BAMAKO, Aribert Raphael [read out loud books .TXT] 📗

attorney. The other directors needed to sanction a decision such as the one he contemplated making, thus he called a meeting of the Board for the next morning.
Looking down at the letter in her hand, Talya sat silent, fidgeting. Tugging distractedly at one of her blond curls and biting her lower lip, she was trying to focus on what just happened. If not for some unforeseen, opposing votes, she was on her way to Mali to try to resolve a sizeable problem. That mouth of hers had seen her in trouble more than once, and now here she was again….
2
Richard looked at the call-display in disbelief. He would know that mobile number anywhere. Hjamal! The man must be in Canada again. All of the memories came flooding back to Richard’s mind instantly as he picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“I’m sure you know who this is.”
“Yes, I do. What do you want?”
“I want you to come back.”
“I’m sorry, did you say; you want me to come back? Back for what?”
“I want you to come back to Africa. I want you to come back to work for me.”
“No way!”
“Don’t be too hasty, Richard. You and I know I can be very generous when it comes to paying for your services.”
“Yeah, I remember. I also remember how much it hurt.”
“You survived, didn’t you?”
“No thanks to you, that’s for sure.”
“Now, now, no need for reproaches between friends. What do you say we meet?”
“Where are you?”
“In Toronto.”
“What are you doing here?”
“That, and other things, will all be made clear to you once we sit down and talk. Shall we say in an hour at the restaurant near the Chapel’s entrance of the Eaton Centre?”
“You got it. I’ll be there.”
The caller hung up and Richard looked at his watch. An hour to get to the Eaton Centre, in this traffic … it’s going to be tight. He didn’t know what the deal was, but he was sure of one thing; he was not going back to Africa unless it would be worth his while. Granted, he needed another job, and fast. Granted, he wanted to get back in the mainstream—but not at the price he paid the last time he was involved with the African.


