The Last Time They Met Part 14

She rose. Would you like to go for a walk? I could show you the school. Would you like to go for a walk? I could show you the school.

He felt he could have sat in her cottage forever.

His legs were weak as she led him through the back door. He had expected her to put on sandals, but she didn't, and he noted the toughness of her feet. The path through the bush was narrow, causing them to have to walk single file, making conversation all but impossible. The low gra.s.ses, wet from the recent rain, soaked his trouser cuffs, and he stopped for a moment to roll them. They walked through a pale yellow chrysanthemum field and past what appeared to be a small cl.u.s.ter of huts. True huts, with gra.s.s roofs, not the sophisticated version with the tin roof and the red vinyl furniture of the Ndegwa shamba. He watched her back, her drying hair. It was chilly after the storm, though the sun was strong, and as they walked through shady patches, they pa.s.sed from cool to warm to cool again. Occasionally, Linda waved at a woman or a child. He might have noticed the scenery, but he could hardly take his eyes off her. Her walk strong, the cloth of the kanga swaying languidly as she moved. Her hair growing lighter by the minute. They edged a dense forest, and he grew momentarily nervous about encountering another buffalo or an elephant, but she moved without concern, and he chose simply to follow her lead. The forest opened to a village with a dusty duka, a bar, a school - - all made of cement. It might have been the Wild West, for its lack of adornment and its isolation. all made of cement. It might have been the Wild West, for its lack of adornment and its isolation.

He meant to catch up to her as soon as they had left the path, but on the road she was immediately surrounded by children, calling to her, reaching out to touch her. Jambo. Miss Linda. Habari yako? Mzuri sana. Jambo. Miss Linda. Habari yako? Mzuri sana. She scratched the tops of their heads, bent down to hug them. They spoke to Linda in a rapid patois of Swahili and English, and wanted to know, shyly, the ident.i.ty of the man with her, pointing at him with one hand and hiding their mouths with the other. She introduced Thomas as a friend, and he shook hands all around, their happiness infectious. But then a boy asked Linda where Peter was, and Thomas felt the happiness drain from his body. They began to walk on, the children like gra.s.shoppers beside them. Thomas wanted to take Linda's hand, ached to do so. She told him that once the village had been a thriving community, but that most of the men had gone into the city, looking for work. Some came back to their women and children on the weekends; others would never come back at all. Women with babies wrapped in slings at their chests waved at Linda from doorways, the ebullience of the children not in evidence there, the waves friendly but somber: the women knew too much, or their men had left them. She scratched the tops of their heads, bent down to hug them. They spoke to Linda in a rapid patois of Swahili and English, and wanted to know, shyly, the ident.i.ty of the man with her, pointing at him with one hand and hiding their mouths with the other. She introduced Thomas as a friend, and he shook hands all around, their happiness infectious. But then a boy asked Linda where Peter was, and Thomas felt the happiness drain from his body. They began to walk on, the children like gra.s.shoppers beside them. Thomas wanted to take Linda's hand, ached to do so. She told him that once the village had been a thriving community, but that most of the men had gone into the city, looking for work. Some came back to their women and children on the weekends; others would never come back at all. Women with babies wrapped in slings at their chests waved at Linda from doorways, the ebullience of the children not in evidence there, the waves friendly but somber: the women knew too much, or their men had left them.

Heat radiated from the road. Thomas took off his jacket, threw it over his shoulder. His clothes were now as dusty as the dirt and gravel. Linda opened the door to the school, and the children squeezed past them. It was unexpectedly cool inside the building, the walls solid until shoulder height, where, just below the tin roof, there were open windows with no gla.s.s.

-When it rains, the sound on the roof is so loud, we have to stop the cla.s.s.

-The kids must love that.

-They don't, actually. The children want to go to school. It's not just this school. It's the same everywhere.

Some attempt had been made at cheer. Colorful drawings hung from the walls, one or two of them bold and very good. The children tugged at Thomas, and he happily went where they led him. He wished he had treats for them inside his jacket - - lollipops or cookies or small toys. Something. There were no desks, except for Linda's. lollipops or cookies or small toys. Something. There were no desks, except for Linda's.

-What do they write on? he asked her. She sat with a spindly boy on her lap. Disease appeared to have made bare patches on his scalp. he asked her. She sat with a spindly boy on her lap. Disease appeared to have made bare patches on his scalp.

-Their books.

Behind her desk was a charcoal grill. She noticed him looking at it.

-I feed them when I get here in the mornings. I make them eggs and give them milk. I get deliveries once a week from a farm, and I bring the food down to the school each morning. There's no way to keep it refrigerated here.

Which explained the muscles, he thought.

The boy on her lap coughed, spit onto the floor. Linda thumped his back. The women sometimes besiege me for medical treatment, The women sometimes besiege me for medical treatment, she said. she said. They bring me their babies, and they cry, and, of course, I can't do anything. I sometimes think this is a test from G.o.d. That I'm supposed to go to medical school and come back here and practice. They bring me their babies, and they cry, and, of course, I can't do anything. I sometimes think this is a test from G.o.d. That I'm supposed to go to medical school and come back here and practice.

-Would you consider it?

-I don't have what it takes.

-I'm sure you're doing a world of good as a teacher.

-I'm hardly doing any good at all.

She put the child down and took him by the hand to a taller girl against a wall. Linda and the girl spoke for a moment, and when Linda had returned to Thomas, she explained that the boy's sister would take him home. Together Linda and Thomas left the cla.s.sroom and walked along a short path up a hill to a church.

-It's a Catholic church, she said, opening the door for him. she said, opening the door for him. One of few in the area. One of few in the area.

The church was a revelation after the barren schoolroom - - the cool interior lit with five stained-gla.s.s windows; the colors primary and rich with thick lines of lead between the gla.s.s, as if a Pica.s.so or a Cezanne had painted them. A fresh smell, as of reeds or wheat, permeated the small building. It might have sat a hundred in a pinch. the cool interior lit with five stained-gla.s.s windows; the colors primary and rich with thick lines of lead between the gla.s.s, as if a Pica.s.so or a Cezanne had painted them. A fresh smell, as of reeds or wheat, permeated the small building. It might have sat a hundred in a pinch.

He watched her cross herself with holy water from a font adjacent to the front door, genuflect at a pew, and kneel for a moment before she sat. His chest felt seared, as though a hot wind had blown through it, the memories so keen he needed to put a hand to the back of a pew to steady himself. He stood at the rear of the church and waited until she had been sitting alone for a few moments before he joined her. Giving her time to offer prayers to the G.o.d she pa.s.sionately hated.

