Endangered (15 page)

Finally the man looked up. “So, you're the American who skipped out on the airlift.”

It took me a moment to find my voice. “Yes. My name is Sophie Biyoya-Ciardulli. Ciardulli is my dad's name. The American. I'm hoping — I guess I'm hoping you can get us out of here. He lives in Miami. My dad.”

“Right. My name's Hector Carrizo. And I'd love to go to Miami, too. But I don't know if you've noticed, but the
mayi-mayi
are in charge now.”

“I thought it was the
kata-kata
.”

“Not familiar with that one. But take your pick, sure, them, too. Or the LRA. Whoever. Everyone wants to come visit the bar once the music's playing, you know what I mean? Let me tell you what we can and can't do for you. For starters: Do you have any paperwork, passport, anything?”

I shook my head.

Hector smiled. “How about the monkey?” He looked at Otto. “You have any documents, sir?”

“Him neither.”

“It's okay, you speak English like an American, and that's enough proof to convince me. In any case, this little white box we're in is basically what passes for civilization in Congo these days. The capital is down and out for the count, except the Belgian and French embassies, and who knows how long they'll last. The only UN troops here are the same forty thousand guns that have always kept the peace in Congo. No reinforcements have gotten in, because they can't. We're outnumbered a few thousand to one. We're alive only because they have rifles and machetes and we have RPGs.”

I didn't know what an RPG was, and didn't have space to ask. I sensed Hector was telling me more than I needed to know, but
that these were things he wanted to get off his chest and couldn't admit to his men.

“Look,” he continued, “you're clearly a bright girl. When I say that help can't get in, it's partly logistics — the runway was bombed out. But that doesn't mean the West couldn't send in helicopters or ships up the river if they wanted. If they wanted to put a stop to this, they could. But the imperative isn't there. Maybe the powers that be approve of the regime change. Maybe they enabled it. Maybe the president was starting to restrict the flow of minerals out of Congo, and for the love of all things Nintendo they're hoping the rebels will install someone who will want foreign aid and all the trade concessions that come with it. Congo can become a dependent vessel all over again, and people can get cheap minerals and cheap electronics. But what do I know? I'm a peon on the ground. Like you. Except I've got a gun. Nice monkey, that's a good little monkey you've got. What's your name again?”

“Sophie Biyoya-Ciardulli.”

“I don't suppose you have a passport or anything on you.”

“No,” I repeated. “But I was registered at the American embassy. Do you have a list?”

“As I said, I'm going to take you no matter what, but it's easier if I have a number.” He rummaged through a stack of curling papers on a clipboard, then switched clipboards and searched another. “Birth date?”

I told him.

“Sophie Biyoya-Ciardulli,” he said, tapping his lips as he scrutinized the paper. “Sophie Biyoya-Ciardulli … oh yes! Looks like we have a message for you. From your mother.”

The air conditioner whirred and clicked as my brain stuttered. “I'm sorry, what? Where is she? Is she okay?”

“She is … I'm sure she's … I've got no clue, tell you the truth. Let me find the message. That should settle things.” The clipboard
opened, and he rummaged through the compartment beneath until he found a note typewritten in blue ink on pale blue paper. He took his time reading it, and I resisted the urge to rip it from him as I scrutinized his face for a clue as to what was inside. “It looks like this came in during the week after the assassination. A month ago. The embassy put it in our hands when they evacuated.” He handed the slip over.

Hector studied my face as I read. “That was a few weeks ago. But I'm sure she's still fine,” he said.

I nodded.

“She'll be glad to know that you're with the United Nations now and we're getting you out of here. As soon as we establish contact with Mbandaka, we'll get word to her somehow that you're safe and sound. That's a pledge.”

“Thank you,” I said numbly. “Does that mean you don't have any contact with Mbandaka right now? I thought it was supposed to be safer farther north.”

He shook his head, then clapped his hands and shrugged, eager to move on to a new topic. “How about you tell me a story. Like what's the deal with the monkey?”

“He's … I'm sorry, can you give me a minute?” I put my head in my hands. I couldn't talk about Otto in my state, not when so much depended on what I said. If my mom was still alive, she would be at the release site … I thought her remoteness would keep her safe, but she was near Mbandaka. It was among Congo's most dangerous cities even in times of peace, and the UN had no contact whatsoever with the entire city of almost a million people. That radio silence was full of imagined monsters, like a broad empty space on a map.

Otto had a good ear for when he was being talked about. His arms around my neck, he turned his head to take in the man. I wiped my eyes. “Sorry. I needed a moment. Otto's a bonobo. I don't know if you've heard of them. They're relatives of the chimpanzees. And endangered.” I was hoping that word would work some magic. Maybe there was a UN mandate that calling an animal endangered worked like clicking ruby slippers, and meant they'd have to drop everything and whisk us to safety.

“He's lucky he hasn't been eaten, is what he is,” Hector said, eyeing Otto.

Ah. No ruby slippers. “Can you do anything to help him?”

He laughed. “Help a monkey? No. I've got my men doing tours to stop as many
people
as we can from being shot. You could say
we're all out of monkey chow. I don't have the capacity to help another one.”

“Another one?”

He looked at me quizzically. “I figured you were here because someone told you about the others. A starving man showed up a few days ago with two monkeys in a cage on his bike.”

“A guy on a bike brought you two bonobos?”

Hector squinted at Otto. “I guess he did. Must have figured we'd be the only ones who could buy them. They looked like yours. Just not quite as healthy. Scraggly. Scabby.” He screwed up his lips, as though some thought struck him, something he'd forgotten about.

“Where are they now? The bonobos?”

