The wolf hour, p.4
The Wolf Hour, page 4
Dominic’s office was in a low concrete building. The roof lacked gutters so natural rainwater channels had formed in the soil beneath the barred windows. Rising damp had crumbled the walls to produce a lattice effect beneath a large mural along one side—blue-armed children played soccer amid giant butterflies, and beneath the window there was a longhorn cow with a striped face. The effect was celebratory, almost cartoonish. When Tessa first arrived it reminded her of a kindergarten. She liked its shabby, almost whimsical optimism, but after two months it was easy to see what often began with great enthusiasm could easily flake away.
Things Fall Apart. ‘Everything turns to shit,’ was how Stephen put it when she was in Cape Town. ‘The Africans can’t maintain anything, they let everything go.’ It was the final thing he’d said to her before she left; a sour culmination of their last argument, and in seething frustration she hadn’t spoken to him, or about him to her parents, since.
Dominic’s door was open. Tessa stood for a moment, and when he failed to look up she knocked on the doorjamb. She had made an appointment to see him and felt certain that he knew she was standing there.
‘Hello,’ she said, and knocked again, a light, slightly urgent sound.
Finally, Dominic glanced up and nodded for her to enter. As she stepped forward he held up the book he had been reading. It was his copy of Acoli Macon. He cocked his head to one side. ‘In here,’ he said, ‘there is an Acholi saying, Ibino ma atakka pyeri opong—you have come dressed for a big part in a dance, you have come full of ambitions.’ He smiled and cast a critical eye over her. ‘But, be warned, the dance might not be as easy as you think.’
She gave him a lopsided smile in reply.
He put the book down, pushing others aside. On the desk in front of him there was a clunky old desktop computer. It made an audible hum that seemed to keep time with the generator—and, like the generator, frequently lost connection, often for the better part of the day. For now, though, it worked, and as Tessa sat down on one of the plastic chairs, Dominic lifted his chin in the direction of the screen. ‘There is an email addressed to me from someone you know,’ he said and moved closer to the computer as though his eyesight was poor.
Tessa squared her shoulders and waited.
‘You have been busy,’ he added.
‘You mean I have a colleague who is one of the delegates.’
‘This one here, John Alphington?’
She nodded. ‘He’s from the ICG.’
‘Ah yes, I see that, the International Crisis Group. Like so many others—Pax Christi, World Vision, Invisible Children—these NGOs they help, they hinder. Gulu has become an NGO city. Everywhere you see their white Toyotas.’
Tessa shifted uneasily. ‘Maybe, but I don’t belong to any organisation—political or religious. I don’t have an agenda.’
Dominic tapped his index finger against his lip. ‘Really? Everyone I know has an agenda.’ He pointed to the computer screen and nodded. ‘I know your colleague, John Alphington, and he does have an agenda, although it is one in favour of the ceasefire and retraction of the indictments, so I happen to agree with him.’
‘I’m sorry, Dominic. I wanted to speak to you before he contacted you.’
Tessa noticed the pulse beating in Dominic’s throat. The gold crucifix shone. For a time neither spoke; there was just the humming of the computer and voices outside calling to each other.
‘There are claims that the talks will go ahead this week,’ Tessa said, breaking the silence.
‘Yes, there is to be a face-to-face meeting.’
Tessa glanced around the office. It was stuffy and cluttered. A dusty old-fashioned fan stood in one corner, its electrical cord cut, most likely appropriated for some other appliance. Beside it there was a filing cabinet, and on the wall above a whiteboard on which a list of returnees’ names was written in smudged blue and red. Papers stacked in cardboard boxes were stored along one wall, and along the other two walls were crammed bookshelves.
The gold lettering on the spine of The Divine Comedy stood out like a challenge, although beside it there was a large photograph of Dominic shaking hands with the government minister, Betty Bigombe. Dominic had spoken of his admiration for Bigombe’s efforts to initiate contact with Kony in the nineties. The photo, mounted in a plastic picture frame with scrolled corners, was covered in red dust, although there were fingerprints on the glass as if someone had recently wiped it with their hand.