They sat in silence, her head and feet astonis.h.i.+ngly bare. He remembered, years ago, the mantilla hastily put atop the hair for Sat.u.r.day afternoon Confession, when she believed she could not enter a church without a hat. He wanted to take her hand, but some residual sense of propriety stopped him.

-Do you recognize the woman in that one? she asked, slightly squinting and pointing to one of the colorful windows at the side of the church. It was a depiction of a woman who looked both sensuous and adoring, her eyes cast upward, as if to Heaven. She wore a garment of bright yellow, and her African hair was wild about her face. She, unlike the rest of the figures in the depiction, was black. she asked, slightly squinting and pointing to one of the colorful windows at the side of the church. It was a depiction of a woman who looked both sensuous and adoring, her eyes cast upward, as if to Heaven. She wore a garment of bright yellow, and her African hair was wild about her face. She, unlike the rest of the figures in the depiction, was black.

-Magdalene.

-You remembered.

-Of course I remembered. It's a wonderful painting. Very similar in concept to one by t.i.tian I saw last year in Florence. In fact, I think it must be modeled after the t.i.tian. The hair was amazing. Very, well, t.i.tian-like. Magdalene is often depicted partially nude with long, flowing reddish-blond hair. Very beautiful.

-You went last year?

-On my way here. I saw two others in Italy. The Bernini in Siena. It's a sculpture. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are exposed, and her hair flows over them. The Donatello is very different. Gaunt. Ascetic. More the penitent.

-Interesting that she's African. Yes, he said. he said.

-You're squinting.

-I think I need gla.s.ses.

-She's thought to be the embodiment of eros and femininity in Christianity, he said. he said.

-You've made a study of this, she said. she said.

-I have. For something that I'm working on. Have you read The Last Temptation of Christ The Last Temptation of Christ by Nikos Kazantzakis? by Nikos Kazantzakis?

-How amazing. I'm reading Report to Greco. Report to Greco.

-Kazantzakis presents Magdalene as a local wh.o.r.e, someone Jesus had yearnings for since childhood. Someone with whom he had a lifelong s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p. Some think she bore him children.

-All the inst.i.tutions for unwed mothers are called Magdalene.

-I remember, he said. he said.

-Did you see Jesus Christ Superstar? Jesus Christ Superstar?

-"I don't know how to love Him."

-I've never stopped loving you, she said. she said.

His breath caught, and he closed his eyes. Behind them, the pure pain of time lost was a star exploding. He put his hands on his thighs, as if bracing himself against some great hurt.

-I'd come to think of it like childhood, she said. she said. Something I once had that I shouldn't expect to have again. Something I once had that I shouldn't expect to have again.

He looked up toward the ceiling, as a man does when he doesn't want to admit to tears. Why didn't you let me know? Why didn't you let me know? he asked, his voice husky. he asked, his voice husky.

She crossed her legs and then had to bend them sideways in the narrow pew. For all the reasons I told you. I a.s.sumed you'd moved on, forgotten me. For all the reasons I told you. I a.s.sumed you'd moved on, forgotten me.

-Never.

-I knew that you had married. My aunt couldn't wait to tell me. I think she actually called me on the phone as soon as she heard.

-Oh, Linda.

-And that was that.

He couldn't touch her in the church. No matter how pa.s.sionately she hated her G.o.d, he knew she would mind such an overture. Nor, when they left the church, could he touch her then, the children having waited for them patiently and followed them along the path. Not until they had left the village behind and were out of sight did he reach ahead and stop her. She turned - - so willingly, he might have thanked G.o.d so willingly, he might have thanked G.o.d - - and folded herself into him. The first kiss was not familiar, and yet he felt himself arrived, come home, safe to sh.o.r.e. And might have told her this, had she not stopped his mouth with a second kiss, her taste reminding him now of a thousand others. She laced strong fingers around the nape of his neck and bent his head helplessly toward hers. He stumbled and then knelt, not intentionally, his balance gone. She pulled him toward her so that he was drawn up against her bare midriff. The pleasure so great, he groaned with grat.i.tude. She bent her head to his. and folded herself into him. The first kiss was not familiar, and yet he felt himself arrived, come home, safe to sh.o.r.e. And might have told her this, had she not stopped his mouth with a second kiss, her taste reminding him now of a thousand others. She laced strong fingers around the nape of his neck and bent his head helplessly toward hers. He stumbled and then knelt, not intentionally, his balance gone. She pulled him toward her so that he was drawn up against her bare midriff. The pleasure so great, he groaned with grat.i.tude. She bent her head to his.

-Linda, he said, relief lowering his voice. he said, relief lowering his voice.

He tried to take in the room and make it his, even as she lay upon the coverlet. The kanga unknotted now, the halter top untied, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s a white shock against the color of her skin. He could not then remember anything of how they had been before, and yet they moved together as if they hadn't ever been apart. He had never felt himself so thoroughly at home in time. It was a revelation that this could be his, that she might give him this again and again and again, that discontent might ease. She rose above him and said his name, her hair a damp curtain at the sides of her face. She lowered her shoulders and offered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which he took into his hands and mouth, wanting all of her.

Sweet recompense for all the days and nights unlived.

