accent was full-throttle Bronx.
“I’m here to visit one of your guests,” I said. “Herman Dalumi.”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“You with Immigration?”
“I’m a consultant,” I said to quickly shorten the long list of unwelcome officials I might be. “I have nothing to do with any government, foreign or domestic.”
“You can’t go up,” the woman said curtly, the queen of this dilapidated kingdom. “Herman will come down.” One eyebrow arched upward like the back of an aggressive cat. “If he wants to.”
“I understand.”
The woman nodded toward one of the chairs. “Wait over there.”
I did just that, watching silently as the denizens of the Darlton Hotel wandered in and out. They were mostly African traders, just as Max had told me. I’d seen them throughout the city, selling T-shirts and baseball caps, pocketbooks and backpacks, along with the usual array of knockoffs and counterfeits, everything carried in blankets that could be gathered up quickly and hauled away at first sight of a cop. In that way, they struck me as the opposite of the nomads Martine and I had once watched move with such unencumbered grace at the far horizon, erect, dignified, carrying what they owned, a poor people under Western eyes, certainly, but not a desperate one.
“You are looking for me?”
He was a man of around forty, I guessed, short, but with powerful arms and legs. The features of his face blended flatly, like a chocolate bar left out in the sun. Only his eyes had any sparkle, though it was the sparkle of alertness rather than of love or pleasure or even curiosity, save for what might await him at the dark end of a street. Here, I thought, is a man accustomed to high risk.
“Herman Dalumi?” I asked.
The man nodded. “I told Nasar I’d pay him on Wednesday,” he said. “I’m good for it. I never run away. He don’t need to send a man to make threats. He insults me doing this. He is lucky I don’t pull the rag from his head and strangle him with it. You can tell him this.”
“I don’t know this Nasar,” I assured him. “I’m here about the man whose body was found in the alley behind the hotel a few days ago.”
Something played in Dalumi’s eyes, though I couldn’t tell what it was, save that it wasn’t fear. He’d already sized me up and found me harmless. Whatever I’d come for, it wasn’t to break his bones over an unpaid debt.
“His name was Seso Alaya,” I said. “I knew him a long time ago. He worked for me when we both lived in Lubanda.”
Dalumi said nothing, but he didn’t have to. Even his silence was calculated. He clearly considered words dangerous, as people unaccustomed to speaking freely inevitably find them. To have license with language is a rarity on earth, a pleasure Dalumi seemed never to have enjoyed.
“Do you have any idea how he was supporting himself?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Is it a matter of money?” I asked bluntly, “Is that what you want?”
He shrugged again. “A man does not feed the animal that eats him.”
This was no doubt a home-country saying, but its meaning was clear: I was not his friend. He owed me nothing, least of all a favor.
I reached for my wallet, but Dalumi grabbed my hand, brought it forward, clearly expecting that I’d reached for a pistol or a knife.
“I’m unarmed, if that’s what’s bothering you,” I assured him.
He reached around, plucked the wallet from my back pocket, then released me.
“I must be careful,” he said. He added nothing else as he went through my wallet, first checking for ID, then taking out a few bills, which he waved in my face. “I will take only this much,” he said like a man demonstrating how reasonable he was, the amount of his theft, he seemed to feel, hardly thievery at all.
When I offered no argument, he shoved the bills into the pocket of his shirt.
With the terms of this business transaction now met, I took the photograph of Seso’s body from my jacket pocket
“I’m here to visit one of your guests,” I said. “Herman Dalumi.”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“You with Immigration?”
“I’m a consultant,” I said to quickly shorten the long list of unwelcome officials I might be. “I have nothing to do with any government, foreign or domestic.”
“You can’t go up,” the woman said curtly, the queen of this dilapidated kingdom. “Herman will come down.” One eyebrow arched upward like the back of an aggressive cat. “If he wants to.”
“I understand.”
The woman nodded toward one of the chairs. “Wait over there.”
I did just that, watching silently as the denizens of the Darlton Hotel wandered in and out. They were mostly African traders, just as Max had told me. I’d seen them throughout the city, selling T-shirts and baseball caps, pocketbooks and backpacks, along with the usual array of knockoffs and counterfeits, everything carried in blankets that could be gathered up quickly and hauled away at first sight of a cop. In that way, they struck me as the opposite of the nomads Martine and I had once watched move with such unencumbered grace at the far horizon, erect, dignified, carrying what they owned, a poor people under Western eyes, certainly, but not a desperate one.
“You are looking for me?”
He was a man of around forty, I guessed, short, but with powerful arms and legs. The features of his face blended flatly, like a chocolate bar left out in the sun. Only his eyes had any sparkle, though it was the sparkle of alertness rather than of love or pleasure or even curiosity, save for what might await him at the dark end of a street. Here, I thought, is a man accustomed to high risk.
“Herman Dalumi?” I asked.
The man nodded. “I told Nasar I’d pay him on Wednesday,” he said. “I’m good for it. I never run away. He don’t need to send a man to make threats. He insults me doing this. He is lucky I don’t pull the rag from his head and strangle him with it. You can tell him this.”
“I don’t know this Nasar,” I assured him. “I’m here about the man whose body was found in the alley behind the hotel a few days ago.”
Something played in Dalumi’s eyes, though I couldn’t tell what it was, save that it wasn’t fear. He’d already sized me up and found me harmless. Whatever I’d come for, it wasn’t to break his bones over an unpaid debt.
“His name was Seso Alaya,” I said. “I knew him a long time ago. He worked for me when we both lived in Lubanda.”
Dalumi said nothing, but he didn’t have to. Even his silence was calculated. He clearly considered words dangerous, as people unaccustomed to speaking freely inevitably find them. To have license with language is a rarity on earth, a pleasure Dalumi seemed never to have enjoyed.
“Do you have any idea how he was supporting himself?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Is it a matter of money?” I asked bluntly, “Is that what you want?”
He shrugged again. “A man does not feed the animal that eats him.”
This was no doubt a home-country saying, but its meaning was clear: I was not his friend. He owed me nothing, least of all a favor.
I reached for my wallet, but Dalumi grabbed my hand, brought it forward, clearly expecting that I’d reached for a pistol or a knife.
“I’m unarmed, if that’s what’s bothering you,” I assured him.
He reached around, plucked the wallet from my back pocket, then released me.
“I must be careful,” he said. He added nothing else as he went through my wallet, first checking for ID, then taking out a few bills, which he waved in my face. “I will take only this much,” he said like a man demonstrating how reasonable he was, the amount of his theft, he seemed to feel, hardly thievery at all.
When I offered no argument, he shoved the bills into the pocket of his shirt.
With the terms of this business transaction now met, I took the photograph of Seso’s body from my jacket pocket
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