Unlike the system of divine punishment in the Inferno, Dominic wanted reconciliation, he wanted peace, as did Betty Bigombe; they held on to the idea that things could change. An amnesty, a permanent ceasefire. Dominic sat at his desk in his baggy gabardine pants, his beige socks and slip-on sandals with his white shirt open at the neck, and Tessa felt a sudden tenderness for him; he looked weary and the thought came to her that he was always tired.
She said very carefully, ‘Why do you think Dante says: Abandon all hope ye who enter here?’
‘Ah, so you think that is where I am going?’
‘You are going?’
Dominic nodded. ‘But I do not think it will be Hell. I am not a medieval Catholic.’ He lifted the gold crucifix. ‘This was my father’s,’ he said. ‘He spoke both Acholi and English. He went to church, but he was also a traditional healer. I am a reader of the Bible, but I believe in the ancestors’ spirits too. I also use Western medicine. Ibuprofen is very good.’ He smiled. ‘We have this saying in Gulu: God help me, but I’m going to run as well. We think both ways at once.’
‘And now you believe that peace is possible.’
‘Anything is possible. I see that in America a black man is running for president. That the war in Iraq may end.’
Tessa sat forward. Feeling a nervous catch in her throat, she swallowed. ‘Dominic,’ she said, ‘I want to come with you.’ There was a small warning voice in her head that reminded her this was a breach of etiquette—she was asking too much of this man who had been her advocate and host. ‘I’m physically fit. I can take care of myself,’ she said, then waited, hoping there might be other tacit understandings between them that would carry their own weight. There were the benefits: she could think of many—international exposure, maybe extra funding for the centre, help with the new school.
Dominic picked up a pen and twirled it in his hand. His nails were yellow and split. He stared at her and raised his eyebrows then put the pen down.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘This is to be a sizable delegation, but it will be an arduous and possibly dangerous trek into the Congo. Besides, Kony and the LRA are very strict about who they allow.’
‘If I came, it would be as a neutral bystander. I would have nothing to do with the talks. You can trust me to stay out of the way.’
Dominic waved her words aside as if he were swatting a fly. ‘Ah, you are like a smouldering coal ready to catch fire! You have a dangerous will. But you are determined, Dr Tessa, I can see that, I can see you are adamant. You might have the support of another delegate, but not my approval.’ His tone had become stern and the crease between his brows deepened. He stared at her. ‘Let me ask you this: what is it that you hope to achieve?’
Tessa took a deep breath, afraid of affectation, afraid of inadequacy. ‘I want to do something with my education rather than spend the rest of my life in a university without really contributing anything very much.’ Immediately she felt embarrassed, sure that she had overreached. ‘Dominic, please. I would go only as an onlooker. Someone to report on the conditions in the camps. You know that there is not enough information about how the rebels function or the actual extent of child participation. I could document something of that.’
Outside a horn beeped.
Through the open door of the office, Tessa saw the gates to the compound entrance swing open. An army jeep entered and, when it came to a stop, two government soldiers got out. Both wore the shoulder-sleeve insignia of the Ugandan flag on their fatigues. The taller of the two had a general’s stripe; the other, who was loose-limbed and lean, adjusted his peaked cap with his thumb, then reached into the cabin for his rifle, which he pulled out and casually slung over his shoulder in a way that seemed perfectly natural.
Dominic leant his elbows on the desk and studied the soldiers through the open door of his office, then glanced back at Tessa. ‘And now we have more delegates,’ he said. ‘But you need to remember that it is not just the LRA who have carried out crimes against humanity. Kony is right when he accuses the government army of atrocities. These men—’ he nodded in the direction of the soldiers ‘—belong to the Uganda People’s Defence Force. They are meant to protect the people against the rebels, but that has long been compromised. Why hasn’t the ICC investigated the killing done by the Ugandan army?’ Dominic bristled, as he did whenever the topic of the army arose. ‘How it is that army commanders can inflate their troop numbers only to keep the salaries and rations of dead soldiers for themselves?’ he said in a reproving voice. ‘You understand how it is? They promise peaceful outcomes, but this is still a business from which they can profit—Operation Pay Yourself.’ He flashed another quick look at Tessa then stood up. ‘And now I must go and greet my guests.’
