Ramseyer's Ghost

CHAPTER 1SHIT! AM I CRAZY? OR something? I’m in Africa! f*****g Africa. Sitting on a beach with my back against the rough trunk of what must be a coconut palm. My jeans are soaked with salt water. God only knows the condition of the kit in my backpack. It’s dark, so dark that all I can see is the dial of my wristcom. 3.14 a.m. 3.15 now. At least that’s working. 3.15 a. m. Greenwich Mean Time. What’ll that be in Washington? Four hours back. 11.15 p.m. I’d better give Millicent a call before she turns in. Probably fast asleep in front of the TV. I told the f*****g bosun, “Beach your boat so that I can step out onto dry land.” He says, “And bust my outboard? That’s not part of the deal. And who knows what African darkies, excuse the expression, will be waiting for us there? This is as far as we go, Buddie. It’s low tide and only waist deep. Now git or I’ll take you right back to the tanker.” My back is itchy. I stand up and rub it against the tree. There are lights on the surface of the sea, twinkling, like stars reflected in a smooth pond. But there are no stars, the sky is overcast. And the surface of the sea is no way pond-smooth. There’s no rational explanation. Unless it’s a species of marine fireflies or maybe some kind of African witchcraft. Witchcraft? Crash, get a grip. Best to strip off and hang my pants up to dry. But hang them on what? I’ll just have to lay them out on the sand and wait for the sun. I feel in my bag for my towel. Wet! Everything’s soaked. f*****g f*****g bosun. I sit down and call up Millicent. Fergus answers. Fergus? What the hell is he doing up at this time of night? I hear a male voice in the background. It says, “Fergus, who is it?” “Fergus,” I say. “It’s Dad. I’m calling you from Africa. But how come you’re up so late?” Fergus says, “Hi, Dad,” and then, “Uncle Bud, it’s Dad.” “Fergus, give that to me,” says Bud. “But I want to speak to my Dad,” I hear Fergus say. Then it’s Bud on the line. “Crash, where are you?” he asks. “Bud, I’m in Africa. Just landed. Now let me speak to Millicent, please.” “Millicent’s having a bath,” he says. “And what the hell are you doing in my house at this time of night. What’s going on?” He starts to reply but I interrupt him. “Let me speak to Fergus,” I tell him. Then the instrument goes dead. I find the hip flask in one of the bag’s side pockets. I’m a teetotaler and the brandy’s intended for use in an emergency, but what the hell. If ever I needed a drink, it’s now. We’re in a restaurant. I recognize one of the side booths at the Stars and Stripes in the Old African Quarter of Washington, D.C. My farewell dinner. Millicent, dressed up to kill and drunk, Bud, in his uniform with his new Silver Oak Leaf. The band strikes up. Bud gets to his feet and extends a hand to Millicent. She staggers after him, leaving me with Selma. Selma the mouse. “Well, Selma?” I say. “Well, Crash?” she says. On the dance floor Bud and Millicent are in a clinch. They’re hardly moving, just swaying to the music. Bud’s hands are on her buttocks, holding her tight. Selma turns to follow my gaze. “Well, Selma,” I ask her, “What’s it like to be married to a Lieutenant Colonel?” When I open my eyes they are standing there, staring at me. The sun is behind them. I raise my hand to wipe the sleep from my eyes and the dream from my mind. They take a step back. Two boys, one perhaps six years old, Fergus’s age, the other a little older; both stark naked. I’m naked myself, from the waist down, with a morning hard-on. I stretch for my pants and cover myself. I curse myself for falling asleep. And then this. It was for Ham’s looking on Noah’s drunken nakedness that the Lord God punished us blacks. “Buzz off,” I tell them and raise my fist. They look back over their shoulders as they run. Once they see that I’m not chasing them, they stop and turn. I raise a fist again and they make off. I allow myself a smile and for a moment imagine Fergus and Marilyn playing naked and carefree on that beach. Technology has spoiled the childhood of our kids. I go down to the water and wash my face. The tide has risen. Turning, I see the coconut palms for the first time, a whole ragged plantation of them, extending into the distance east and west as far as I can see, without a single distinguishing landmark. I must bury some stuff but how will I find my way back to collect it? I enter the code on the wristcom and record my position. Then I cut some notches in a coconut trunk. I need to take my morning s**t. There is no one in sight but modesty leads me to look for a private location. Wandering back inland through the palms, I catch sight of a shack and decide to investigate. As I have been taught, I call out “Agôô” to give notice of my presence. There is no reply. I take a closer look. The corrugated metal roof seems intact. So are the wooden jalousie shutters. But the door hangs askew, its top hinge rusted away. Cautiously I poke my head through the opening. I pull back so quickly I hit my crown against the door frame. Instinctively, my trained Marine mind takes over. I do a quick reccy: north, south, east, west, no one in sight. Then I do some slow stretches. Only when my heart stops pumping do I think of taking another look. In the course of my career, I’ve killed a man or two. To my regret, some women and children, too. Sometimes that’s unavoidable. And I’ve seen more than a few corpses, not a pretty sight. Nor, for that matter, a dainty smell. But this is different. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Slowly, carefully, I stick my head through the opening. Morning light filters through the jalousies. The single room is sparsely furnished, a table, a chair, some sort of shelving against the far wall. On the chair sits a human skeleton, the bones held together by jeans and a faded patterned shirt. The chest and shoulders lie on the table, the skull enclosed by the arms. There is a book. Man perishes; his books survive him, it strikes me. I strain my eyes to read the title. “Four years in Ashantee,” it says. I shiver, hoping that that is not some sort of bad omen. On the floor, partly covered by a plain cloth, lies another skeleton, smaller, a woman perhaps, lying on its side in a fetal position. I mutter a prayer and withdraw. Outside, I stand for a while and reflect. Is this crude mausoleum of any relevance to my mission, my missions, I wonder? There is none that I can see. I record a brief note of the incident. Doing that reminds me that Bud will be waiting to hear from me. At this moment he’ll still be snoring in his warm bed in D.C. His bed or my bed? Or maybe Selma, needing some sleep herself, has tried to close his mouth and he has woken and decided the time is right for a screw. As for Bud, any time is right for a screw, at least, that is, if you can believe even half the stories he tells. The wristcom works perfectly. I hear his phone ring. It rings ten times. Then he picks it up. “Who the f**k is calling me at this unearthly hour?” he growls. Typical of Bud. What if it had been some senior officer? “Hi, Bud,” I greet him, in the sweetest of voices, as if I were chatting up some dumb broad. “This is Crash. Remember me? I’m in Africa. I just thought you’d like to know. Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep. Will you forgive me, old fellow? And by the way, how’s Selma? Do give her my fondest greetings, will you?” He doesn’t say a word, just slams the phone down. “Well, f**k you, Bud,” I say aloud, as if he could hear me. Then, like a cat, I dig a small hole in the sand and s**t in it. Thank God for the training they give you in the Corps. Next stop, the sea. To wash my hands. Cleanliness, the Good Book teaches us, is next to Godliness. Especially in the tropics. I haven’t walked twenty paces when something hits the ground behind me. I swing myself round the nearest palm. Hey, do I feel a fool? It’s just a coconut. I relax. I look up into the fronds of the palm the thing has fallen from. Two eyes look back at me. Another small boy. “Oburoni, maakye,” white man, good morning, he greets me. “Wobenom kubé, anaa?” Would you like to drink some coconut milk? Silently, I curse. He has been spying on me. He has seen me using the wristcom and has heard every word I’ve said. I wonder whether he understands English. “Good morning,” I reply. “Do you speak English?” “Please, teacher, yes. I am hearing English small. Please, what is your name?” Damn, damn, damn, I curse. I haven’t been in this country a day, I have yet to meet an adult native, and I’m already being made to look like a fool. I smile up at the lad. He grips his cutlass between his teeth and shins down the trunk of the palm, no rope, no ladder, just the alternating grip of legs and arms. “What were you doing up in that tree?” I demand. “Please, I cut kubé,” he replies. Evidently he doesn’t know the English word for coconut. That doesn’t stop him using his cutlass to slice off the top, exposing the contents of the fruit. “Drink!” he commands. I do as he orders. The milk is cool and refreshing. When I have drained it, I am about to drop the nut. Vegetable matter, biodegradable, you understand. The boy takes it from me and with a single expert stroke splits it into two. He returns one half to me, together with the slice he has taken off the top, to use as a spoon. “Eat,” he commands. I scoop up the soft white flesh. Delicious. And filling. Before I know it, I’ve had a great breakfast. “Please, teacher, what is your name?” he asks. “You know my name. You called me Oburoni, white man,”I complain. “I’m not a white man. I’m darker than you. Why did you call me that?” The poor lad is confused. My flood of angry English is more than he can handle and I take pity on him. “Back home,” I tell him, “they call me Crash. But here in Africa my name is Ekem. Or Yaw, because I was born on a Thursday.” “Ye fre wo sen?” I ask him in Twi. That surprises him, my speaking to him in Twi. I gather that his name is Kwabena, but beyond that his answer comes in such a torrent of words that I’m unable to keep up. So instead of making an attempt to answer, I ask him two questions which I have prepared in advance. “Wo firi he?” where are you from, I ask; and, in case he doesn’t understand, “Wo kurom wo he?”