On The Riverside Of Promise, Page 2

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  In the warm light of neon orange, Ethan searched his pockets for some small change, but to no avail. He rarely needed dimes and pennies when he made his cosmopolitan visits to the center of Lagos, but using the jukebox in Louis’ bar was such an occasion, and even more so a favourite habit.

  In fact, Ethan was not a rare visitor to Louis’ establishment and most would instantly recognise him. He was widely known as the Englishman, both to the few locals and the numerous extraordinary foreigners that frequented the Metropolitaine.

  Ethan maintained that he only came for the regularly up-to-date jukebox, whilst his tab indicated a thirsty sort of music lover with a certain taste for fine malts.

  Malts such as the unusually fine scotch that Louis kept stashed for the well-off or even the well-liked customers. He had simply decided to thank God there was good scotch to be found in a place like Nigeria and even more so in a bar like Louis’. To make the realisation even more mind-numbing for Ethan, there was good scotch to be found during what the Nigerian government chose to characterise as a crisis. The Metropolitaine’s crude and shanty decoration, or more appropriately its blatant lack thereof only helped to somehow accentuate that a war was going on.

  A couple of ceiling fans still worked despite what one might expect at first sight, barely keeping the air from going stale.

  It was with his usual wide grin that Louis, the proprietor, approached Ethan and offered him a penny before bowing slightly, impeccably dressed in a striped jacket, white pressed shirt, bowtie and smart pants, an air of the thirties Paris about him. Ethan accepted the coin gladly and immediately dropped it in the slot, while Louis chimed in his blatantly French but not unbearable accent:

  “Compliments of the house, Capitain. The usual? Some ice, double fine scotch?”

  Ethan smiled wryly and nodded while selecting a song in the jukebox, his index finger searching for the correct button to press. He pushed `Under my thumb’, and turned to reply to Louis before setting off to settle in his usual bar stool, the bar solely at his disposal at that hour:

  “Very fine scotch.”

  “Nothing but Scotland’s finest, Mr. Whittmore.”

  Ethan sat on the bar stool, his eyes staring at the glasses and various bottles of liquor neatly arrayed and featuring prominently in the shelves behind the bar. When he next spoke, it was with a feeling of relief:

  “I’d never thought I’d say this, but God bless Nigeria.”

  Louis had assumed his proper place behind the bar when he picked up a bottle of one of his finest malts from a cupboard below along with a short glass, and said grinning while he poured:

  “I’m from Guiana though.”

  “Ah, and Scotch is from Scotland but it knows no borders. Come on then, pour one yourself.”

  The unusually tall, lank bartender complied and picked up a shot glass which he filled promptly and raised to a toast:

  “To all the thirsty men.”

  The Rolling Stones song had started playing in the background. Ethan raised his own glass of scotch and made a toast as well:

  “To Mick Jagger and crew.”

  They both gulped down their drinks in one go. Ethan made a slight motion with one hand, indicating the cupboard below.

  Louis went through the motions of pouring another glass of scotch and asked his regular customer for the past year or so with his usual air of cool affection:

  “How’s life treating you?”

  Ethan’s tone was lighthearted, almost flippant when he said:

  “Not sure. Better than horseshit? I’m not complaining though. Still ’ere, aren’t I?”

  Louis laughed politely and nodded before replying:

  “Woe be me if something should happen to you. Losing customers, I cannot afford that!”

  “You’re not losing me soon enough. Keep the scotch coming, and I’ll manage.”

  Louis let the glass of scotch slide across the wooden bar and looked Ethan straight in the eye, his face almost a pale shade of dark under the dim candlelight surrounding the bar:

  “What news from your friends in high places?”

  Ethan shook his head and made a strange, sour face for a moment. He brought the glass to his lips, sniffing the aromas:

  “Nothing yet. It’s not easy, you knew that. Not to mention there’s money involved. But it’ll take time Louis. Your visa isn’t exactly top priority.”

  Louis shook his head in disappointment, and started polishing a basket full of washed glasses. His eyes were fixed to the task at hand when he replied to Ethan with a mixed feeling of sadness and slight aggravation, his movements lacking his usual crispness and finesse:

  “You said by the end of the month, Englishman. Said you knew the `ins and outs’, didn’t you? Who will keep Insami and Wadu off my back, I wonder. Make it top priority, can you?”

  Ethan kept wearing the same smile that had won him arguments on innumerable occasions, while he kept tapping his fingers to the rhythm of the song playing from the jukebox. After a short uncomfortable silence, he said to Louis:

  “It must feel like a kick in the nuts, Louis, but remember, I’m doing you a favor. Take a look around you. There’s bigger trouble than those two thugs. There’s a war going on. If they do pop up and act like a couple of tough guvs, I’ll make sure they get one in the sack and lose a couple of teeth each. No use worrying about it now.”

  Louis looked a bit distraught, his eyes somewhat dull from wariness. Ethan tried to change the subject:

  “What do you have for me this time? Auchentoshan? Glenfiddich?”