He flicked his pen against the desktop, leaving little blue pockmarks in the aluminum. I could read the thoughts running across his eyes, like a news ticker:
I've been clumsy. Young woman in my custody about to become a problem.

“They're monkeys,” he said levelly. “Animals.”

“What are you trying to say?” I said, heart quavering.

“We took them from the trafficker. But we don't have the resources to take care of people, much less animals. We let them free out back.”

“You let them go, right here near the airport, in the middle of all these crowds of people?”

Hector sighed, and I watched his estimation of me plummet. “Would you have rather I left them with the nice bushmeat trader?”

I'd made a mistake. Otto and I needed to have this man's goodwill, whatever he'd done. “I get it,” I said. “What else could you do?” And I did get what he'd done. I just didn't feel it.

He nodded and shrugged. “What else could I do?”

“So,” I said, shaking my head, “what do you think I should do?”

“Here's the plan: I've got the chopper doing a run to Brazzaville every evening to get supplies. You could go with us tonight. The war hasn't spilled over to that country, at least not yet. We can set you up with one of the embassies, and you can get a flight onward from there. You mentioned family somewhere? Besides your mother?”

“My dad's in Miami.”

He nodded. “Good. Right, Miami.
Hace calor.
It's all settled, then.” He stood and adjusted his gun belt over his gut. “Are you going to be okay sitting tight for a few hours until we leave?”

I nodded. Hector walked to the door. “There's rations in the bottom drawer of the cabinet, and the jug of water on my desk is iodine-treated. Those plastic glasses are clean. Ish. Help yourself.” He paused, his hand on the handle. “Look. To answer your earlier question. We're in the richest country in the world as far as minerals. Some very fancy metals that go into electronics can be found only here. What's lying unused in the Congo soil is worth more than the combined yearly GDP of Europe and America. So: How did a bunch of impoverished scraggly Rwandan mercenaries overthrow the standing government of the Democratic Republic of Congo? With lots of help from rich friends. Rwanda is the biggest exporter of coltan, diamonds, and gold. Rwanda has none of these, but it's next door to Congo. Follow?”

“It's not about Tutsis. It's about access to the mines. These rebels have investors that want access to minerals.”

“Right. The rebels enslave the people and get free miners. In turn, they use the billions of dollars they make to buy more arms and terrorize more people.”

I sighed. “So basically you're saying that this war isn't going to be over anytime soon.”

Hector shook his head. “No. It's not. You're lucky you're here with us.” He opened the door, and I was hit by a moving wall of
sun-hot air. “I'm sure those two monkeys we let out back are fine. Like I'm sure yours will be fine. There's lots of nice trees around here.”

His tone turned my stomach. “I was hoping Otto could come with me.”

“Absolutely not. That's against every protocol. Besides, the chopper will be full.”

“Full? He'll stay on my lap. He won't take up any more space,” I pleaded. “He's endangered, I can't leave him here.”

“All the more reason. Transporting endangered animals across country lines is illegal.”

“During a
war
? Please, I'll do anything —”

“There are millions of
people
suffering. Do yourself a favor and worry about them instead. He'll be fine. Lonely for a bit, and then he'll be happy as a clam. Make sure he doesn't touch anything. I'll be back for you in a bit.” Hector left and slammed the door. The white bubble shuddered.

Otto got up and slapped the door handle curiously. He stood in the middle of the floor, swaying on his feet, and stared up at me. He'd met so many new people, seen so many new things. He must have been so overwhelmed. I opened my arms, and as he scrambled into them I wished we could stay in this clean white box for days, doing nothing but leaning against each other and not worrying about food and water and disease and machetes.

But we couldn't, because in a few hours Hector would come back and separate us. He'd throw Otto into the jungle. Into this narrow triangle of greenery between a road and a river, surrounded by starving people.

I imagined those two young bonobos tossed out back. I'd once have predicted that they'd scurry away as quickly as possible. But then I remembered Anastasia and Ikwa and Mushie, how they'd gotten used to me and, when their lives were upheaved on a scale
bonobos were unprepared for, looked to a friendly human for a solution.

Those two little bonobos had spent many weeks with that trafficker. They didn't know how to forage on their own. So where were they right now? The answer seemed clear: right where they'd been dumped.

I cracked open the door to the UN pod and stood at the border of cool, soft-lit sanity and the vivid familiar chaos of Congo at war. A pair of guards was rushing toward the helicopter with crates in hand, and in the distance I heard commotion, heated complaints in Lingala. The guard at the fence was talking patiently to a group of old men who kept shouting back, pushing against his assault rifle, never pausing to take a breath or acknowledge the deadly weapon they were pressing against. This civilized space felt so small, a dry circle shrinking on the floor.

I took the pitcher of water in hand. If they were still here, those bonobos were probably thirsty, and I had a couple of hours to spare to care for them. Otto on my back, I stepped out of the door and let it click closed.

Making sure not to pass too near any of the peacekeepers, Otto and I headed to the far side. There was a pile of trash at the back, and then the clearing abruptly gave way to jungle. We went a ways in, until the ground went from clear to overgrown. Finding it difficult to pass, I set Otto on the ground and pivoted, peering into the greenery. Otto sat for a moment, then wandered away, investigating the trash pile and toying with a piece of old oily cardboard before I scolded him. Irked at me, he jumped up and down a couple of times, ran a lap around the open space, and finally, spent, plopped down beside me. I offered him some water and he took a few tired gulps, his hands keeping the pitcher's rim steady, and then he slumped, resting his back against mine. He remained that way for a few minutes, until something caught his attention.
He murped, then went to the edge of the overgrowth and stood there agitatedly, waiting for me to follow, glaring at me like I was an idiot who didn't know how to take a hint.