Bingo's Run Page 9

  Mrs. Steele asked me about Mama, but I did not want to talk about that. It was like when I asked Mrs. Steele about Mr. Steele. “Not now” was how that conversation ended.

  I liked being with Mrs. Steele. At 7:00 P.M. we ordered chicken. “Bingo,” she said, “eat up. You look thin.”

  In the lift, Mrs. Steele touched my shoulder. Her straight eyebrows softened. “Bingo, I did not mean to be rude about your artist, Thomas Hunsa. I am sure he is gifted. The trouble is that without seeing one of the paintings I cannot tell you what I think.”

  A trinket is a trinket. A million dollars is a million dollars. Everything is masks; the inside is hidden. If rubbish is worth one million, a Hunsa is worth ten million.

  Chapter 25.

  Bingo Runs to Thomas Hunsa

  After Mrs. Steele delivered me to my room, I waited thirty-two minutes, until the TV clock read 8:30. Then I ran down the Emergency Exit stairs and out a back door of the hotel, by the kitchen. The night air was cool and smelled of gasoline and food. Hotel boys in red jackets stood around smoking. Across the alleyway, the woman from the antiques shop sat on her crate forging papers. The fact that she worked so late meant the shop workers made a lot of antiques. I took the 16B matatu to Hastings; in my pocket were the three bags of white I had taken from the cutout hole inside my St. Michael’s Bible.

  When I got to Hastings, the drink hut and the hairdresser-brothel were open. A man stood outside trying to decide: here or there. I walked down Salome Road toward Thomas Hunsa’s house. As usual, children sat outside the house slapping paint onto anything they could find. I wondered who would bring Hunsa’s white to him now that I was going to America. “Jambo, Masta,” I called as I entered his house. The room smelled familiar; the paint mixed with piss, dirt, and rot softened my thinking. The Masta was looking through his paintings when I walked in. To Hunsa, each painting was one of his children. But a million dollars is a million dollars. I needed to adopt.

  When Hunsa looked at me, I could see that his mind was mixed up.

  I said, “Masta. It’s da meejit. How’s ya doin’ ya?”

  I grew real inside his head. “What’s ya wan’?” he asked.

  “I’z here for ma special white delivery,” I said. It was Wednesday, the day before my usual day, but I knew Hunsa had no idea. Time to Hunsa was like the color of a car before it explodes—not that important.

  I took out of my pocket the three small plastic bags of white and threw them onto the floor. The bags landed between his bare feet, and I saw that each of his toenails was coiled like a snail shell. He looked down, and then at me, and grinned. He was ready for business.

  “Masta,” I said. “I’z a deal for you’z. I give ya all tha’ white in tha three bags for one paintin’? Masta, have I got a deal, ya?” My words hung above his head.

  Then Hunsa spoke. “I use to sell ma paintin’.” His eyes lost focus and then shut. He spoke into his own dark, “But tha fookin’ dealas—they rip me off an’ I sell no one no mores.”

  I pushed the deal into his head. “Hunsa, do we have a deal, ya? All tha’ white in tha three bags for one paintin’. That a good deal, ya?” I could have just lipped a painting, but that is not honest; besides, I needed him friendly.

  The artist’s gaze flicked across me like a flame. He looked up at the ceiling as though an answer was written there, bent his toes, and said, “Okay. Deal, ya.”

  I picked up the plastic bags from between his feet and emptied the white onto the bronze dish balanced on the arm of his orange armchair. He sat down and looked up at me like a dumb goat. I pushed his finger onto the side of his nose. With the other hand, I pushed his head down. His thick, long, matted hair fell forward. A grin cracked his lips. He inhaled it all in one breath.

  I felt drunk and sick from the fumes in the house. I grabbed a small painting, left the artist’s house, and ran to the matatu stop.

  Chapter 26.

  Bingo Gives Mrs. Steele a Painting

  I got back to the hotel at 10:00 P.M. and went straight to Mrs.

  Steele’s room. There was a cleaner’s cart outside. I knocked on the door and Mrs. Steele opened it. She wore a light pink gown. “Bingo, come in,” she said. From the main room I could see a cleaning girl in the bedroom making the bed. She folded the sheets and smoothed them flat with her hand. She had an excellent behind. I held up the painting. “Look it!” I said.