3
At nine precisely, on that fateful morning, after taking a last look at her attire—a two-piece blue suit with a white shirt and high-heels that were as uncomfortable as ever—Talya entered the boardroom with some apprehension and teeming butterflies in her stomach. She had spent a rotten night churning all kinds of dreamlike imaginings. She even saw herself on camel back chasing after Mr. Savoi across the desert ... until she finally fell asleep.
Carmine’s boardroom wasn’t such. Its casual, informal décor would have led anyone to believe it was a mere meeting room, at best, rather than a ‘boardroom’, but it served all of its purposes very well indeed. There were eight black leather chairs, a little worn around the armrests, each neatly tucked halfway under an oblong mahogany table. The four windows opposite the door offered an encompassing view of the city and of the harbour. A Chinese rice painting hung on the one wall and a framed Old World map on the other, below which a credenza stretched its length from the window to the door. Standing in readiness at the one end of it, there was a computer terminal and keyboard. At the other end, a coffee urn headed a marching band of cups and saucers, a plate of biscuits, and a tray with a small jug of milk and a sugar bowl, all of which, Sabrina, the receptionist, had brought in earlier that morning.
James, as President of the company, sat at the head of the table. Sitting opposite him, Ken Davros was relaxing, cup of coffee in hand. He brushed a glance in Talya’s direction when she came in. His lined forehead and ready frown betrayed the inquiring mind behind his mild behaviour. Ken was an absolute wizard at tax sheltering, and at focusing the company, but in Talya’s opinion, he lacked basic people skills. For Ken, employees amounted to assets. Assets added to figures and figures were an assemblage of numbers—a paycheque to be signed at the end of each month. If anyone in the room would be opposing the expenses associated with the proposed assignment, it would be Ken.
Terry Cortland, Carmine’s Exploration Manager was snuggled into a corner of the boardroom, a notebook in his lap. He was in his fifties and not an ounce overweight. His facial features were steadying and unmarred by the signs of age, revealing the man’s equanimity that many of them in the company had needed in moments of uncertainty or indecision.
Two other Directors were standing by the window, looking somewhat ill at ease. One was in his sixties, tan-faced. He reminded Talya of her grandfather. His white hair probably had something to do with it. The other was a little younger, but of equal presence and commanding stance. They were both retired and only came to the office on occasions such as the one that had brought them in this morning.
The fourth member of the Board, and co-founder of the company, Louis Daniel, could not make it. He was somewhere in Guyana.
Talya sat down beside James. Terry got up, went to help himself to some coffee, and offered her a cup. Since she didn’t have time for much of anything when she first arrived at the office, Talya accepted gratefully. The steaming brew hit the spot.
Although the Directors and other members of staff were chatting casually, some nodding and smiling at her once or twice, the tension floated in the air like an ominous cloud. Surveying the scene, Talya kept her own counsel. These men in their wisdom had made a mistake, a five hundred thousand dollars mistake.
After what seemed like hours, James rose and called the meeting to order. In one chorus of movement, everybody sat in their usual chairs. School was in.
Stanley, who had the never changing looks of the lawyer ready to step into a courtroom, sat opposite her. He had been doodling on his note pad since she came in. Now pen poised and riveting his attention on his boss and on Talya, he was ready to take down the minutes of the meeting. Ordinarily that would have been Talya’s duty, but since she was the ‘subject’ of this meeting, Stanley offered to do the honours.
James dispensed with the formalities rather quickly. Eyeing everyone in turn, he began summarizing the facts and circumstances that led him to the conclusion that someone, namely Talya, should go to Mali to try to redress the situation. After a brief pause, he opened the floor for discussion.
The questions went from mild ones like “What do you intend to do about getting any of the permits?”
To more inquisitive kinds such as: “Do you really think a woman can go into an Islamic country and start accusing a personality of the community, such as Mr. Savoi, of fraud, and hope to achieve anything?”
To ultimately reaching the somewhat offensive stage of: “We are aware of your experience of Africa, Talya, but you’re only a secretary. What makes you think that you can handle a problem like this one?”
In addition, as she expected, Ken had to add a few questions of his own, mostly related to the expenses she would incur during the trip. He also took the opportunity to remind everyone that they all needed to cut down on expenditures rather than adding to them.
During the proceedings, Talya kept her mouth in check. For her that was a feat in itself. She also tried to answer every question in a calm and collected manner. Trying was not hard; succeeding was. No one had seen those butterflies that had been nearly choking her with each answer she had given. An hour later, the meeting was adjourned and Talya was assigned to leave in two days’ time.
She went home that night feeling odd. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment overlooking the ocean shore and the mountains beyond. It was by no means a spacious place but it was more than enough for her, and it was comfortable. The view, of course, made it even more appealing.
She locked the door behind her, put away her coat and kicked off her shoes. Whew! That felt wonderful. She went to the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine, poured herself a glass, and carried it to the living room. She sat on the sofa and took stock of the day’s events. Odd, was definitely the word to describe the sensation that was slowly invading her mind and body. She turned on the stereo. The music was soothing and the wine started to calm her nerves. The sense of foreboding, which had intruded on her thoughts earlier, seemed to dissipate a little. Distractedly, she went through her mail—there was nothing of interest. If one could call a bill ‘an interesting’ piece of mail, then yes, there was the hydro-bill that retained her attention. It reminded her that she would have to call the answering service, advising it of her upcoming ‘holidays’. That also reminded her to check her messages. There was only a message from Aziz, saying that he would like to have dinner with her this weekend. She would be gone by then. How am I going to tell him that I am leaving? I don’t even know how long I am going to be away … down there. Africa. A daunting thought.
Aziz Hendrix was her boyfriend—she hated the term, but it best described the man with whom she spent most of her leisure time. Did she love him? Talya didn’t think she did. She felt comfortable with him, she trusted him and he was there for her—most of the time anyway.
She went to check what was in the fridge—not much. She was not hungry but out of habit, she gathered, cleaned and cut some vegetables in a bowl. It was to be her dinner. She added a piece of bread and some cheese. She ate without appetite and drank the rest of her glass of wine, lost in thought. Once the dishes were put away, she went to take a shower, put on her favourite bathrobe and sat at her computer in a daze. Talya had to come to terms with it. She was going back to West Africa.
More than apprehension roamed her thoughts that evening. In her diary, she wrote:
For all the days, for all the nights spent in fear, I swore never to go back. The hurt has been too great, the pain too hard and the memory too harsh ever to forget the nightmare of Conakry—how could these men do such a thing to me? I was only fourteen and they ravaged my soul, and tomorrow I shall go back.

Before heading down there, Talya had to contact the local geologist in charge of the area. The next morning, she phoned Jean-Claude Gauthier, a Belgian veteran of the mining world. He had kept an eye on the situation for the past several weeks and had sent reports (to file) regularly and when he said that things were not going well, Talya didn’t wonder.
“Now, Jean-Claude, can you tell me if Savoi’s made any further progress with our applications?”
“No. It seems we’re going nowhere. Monsieur Kane, you know, he’s the Director of Mines down here. He says the