The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers (4 page)

“Yes, Bwana,” say the
askaris
in unison.

The pacing major halts before the wounded Kakwa. Despite his broken nose, the blood dripping off his chin onto his chest and into his stained pants, he stands at attention. The pain he must feel does not alter a muscle on his stoic face. The major snorts, swallows hard, and peers into the
askari’s
eyes for some sign of his fear or agony, but finds only the blank stare of a soldier’s abnegation.

“Private, who did this to you?” asks the major.

The soldier is silent.

“Tell me, private. That’s an order.”

“The
dupi
did it, Bwana.”

“The
what
? The
dupi
?”

“Yes, sir,” says the soldier.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, sir, I am not.”

The major swivels and searches the crowd until he finds the one big man who wears long trousers and a cook’s white shirt. He raises his brow in surprise at the size of this particular
dupi
. Idi is standing at attention like all the other soldiers. The major swaggers towards him and stops, regarding the man with his hands on his hips.

“What is your name?”

“Idi son of Amin, Bwana.”

“Did you break this man’s nose, Idi son of Amin?”

“Yes, Bwana, I did.”

“Why?” asks the major, as he leans closer to Idi and blows his whisky-tinted breath up at him.

“He was fighting with the other
askari
and I was trying to stop them.”

“So you broke his nose?”

“Yes, sir,” says Idi.

“Do you know that it’s a serious crime for you to strike an enlisted man?”

“Yes, Bwana, I know.”

“Are you aware that this man fought bravely for the Crown with C Company in Burma?”

“Yes, Bwana.”

“And that didn’t bother you any?” presses the major. “It didn’t stop you from attacking him?”

“No, Bwana,” answers Idi, his calm voice unwavering.

The major regards the three narrow, parallel lines scarred into either side of Idi’s temples. “Triple ones,” he says, pointing. “You’re Kakwa.”

“Yes, Bwana,” says Idi, touching the lines with pride. “I am Kakwa.”

“But that man whose nose you broke is Kakwa as well.”

“Yes.”

The major, whose dour brow and crossed arms have made him seem until now nothing but grave and solemn, lets his mouth relax into a smile. “I see you hold yourself above this sectarian nonsense, then,” he says.

“Yes, Bwana. We are all Ugandan in this barrack.”

“Indeed, Amin, we are. I was thinking the very same thing.”

“I did not think they should be fighting,” says Idi, now gaining a bit of confidence.

“You’re quite right about that.”

“Yes, Bwana.”

“And I see you’re not afraid of battle, either,” continues the major, as his drunken eyelids droop for a moment and he seems to stumble ever so slightly on his feet.

“No, sir. I am not afraid. I am a man.”

“A rather big man at that.”

“Yes.” Idi beams. “A very big man.”

“Part rhinoceros, I would even say.”

Idi chuckles his jolly, shoulder-shaking laugh. “Except, Bwana,” he says, “I think it’s not very smart for you to say that to my face. I am known to break noses.”

The nearby
askaris
can’t help but chuckle at Idi’s audacity.

The major raises his brow in surprise. “Why, you’re quite right,” he says. “I think I shall retract it.”

“That is very wise of you, Bwana.”

The major laughs in staccato, an innocent chuckle of real joy, a release he usually only allows himself with close friends and family. He shakes his head, obviously surprised by his own candour with this African underling.

“You’re a funny chap, Amin,” he says. “And you have very big hands.”

“Good for fighting.”

“Yes.” The major smiles. “It seems you’re good at that.”

“I enjoy it.”

“Well, then, given your considerable skill in combat, why have you remained a mere
dupi
?”

“I do not know, Bwana.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be a soldier in the King’s African Rifles?”

“Oh yes,” says Idi, smiling. “I would like that, Bwana, very much.”

“Then come with me to my office and we’ll enlist you anon,” says the major, waving his arm towards his office and residence. “How does that sound?”

“That is my dream, Bwana. Exactly my dream.”

“Good. So come.”

“Yours is the office with all the butterflies on the wall stuck with pins?” asks Idi, still standing at attention.

