EXCERPT OGOUN’S BOMB
PART ONE
1-1
Ogoun saw fear behind the white faces of passers by as they drew back from
his brooding figure. Yet he knew that in their false hearts they were mocking
him. They flowed round him, none daring to come too close, leaving him a lone
figures among the bustling confusion in the center of this greatest of American
cities. Their fear was good, no more than was due to him. A man of destiny was
to be respected, even at a moment of setback, and they would not mock him for
long.
His mind seethed with hot anger as he glared at the newspaper in his hand -
his photograph was on the back page, a good likeness, the linesman cowering from
the violence etched upon the bearded face behind the racket. He had done well
not to hit the man and yet his mask had slipped a little, and that was not good.
He must show even greater control when he was cheated, prove how sane he was,
fit to rule his country when his destiny was upon him, fit to lead it to
glory.
The effort not to hit the linesman had been great. And now this filth in the
paper! The bomb in his head was ticking. Time was running out if he was to
conceal this upwelling of resentment. He must reach the safety of his room and
unleash the explosion of his greatness in private.
Suddenly he moved, releasing some of his inner rage by kicking a newspaper
placard into the street. Still he hit nobody; he was not mad, he could control
his rage.
He hurried towards the subway as he read the story, his six foot two carried
easily and gracefully on those athlete’s legs that covered a tennis court so
dramatically despite his bulk, his fleshy lips moving as he puzzled out the
despicable words.
‘... today, in New York, a stupid dispute with a linesman, indeed a black
linesman, presumably chosen to please him...’
To please him! How could that be? The man had a stern look and mocking eyes
- it might as well have been his father. What justice could be hoped for from
such a man?
‘... an unnecessary and unpleasantly violent dispute in which the player was
clearly in the wrong led to loss of concentration and defeat instead of victory
in that vital semi-final...’
He looked up as he reached the bottom of the escalator, swept into the
bowels of the earth by the heedless crowds, anger still rising in him.
Everywhere newspapers were sprouting, all around people were reading this filth,
believing him to be an ignorant savage.
‘... no wonder this unpredictable young man is such a crowd puller, able as
he is to move so gracefully, like a great jungle cat, a black panther perhaps.
He has all the talents to beat the very best if only his unstable temperament
will let him...’
Unstable! Him! It was not to be borne! He would like to take the man who had
written these lies into his hands and squeeze him to death, but there was no
remedy to be had amongst this sea of featureless white faces, nothing he could
do to relieve his wrath.
Now he stood beside the tracks. They curved out of a dark nowhere and lay
waiting before him, to carry him where destiny decreed, like the unalterable
path of his life. The ticking in his head rose with the sound of the approaching
train. It was becoming unbearable. He hit his head with his fist. As he listened
to the rising note of the train as it was about to issue from the tunnel at his
right hand, he saw a man fold his paper to the back page, study the photograph
there, and smile. Smiling! Mocking! Sneering! It was a black man who derided
him, a man with a look of the linesman, of his father. He felt the shame of his
ancestors, the cunning statesmen, the forgers of weapons, the mighty warriors,
as if they too were being so shamefully belittled.
Slowly, ever so slowly, there was plenty of time, he moved behind the
linesman, towering over him, pressed against him by the rush-hour throngs as the
voice of the train drummed like thunder in his skull, kill, slay, kill, slay,
kill kill kill...
He dropped his own newspaper. It would be so easy, so very easy, now he must
bend forward to pick up the paper and his shoulder would collide with the body
of this evil linesman and the man’s screams would merge with those of the train
as he fell beneath it.
... avenge avenge avenge...
But no! Oh no! His righteous revenge would not be understood. With a supreme
effort he let the unworthy man live, he was not worthy of Ogoun’s attention.
Now, as he relaxed in a seat that nobody disputed, he felt the cold sweat
spring to his brow. What control he had shown in conquering his wrath, what
wisdom, what sanity! Soothing thoughts entered his head, thoughts of the stables
he would establish in Maronterre when he ruled his country and the white women
he would tether there.
The images of long white legs squirming beneath him as he rode were enough
to turn back the tide of anger. The ticking in his head became fainter, ceased,
the convulsions had been averted.
Other men of destiny had the falling sickness also, Caesar had had it.
But did Caesar froth upon his anger? Did rage display his greatness? Could
Caesar attract men of power through his prowess at a game? Could Caesar have
controlled his actions if he were cheated at so critical a juncture in his
destiny? If Caesar had to make his conquests in the world of today, could he
succeed? There were new difficulties but also there were new opportunities.
Caesar had possessed the bomb in the head but he had known nothing of the glory
of real bombs, the beauty or the power of them, the sheer power of them in this
age of the atom!
1-2
The stewardess hoped that the delay in disembarking would not cause any
trouble. She was tired enough after the long journey from London, her last trip
on this tour of duty, thank the Lord.
