nearly, nearly...” he chanted to himself.

I closed my eyes. It changed nothing but it allowed me to get a grip on my breathing and then my hysteria. I still had enough wits to notice we were not dead, the ground felt smoother under the wheels, smoother than any track we had driven in the last couple of days. I could almost fool myself into thinking we were just travelling along a normal road. I kept my eyes closed.

Suddenly Egg slammed on the brakes, the truck slewed slightly as it came to a halt. I opened my eyes. Egg was leaning back in his seat, panting. Gradually a combination of increasing light and my vision adapting brought me an awareness of our surroundings.

Right in front of us was a huge tree. We were on the edge of a forest clearing. Behind us were more trees and undergrowth. Somehow we had carved a path through the woods without leaving a trail

A path less straight (pt. 8)

Refusing the Italian job

“I think we’re being followed,” I said, overwhelmed with the feeling that somehow I had ended up in a gangster movie.

A long, low, black car had pulled out of the gate behind us, when I had taken Egg’s short cut along the farm track it had made the same short cut. It had then follow us back onto the road and was looming large and menacing in the mirror.

“Yes,” agreed Egg. “Sorry, I thought we could avoid something like this if we popped in unannounced.”

“You knew something like this would happen and you didn’t bother to tell me?” I was quickly throwing off the lethargy lunch had tried to induce. “And now we’re being tailed by the mob?”

“I misjudged,” he said. “He knew I would turn up and had prepared for it, that’s not good news. We’ll have to lose them.”

“How?” I asked.

“Our car is much smaller, we’ll find someplace they can’t follow,” he said. “Just drive like Bracken was teaching you.”

“Randomly and rely on hope to get out of this?” I felt a seed of panic start to germinate in my stomach. “What if they have guns?”

“Guns would turn this from a cheeky infraction to a major incident, he wouldn’t risk offending my family that much,” he explained. “Turn right when we get to the village.”

I increased my speed as much as I dared on the narrow twisting road, but habit made me slow down as we passed by houses and people. Turning right took us onto a road that lead straight back out into fields and farms. The black car was still behind us, I could see it on the short straights between bends.

“Left here,” Egg called.

I only just saw the turning in time and nearly put the car into a wall. The road descended, crossed over a stream on a little stone bridge and then climbed back up. Egg directed my through a farmyard and along a short, dusty farm track and then, on reaching another road right and into a village.

If this was a different village, then it appeared to be laid out very similar to the one we had already driven through. There were no satellite dishes or solar panels on the houses, and none of the few cars parked by the side of the road looked to have been made any later than the sixties. We rattled through the cobbled square and Egg directed me onto a narrow street that lead back out into farmland.

“Are they still behind us?” I asked, unwilling to take my eyes from the fences and stone walls as they rushed past us.

“Yes, but they’ve dropped back a bit,” Egg replied. “Take this right.”

Again we bounced along a farm track, grape vines lining our passage. I hoped the dust that the car was raising would obscure the view of our pursuers and then realised it was as good as leaving a trail for them to follow. Egg pointed out an opening on the right and we joined another track of hard-packed earth.

Oddly this led into another village, a rather grubby affair, the street became paved with stone only as we approached the inevitable square. A woman paused in tipping a bucket of dirty water into the street, a donkey hitched up to a cart gave me a wary eye as I skirted around it and a nun crossed herself at our presence. I noticed the lack of telephone wires and television aerials. I was about to comment on this when something struck me.

“Egg, it’s the same village,” I said.

“How can you tell?” He asked. “They all look the same to me.”

“It’s the same village, but as it was a hundred years ago,” I insisted.

We left the village square by another road which rapidly became a dirt track as the houses receded. A glance in the mirror showed me that the black car was now closer. I looked across at Egg for an answer.

“Get ready to turn left,” he said.

“I don’t see anywhere to turn,” I replied.

“You don’t see anywhere now,” he said.

“That’s what I said,” I replied, panic rising a little.

“Nearly, nearly,” he said.

“There’s nowhere to turn,” I told him.

“There’s nowhere yet,” he confirmed.

“Then how can I turn?” I asked, flustered.

“Turn now!” He said with such force I nearly heeling the car over into a ditch at his say-so.

But then I saw it, I spun the wheel as hard as I dared and the sound of tyres screeching on Tarmac greeted me. Suddenly we were travelling along a modern road, a sliproad, in fact, for a multi-lane highway. I merged behind a large truck with French plates and looked in the mirror for signs of pursuit. There was nothing but a gaily coloured hatchback filled with a quartet of chattering Italian women and a white van whose driver was leering at them.