“You know it?”

“I brought you tea and
mandazi
.”

“You did?” The major squints and looks away, searching
his memory. “Oh, yes, of course. Last week. I remember. It’s true, Amin, I have many specimens on my walls. I am quite partial to the butterflies in this part of the world. Especially the extraordinary variety of the
Charaxes
genus. Splendid creatures. I’m a bit of the amateur lepidopterist, I would say.”

“Yes,” says Idi, still smiling.

“That means a man who studies butterflies.”

“Yes,” agrees Idi.

“Do you like butterflies, Amin?”

“I will eat anything, Bwana.”

The major, roaring with laughter, slaps his thigh and steps back. “Then I will have to be sure to command the new
dupi
to cook you some, Private Amin.”

“Private?” asks Idi, his eyes widening like a child’s.

“Correct. But listen, man, you do not have permission to eat the butterflies on my wall, understand?”

“Don’t worry, Bwana,” says Idi, as he reaches out and grabs the major’s shoulder with his mammoth hand, another act of pure audacity that he somehow gets away with. “I already had my dinner.”

“If you so much as try to eat my butterflies, I’ll have you court-martialled!” laughs the major. “Even if you break my nose!”

“I would not do that, Bwana,” says Idi, wisely removing his hand. “I love the King’s African Rifles.”

“Yes, I can see that you do. All right. Come on, then.”

The major turns too sharply, trips over his foot, and nearly tumbles to the ground. He catches himself and stands tall, smoothing his shirt, pretending his slip never happened and
that he’s had nothing to drink all night. He waves Idi on. The excited young
dupi
breaks his attentive stance and moves beside the major. The silent
askaris
remain at attention, since the company’s lesser officers continue to linger in the field, but they watch in astonishment as Major Mitchell and the brazen
dupi
march back to the commander’s office, side by side, as if they were equals, as if there weren’t an entire military hierarchy and colonial history separating one from the other.

Idi has never walked taller, never felt stronger or braver or more worthwhile than he does right now. He’s approaching the timber frame of the major’s office—that oak desk, the butterflies. Idi’s fingerprint will stain the KAR’s official enlistment paper and he will be one of them. In five minutes, he’ll be an
askari
, a soldier, a comrade.
Mama
, he thinks,
where are you?
The
kamiojo
herb from the Yakan water is pulsing through his veins—his Kakwa veins, his Lugbara veins, his distinctly Ugandan veins—strengthening him and making him feel invincible. Or maybe it’s just the adrenalin and the thrill of his unprecedented success.
Mother, look at me
, he thinks as he moves swiftly through the
murram
dust next to the grinning major—an actual commander of an entire KAR battalion.
I am a big man now
. Yes, a genuine big man, a
’ba wara
of more value and worth than that one who called him a
thing
back in his mother’s miserable West Nile village. He is a big man who can break the nose of a real
askari
with a single punch, who can reduce an Acholi brute to a whimpering woman by grasping his balls and spitting a sharp phrase in his face. Has there ever been a more innate
soldier in the history of the entire world? Idi knows that not only can he join these men in their barrack, sit with them at company mess, drink their tea with his legs crossed like a European while they tell their tales of Burma, but he can also participate in their next conflict, wherever it might be, and with a little luck could someday pace before them in the field as they stand at attention as their superior, their
Effendi
. Someday he will lecture these
askaris
on what it means to be a soldier, on how they’re supposed to do it, on how to punch, how to shoot, and how to kill. Why not? Doesn’t he know the facts as well as anyone? Is he not walking beside the major like the Englishman’s equal? Can’t he lead inspection and parades and tell them what’s right and wrong and good? They will call him Bwana Amin. Yes, he will be an
Effendi
. Dreams do not lie. His mother does not lie. And could he rise higher, even to unprecedented heights? Could he someday be a major? Idi suppresses a smile as he opens the commander’s door and lets him proceed before him. And if these damn
askaris
don’t like a Kakwa-Lugbara for their supreme commander, Idi will find some thick white cream to spread on his face and hands, and then they’ll know he’s to be taken seriously, that smart people do not mess around with Idi son of Amin. Idi decides that’s exactly what he’ll do, as he steps into the major’s office to seal his fate. He will coat himself in leadership. If they make a black cream for officers, then somewhere back in England they must also make a white one for that same purpose.