The big man with the family was the only one who looked like being a
problem. An impatient one, that. Maybe a couple of drinks too many? He looked
like a big shot business executive, she thought. What one would call young
middle aged, satisfied and successful. The wife was cute, a petite redhead, and
very pregnant, obviously exhausted.
The children sat in front of them. There was a big age difference between
the handsome young man and the plain little girl with those pigtails and
unbecoming glasses. The young man was the right age, but was he her type? She
looked again. No way! She’d rather go for the father!
Fairfax took his eyes reluctantly from the trim figure of the stewardess and
glowered out through the aircraft window at the slanting rain.
They had touched down at New York’s Idlewilde Airport a few minutes ahead of
schedule, yet now the plane squatted on the glistening concrete, immobile as a
moth overtaken by dawn.
He bit back his irritation with a conscious effort and glanced at the finely
spun red hair of the woman in the window seat beside him.
He fancied the journey might have tired her a little.
He was not a sentimental man - God forbid! - but sometimes he imagined that
the tendrils of that red-gold hair were twisted into his heart. Miranda sat
primly beside him, elegantly calm as always. The doctor had advised against this
journey, but Fairfax had soon overruled that nonsense. He had a low opinion of
the medical profession at the best of times. She was his, his to protect and his
to cherish.
Her small hand crept into the harbour of his big one, and he put his arm
round her, holding her to him until he sensed her discomfort. He drew away
reluctantly, embarrassed that he had embarrassed her. She had been like this
during the previous pregnancy also. Already she was not his Randy at all. He
sighed. What a contrast to her usual sexy self - now she was as much use in bed
as a suet pudding. The pregnancy had better be worth while: it had better be a
boy this time.
The stewardess had nice hair and welcoming eyes and a very supple walk, and
he thought she was interested in him. What would she be like between the sheets?
It was inevitable that such thoughts would stir him so strongly just now. He
realized that he would have yielded to temptation given the chance. The thrills
of business expansion always fed his appetite for casual sex.
It meant nothing...
He moved restlessly in his seat and frowned as he glanced at Roberta,
screwed up in the window seat of the row in front with that dammed doll in her
thin arms. Roberta was eight - or was it nine? - bright as a button, but what
use was a girl? She could never succeed him in the business.
His glance livened as it passed to Mark, sitting beside her. The son of his
first marriage was his pride, his promise of immortality, the future of the firm
and the bearer of his name.
Outside, the rain had eased, improving visibility. He noticed that a small
rostrum had been erected under an awning near the terminal buildings, and people
were assembling in front of it.
Now another plane rolled up almost alongside theirs, much smaller, ‘Cubana’
inscribed in fancy letters on its fuselage. Suddenly all was activity as a red
carpet was unrolled from the rostrum, where a group of officials were gathering
beside the cluster of microphones.
The door of the other plane folded back. They could just hear the cheers of
the crowd in front of the terminal as a brisk young man emerged and stood in the
opening, somehow managing to appear shy in spite of the air of authority that
set him apart. He seemed surprised that the people were friendly and his face
lit up as he smiled and waved.
He was over six feet tall, erect, swarthy and heavily bearded, wearing a
faded battle dress and a field cap, his roving black eyes radiating pride.
“All that fuss for a wog!” muttered Fairfax in disgust.
“My God, Father!” exclaimed Mark, twisting round in his seat. “It’s about
time you got over your thing about colour! That man’s a dictator, he rules over
Cuba! Anyway, he’s Spanish! Don’t you recognize him? It’s Castro, Fidel
Castro!”
“They were all wogs in the war!”
“I suppose if he offered us a contract you’d turn it down?”
“Never done business with wogs,” said Fairfax gruffly.
“Oh but -”
“Where’s he from, Mark?” It was Roberta, so often the peacemaker.
“Cuba, stupid, I said.”
“Is he the boss of Cuba, then?”
“He most certainly is!”
Castro descended the steps jauntily and strode to the rostrum, opening up to
the applause like a flower in the sun. He paused at the microphone to make a
short speech they could not hear, but for the people in front of him the warmth
of his personality seemed to overcome the return of the rain. Soon he had then
cheering and waving hats and flags.
“I know a story about him,” Mark said, as Castro swaggered into the
terminal, followed by his retinue. “It was when he was at the University of
Havana. He rode a bicycle straight into a brick wall.”
“Bloody stupid!”
“But Dad, he was trying to show will power, prove to himself he could do
anything he set out to do! Maybe I’ll have to do something like that. To run the
American office my way!”
“No problem, Mark my boy! That’s what you’re here for!”
“No interference then, eh Dad?”
When at last they disembarked, Fairfax glanced about as if he owned this
paltry airport and was deciding how to improve it. It was characteristic of him
that he should lead the way towards immigration as if speed were the only object
of their visit.