My heart rate slowed and I let the traffic carry us along. Inside of me I started building up the ball of invective that I wanted to launch at Egg.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a fantastic getaway driver?” He asked.

I glanced across at him. The tension burst like a bubble and I started to laugh so hard that I could hardly see where I was driving. When sanity made it slow way back into my body I relayed to him what Isabella had told me.

“Pull over so that I can kiss you,” he said.

“You’ve been drinking,” I told him.

“I have,” he admitted, pulling out his phone and starting to fiddle with it.

“Now what are you doing?” I asked.

“Booking tickets,” he said. “I believe I promised to take you to the opera.”

A path less straight (pt. 7)

Statue limitations

Lunch was a succession of many small courses. A chef would have exclaimed over the elegant simplicity and the flavoursome local ingredients, I was too busy cramming it into my mouth. I was drinking water, a taste of the wine during the tour had been a delight, but I knew wine at lunchtime would only make me want to sleep all afternoon, besides, someone had to drive.

Egg had brought up the matter of his mother’s visit during a miniature but delightfully dressed green salad, but Giorgio had denied seeing her at all this year. Giorgio then regaled us with the story of how he and Egg’s mother had retrieved a statue from Talamone harbour without local officials, fishermen or the mob having a clue what they were doing. It was a ridiculous and convoluted tale of cleverness and daring with many grand hand gestures and interludes for refills of wineglasses.

“But when we found out the elephant was afraid of snow we knew we would never get the statue over the Alps, so we sat down and drank a bottle of wine each,” Giorgio explained over a tiny but perfectly delicious tiramisu. “That was a mistake, the elephant was a mean drunk. So we left the statue there and gave up the whole caper, which is how she got to be where she is today.”

He gestured out of the window. I turned my head to see the statue stood at the end of the driveway, smiling at me. The smile was earnest, maybe a little sad and not the same expression as I recalled her having when we arrived. As I stared she gestured her fingers in a ‘come here’ sort of motion, I put my spoon down slow and deliberately.

“I just have to powder my nose,” I said. “Excuse me.”

I let myself out of the dining room and along the corridor, but instead of going into the bathroom I tip-toed through the entrance hall out slipped out of the front door. Standing on the step and feeling a little foolish, I stared at the statue daring it to move again. Just as I had convinced myself that it had been my imagination she beckoned me over with her fingers.

Gingerly, I shuffled closer to statue. I swallowed, cleared my throat and was just about to ask her what she wanted when I heard the front door close behind me. Shocked, I whirled around, Isabella was standing on the step, observing me.

“She wants to warn you,” Isabella said. “ Giorgio has lied to you.”

“He has?” My heart hammered as though I had been caught pocketing the silverware.

“You boyfriend’s mother, she was here,” she explained. “I think she came not to see Giorgio but to talk to Rosamundi. That’s what I call her.” She gestured at the statue.

“What did they talk about?” I asked.

“Oh, Rosamundi never says anything, but Diana was talking about a man she no longer loved, she then asked Giorgio where her daughter was.” Diana, it was the first time I had ever heard her called anything but Mother.

“Her daughter, Aphelia?” My eyes flicked towards the dining room window, but the men were still talking and drinking, unaware of our conversation.

“No, she called her Machwa,” she replied. “He said she was in Amani Na Miti, but I don’t know where that is. There is one more thing, the wine they are drinking, it is special. Soon Giorgio will make your boyfriend an offer and he will be unable to refuse. You must take him away from here quickly.”

“Is that how you...? “ I could not resist asking.

“Oh, no. It is me that keeps him here,” she said. “I do my best to keep his business from hurting people, but some days I fear for his soul. Now, quickly before hands are shook.”

“Thank you, Isabella.” I turned to the statue. “Thank you, too, Rosamundi.” She did not respond.

As I re-entered the dining room Giorgio was offering Egg a cigar and Egg was accepting.

“You, know, a man with your talents could go along way over here,” Giorgio said. “In fact, what would you say if I offered you a position in my organisation?”

Egg was about to open his mouth so I got in quickly.

“Sorry, no business decisions while we’re on holiday, you know the rule,” I pulled an unresisting Egg to his feet and started to usher him out of the door. “It’s been lovely, thank you for the lunch, but I just noticed the time and Egg promised to take me to the opera this evening. If we don’t set off now I’ll never have time to do my hair properly.”

Despite protestations from our host I managed to manoeuvre Egg out of the font door and into the car. As we pulled away Isabella waved and I waved back. Giorgio has a suspicious look on his face and I hoped that Isabella had not done anything to put herself in danger, but she seemed unconcerned.

Rosamundi appeared to be nonplussed by the entire affair.