The Constant Gardener

The Buffalo banks, levels out and rushes forward. The airstrip hits it like a rocket. Clouds of flaming red dust envelop the windows. The fuselage sags left, then farther left, the cargo howls in its moorings. The engines scream, the plane shudders, scrapes something, moans and bucks. The engines die. The dust subsides. They have arrived. Justin is staring through the falling dust at an approaching delegation of African dignitaries, children, and a couple of white women in grubby jeans, dreadlocks and bracelets. At their center, clad in a brown homburg hat, ancient khaki shorts and very worn suede shoes, strides the beaming, bulbous, gingery and undeniably majestic figure of Markus Lorbeer without his stethoscope.

* * *

The Sudanese women clamber from the plane and rejoin a chanting cluster of their people. Jamie the Zimbabwean is hugging her companions to whoops of mutual pleasure and amazement, and hugging Lorbeer also, stroking his face and pulling off his homburg and smoothing his red hair for him while Lorbeer beams and pats her bottom and chortles like a schoolboy on his birthday. Dinka porters swarm into the rear of the fuselage and unload to Edsard's instructions. But Justin must remain in his seat until Captain McKenzie beckons him down the steps and leads him away from the festivities, across the airstrip, up a small mound to where a cluster of Dinka elders in black trousers and white shirts sit in a half circle of kitchenchairs under a shade tree. At their center sits Arthur the Commissioner, a shriveled, gray-haired man with a hewn face and intense, sagacious eyes. He wears a red baseball cap with Paris embroidered on it in gold.

"So you are a man of the pen, Mr. Atkinson," says Arthur, in faultless archaic English, when McKenzie has made the introductions.

"That's correct, sir."

"What journal or publication, if I may make so bold, is fortunate enough to retain your services?"

"The Telegraph of London."

"Sunday Telegraph?"

"Mostly the daily."

"Both are excellent newspapers," Arthur declares.

"Arthur was a sergeant in the Sudanese Defense Force during the British mandate," McKenzie explains.

"Tell me, sir. Would I be correct in saying you are here to nourish your mind?"

"And the minds of my readers, too, I hope," says Justin, with diplomatic unction, as out of the corner of his eye he sees Lorbeer and his delegation advancing across the runway.

"Then, sir, I pray that you may also nourish the minds of my people by sending us English books. The United Nations provides for our bodies but too seldom for our minds. Our preferred authors are the English master storytellers of the nineteenth century. Perhaps your newspaper would consider subsidizing such a venture."

"I'll certainly propose it to them," says Justin. Over his right shoulder, Lorbeer and his group are approaching the mound.

"You are most welcome, sir. For how long shall we have the pleasure of your distinguished company?"

McKenzie answers on Justin's behalf. Below them, Lorbeer and his group have come to a halt at the foot of the mound and are waiting for McKenzie and Justin to descend.

"Until this time tomorrow, Arthur," says McKenzie.

"But no longer, please," says Arthur, with a sideways glance at his courtiers. "Do not forget us when you leave here, Mr. Atkinson. We shall be waiting for your books."

"Hot day," McKenzie observes as they descend the mound. "Must be around forty-two and rising. Still, that's the Garden of Eden for you. Same time tomorrow, OK? Hi, Brandt. Here's your hotshot."

* * *

Justin has not reckoned with such overwhelming good nature. The gingery eyes that in the Uhuru Hospital refused to see him radiate spontaneous delight. The baby face, scalded by the daily sun, is one broad, infectious grin. The guttural voice that sent its nervous mutterings into the rafters of Tessa's ward is vibrant and commanding. The two men are shaking hands while Lorbeer speaks, Justin's one hand to Lorbeer's two. His grasp is friendly and confiding.

"Did they brief you down there in Loki, Mr. Atkinson, or did they leave the hard work to me?"

"I'm afraid I didn't have much time for briefings," Justin replies, smiling in return.

"Why are journalists always in such a hurry, Mr. Atkinson?" Lorbeer complains cheerfully, releasing Justin's hand only to clap him on the shoulder as he guides him back toward the airstrip. "Does the truth change so fast these days? My father always taught me: if something is true, it is eternal."

"I wish he'd tell my editor that," says Justin.

"But maybe your editor does not believe in eternity," Lorbeer warns, swinging round on Justin and raising a finger in his face.

"Maybe he doesn't," Justin concedes.

"Do you?" The clown's eyebrows are hooped in priestly inquisition.

Justin's brain is for a moment numb. What am I pretending to be? This is Markus Lorbeer, your betrayer.