November 27Dear Thomas,Today we had a visit from the MP for Nyeri. Unexpected, because he had come from Nairobi to negotiate a bride-price for a second wife, whom no one is supposed to know about; the first wife, to her grave misfortune, is infertile. He arrived in a Mercedes, and came in with such pomp, I expected to be blessed. He sat on a bench at the back of the room and listened to a lesson on multiplication, nodding from time to time, as if there were points about which one might agree or disagree, all the while picking his teeth with a twig. The children were cowed and kept sneaking surrept.i.tious looks at the big man who had come from the city. He wore a gold watch, and I don't know much about men's clothing, but the fabric of his suit looked expensive. He had a retinue of eight. He travels with a car in front of him and a car in back as a security measure against thieves and political opponents. Should he be stopped by a panga gang on the A104, his underlings are supposed to take the blows. I'm told he has a heated swimming pool in Lavington, a fleet of Mercedes, and a fat Swiss account. What did he make, I wonder, of the children's bare feet?I am sitting at the back of the cottage under a thorn tree, which gives a twig-like illusion of shade. The wind rustles in from the chrysanthemum plains, and the fever trees are creaking. There is an enormous vulture in a branch above me, sitting patiently, so I know there must be a fresh kill nearby. I don't want to think about what animal it might be, or about its specific killer. Superb starlings of iridescent turquoise twitter in the branches, but the vulture refuses to be annoyed. It seems scarcely credible that today is Thanksgiving. Very strange to celebrate a holiday when everyone else is at work.I feel stunned, as I do sometimes when I emerge from a darkened schoolroom or my cottage and am hit with the light of Africa at noon: blinded by it, made dizzy, as though I'd taken a blow to the side of my head. Disoriented, slightly nauseous even, unable to eat. I walk around the cottage, touching things because you touched them. A book of Rilke. A plate that once had jelly on it. A hairbrush from which I have not yet removed the chestnut hairs. It's a kind of sickness, isn't it? An illness that has invaded me. Or rather the return of a chronic illness. This bout fatal, as I know it must be.I think that words corrupt and oxidize love. That it is better not to write of it. Even memory, I think, is full of rust and decay.I have always been faithful to you. If faithful means the experience against which everything else has been measured.Yours always, LindaDecember 1Dear Linda,When I left you and arranged that we would write each other, I thought that you would not, that your overdeveloped sense of guilt would make you silent. Worse, I feared that if I got in the car and drove to Njia, you'd have vanished without a trace, like the veils of mist over the moors near your cottage. So that when I saw your letter in the box - lavender paper, delicate backward hand - I wept. There, in front of the mzees chewing twigs and the schoolboys throwing pebbles at a hyrax. No shame, none at all. Only joy and considerable relief.Magdalene. Beautiful Magdalene. Lost and then found again. I don't think I ever before knew the meaning of happiness.About Regina. Should I write to you of the quiet fury with which I was greeted when I returned on Sunday night, all the more daunting for being so justly deserved? Or the equanimity - absent elsewhere in her life - with which she regards the most harrowing cases of childhood disease (Kenyan children being, despite their lot, the best-behaved in the world - some mysterious parenting secret I haven't yet been able to discover); or her desire to bear a child of her own - all-consuming, constant, and crippling? No, I will not. I do love Regina. It is irrelevant, however. I a.s.sume you love your Peter as well - about whom you were justifiably silent on Sunday.I remember your body on the bed. For long moments at a time, that is all there is.You are so beautiful to me. (Do you have a mirror? I forgot to notice. We don't. Regina does her makeup in the tea kettle.)Proof of my own constancy: All of my poems are about you, even when they appear not to be. More to the point, they are all about the accident, in case you doubted the sincerity of my own guilt. I a.s.sume these are not available in any form at the British Council library.I felt disloyal writing to you in my house - disloyal to you or Regina? both, I think - so I have driven in my battered and twice-stolen Escort to Nairobi, have taken a table at the Thorn Tree and have ordered a Tusker without the worm (long story). There is a strange white smoke emerging from what must be the kitchen, which I suppose I should ignore since everyone else is (though it looks as though it will poison us all). I have never had a message left for me at the message board, but, insanely, I checked it today on the off chance that you had written to me in code. (Leave one for me next time you are in Nairobi, just to humor me; though if you come to the city and don't tell me, I will surely die of heartbreak.)Just last Sat.u.r.day, I sat at this very cafe with Ndegwa. (Not knowing you were in the country. How was that possible? Why were there no signs or portents in the sky, no audible vibrations I'd have recognized as your footsteps?) Today, I went to the American emba.s.sy on Ndegwa's behalf and was rewarded with an appointment with an emba.s.sy official - officially what what was never made clear. He looked was never made clear. He looked - - I hesitate to say it, because it is such a cliche I hesitate to say it, because it is such a cliche - - like an aging Marine, his crew cut so short, there was more scalp than hair. He was bluff and hearty, actually glad to see me, though he had no idea initially why I had come. I distrust an egalitarian welcome. He said like an aging Marine, his crew cut so short, there was more scalp than hair. He was bluff and hearty, actually glad to see me, though he had no idea initially why I had come. I distrust an egalitarian welcome. He said - - I kid you not I kid you not - - "Where you from, Tom?" I said, "Boston." He said, "Heeey, Red Sox!" So we discussed the Red Sox, about which I knew less than I should have, and I felt it was a kind of test I didn't pa.s.s. My official grew suspicious, and seemed only then to notice my excessively long hair ("Hippie," I could hear him thinking), and said, finally, "So what can I do you for?" and "What's on your mind, Tom?" Truthfully, it was you, as it always is now, but I told him of my mission, which was vague enough when I left my house, even more vague in the telling of it. I wanted to help Ndegwa get released, I said. Failing that, I wanted to put pressure on the Kenyan government to state the charges and to set a trial date. It seemed an absurd request and hopelessly naive, which is how he took it. He smiled and was indulgent. "Well, Tom," he said, pus.h.i.+ng his chair back from the desk and lacing his fingers in his lap, "this is a sensitive area," and, "You know, Tom, the U.S. has a strategic base in Kenya," and, "I'd like to help as much as you, Tom, but these things take time." I felt like a kid who'd gone to his father for money. "Where you from, Tom?" I said, "Boston." He said, "Heeey, Red Sox!" So we discussed the Red Sox, about which I knew less than I should have, and I felt it was a kind of test I didn't pa.s.s. My official grew suspicious, and seemed only then to notice my excessively long hair ("Hippie," I could hear him thinking), and said, finally, "So what can I do you for?" and "What's on your mind, Tom?" Truthfully, it was you, as it always is now, but I told him of my mission, which was vague enough when I left my house, even more vague in the telling of it. I wanted to help Ndegwa get released, I said. Failing that, I wanted to put pressure on the Kenyan government to state the charges and to set a trial date. It seemed an absurd request and hopelessly naive, which is how he took it. He smiled and was indulgent. "Well, Tom," he said, pus.h.i.+ng his chair back from the desk and lacing his fingers in his lap, "this is a sensitive area," and, "You know, Tom, the U.S. has a strategic base in Kenya," and, "I'd like to help as much as you, Tom, but these things take time." I felt like a kid who'd gone to his father for money.Having cheerfully put me in my place, he asked me what I was doing in the country. I dissembled, mentioned Regina, and finally confessed to being a writer. "For whom?" he asked. Reasonable question. "For no one," I said, and I could tell he didn't believe me. After all, who would write for no one? Name-dropping, he mentioned that Ted Kennedy would be coming soon to the country and that he (my official) was in charge of putting together a party in the senator's honor. Uttering the first political statement of my life - - indeed having the first political indeed having the first political thought thought of my life of my life - - I blurted, "I know Ted Kennedy." And finally snagged the man's attention. "Actually," I said, "my father knows him. He was once at our house for dinner." I blurted, "I know Ted Kennedy." And finally snagged the man's attention. "Actually," I said, "my father knows him. He was once at our house for dinner."Really, said my emba.s.sy official. said my emba.s.sy official.And so the "Ndegwa matter," as he put it, may be looked into after all.Write me. For G.o.d's sake, keep writing. A day without you seems a day unlived, bearable only because I summon memory, mine subject to the merest oxidation, a faint rust blowing in the breezes.Love me as you did on Sunday. Is that so much to ask?ThomasP.S. Today's headline: WOMAN GRABBED IN BUSH BY HYENA WOMAN GRABBED IN BUSH BY HYENADecember 15Dear Thomas,I am writing to you from a hospital named Mary Magdalene (no, I am not making this up) where I have had to bring David, the boy who collapsed in a fit of coughing in my cla.s.sroom. Brave boy. He refuses to be excluded. He has a mysterious disease the doctors cannot name - it gives him pneumonia and makes him so gaunt, I'm afraid he won't be able to stand up. They have taken him in to be examined, and I am waiting for him, since his mother is ill as well and cannot leave her hut. A daughter cares for the smallest children. Oh, Thomas, we never knew the first thing about misery, did we?The hospital, a small one, was built in the 1930s to house wayward girls of European extraction whose parents were too poor to send them back to Europe to have their babies. (Or who would not spend the money on such hopeless causes. Where did the babies go, I wonder?) Now, of course, no one cares about that anymore, and so the hospital is a sort of emergency clinic for the region. There is a Belgian doctor here who is very good. He is young and funny and all the women fall in love with him. I don't believe he sleeps at all; he is always here when I come. He is baffled by David's case and has sent blood samples back to Brussels to be a.n.a.lyzed. How can a doctor treat an illness he can't even identify?Sister Marie Francis, formidable and large, keeps pa.s.sing by and regarding me with disapproval. As well she might, though I think it is only my kanga. Or perhaps she sees the wayward Catholic girl in me as I study the lurid cross on the wall opposite. The girl who used to ponder the subjects of joy and guilt and punishment. The nun walks silently by, and our eyes lock - I cannot help myself; possibly I am looking for a sign, a message from her? - and I feel exposed, more naked than even my casual dress implies.I didn't tell you that Peter came unexpectedly after you had left. I was startled by this second apparition of the day, and I backed away from the door. He took my alarm for normal surprise, which he had intended. You still on my skin. I had to plead illness, exhaustion, anything. Ashamed not of you, nor