From inside the office, Tessa could barely discern what language they spoke let alone make out what they were saying. Dominic towered over the soldiers and it was the first time Tessa had seen him use such animated gestures. Normally it was his slow purposefulness that struck her; now, as he held his head high, she saw he was as much a soldier as those in uniform.
She moved to the front porch for a better view and craned her neck. They were arguing. Dominic raised his voice and shook his head as he shifted from one foot to the other, then he placed his hands on his hips. The soldier standing closest to him moved aside.
Across the driveway, a game of soccer was taking place. Excited cheering, then a gleeful yell as one of the boys scored a goal between the two haphazard posts. The galvanised sheeting on a nearby lean-to banged whenever anyone kicked the soccer ball into it. It sounded like a marker of time, followed repeatedly by the boys’ whooping.
Finally, the soldier in the peaked cap swung his rifle around from his back and, lifting it, aimed it at the boys playing soccer. It appeared to be a joke; he laughed, lowering his rifle, then shrugged to make light of the pantomime he had just staged.
Dominic waved his hand disdainfully. It was clear he would not be intimidated, and that he had also agreed on something on his own terms, and then, almost as if he had waved them away too, the soccer players abandoned their game as the soldiers walked back to the jeep.
As Dominic returned to his office, Tessa stepped aside. He glanced at her. ‘Kony has moved the meeting forward,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘So you will be leaving soon?’
‘Yes, within the hour.’
The air was warm and Tessa’s hands felt sticky. She could smell smoke and the scent of burning rubbish from the incinerator in the corner of the compound. Adrenaline rushed through her. It was that foot-off-the-ground sensation she felt whenever she gave in to a slightly reckless impulse. ‘So, you will agree to let me come?’ She heard the anticipation in her voice.
Dominic’s brow furrowed. ‘We have already been through this. It would be too difficult, too dangerous. Besides, you would not be welcome.’ He straightened. ‘I will see you sometime next week.’
‘Dominic?’
‘Again, I must say no. You are a woman. You would be at risk. And—’
‘And I am white.’
‘Yes, you are white. You are a white Westerner. You are a woman.’
She heard the note of derision in his voice and wished she hadn’t, but as if to confirm his position he went on, ‘Besides, I would feel responsible for you.’ He jabbed his chest above his heart. ‘If anything were to happen to you, I would have to take the blame.’
‘Dominic, please, I will gladly sign a waiver. You are not responsible for me, but this is important—my going might eventually assist the children here.’
Dominic began to move things around on his desk. ‘How can it help? What good are your reports when, as you tell me yourself, all they do is gather dust or end up in the computer system of some foreign university?’
‘Don’t you see? That’s exactly where they will end up if I don’t try to make them count. These children’s stories have little meaning unless the rest of the world knows about them.’
‘So you want to go to the source of the conflict and report back?’
‘Yes.’
He smiled, but not happily. ‘You sound like a journalist.’
‘Perhaps that is not such a bad thing,’ Tessa said carefully. ‘If I can help these children by raising awareness, it might influence what you do here by supporting the call for more counselling. The caseworkers you need. Another psychiatrist. One that comes here more than once every three months.’
She knew she was pushing hard. She saw Dominic’s acquiescence in the way he refused to look at her.
‘Please yourself,’ he said finally. ‘But you are right: I will not guarantee your safety.’
5
Anything Tessa could leave behind she did. She packed only the lightest camping equipment—dried food, a small tent, a sleeping bag, her phone—then quickly changed into sturdy clothes and her hiking boots before joining Dominic and the Ugandan soldiers who stood in a cluster around the jeep.