  Louis became his professional self again; he seemed to relax a bit, his tense mouth loosening into a tight smile. He reached for a tall cupboard with a lock on the handles, and used a small key that hung from a chain around his neck. He opened the cupboard with small, graceful movements of his hands as if opening a shrine. In it, a dozen bottles of Littlemill sat, dusty and squat, seemingly with a quite authentic seal, cork and all. At the sight of the bottles of scotch and the prospect of savouring them at his leisure, Ethan’s face lit up and his blue eyes seemed for a moment to sparkle. His voice couldn’t contain his enthusiasm:

  “Littlemill? Thirty-two years old, triple distillation. Bugger me, oldest malt in Scotland. Let me see that bottle.”

  Louis complied even though anyone could tell from his face he was quite puzzled. Ethan was usually interested in the contents, not the labels.

  “Here you go, Englishman.”

  Ethan completely disregarded the bartender’s effort at a light-hearted insult and studied the bottle’s labels with focused interest. At length, he nodded appreciatively before adding:

  “From Ayrshire, too.”

  Louis asked with real curiosity while opening the bottle of Littlemill Ethan was still clutching like a scepter:

  “Is that the place for the best scotch?”

  Ethan let go of the bottle and while Louis put a single cube of ice in Ethan’s glass, he continued, his expression emanating a scholarly aura:

  “’Tis the ancestral birthplace of one of the greatest Scots that ever lived. William Wallace.”

  The name of the famous Scottish hero was intoned with reverence and pride. It seemed to have no effect on the Guinean bartender who casually asked:

  “Who is he?”

  Ethan blinked twice and was taken slightly aback when the name rang no bell. He nevertheless straightened his back and breathed deeply when he tried to explain to Louis.

  “William Wallace fought the English for the freedom of Scotland for over a dozen years. They killed his wife and family and in the end he was betrayed. He gave his all, William Wallace. Biggest set of stones ever.”

  Louis looked at Ethan in puzzlement as he uncorked the fine scotch, its smoky aroma wafting upwards, arousing the senses. His question seemed to flatten Ethan’s face right at the moment his nostrils had become so excited:

  “But Scotland isn’t free. You serve the Queen of England.”

  �
�That’s not entirely true, I serve the Queen of the United Kingdom.”

  “But there’s no Queen of the Scots, is there?”

  “She’s also Queen of the Scots. And the Welsh. And the Irish. Well, at least some of the Irish.”

  “See, that’s not unlike the situation here in Nigeria. The Igbo are like the Scots, they want to be free. Shouldn’t they be free?”

  “I don’t have a say in that. It’s not my job, and it’s not my people. If they can, they will. And if you want to know, my father might have been born in Glasgow but I grew up in Kensington, so piss off with the Scots and all that. Pour, for the love of God.”

  Louis wore a mischievous grin and retorted:

  “You brought it up, Captain.”

  Ethan was starting to get properly wound up when the door bell rang and attracted his attention. He looked up from his drink and saw Louis pointing with his long bony index finger to a sturdy, tall and fit black man dressed in fatigues, the beret of the Nigerian Marine Corps smartly adorning his head. The man’s eyes peered vehemently through the haze and fog of the smoke and dust that seemed to always twirl lazily in the Metropolitaine.

  The soldier’s gaze quickly settled on Ethan, who was spinning around on his bar stool to look at the newcomer directly. He cracked a smile and gave a mocking half-salute to the burly man who - judging by his epaulets - appeared to be a brevet Major. The man did not seem to share the same good humor and did not salute, neither did he seem to enjoy smiles and levity a lot. As he approached the bar, Ethan’s mood had swung again towards his sweet side and he cheerfully made a gesture at the still open cupboard full of Littlemill, greeting the man with a proposition:

  “James, this is a once in a lifetime chance for a once in a lifetime experience. It’s Littlemill. It’s the nectar of the Gods. It’ll be monumental James; getting plastered with the finest scotch in the whole country, with little doubt. So, what is the unhappy occassion of your visit here in uniform? Tell me all about it so I can forget it with the help of Louis and Littlemill. Is it remotely serious? Are the Biafrans hurtling shells at Lagos? Can I go home now?”

  The heavily set man had a quite intimidating appearance. The capability of severely wounding a man armed with nothing but his hands was the usual first impression. At odds with his brutal image he had a strangely calm and serene demeanor, a grim look on his face that implied his mind was occupied with grave matters. He approached Ethan and taking off his beret he calmly said:

  “It’s your brother, Ethan. We have reports their caravan was probably attacked today. Somewhere in the jungle near the border. They never reached Owerri.”

  Ethan’s smile evaporated. He suddenly looked somber and withdrawn. The news were a mood-killer to say the least. He looked at James with weary, stern eyes:

  “Red Cross is supposed to have Army support. Where was their support, James?”

  James’ bulky shoulders shook with a disarmingly vulnerable shrug. He embraced Ethan with a single arm and told him in a friendly, casual manner:

  “Let’s have a drink, Ethan. Let’s talk.”