  When Mrs. Steele saw the painting, she gasped.

  The painting I had bought from the Masta went just up to my hip. It showed Hunsa standing on a red turtle, legs apart, his arms out like Jesus. A woman’s head, her skin darker brown than his, looked over his shoulder. Her hair was braided, and from the braids grew leaves. The woman’s arms hung round Hunsa’s neck. Her skin was creased like bark and her fingers were nobbled to look like twigs. Her eyes were leaf-green and her deep red lips looked like spoons. Her face was so gentle and soft that I wanted to kiss it. At the bottom of the painting her legs melted into the red turtle’s shell. Paint was smudged where the woman’s head touched Hunsa’s; it connected them. The only parts of Hunsa that were not brown were the whites of his eyes and his bhunna, which was purple, and hung from his groin down to the turtle shell. The bhunna’s head was shaped like a breast. “Masta” was written in the bottom right-hand corner.

  Mrs. Steele asked, “Bingo, is this some kind of joke?” I guessed that Mrs. Steele had never seen a bhunna like this.

  “No, ma’am,” I said.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked sharply.

  “From Thomas Hunsa, tha Masta,” I said. I added, “I got it from his house. I’z his deala.”

  In a moment, Mrs. Steele changed her face; it was as if she had put on another gown. “There are more like this?” Her eyes were wide.

  I felt cold; the air-con was on full blast. “Ya,” I said.

  Mrs. Steele said—more to herself than to me—“God.”

  “So, how much it worth?” I asked.

  She was silent. She stared so hard at the painting it was as if it talked to her. Her neck got tight. “Well, Bingo,” she stuttered, “your Thomas Hunsa is an unknown artist and so, obviously, not a great deal, at least until I complete a full appraisal.”

  Mrs. Steele was lying. I could see it—she was trying to think fast, but her lie was a slow poison. She said, “Anyway, Bingo, for you to be Thomas Hunsa’s art dealer in America you would have to have a special letter. It’s called a contract. It’s the law in America.” She spoke as if I was a retard. “I can get my lawyer, Scott Goerlmann, to draft a contract for us. Then we need to get Mr. Hunsa to sign it. After that, we can try and see if we can sell any.” She looked at me and smiled hustler style.

  “A contract for us,” like I was an idiot. “For us” meant for her.

  Senior Father taught me that Fam fills a cave inside each of us. In the cave, Fam spends his time laughing, singing, and drinking. Fam drinks from four skins filled with whiskey, palm wine, rum, and chang’aa. Senior Father told me that when Fam gets thirsty he grabs one of the skins and drinks like crazy. Then he is drunk again and does his laughing and singing. Fam is always drunk; he is always full of evil.

  Senior Father told me:

  Chang’aa is the Evil of Greed,

  Whiskey is the Evil of Killing,

  Rum is the Evil of Missing, and

  Palm wine is the Evil of Revenge.

  He told me that chang’aa is the worst evil. It looks like water, so people drink it a lot. The Fam inside Mrs. Steele was drunk on chang’aa. The Hunsa painting was worth money. I could not take Mrs. Steele to Hunsa or she would become a drunk. “Thank you for the lovely picture,” she said, and took it from me.

  Chapter 27.

  Turn-Down Service

  I went back to my room. I had seen Mrs. Steele’s eyes come alive when she saw the painting. I liked her a lot, but money is money. Mrs. Steele had no idea who she was hustling. A contract? I needed a contract, and I knew exactly where to get one.

&
nbsp; Just then there were quick raps on the door. It was —10:42 P.M. on the TV clock. What could Mrs. Steele want now? Rap, rap, rap again. I walked slowly to the door and opened it. But it was not Mrs. Steele. It was the cleaning girl, the same one who had been in Mrs. Steele’s bedroom. She held an orange duster and wore a light brown dress. Her eyes, large globes, shone orange light, like police searchlights. She was only a foot taller than me, and it was clear that she ate well. Her hair was braided tidily. Her lips were giant pink conch shells, but they seemed to be made of soft dough. Her maid’s uniform was too large for her, but she filled it well. She was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen.

  “Sir, my name is Charity,” she said. “I am the night cleaner for this floor.” She had a chirpy voice that sang. “Would you like turn-down service, sir?” The “sir” was a dig at me, I was sure.