of us, but of my fear of discovery.Oh, Thomas, despite all this, I am so happy.Yesterday, I arranged to take the children into Nyeri for a parade in Jomo Kenyatta's honor. Thirty children crowded into two VW vans and one Peugeot 504 (you don't want to think about it too much). We stood on a hillside and watched the parade marchers, who were in tribal dress and sneakers and wearing Coca-Cola sunshades, all the while eating Popsicles. We listened to Jomo Kenyatta deliver a speech on harambee harambee and the future of Kenya. Of course, in the presence of the children, one had to be respectful and ignore the irony of the use of the word and the future of Kenya. Of course, in the presence of the children, one had to be respectful and ignore the irony of the use of the word freedom freedom when men like Ndegwa languish in prison. (Have you heard anything further from your Marine?) Though it must be said that amongst the spectators and marchers alike, tensions were high: Kenyatta, as you know, is not as beloved as he once was. The point of my story is that, quite suddenly and without warning, panic broke out on the hill, and a stampede began. Hundreds of people started running, not realizing they were headed for a barbed-wire fence. The hysteria was infectious. We herded the children into a tight circle and made them crouch down, and essentially we lay on top of them. I thought, Kenyatta has been shot. And then, This is a coup. Peter took a knee to his spine. Soldiers with bayonets kneeled beside us and aimed at the crowd. No one was killed, but dozens were injured as they were crushed into the barbed wire. Later we learned that the panic had been caused by a swarm of bees. Overhead, oblivious to the melee, six fighter planes roared by in a salute to Kenyatta. As we watched, one of them rolled out of formation and crashed on a nearby golf course. when men like Ndegwa languish in prison. (Have you heard anything further from your Marine?) Though it must be said that amongst the spectators and marchers alike, tensions were high: Kenyatta, as you know, is not as beloved as he once was. The point of my story is that, quite suddenly and without warning, panic broke out on the hill, and a stampede began. Hundreds of people started running, not realizing they were headed for a barbed-wire fence. The hysteria was infectious. We herded the children into a tight circle and made them crouch down, and essentially we lay on top of them. I thought, Kenyatta has been shot. And then, This is a coup. Peter took a knee to his spine. Soldiers with bayonets kneeled beside us and aimed at the crowd. No one was killed, but dozens were injured as they were crushed into the barbed wire. Later we learned that the panic had been caused by a swarm of bees. Overhead, oblivious to the melee, six fighter planes roared by in a salute to Kenyatta. As we watched, one of them rolled out of formation and crashed on a nearby golf course.I write of these events as I once wrote of movies or of trips to the beach. I will not say I have gotten used to them, but they don't shock me anymore.What shocks me is my love for you.I would like to think that what we have could exist outside of real time, that it could be a thing apart and not invade. Foolish and dangerous thinking. It has already invaded every part of my life.Yours, L.December 21Dear Linda,You write of panic and hysteria, but all I can think about is Peter with you on that hillside, Peter surprising you in your cottage (while I was returning to a fuming Regina). Jealous already. Intense, consuming jealousy that reduces me to a petty, twisted, unlovable creature. Did you sleep with him? That night? So soon after we had been together? That I have no right to be jealous is irrelevant. It is a human pa.s.sion: the sick, white underbelly of love. Worse, I am jealous of your doctor with whom all the women fall in love. Do you include yourself?Don't answer my questions.Last night, Regina and I attended the launch of a book called Silence Will Speak Silence Will Speak by Errol Trzebinski. Essentially a biography of Denys Finch Hatton, Blixen's lover when she was living on her coffee farm, the book is also about Blixen's own life and writings about Africa. (Perhaps you know the book already? In any event, I am sending it with this since you said you'd already read all the books in Njia.) The party was at the Karen Country Club by Errol Trzebinski. Essentially a biography of Denys Finch Hatton, Blixen's lover when she was living on her coffee farm, the book is also about Blixen's own life and writings about Africa. (Perhaps you know the book already? In any event, I am sending it with this since you said you'd already read all the books in Njia.) The party was at the Karen Country Club - - unremarkable anachronism. Virtually everyone at the gathering was white, with one notable exception. An old man wearing a dark suit and an ill-pressed overcoat, with his cane resting on his chair, sat in a corner and sipped tea as he chatted with two "little old ladies" (how women must hate to graduate to that distinction) in plum-colored suits and hats. At first glance, the tableau reminded me of maiden aunts gossiping with a bachelor uncle at a family reunion. But then I was informed that the old man was actually unremarkable anachronism. Virtually everyone at the gathering was white, with one notable exception. An old man wearing a dark suit and an ill-pressed overcoat, with his cane resting on his chair, sat in a corner and sipped tea as he chatted with two "little old ladies" (how women must hate to graduate to that distinction) in plum-colored suits and hats. At first glance, the tableau reminded me of maiden aunts gossiping with a bachelor uncle at a family reunion. But then I was informed that the old man was actually Out of Africa Out of Africa's Kamante, Blixen's faithful cook, the man whose story forms a large segment of her book. He'd been only a small boy when she discovered him fifty years ago, alienated and diseased, tending goats on her land; and now he was an old man who had, I a.s.sumed, personally witnessed the astonis.h.i.+ng transformation of his country. He'd been hauled out for the occasion, I suspect, to lend a certain cachet to the proceedings, and he was something of a guest of honor. Though he seemed, I must say, largely indifferent to the fate that had contrived to position him there in that corner, reminiscing over tea about an Africa that no longer existed with women who, in Blixen's day, would not have allowed him at their table.I write to you from home now, having lost my scruples (jealousy having set them adrift). Our house sits amidst manicured gardens and acacias and eucalyptus trees that rise above the stone cottages of Karen, smoke curling from their chimneys, the four green humps of the Ngong Hills in the background. Imagining I am in England is not hard to do. The hedges create mini-fortresses, reaching twelve feet high, and are impenetrable, connected by gates with guards to watch them. Children play by appointment only. It is an odd thing, all this beauty, all this ordered loveliness, all this soft prettiness of landscape - - for it is hard not to think of it as a malignant tumor that will one day have to be excised. for it is hard not to think of it as a malignant tumor that will one day have to be excised.No, I don't believe in your hospital and will have to come to see for myself. Write me and tell me I may come. Or meet me somewhere. I can't stand not seeing you. When are you coming to Nairobi?The U.S. has lodged a formal complaint about the Kenyan government's detention of Ndegwa. I flatter myself if I think I had anything to do with it. And delude myself if I think it will help. I have written to Amnesty International, but will not receive a reply for several weeks. How agonizingly slow the mail is! Do you have a telephone? I forgot to ask. We do not. I resisted having one installed after the robbery (another long story), but Regina has been lobbying for one for some time. And I, faithless husband, would do it in an instant if I thought it would connect me to you.I make light of this, but our situation is a painful one. We do not discuss the future. Do we have one?There are rumors of a ma.s.s grave with fifty students in it. I find it hard to credit, but it may be true.Christmas approaches. Weird in the heat, don't you think? How I wish I could spend it with you.Yours, ThomasP.S. Today's headline: LEOPARD ATTACK IN KAREN LEOPARD ATTACK IN KAREN.January 4Dear Thomas,Peter and I have just returned from Turkana, where we went for Christmas week. We drove through rivers and were nearly defeated by the 100-degree temperatures. We pa.s.sed through a landscape of such desolation one cannot imagine how the Turkana, walking from one deserted area to another, manage to survive. The lake, to our astonishment, resembled the seash.o.r.e, with palm trees and miles of sandy beach lining it. We ignored the threat of parasites and crocodiles and body-surfed in the 80-degree water. In the morning, we woke to a blood-red sunrise - a swath, hundreds of miles long that, despite its awful beauty, promised blistering heat for the rest of the day. The landscape is beautiful, violent and menacing - like stepping onto another planet where one breathes poisonous gases in splendid colors.Thomas, we are linked together, however much we might not wish it. As to the future, I cannot say.So much has been left unsaid.I could hear you calling my name when they took me away. I was in shock and couldn't speak, or I'd have answered you. My aunt arrived at the hospital shortly after I did. To her credit, she cried once and then spent the rest of the time telling me she'd told me so. Her distrust of you has always puzzled me. Perhaps she hates all men. I'd have thought she'd have welcomed someone to take me off her hands.I was in the hospital for five days. The uncles and cousins were vigilant, and I was never left alone. Strange treasure they were protecting, one that had already been stolen.I went home for a day and then was sent by car to New York, Uncle Brendan driving (we hit three bars in Connecticut alone). The drive was an agony as I recall, since one whole side of me was raw. (All of me raw inside.) The days pa.s.sed. They took the dressings off sometime in March. Eileen was working as a ma.s.sage therapist and was gone all day. I walked the streets when I was able to. I thought of you. I used to sit for hours looking out the window, thinking of you. For several days after I was able to get out of bed, I called you repeatedly. But there was never any answer. Later my aunt wrote that you and your family had gone to Europe for a trip. Was this true? I forgot to ask you on Sunday. Then my aunt wrote that you were going out with Marissa Markham (and good riddance and so forth). Her motives were entirely transparent, but I couldn't know for sure that it wasn't true. People change, don't they? You might have been angry I'd gone away without telling you where. My aunt might have lied to you as well.I thought: He's forgotten me so soon.I never got the letters you sent. Not hard to imagine what was done with them. Read and then disposed of, I imagine. How dearly I would love to have those letters back. I feel we are the blood and bone of one person. I love you with your hair grown long. I love you.Please send me your poems. I hope it is absolutely true that only you collect the mail.Lovingly, LindaP.S. Thank you for the Trzebinski. I read it in a day. Wish I were a slower reader so that books would last longer.January 10Dear Linda,I am in agony thinking that you imagined I had forgotten you.Never.If only I had ignored your aunt and kept trying. If only I had called Eileen. If only I had gotten in the car and driven up to Middlebury. I can't think about this anymore. It is making me ill, literally.And it is making it hard to enjoy my news, however wonderful it seemed only an hour ago. I received a letter yesterday (it took seven weeks to get here) from an editor at the New Yorker New Yorker who wants to publish two of my poems. I was in a panic that the editor might have thought I wasn't interested because it had taken me so long to reply, so I drove into Nairobi and found a telephone and called him straightaway. He was a bit taken aback that I should call all the way from Africa (clearly this was not as important to him as it was to me), but I explained the mail situation. In any event, the poems will be published, and I will actually be paid for them (astonis.h.i.