The West Bank was worse than Camp X-Ray but better than Zimbabwe. There’s no point in complaining now. I should have known better. These days, if you go on the run you don’t grow a beard and try to cross borders under an assumed name.
The good old days are gone. Thanks to the people who thought it would be cool to build skyscrapers in New York. Let’s be different, they said. Let’s go higher than anyone else. But they screwed it up for all of us who go on the run for reasons that hardly ever have anything to do with global terrorism.
Most of us go into hiding because we are being terrorised. Usually by our wives, and occasionally by total strangers. But very rarely because we are being pursued by religious fundamentalists.
Unless you happen to be dumb enough to sign up for a diving holiday on one of the islands around the Philippines, the chances of being snatched by a machete-wielding consort of the prophet are pretty slim.
It’s also best to avoid walking down dark alleyways in Islamabad with a Nikon around your neck and a voice-activated tape recorder in your hand, asking swarthy types bent low over hookah pipes if they know where the Brotherhood hang out.
Don’t turn your back on Christians, either. They have a terrible history of stabbing you with the sharp end of the cross when you least expect it.
I never should have tried to escape from maverick publisher Maggie Davey. If you ever find that the Irish are looking for you, it would be better to simply hand yourself over to Muslim extremists, United States Marines or Zionist maniacs. Or even Robert Mugabe’s lads, for that matter.
One of Mad Bobble’s agents snatched me from the West Bank in my third and final abduction. After 72 hours of interrogation, they finally conceded that I might not be Tony Blair after all. But by then I was intrigued.
Zanu-PF appeared to be a political system, religion and lifestyle all rolled into one. Party officials were constantly surrounded by armed bodyguards and beautiful women who wore the mantle of abuse like some women wear fur.
The musky scent of violence and betrayal infiltrated the Harare night. And I wanted a piece of it. I gave them names and places. I even drew them maps. But at the end of it they called me a white man and cut me loose.
I wept at their feet and begged them to let me join. I told them about my Italian blood, that nobody in Europe considers Italians to be white. Least of all the Italians. But they mocked me. They asked me to prove that I wasn’t white.
I ran out into the street and with a single twist snapped a passing goat’s neck. I tried to do the same to a giant tobacco farmer standing next to his bakkie, but he squeezed me back and told me not to worry. That Morgan will come up with something.
So I was shunted off to Beit Bridge where I made sure that immigration officials on both sides of the border were fully aware that I was not black. I knew that would get them fighting among themselves. They all agreed that, as a white man, I must be guilty of something. But nobody wanted to do the paperwork to prove it.
As the argument raged back and forth I slipped out of a side door and made for Cape Town, where I had unfinished business with the duplicitous Davey and her damn fool decision to publish my confidential files.
The business of words is not a frivolous one. And I find it alarming that women are now allowed to become publishers. Words can kill. Even the shorter ones can leave you horribly maimed. Whichever fool said ”sticks and stone can break my bones, but words can never hurt me” was obviously never married.
A man is emotionally wired to tolerate verbal abuse from a woman for a maximum of 13 and a half minutes. Then he has to do something. Some go for a long walk. Others take up extreme sports like road rage. Brenda (my wife) drove me into a situation in which I inadvertently got published. You might have seen it on the shelves. The Ben Trovato Files. Bright cover. Dark repercussions.
But back to the story. I had barely reached Cape Town when the Celtic insurgent tracked me down. She wanted me to do what authors normally do. Go to book signings. Be a guest on radio talk shows. Appear on national television. Assassinate President George W Bush. Anything to get noticed.
I told her that’s not me. She went very quiet and then said: ”What is you?” A frightening question at the best of times. But when it comes from the Irish, there’s only one thing to do. Run like hell.