A COUNTRY OF NO RETURN
By
TIMERI N MURARI.
-The
Struggle of Man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.
Milan Kundera
THE DEPARTURE
The man, David Richelieu, knowing he was going to his
own execution for unspecified crimes, looked down at the sleeping woman. Her
hair, revealing white at the roots, shielded half her face, tousled from a
restless night; her breath shallow, gently reassuring. He bent, breathed in the
perfume, and kissed the air goodbye.
It was early morning, the light muted
by the shades, as he moved to the door. A stocky man, broad shouldered, unruly
grey hair, was surprisingly light on his feet, not a rustle of sound as he
stepped into the corridor. He patted the pockets of his summer jacket, wrinkled
and a size too large to check he had his passport and wallet. The gift was in
the inner pocket. He had a new phone,
the old one hidden in a suitcase, switched off. At times, he could be absent-minded, but on
this day he was alert to the possibilities of a fatal error. He walked out of
the hotel to a near deserted city, stepping out of a long darkness into the
light, tensing for the journey ahead. His hired car was parked down a side
street with the overnight case in the boot.
He had not told Marge of his planned misadventure.
She would have wanted to accompany him, a sprightly woman who loved him and
accompanied him everywhere. They were on vacation, sleeping late, seeing the
sights, indulging their appetites for wine and good food. When she woke, she
would believe he had gone for the morning newspaper and would join her for
breakfast. If he wasn’t there, she would start searching for him, pacing the
room, calling reception, calling the embassy, calling the tour organisers,
calling the police finally when she could not find him. She would not panic,
not just yet, allow him a day or two to find his way back or get in touch. She
knew at times he needed his solitude and would vanish, then return with no
explanation, relaxed, as if nothing had happened. He did not have a lover; she
was positive of that but never understood what he did on these excursions. Just
the need to think something through, he would reply and she accepted the
explanation. He was a thinker, after all, a man with a past.
The drive had taken longer than he
had calculated, nine hours, not six, as road works were in progress just as he
had started out, and was trapped him in the traffic back up. The road leading
to the border was only two lanes and he had to drive carefully, as the trucks
and cars raced with the familiarity of knowing the idiosyncrasies of the route
too well. Two hours out the traffic thinned, an occasional truck, then just the
quiet hum of the car, the warm breeze through the window, lulling his senses. He
was enjoying the drive through the forest, keeping within the speed limit,
suspicious of police speed cameras. He stopped at a village hotel for lunch,
putting on sunglasses and pulling the fedora low over his head and, as he was
ahead of schedule, rented a room to nap. He had slept badly, anticipating this
journey, mentally preparing himself for it. He woke late evening, checked the
time and continued his journey. Darkness came swiftly, only the intensity of
the headlamps drew him along the winding road. He peered to look up, a clear
sky, the half moon and the stars without light pollution so visible. The radio
had long fallen silent as he moved further from the city, and he hummed to keep
concentrated. It was nearing four in the morning, when he stopped at a curve,
got out and walked down the road, past the bend, and saw the border check post.
He remained watching a long time,
deciding whether to drive on or drive back. He had come this far, and saw no
harm in crossing and finding a good hotel in the city. His passport was in his
inside pocket, it had a valid visa. A good man, the vice president marketing
for CCP International, selling its financial products – investments, start ups,
inside information – to clients around the world. A successful corporate type,
bland, ambitious only for his success, one day elevated to President of CCP
International, if all went well. The corporate world as dangerous as the real
one in manouvering for power. This journey was a break from business, a private
holiday to explore the beautiful capital with its wide roads, monuments, cafes,
museums and expensive whores. No, he had no meetings planned, no investment
opportunities to sell, his diary blank for the next two days. But should he
meet, by chance,a possible client, he had a list of these investment and start
ups memorized, every one of them bonafide, not cons, easily checked by reading
the financial papers or online. Even a call to the CCP Inc. head office would
vouch for his authenticity. The switchboard would connect the caller to his
office, a secretary would regret that
David Richelieu was on vacation and back next week.
‘I am David Richelieu, vice president
of CCP International,’ he said out aloud to the night, speaking to the trees,
the bushes, up to the starry sky. Fading now, as the dawn light had begun to
steal away the magic of night. He spoke to reassure himself, to be what he was,
and returned to the car, the motor still idling as he hadn’t wanted to break
the silence by starting up. It would be heard miles away, and knew why he had
taken such precautions. He treasured silence, the hum of insects, the first
stirrings of the birds, waking from their sleep, even the trees reaching out to
the early light.
He drove slowly, almost coasting to
the border post, his lights off. The wall emerged gradually from the
surrounding grey light. He had seen photographs of it, looking so much like
other walls, built to last centuries- the great wall visible from the
moon, walls of ancient forts, long
breeched by invaders, inhabitants salughtered, the walls of prisons too to
incarcerate men, and women. As the first rays of sunlight touched the wall, he
saw that it was made of steel and granite, at least fifteen foot high, an
admirable wall, topped with barbed wire, that guarded the borders of this
nation as far as he could see. It followed the jagged imaginary line drawn on a
map to define the nation’s existence. It didn’t inspire, it filled him with
despair at such a world that imprisoned itself to keep out the alien. That was
the nature of all walls, to keep the outsider out, the insider in. The wall was
now 17-years-old, a new born, and had weathered well, formidable and
impregnable. In far distance he saw the camps of those excluded, desperate to
enter a promised land, praying that wall would vanish when it heard their
incantations and chants. He imagined the
children, mothers and fathers staring all day at this barrier in their lives.
In a forgotten age, a trumpet blast disintegrated a great wall. Once, before
the wall, there was a view of fields, villages and in the hazy distance the
hint of a city just below the horizon. There was a break in the uniformity of
the wall, a metal barrier, wide enough for a motorcar to slip through and on
the other side, the border control office. To right side of the post, half way
up the wall was the signboard, blurred by the rain and heat, concealed by
weeds, no longer proud of boasting to the outside world ‘Welcome to AKRANDAH.’ Now, that was another
country, obscured too by the passage of time, the wall and just a memory and a
longing.
He stopped the car at the border
post, got out, stretching, as a border guard came out of the office, stifling a
yawn, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The
second one stood at the barrier, already waiting to lift it. He took out his passport, ready to hand it
over. The guard took it, opening the pages slowly, finding the visa, comparing
his face to the photo. He went to the office, took out the stamp and placed the
seal on the page. The barrier lifted. Just beyond it, Richelieu caught sight of a
man walking towards the post, purposefully. He looked straight at Richlieu as
he neared and Richlieu knew that someone had betrayed him.
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