+ng in itself). Regina is quite happy about this. I believe she thinks this justifies my existence. So do I, for that matter. who wants to publish two of my poems. I was in a panic that the editor might have thought I wasn't interested because it had taken me so long to reply, so I drove into Nairobi and found a telephone and called him straightaway. He was a bit taken aback that I should call all the way from Africa (clearly this was not as important to him as it was to me), but I explained the mail situation. In any event, the poems will be published, and I will actually be paid for them (astonis.h.i.+ng in itself). Regina is quite happy about this. I believe she thinks this justifies my existence. So do I, for that matter.I have other news as well. My emba.s.sy official has dropped me a note saying that he plans to put together a party at which several influential people will be (including Mr. Kennedy), and he wonders if I might persuade Mary Ndegwa to come as well. He thinks this is my best chance of promoting her cause, and I was actually cheered to see that the "Ndegwa matter" was still on his mind. (Kennedy will, of course, not remember me, and it will doubtless be embarra.s.sing; but I can't care about that now.) I don't have a precise date yet for this event, but when I do, I will let you know. Perhaps you and Peter could attend? (Is it insane to imagine we could be in the same room and not touch each other? Surely, we'd have more self-control? Perhaps not.)Rich is coming on Tuesday, and we will be going on safari for a couple of weeks. I was looking forward to this (and I suppose I still am), though I am distraught at the thought of not being able to receive a letter from you. (You should perhaps not write to me for two weeks. No, do write, just don't send them until I'm back. I hate this f.u.c.king subterfuge. It demeans us as well as Peter and Regina. But I don't see how it can be avoided, do you?)I followed a tip from a friend (acquaintance) and went to visit a man in Nairobi who runs a magazine to see if he would want to publish any of my poetry. It was a long shot, but I was in Nairobi anyway (making my twelve-dollars-a-minute phone call to the New Yorker New Yorker - - probably spent all of forthcoming check), and I thought I'd give it a try. It's a strange hybrid of a magazine, something between probably spent all of forthcoming check), and I thought I'd give it a try. It's a strange hybrid of a magazine, something between McCall's McCall's and and Time Time (interviews with high-ranking politicians next to recipes), but I liked the editor. He was educated in the States (interviews with high-ranking politicians next to recipes), but I liked the editor. He was educated in the States - - in Indiana, as it happens in Indiana, as it happens - - and he invited me to lunch. He will publish several of the poems. (Actually getting paid there, too. An embarra.s.sment of riches.) An offshoot of this visit, however, was that he said he was desperate for reporters, and he asked if I would do one or two pieces for him. I told him I'd never been a journalist, but that didn't seem to bother him and he invited me to lunch. He will publish several of the poems. (Actually getting paid there, too. An embarra.s.sment of riches.) An offshoot of this visit, however, was that he said he was desperate for reporters, and he asked if I would do one or two pieces for him. I told him I'd never been a journalist, but that didn't seem to bother him - - my qualifications chiefly, I gather, that I am available and can write in English. I thought, Why not? and so said yes. As a result, I am to leave tomorrow to cover a my qualifications chiefly, I gather, that I am available and can write in English. I thought, Why not? and so said yes. As a result, I am to leave tomorrow to cover a siku kuu siku kuu (literal translation: big day) at the Masai bomas in the Rift. Accompanied by a photographer. I don't see how it can't be interesting on some level. (literal translation: big day) at the Masai bomas in the Rift. Accompanied by a photographer. I don't see how it can't be interesting on some level.Linda, I am dying. I must see you soon. Is there any chance you could get away for a few days? I am thinking (probably hopelessly) about meeting somewhere on the coast. Regina, who will be with us on safari, will go back early after we get to Mombasa (she can't tolerate humidity). I could persuade Rich to go back with her (he'll have had more than enough of his big brother by then and will probably be desperate to be alone). To be with you in Lamu would be heaven. Have you ever been there? Alternatively, forget the coast and just come to Nairobi. Or tell me that I can come to Njia. Could we meet in Limuru? My body is aching.Love always, ThomasP.S. I hate the way letters close - either too tepid or too sappy for the occasion.P.P.S. Today's headline: RAMPAGING ELEPHANTS DESTROY CROPS RAMPAGING ELEPHANTS DESTROY CROPS.January 17Dear Thomas,I am very sad today. David died this morning at Mary Magdalene. Dr. Benoit did everything he could, but the pneumonia had invaded both lungs, and David hadn't the strength to fight it. I have just come from telling his mother, who herself is gravely ill; she seemed hardly to hear my news. What is this terrible disease, Thomas? Dr. Benoit is furious with himself and with Brussels; they took too long to send back the results of the culture. They, too, are baffled, however, and have sent the samples to the CDC in America. Dr. Benoit says he has seen other, similar, cases and is concerned about the disease spreading before he can discover what it is.David was a brave boy. There will be a funeral tomorrow. Yes, it may be possible to meet you on the coast. I would have to arrange either to go with Peter or return with him, but it might be possible to find two days to be with you. I, too, am aching, though I am fearful of seeing you again. Perhaps it is my disheartened mood today, but I see no good outcome to our being together. None. Someone - and I believe we have to hope it will be us - will be desperately hurt.I am glad for your news from the New Yorker New Yorker. You must send me the poems they are going to publish.Thomas, I love you beyond anything I thought possible. It makes me sad for Peter, for what he never had from me.I will omit the tepid closing. No words are adequate.LindaP.S. I took the chance of writing you the one letter before you leave for the coast. I pray it is you who retrieves it.January 26Dear Linda,I am so sorry about David. I hope he didn't suffer. In a strange way, I am glad the mother is not completely aware of what happened. That has always seemed the worst part of any child's death: that the mother should suffer the intolerable loss. I wish you did not hate your G.o.d so pa.s.sionately, since you might take comfort in the thought that David is with Him now.Such extraordinary emotions in the s.p.a.ce of paragraphs. I was delirious with the news that you might be able to meet me at the coast. Would Lamu be possible? I will send you the dates tomorrow, and I will find a place for us to meet. My G.o.d, Linda, this has to happen. Another man might be able to put scruples above want and need, but not I. Sometimes I tell myself we owe this to ourselves for all the days and nights that were lost to us, even though I know that makes no moral sense whatever. Another person (your nun perhaps) would simply say too bad, too bad, that we have made commitments to others and will have to honor them. But I wonder: did you and I not make a stronger commitment nine years ago in front of a blue cottage by the ocean? Am I to pay for the rest of my life for a careless moment on a slippery curve? Would I understand this if it were happening to Regina? G.o.d, I hope I would. that we have made commitments to others and will have to honor them. But I wonder: did you and I not make a stronger commitment nine years ago in front of a blue cottage by the ocean? Am I to pay for the rest of my life for a careless moment on a slippery curve? Would I understand this if it were happening to Regina? G.o.d, I hope I would.I have just finished writing my first article for the magazine I told you about. The siku kuu siku kuu was an extraordinary event after all was an extraordinary event after all - - a ceremony during which a thousand Masai men gathered to anoint their women with honey beer to ensure the continued fertility of the tribe, a spectacle that takes place every twenty years a ceremony during which a thousand Masai men gathered to anoint their women with honey beer to ensure the continued fertility of the tribe, a spectacle that takes place every twenty years - - and I hope I have done justice to it. I would rather have written a poem, but that's hardly what the editor wants right now. I won't bore you with a travelogue, but I'll give you the highlights: Dawn coming up faintly as we reached the Magadi Road. Sleepy conversation with my photographer companion. Two hundred and fifty manyattas, two thousand Masai all in one place. The red-and-brown cloth of the women, their Maridadi, their earrings with perpendicular appendages, the film canisters in the ear holes. Hundreds of children and I hope I have done justice to it. I would rather have written a poem, but that's hardly what the editor wants right now. I won't bore you with a travelogue, but I'll give you the highlights: Dawn coming up faintly as we reached the Magadi Road. Sleepy conversation with my photographer companion. Two hundred and fifty manyattas, two thousand Masai all in one place. The red-and-brown cloth of the women, their Maridadi, their earrings with perpendicular appendages, the film canisters in the ear holes. Hundreds of children - - curious, touching, friendly, laughing. A biblical-looking man named Zachariah, who patiently explained the ceremony to us. The women, some resigned, some solemn, some half-crazy in catatonic states and epileptic-like fits. Deep, agonized groans. Wearing a kid's hat to keep out the sun since I'd forgotten my own. Pa.s.sing out cigarettes. Going off to take a leak and wondering if I was p.i.s.sing on sacred ground. Handing out plums. The cruel faces of some of the younger men, like decadent Romans. The long negotiations for the women, who seemed frighteningly pa.s.sive, considering their fate. curious, touching, friendly, laughing. A biblical-looking man named Zachariah, who patiently explained the ceremony to us. The women, some resigned, some solemn, some half-crazy in catatonic states and epileptic-like fits. Deep, agonized groans. Wearing a kid's hat to keep out the sun since I'd forgotten my own. Pa.s.sing out cigarettes. Going off to take a leak and wondering if I was p.i.s.sing on sacred ground. Handing out plums. The cruel faces of some of the younger men, like decadent Romans. The long negotiations for the women, who seemed frighteningly pa.s.sive, considering their fate.I can't imagine what part love plays in this. It was impossible, from the outside, to tell.It would be best if we could meet some time between the 28th and the 3rd. Perhaps the 1st? I am, literally, counting the hours until then.ThomasP.S. Today's headline: BABOON s.n.a.t.c.hES BABY BABOON s.n.a.t.c.hES BABY.January 27Dear Linda,We delude ourselves. We delude ourselves. Meet me anyway. Please. In front of Petley's Hotel, Lamu, twelve noon, the 1st. We will go for a walk.T.