Customs disgorged them in the end, and as his father marched forward Mark
angled off to buy a newspaper, Roberta trotting at his heels like an adoring
puppy. The front page was devoted to the forthcoming United Nations General
Assembly, but he turned straight to the sports coverage.
“He’s done it again!”
“Who?” Roberta snatched the bulky newspaper. “The man in that picture? The
black man? Golly, isn’t he - fierce? dangerous? How do you say his name?”
“O-goon.”
“Is he a loony, then? He should be, with a name like that!”
“Steady on, kid! Actually, though, I think some people do say so. He’s a
good tennis player, really great, but he’s always rowing with linesmen and
referees, and specially photographers. He breaks their cameras just because he
doesn’t like having his picture taken. Something about Voodoo, believe it or
not! And now he’s blown a great chance, he’ll have to sit the final out.”
“Maybe he needs this Public Relations stuff!”
“What!”
“Maybe he needs this public relations stuff if people think he’s a
loony.”
“Oh my God!” Mark stopped and slapped his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of
that! Roberta, you’re a genius! Perhaps he’ll be my first client!”
“Dad won’t allow that, not a black man.”
“New York is mine, isn’t it?”
“Well -”
“Come on kid, we’ll soon sort out my brick wall!” They caught up with their
father at the car-hire desk. “Hey, Father, know who I want to sign as my first
client? Ogoun!”
“Who?” Fairfax was preoccupied with the frustrating formalities of hiring a
car. “It’s your show, the new office, don’t bother me, just invite their top
people to the reception.”
“He’s a tennis player, not a firm. I don’t quite think the reception
though!”
“Tennis? Of course the reception. A sports firm will be good.” A couple more
signatures and the car keys were his.
“Look,” said Mark, “about Ogoun, I’d like to invite him, but he’s -”
“I don’t care what he is, if you want to invite him, invite him,” snapped
Fairfax, guiding Miranda to the waiting Pontiac. “This is your show isn’t it,
don’t bother me with trifles.”
“Or prejudices?”
“What, me? Don’t talk rubbish.”
“OK, OK, so be it!” Mark turned to Roberta. “See, it’s up to me. Dad
said.”
“Yes,” she hissed in a whisper, “but you know Dad...”
“Relax, kid.” He bundled her into the car with her mother. “You’ll be safer
in the back. They know how to steer clear of Dad in London. Here, they use the
wrong side of the road.”
Roberta was unimpressed. “That won’t bother my Daddy,” she said haughtily.
“He can handle anything.”
1-3
The BALTIKA steamed slowly up the estuary towards New York. She was
surrounded by dozens of small boats hooting and fussing, with all manner of
demonstrators aboard.
Nikita Khrushchev leaned over the rails, savouring the scene. It was all so
different from the Soviet Union, so undisciplined.
It was a wet and dreary day, a little fog rolling up the river. So this is
September in America, he thought: September 19th 1960, the day when Khrushchev
is to step upon American soil. He was looking forward to the General assembly of
the United Nations with immense gusto. What a propaganda opportunity the
ridiculous charade offered!
His interpreter translated some of the slogans the little boats carried.
‘Roses are red, violets are blue, Stalin dropped dead, why don’t you!’ He
chuckled. Back home this would not be possible! What an effete nation he was
visiting! Here was another choice specimen - ‘Dear K, drop dead you bum!’
A bum? When at last his prissy interpreter gave him the correct Russian
equivalent, he realized that that was exactly what he was. A bum! Yes. He owned
no boots as a child in that little peasant village three hundred miles from
Moscow. I’ve travelled a long way in sixty-five years, he thought. I used to go
barefoot and in rags, I herded cows for kopeks.
He remembered his father’s lifelong ambition to buy a horse. His father
never did manage to get that horse but now he, little Nikita, was undisputed
ruler of all the Republics, successor to Stalin. How had he done it? He had
clung to the ladder whilst those above him shook each other off!
What a joke life was!
The BALTIKA pulled in to a Pier. Pier 73. What a sad, grim place,
dilapidated and filthy. He would never permit a foreign big-shot to arrive in
Russia in conditions like these! But a red carpet was laid out, and there was a
small crowd, rain dripping on them. That filthy skylight, cracked and leaking,
what a disgrace, peeling paint and the stench of urine.
He pulled a yellow overcoat over his dark suit and descended the gangplank,
pudgy hands clasped above his head in greeting.
On the dock, he put on his silver-rimmed reading glasses and declaimed a
statement inviting President Eisenhower to a summit meeting to reduce world
tension, keeping his chuckles to himself.
When it was done he folded his glasses away and turned to greet the eight
little Russian girls who held out flowers to him, before settling into the
shining new Cadillac for the drive to the Soviet Mission in Manhattan.
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