The Darling Read Online Free Page A

yips of a small dog, the clack of dominoes against a masonite lapboard, or a transistor radio playing its lonely juju song to no one at a village crossroads cookshop. Once, I heard the call of a desperate boy from the side of the road as the truck rumbled past him, Take me wit’ you, take me to Monrovia, to the city, an’ from there, m’am, carry me to the Great World beyond, where is plenty of jollof rice an’ tinned meats an’ good water, where no one sick, no one hungry, no one ’fraid! All of it, his whole, long, hapless plea compressed into one repeated, fading cry, “Hoy, hoy, hoy!” as the truck picked up speed and roared down the red-dirt road into the African night.
    Several times the truck was stopped at checkpoints—gates, we used to call them—at Ganta and where the road crosses the St. John River. Without looking, I could tell where we were, because the map of Liberia and its few roads were still clear in my mind’s eye, and I knew people in these towns, or once had known them, and was even related to some of them by marriage, for we were not far now from Fuama, my husband’s tribal village. But surely most of those people, all Liberians, were gone by now, dead or swept away like dry leaves by the fierce wind that had blown across the country in the civil war and burned by the fires of chaos that had followed. Even if they had somehow survived and still lived in their old homes and villages, they would have been of little help to me anyhow. Not now. Not back then either, when we were all running for our individual lives.
    The truck wheezed and slowed and downshifted, then crept along for a few moments at a walking pace, and I knew that we were approaching another checkpoint. Then the truck stopped, and I heard men’s low voices, speaking first in a Krahn dialect, then switching quickly to Liberian English for Mamoud, the Monrovian Lebanese, with light, conspiratorial, male-bonding laughter interjected—he was a regular on this route, obviously, and he paid the soldiers on time and gave them good dash. Yeah, Mamoud, him a good Arab guy . A loud hand slap on the front fender of the truck, like a slap on a horse’s flank, granting permission to leave, and the truck moved ahead again, soon picking up speed.
    I was wrapped in my thoughts in the darkness like an animal hiding in its burrow. I had a plan. I wasn’t so out of touch with reality, I wasn’t so far gone that I had come out here without some sort of blueprint. Lord knows it wasn’t much of a plan. It couldn’t be; there was so little here that I could predict or control. I had in my mind merely a vaguely worded, partially completed outline whose blanks I would fill in as I passed from moment to moment: I would get into the country somehow; I would make my way to Monrovia; I would ask after my sons in a way that would not put me or them in danger, although I had no idea yet whom I would be able to ask; and I would either go to my sons, wherever they were, and try to bring them home with me or, if no one could tell me where they were, I would leave the country and return to my farm. That was it. That was as far in advance of my actions as I was able to think.
    I was carrying enough U.S. currency around my waist and in my backpack to buy my way through these few steps and probably enough to let me take advantage of any exigencies or opportunities that arose. Unless, of course, I were attacked, stripped, robbed, or worse. Mostly, though, I counted on buying my safety. The comforting and most useful thing about total corruption is that it’s total. It’s systemic, top to bottom, and therefore predictable and more or less rational. So I wasn’t being especially brave or even reckless.
    I don’t travel in fear anyhow; I never have. When I am afraid, I don’t travel at all; I stay put. Years ago, when I was in my early thirties and living underground in the States, moving from safe house to safe house, I was taught by comrades more experienced