Below them lay plains of scrub trees that were already casting precise shadows on the barren ground. Gra.s.ses undulated like a familiar crop in an unfamiliar heartland, and vast papyrus swamps threatened to devour entire countries. The pilot - - ultimate cool: feet on the console, smoking a cigarette (wasn't that illegal?) ultimate cool: feet on the console, smoking a cigarette (wasn't that illegal?) - - flew so low to the ground that Thomas could see individual elephants and wildebeests, a lone giraffe, its neck craning to the stuttering sound above it. A sky bluecloaked moran with a spear walked from one seemingly empty place to another, and a woman in a red shawl carried an urn atop her head. Thomas saw all this flew so low to the ground that Thomas could see individual elephants and wildebeests, a lone giraffe, its neck craning to the stuttering sound above it. A sky bluecloaked moran with a spear walked from one seemingly empty place to another, and a woman in a red shawl carried an urn atop her head. Thomas saw all this - - watched the rosy light turn the lakes turquoise, watched the light of dawn come up as theater watched the rosy light turn the lakes turquoise, watched the light of dawn come up as theater - - and thought, In six hours, I will see her. and thought, In six hours, I will see her.

If Thomas had understood the pilot correctly, they were flying without a generator, which Thomas had been a.s.sured could be done, provided they didn't stall, necessitating a restart of the engine. The pilot, who had longish hair and a short-sleeved suit jacket that narrowed at the waist (like something the Beatles might have worn years ago), had seemed supremely indifferent to the trip and had given Thomas the choice of deciding whether or not to turn back when he'd discovered the errant generator. Thomas, thinking of Linda standing in front of Petley's Hotel at twelve noon, had seen no alternative, and somewhere over Voi, he'd decided that the plane would not plummet from the sky as punishment for his intended infidelity. As if he'd not been unfaithful every moment since he'd first seen Linda in the market. Still, he could not stop himself from imagining a fiery death in a desolate place where no one would ever find him.

