hands on the back door handle. We asked again for directions. Directions only, we said.
Then a young man was in the back seat.
“I take you there,” he said.
“What?” Hand said. Hand was driving.
“I show you the way, then you pay me, no problem.”
Hand looked at me, I looked at Hand.
“I show you you pay me no problem,” he said again.
His name was Abass. He was younger than us, wearing a nylon sweatsuit; he sat where the officer had sat, and I surprised myself by being glad he was there. It was good to be three.
But in a few minutes he had us on the road to Saly and had rendered himself redundant. I checked the map and noted that there were no turns for the remainder of the hour-long drive.
“Shouldntwejustdrophimoffnow?” I asked.
“Ithinkthat’dberude.”
He stayed. We liked him. He liked Otis Redding and Hand had an Otis Redding tape so we played James Brown. He liked, most of all, Wu-Tang Clan, but we didn’t have any Wu-Tang Clan. We had Dolly Parton.
The road was an endless marketplace—tire shops, refrigerator outlets and open-air fruit stands. Three gangly boys playing foosball at a table five feet from the road. Small buses, bright blue and painted with joy by hand, overfilled with people. When passengers wanted to get off, the bus slowed and they jumped from the bus’s back door. The bus never actually stopped. The children were filthy but the Mobils and Shells were pristine, as were the adults. Everywhere were people in dashikis, long enough to brush the unpaved shoulder but still unbesmirched.
The light was the familiar dusty white. I decided that when wegot to Saly we’d give Abass half of what we had left on us—about $1,400.
“You have wife?” Hand asked.
“No, no. Soon,” he said.
“Kids?”
“No, no. Soon.”
What would he do with the money? Start a business? Buy his way out of Senegal? I didn’t have the tools to imagine.
At a stoplight, a man was selling orange juice. We flagged him over. He came to the window. But it wasn’t orange juice. It was brake fluid. He was selling brake fluid and cassette tapes. Behind him, an enormous pile of fish, the shape of an anthill, lay rotting in the sun.
“We should let him get off here,” I said.
Hand made the offer. Abass shook his head and smiled.
“He wants to go to Saly,” Hand said.
We drove on. Hand and Abass were talking about something that prompted, from Hand, many expressions of surprise. He turned to me.
“I think he just said his father was the ambassador to Zaire.”
“Tell him congratulations,” I said, wondering why the son of an ambassador was in our car riding to Saly.
Hand and Abass exchanged words.
“He’s dead ten years,” Hand explained.
We expressed our condolences. I handed Abass a chocolate chip energy bar. He pointed out the front window, at a French army truck passing us going the other way.
“Ask him his last name,” I said.
Hand asked.
“Diallo,” Abass said.
“Really?” Hand said.
Another French troop truck.
“Tell him,” I said, “we have a very famous Diallo in America.”
Hand told him. Abass was very interested.
“Abass wants to know,” Hand said, “what our Diallo did to become famous.”
We drove in silence for a second. I knew we’d never be able to explain it, and we didn’t want to spoil the mood.
“Tell him he’s a singer,” I said.
At Saly we turned off and drove under a series of canopied entranceways. This was a resort complex and the foliage quickly became more lush, the streetsides uncluttered—like entering a Floridian national park. We pulled into a hotel called Savana Saly and in the lot, stepped out and stretched.
I was getting the money ready—this particular wad drawn from my inner-waist pocket, under my belt—when he told us how much he wanted.
“What?” said Hand. Abass spoke quickly and sternly. They exchanged words. “I think he wants $80.”
“Eighty dollars for getting us on the highway?”
“I guess
Then a young man was in the back seat.
“I take you there,” he said.
“What?” Hand said. Hand was driving.
“I show you the way, then you pay me, no problem.”
Hand looked at me, I looked at Hand.
“I show you you pay me no problem,” he said again.
His name was Abass. He was younger than us, wearing a nylon sweatsuit; he sat where the officer had sat, and I surprised myself by being glad he was there. It was good to be three.
But in a few minutes he had us on the road to Saly and had rendered himself redundant. I checked the map and noted that there were no turns for the remainder of the hour-long drive.
“Shouldntwejustdrophimoffnow?” I asked.
“Ithinkthat’dberude.”
He stayed. We liked him. He liked Otis Redding and Hand had an Otis Redding tape so we played James Brown. He liked, most of all, Wu-Tang Clan, but we didn’t have any Wu-Tang Clan. We had Dolly Parton.
The road was an endless marketplace—tire shops, refrigerator outlets and open-air fruit stands. Three gangly boys playing foosball at a table five feet from the road. Small buses, bright blue and painted with joy by hand, overfilled with people. When passengers wanted to get off, the bus slowed and they jumped from the bus’s back door. The bus never actually stopped. The children were filthy but the Mobils and Shells were pristine, as were the adults. Everywhere were people in dashikis, long enough to brush the unpaved shoulder but still unbesmirched.
The light was the familiar dusty white. I decided that when wegot to Saly we’d give Abass half of what we had left on us—about $1,400.
“You have wife?” Hand asked.
“No, no. Soon,” he said.
“Kids?”
“No, no. Soon.”
What would he do with the money? Start a business? Buy his way out of Senegal? I didn’t have the tools to imagine.
At a stoplight, a man was selling orange juice. We flagged him over. He came to the window. But it wasn’t orange juice. It was brake fluid. He was selling brake fluid and cassette tapes. Behind him, an enormous pile of fish, the shape of an anthill, lay rotting in the sun.
“We should let him get off here,” I said.
Hand made the offer. Abass shook his head and smiled.
“He wants to go to Saly,” Hand said.
We drove on. Hand and Abass were talking about something that prompted, from Hand, many expressions of surprise. He turned to me.
“I think he just said his father was the ambassador to Zaire.”
“Tell him congratulations,” I said, wondering why the son of an ambassador was in our car riding to Saly.
Hand and Abass exchanged words.
“He’s dead ten years,” Hand explained.
We expressed our condolences. I handed Abass a chocolate chip energy bar. He pointed out the front window, at a French army truck passing us going the other way.
“Ask him his last name,” I said.
Hand asked.
“Diallo,” Abass said.
“Really?” Hand said.
Another French troop truck.
“Tell him,” I said, “we have a very famous Diallo in America.”
Hand told him. Abass was very interested.
“Abass wants to know,” Hand said, “what our Diallo did to become famous.”
We drove in silence for a second. I knew we’d never be able to explain it, and we didn’t want to spoil the mood.
“Tell him he’s a singer,” I said.
At Saly we turned off and drove under a series of canopied entranceways. This was a resort complex and the foliage quickly became more lush, the streetsides uncluttered—like entering a Floridian national park. We pulled into a hotel called Savana Saly and in the lot, stepped out and stretched.
I was getting the money ready—this particular wad drawn from my inner-waist pocket, under my belt—when he told us how much he wanted.
“What?” said Hand. Abass spoke quickly and sternly. They exchanged words. “I think he wants $80.”
“Eighty dollars for getting us on the highway?”
“I guess
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