Dominic introduced her as Dr Lowell, but before anything further was said a noisy boda-boda pulled up with two men on the back. The men got off with their packs and paid the driver, who revved the battered motorbike and drove away, raising a small trail of dust. Both men were delegates from the International Crisis Group. The first, a field analyst, introduced himself as Hans Berg—a Norwegian with sandy-coloured hair and hooded eyes. The second was the American delegate Tessa had contacted.
‘John Alphington,’ he said and offered his hand. ‘So finally we meet in person.’ He had grey, collar-length hair and sharp features, a large nose and stubbled beard. Tessa had seen photographs of him online but he looked older in real life. The crêpey waffle of skin on his neck and the crow’s feet that came into relief when he smiled gave him a world-weary look. Actually, they all look worn, she thought. Even the younger soldier in the peaked cap—whom she had heard Dominic address as Gideon—appeared older than he should.
When the soldiers helped Dominic and the Norwegian to pack the jeep, Tessa thanked Alphington for vouching for her.
‘You seem pretty fit,’ Alphington commented. ‘And I suspect you’ve played your own part by talking Dominic into letting you come along.’
Tessa shifted uneasily. ‘I was hoping to observe the camp, that’s all.’
Alphington lifted an eyebrow. ‘Because you know this is Uganda—and in Africa there aren’t so many protocols?’
He raised his head slightly and, following his gaze, Tessa saw an enormous marabou stork on top of the compound’s water tower. It arched its neck and groomed its feathers with its blade-like beak.
‘They’ve become dependent on human garbage,’ he noted. ‘I’ve seen them eat plastic bottle tops, pieces of metal, human faeces. Scavengers. Some people call them the undertaker bird.’ He looked back at her.
‘I promise you, I won’t be in anyone’s way,’ Tessa said.
‘That’s a lot to promise,’ Alphington replied, and a smile that broke across his face seemed to suggest she knew very little. ‘Look,’ he conceded, ‘there might be some value in you coming. Like us, you’re an international presence and you may well get to see some of the child combatants who are with the rebels. But these people here—’ he nodded in the direction of the Ugandan soldiers ‘—they don’t actually care what you’ve done. Doctorates don’t mean anything. Besides, there’s a ten-hour drive before we even get close to the proposed meeting site, and then who knows how long it will take to trek in—at least a day, maybe more. No one will help you on this journey and there will be no one to get you out should anything go wrong.’
He looked across at Dominic then rolled his shoulders, and there was something in his brooding watchfulness that warned Tessa to be careful and not press him any further. It’s okay, she thought, she had no right to expect his allegiance let alone camaraderie. Stay neutral. Although, a moment later, Alphington turned and said almost confidentially, ‘You know, this may not turn out as we hope. The odds are stacked against us. There’s even the possibility that these talks might end up making things worse.’
‘Worse how?’ Tessa asked.
‘They can always get worse.’ Alphington shrugged. ‘Tensions escalate. Things get out of whack. Look, I’ve read your work, and I assume you’ve read mine. I’m not an idealist; I’m a pragmatist. Anyway, people don’t always help you out. Personally, I don’t know any truly good Samaritans, do you?’ He stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. ‘I’m not even sure they exist,’ he added. ‘As far as I’m concerned, these talks are about getting people to agree to terms they don’t want to agree to.’ He smiled and Tessa reminded herself that she had met men like him before; they might dismiss you completely, or they might press you up against a bar and talk on endlessly about what they had achieved.
Alphington dumped his pack into the back of the jeep and got in after it. Gideon had already started the engine and was talking to the general who sat in the front passenger seat, his arm resting on the sill. It was a battered army vehicle—a closed-in six-seater with a second fuel tank. A long crack ran across the front windshield and a spare tyre was attached to the bonnet. There was a rifle holster and a large plastic container of water in the back. Dominic hoisted himself into the central passenger seat and Berg got in on the other side. Tessa watched them and, in that moment, she felt she was making a mistake. She had a last-minute urge to tell them she had changed her mind, but before she could give in to it she stepped onto the rusty running board and climbed in.