  Her hands were fine and her nails were short and neat. She wore no rings. In the silence that grew too fast, her fingers gripped her duster tight. She tilted her head, then stepped into the room, letting the door close behind her. “Turn-down service, sir?”

  I can talk up any girl, but my head was empty—nothing was in it. “What?” I said.

  A badge with the words CHARITY, Guest Care Services was pinned to her dress. My eyes looked to see how much the badge was pushed out by her breasts, but her laugh-chirp interrupted. The perfect pink lips said, “What is what, sir?”

  My voice was sharper than I meant. “What tha turn-down service you’z said?”

  Her eyes widened and she smiled. Charity stretched her arms up toward the ceiling. She still held the orange duster in her hand. She turned away from me. “That is the turn,” she said. Then she bent her body toward the floor. Even as she bent, her eyes watched me. Her fingers brushed the carpet. “That is the down,” she said. She stood up straight and looked at me. “You see, sir, that is a turn-down.” She stretched her arms up to the ceiling again, turned her body the other way, and did the same thing. Her body was excellent. She stood straight. “Turn and down. That is why it is called turn-down service, sir.” She smiled. “It is good for the body and sharpens the mind.”

  “I’z sharp,” I said.

  “Oh, I know, sir,” she said.

  I watched as she repeated the turn-down service four more times. The orange duster was like a flag. “Join in,” she said. There was something about her song voice that made me do it. I stretched up my hands, turned, and bent down. The carpet was closer to me than to her, but I could not bend down low enough to touch it. “Sir, that is most excellent,” she said. “You will get better with practice. Try the other side.” She turned and did another turn-down. I copied her. She stepped toward me. Instinct made me step back.

  I said, “This is stupid.” My hands were hot.

  “I am sorry you did not like the Livingstone Hotel turn-down service, sir. Most guests like it very much.” Her chest lifted up and down. With a tongue flick, she licked her lips. I wanted to touch them with mine.

  She walked to the bed. She wore sandals, and her hips swung like a song. My body went tense. She folded back the top part of the sheets. Then Charity looked at me. “So, sir, what brings you to the Livingstone?”

  I said, “I come in a blue van.”

  She laughed. This cleaner could annoy a piece of concrete. Her chirp-laugh could crack it.

  She said, “That is most impressive, sir. And are you on business in Nairobi?” She looked hard at the sheet. “Or are you a tourist?”

  To be called a tourist is worse than being called a whitehead. “I’z a businessman,” I said.

  She smoothed the white sheet. “Sir, that is most fascinating. And may I ask of your business?”

  I wished I was wearing my shoes—I wanted to look more professional. “I’z an art deala,” I said.

  Charity scrunched her mouth. “My goodness,” she said. “That is most extraordinary.”

  “Why tha’?” I said back.

  “I was just cleaning another room on this floor.” She stopped and stared at the bedsheet. “I probably should not say.”

  “Go on, ya,” I said.

  “Well, there is another art dealer staying here on the third floor—that must be a coincidence?”

  I nodded. “American woman, ya?”

  Charity looked up at me. “You know her?”

  “Ya,” I said. “She’z my colleague.”

  It was immediate: the cleaner took me seriously. Her eyebrows rose, impressed. “That is most interesting,” she said. When she smiled, her lips were wings of pink.

  I had run white to hundreds of businessmen. I knew their style. I spoke to Charity businessman style. “Why that interest you? You’z a cleana,” I said.

  Charity’s face fell. She looked at the carpet and said in a quiet voice, “You are right. I am just a cleaner.”

  “I’z sorry,” I said. I dropped my businessman voice and spoke normal. “Why that interest you? You like art?”

  Charity shrugged and looked up at me from the carpet. “Well, sir, when I was cleaning in your colleague’s room, just a few minutes ago—” She stopped. “Sir, I probably should not say.”

  “Go on,” I said. “Tha American, good fren’.”

  She looked back down.

  “Please, say it,” I said. Now I was speaking beggar style.

  Charity breathed in and out. She shook her head at the carpet. “No, sir, it would not be right.”

  I said, “Go on. Please.”

  Charity scrunched her mouth and smiled. “Well, sir, if you do nine more turn-down services I will tell you.”