In the distance, he saw a village of huts with gra.s.s rooftops and nearby a pen of animals. Cattle, he imagined. And he thought, as he had often thought before - - although this time with a finality that brought a kind of resolution although this time with a finality that brought a kind of resolution - - that Africa was, after all, impenetrable. It was ancient and it was dignified in a way no other continent could equal, its soul unblemished, even with all the Wabenzis and the Swiss accounts and the parking boys. And being unmarred was unknowable. He'd seen it on the faces of the women and their preternaturally calm eyes in the face of disaster, and in the shy smiles of the children, constantly tickled by some joke understood only by them. And he accepted that Africa was, after all, impenetrable. It was ancient and it was dignified in a way no other continent could equal, its soul unblemished, even with all the Wabenzis and the Swiss accounts and the parking boys. And being unmarred was unknowable. He'd seen it on the faces of the women and their preternaturally calm eyes in the face of disaster, and in the shy smiles of the children, constantly tickled by some joke understood only by them. And he accepted - - as Regina with her academic mission could not; or as Roland, who made p.r.o.nouncements, could not as Regina with her academic mission could not; or as Roland, who made p.r.o.nouncements, could not - - that he, Thomas, was no more significant in this country than a single member of the herd of wildebeests migrating west beneath him (less significant, actually). He was merely a visitor, destined to move on. So that Ndegwa could never be entirely known to him, nor Mary Ndegwa, nor even the woman who washed his s.h.i.+rts in the bathtub (particularly not the woman who washed his s.h.i.+rts in the bathtub). Although that he, Thomas, was no more significant in this country than a single member of the herd of wildebeests migrating west beneath him (less significant, actually). He was merely a visitor, destined to move on. So that Ndegwa could never be entirely known to him, nor Mary Ndegwa, nor even the woman who washed his s.h.i.+rts in the bathtub (particularly not the woman who washed his s.h.i.+rts in the bathtub). Although - - and this was odd and this was odd - - he had a distinct sense that they knew him, that he was, as Regina had once said of him, as transparent as gla.s.s; his own soul, for all its current turmoil, as easy to read as a bowl of water. he had a distinct sense that they knew him, that he was, as Regina had once said of him, as transparent as gla.s.s; his own soul, for all its current turmoil, as easy to read as a bowl of water.