The city, stuffed with greenery
, gently steams. If wrapped in bamboo leaves, these buildings would soften like gluten and stick to each other. Saloth Sâr has no idea that someday he will devour them.

The boy’s entire body pulses with desire. He is standing on the street corner before the École Miche, savouring the wet heat trapped inside his thin shirt. The back of his neck is sticky. A slow-moving rickshaw rounds the bend, drawn by a half-naked Vietnamese driver and carrying a mustachioed gentleman in a cream-coloured suit, obviously in no hurry to reach his destination. The gentleman stares at the pink-cheeked and newly virile Sâr, whose wide face has flowered into a smile. A photograph of the smooth-skinned fourteen-year-old boy could grace the cover of any travel brochure for Indochina. The gentleman sucks his cigarette and tips his hat in greeting, but Sâr doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he watches the rickshaw bump north towards the colonial villas in Wat Phnom. Arrogant Frenchmen are of no concern.

School has ended for the day. His friends, like vapour, have reabsorbed into the humid air. Sâr has declined their persistent invitations to visit the market en masse, where the giddy teenagers will play at boldness, trying
to hide their Cambodian features and pass for Chinese, snacking on fried crickets and unripe bananas, goading each other into haggling with the Vietnamese merchants. On most days the central market is Sâr’s favourite destination, still a novelty with its art deco dome, peculiar chevron-shaped windows, and four corridors extending outward at slight angles like a heron’s foot. He loves the diesel fumes, the scent of coriander and lemony rice-paddy herbs, the magical wristwatches on display between bits of junk on the pavement, and the overheard phrases of incomprehensible Mandarin spoken by the foreign merchants. Still, he can’t go today. The heat is too intense, too distracting.

He is picturing Chanlina, a palace dancer, one of the King’s lesser wives. He sees her full-moon face, popping lips, and dark, coy eyes. He can’t stop thinking about her, although he’s only met her once, when there were other people around. Sâr’s sister Roeung, who works in the palace, introduced him to the dancers. She told Sâr that he could visit any time, but he’s not sure if he should take her at her word. Roeung never specified if those visits had to be
with
her. He wonders if the dancers would mind him dropping by, just a friendly visit to say hello.

As he starts towards the palace, Sâr realizes that he’s made his decision, and his stomach tenses. The combination of heat and anxiety makes his legs feel weak. Sâr walks on, taking cover from the sun beneath the inconsequential shade of high palm trees and the thicker foliage of the odd teak or rosewood. Even so, the heat is too much to bear. The sky
is blue and nearly cloudless, as it’s been for months. When the New Year arrives next week, greeted with festivities at the palace, and familial gatherings and games in the park at Wat Phnom, it will usher in the seasonal procession of cooling monsoon clouds. Such relief seems improbable today.

It’s a stupid plan, destined for failure. He’ll never get to see them. The guard will never let him venture into the compound without Roeung, which is for the best, Sâr thinks, as he passes the surging
naga
heads and French balustrades on the National Museum. He has no business among King Monivong’s lesser wives, distracting them from their sacred duties. The guard will save him great embarrassment if he refuses to let him pass.

He passes coolies repairing the sidewalk and weaves through a group of monks dressed in saffron robes with white parasols. He steps over a pile of fish bones and fruit rinds someone has dumped in the street. Chanlina and her roommates will be grumpy and exhausted from practising the particular hand gestures needed for the upcoming New Year’s dances. Sâr dodges an ox cart laden with orange flowers, green mangoes, and rotting jackfruit. He reaches out and scrapes his fingers along the plaster-grit of the mustard-coloured wall surrounding the royal compound, doubting that the dancers will want to see him even if the guard lets him into their compound. He wishes he could will himself to turn around.