  I was about to argue but changed my mind. I did them fast, not trying. When I was done, Charity smiled. She said, “That was most excellent, sir,” her voice light again. “Well, sir, just before I came here I heard the American lady say on the telephone that she had just won an art deal worth millions.” She added, “She seemed very happy.”

  I had been right. The Masta’s paintings were worth millions. Mrs. Steele was a hustler. “Fookin’ hustla,” I mumbled.

  “What was that, sir?” Charity said.

  I breathed hard. I said, “I like your dusta.” Then words came out of my mouth by themselves, as if one part of me was talking to another part of me: “Tha Masta’s paintin’s worth millions. Mrs. Steele think she can outhustle me?”

  Charity frowned. “I hope I did not say anything wrong, sir?” The cleaner shrank back. “Sir, please do not tell your American colleague what I said. Sir, I beg you. Manager Edward will fire me.”

  I said, “Na, na. Don’ worry, Charity. I say nothing.” Anyway, if I told Mrs. Steele it would get me nowhere. I tried to make myself think clearly. My chest beat hard, my neck thudded, and drummers in my head joined in. Mrs. Steele was a hustler—nothing more.

  Charity chirped into the silence like a bird on a branch above a river. “Have a very good night, sir.” She stepped out of the room and shut the door.

  I was mad as spit. My head filled with the thud of Mrs. Steele’s words:

  “Art deal worth millions.”

  “Art deal worth millions.”

  Did Mrs. Steele think she could beat Bingo Mwolo, the greatest runner in Kibera, Nairobi, and probably the world?

  Just as I knew what a Bloody Mary was, I knew what a contract was. And I knew where to get one. I needed one now!

  Chapter 28.

  The Kepha

  The lawyer Kepha Kepha was simply known as the Kepha. The Kepha was the lawyer everyone went to in Kibera if they needed a legal document, or any document. But lawyers need money, the way preachers need God—you cannot have one without the other. Money first, lawyer next; then a contract. I ran to the Condom Bus.

  The Condom Bus was a constant in a place where alleyways, huts, and people were not. The words written on the bus’s side, AIDS Action, had faded; rust, dust, and dirt covered most of the letters. The windows were gray. Though the nun lived on the bus, when I arrived there was no sign of her. I looked about and saw no one. I sli
d under the bus. It took seconds to pull down the plastic bag. I pushed it down my shirt and crawled out. Then I went behind a drink hut and took out the money I needed. In a minute, my money bag was back underneath the busload of condoms.

  There were rumors about the Kepha. One was that he was a hotshot lawyer in Lagos who had left Nigeria in a hurry because of the police. Some said that the Kepha only helped the poor, which was why the office was close to Kibera; others said that the Kepha served royalty and the rich. Another rumor was that the Kepha was the best lawyer in the world; still another, that the Kepha was half lion.

  Most people in Kibera do not write, because they do not have the time to learn. If someone needed a letter, the Kepha wrote it. If someone had a dispute, the Kepha wrote up the complaint. If a heart-busted lover wanted a love letter or, worse, a marriage contract, he went to the Kepha. The Kepha was truth; everyone knew it. I had never needed a lawyer, because Wolf’s contracts were made without writing, but I knew where to find the Kepha. Kepha Kepha worked in the Olympic Estate Primary School; the offices opened at night, long after school closed.

  I got to the Olympic Estate Primary School at about midnight. There was already a line of people curled around the brick building, though there were no signs telling where to go. Signs were a waste; as I said, most people in Kibera are too busy to learn to read. The lined-up people carried various objects: chickens tied upside down by their legs, folded clothes and blankets, baskets of yam or rice, and assorted electronics, like radios, CD players, and, in one case, a television. One woman led a goat; another fed her baby. Both goat and baby cried.

  The line moved slow as mud, but within two hours I was inside Classroom 3E. The school desks had been pushed to make a U shape, and customers started at one end of the U and moved quietly along the line of desks until they left through the door marked EXIT. Behind each desk sat a man or woman; the men wore ties and the women wore head scarves. In the middle of the room was a desk, probably the teacher’s. A small light-skinned Indian girl sat there. Her hair was tied back and her eyes darted; even when she wrote notes or typed, her eyes flicked around the room. None of the customers spoke to her. I guessed she was the accountant. Indians in Nairobi sell things.