The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [56]
Eduardo laughed for the first time in three days.
“I tell you, Eduardo, we could make a bigger profit building a salt mine in Siberia.”
Eduardo laughed again, and some of the Prentino and Rodrigues staff dining at other tables stared in disbelief at their masters.
“You were in for the big one, the new city of Abuja?” said Manuel.
“That’s right,” admitted Eduardo.
“I have done everything in my power to make sure you were awarded that contract,” said the other quietly.
“What?” said Eduardo in disbelief. “Why?”
“I thought Abuja would give the Prentino empire more headaches than even you could cope with, Eduardo, and that might possibly leave the field wide open for me at home. Think about it. Every time there’s a cutback in Nigeria, what will be the first head to roll off the chopping block? ‘The unnecessary city,’ as the locals all call it.”
“The unnecessary city?” repeated Eduardo.
“Yes, and it doesn’t help when you say you won’t move without advance payment. You know as well as I do, you will need one hundred of your best men here full time to organize such a massive enterprise. They’ll need feeding, salaries, housing, perhaps even a school and a hospital. Once they are settled down here, you can’t just pull them off the job every two weeks because the government is running late clearing the checks. It’s not practical, and you know it.” Rodrigues poured Eduardo de Silveira another glass of wine.
“I had already taken that into consideration,” Eduardo said, as he sipped the wine, “but I thought that with the support of the head of state …”
“The late head of state.”
“I take your point, Manuel.”
“Maybe the next head of state will also back you, but what about the one after that? Nigeria has had three coups in the past three years.”
Eduardo remained silent for a moment.
“Do you play backgammon?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I must make some money while I’m here.” Manuel laughed.
“Why don’t you come to my room?” continued de Silveira. “Though I must warn you I always manage to beat my staff.”
“Perhaps they always manage to lose,” said Manuel, as he rose and grabbed the half empty bottle of wine by its neck. Both men were laughing as they left the dining room.
After that, the two chairmen had lunch and dinner together every day. Within a week, their staff were eating at the same tables. Eduardo could be seen in the dining room without a tie, while Manuel wore a shirt for the first time in years. By the end of two weeks, the two rivals had played each other at table tennis, backgammon, and bridge with the stakes set at one hundred dollars a point. At the end of each day Eduardo always seemed to end up owing Manuel about a million dollars, which Manuel happily traded for the best bottle of wine left in the hotel’s cellar.
Although Lieutenant Colonel Dimka had been sighted by about forty thousand Nigerians in about as many different places, he still remained resolutely uncaptured. As the new president had insisted, airports remained closed but communications were opened which at least allowed Eduardo to telephone and telex Brazil. His brothers and wife were sending replies by the hour, imploring Eduardo to return home at any cost: Decisions on major contracts throughout the world were being held up by his absence. But Eduardo’s message back to Brazil was always the same: As long as Dimka is on the loose, the airports will remain closed.
It was on a Tuesday night during dinner that Eduardo took the trouble to explain to Manuel why Brazil had lost the World Cup. Manuel dismissed Eduardo’s outrageous claims as ill informed and prejudiced. It was the only subject on which they hadn’t agreed in the past three weeks.
“I blame the whole fiasco on Zagalo,” said Eduardo.
“No, no, you cannot blame the manager,” said Manuel. “The fault lies with our stupid selectors, who know even less about football than you do. They should never have dropped Leao from goal, and in any case we should have learned from the Argentinian defeat last year that our methods are now out of date. You must attack,