-You'll want that strap pulled tight, the pilot beside him said. the pilot beside him said.

In preparation for landing, the pilot sat up and put both hands on the wheel, which was rea.s.suring to Thomas. He himself could not be a pilot - - he hadn't the math he hadn't the math - - though the job seemed pleasant enough, even thrilling. The pilot pointed to the coast, a pale peach scallop against the liquid blue of the Indian Ocean, and as Thomas's heart began to beat slightly faster with proximity to the place where he would see Linda once again, he thought how unlikely the entire venture was, how very nearly it had not happened at all. Rich, unhappily, had contracted a wild bout of malaria on safari and had had to return with Thomas and Regina to Nairobi. Causing Thomas, after Rich had been admitted to the hospital and then sent home with a battery of drugs, to have to invent a reason to fly to the coast, which they'd only just left, using the barely credible excuse that his new employer had mandated it. It would be a quick trip, he'd told Regina; he'd be back before Thursday. And she, weary from the dirt and boredom of safari, had not seemed to mind, or even, to be truthful, to notice. though the job seemed pleasant enough, even thrilling. The pilot pointed to the coast, a pale peach scallop against the liquid blue of the Indian Ocean, and as Thomas's heart began to beat slightly faster with proximity to the place where he would see Linda once again, he thought how unlikely the entire venture was, how very nearly it had not happened at all. Rich, unhappily, had contracted a wild bout of malaria on safari and had had to return with Thomas and Regina to Nairobi. Causing Thomas, after Rich had been admitted to the hospital and then sent home with a battery of drugs, to have to invent a reason to fly to the coast, which they'd only just left, using the barely credible excuse that his new employer had mandated it. It would be a quick trip, he'd told Regina; he'd be back before Thursday. And she, weary from the dirt and boredom of safari, had not seemed to mind, or even, to be truthful, to notice.

The plane left the continent below, circled the Swahili archipelago of Lamu, and landed on a runway in a mangrove swamp on nearby Manda. Thomas thanked the pilot and said he hoped the generator got fixed soon. The pilot (Thomas was sure the liquor breath was from the night before) merely shrugged. Thomas made his way to the place where sailing dhows with wide lateen sails waited to ferry the pa.s.sengers across to Lamu village. He placed his gear in an overcrowded boat that reminded him of refugees from Vietnam and gave its captain eighty s.h.i.+llings. He found a seat next to a woman dressed head-to-toe in bui-bui, so that only her eyes - - dark and kohl-rimmed dark and kohl-rimmed - - were visible. were visible.

The muezzins were chanting already from the minarets as Thomas stepped ash.o.r.e - - a haunting and melodic string of vocal sounds in a minor key that, for Thomas, would forever be a.s.sociated with love and the foreknowledge of loss (so much so that in future years just the sound of a muezzin chanting in the background of a news broadcast about Palestine or Iraq could make his throat catch). He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder. The heat was immediate a haunting and melodic string of vocal sounds in a minor key that, for Thomas, would forever be a.s.sociated with love and the foreknowledge of loss (so much so that in future years just the sound of a muezzin chanting in the background of a news broadcast about Palestine or Iraq could make his throat catch). He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder. The heat was immediate - - paradoxically enervating and seductive. To walk was to swim through water up the hill, past Harambee Avenue, toward the museum where the editor of the magazine (Thomas, to turn a lie into a truth, had asked for and received an a.s.signment) had told him he might be able to secure lodgings. Thomas followed a map, losing himself in a warren of narrow streets with shops and cafes and stone houses sealed with intricately carved wooden doors. Along the cobbled streets that ran up the hill from the harbor (streets on which no cars ever drove), there was a hint of coolness that tempted him away from his route. Men in kanzus and kofias eyed him speculatively, while women in black bui-bui with babies cradled in their arms glided silently past. Donkeys brayed constantly, and underfoot cats athletically avoided his feet. In the gutters, open sewers ran, giving off a sickly, sweet stench. paradoxically enervating and seductive. To walk was to swim through water up the hill, past Harambee Avenue, toward the museum where the editor of the magazine (Thomas, to turn a lie into a truth, had asked for and received an a.s.signment) had told him he might be able to secure lodgings. Thomas followed a map, losing himself in a warren of narrow streets with shops and cafes and stone houses sealed with intricately carved wooden doors. Along the cobbled streets that ran up the hill from the harbor (streets on which no cars ever drove), there was a hint of coolness that tempted him away from his route. Men in kanzus and kofias eyed him speculatively, while women in black bui-bui with babies cradled in their arms glided silently past. Donkeys brayed constantly, and underfoot cats athletically avoided his feet. In the gutters, open sewers ran, giving off a sickly, sweet stench.

He asked directions and was shown the way to the museum by a boy who ran ahead of him with a stick. Thomas had to hustle to catch up to the boy, who waited for him patiently at each corner, just as he waited silently for his tip when he'd delivered Thomas to the museum door. Thomas stepped inside and barely had time to notice the replicas of ancient sailing vessels and heavy plates of silver before a woman who looked vaguely official asked if she could help. He said he was looking for a man named Sheik. Ah, said the woman, Bwana Sheik was away. Thomas offered his own name. A smile and an envelope were produced. On the envelope were written directions, and inside was a key, surprising Thomas, who had not known that phone calls had been made and arrangements negotiated in advance of his arrival. There was no mention of payment, and Thomas guessed it would be impolite to suggest one, having no idea what favors might have changed hands on his behalf.

The boy with the stick who had led him to the museum was waiting for him when he emerged, and Thomas was only too happy to hand over the envelope with the address. The boy led him through a maze in which cooking smells competed with the sewer stench, to a narrow building with an unprepossessing door. Thomas had expected a room or at best an apartment, and so was surprised when the boy unlocked the door and led him into an inner courtyard of what appeared to be a house. Thomas was confused and would have queried the boy had the key not fit so easily in the lock.

A bald, Arab-looking man in an ap.r.o.n - - presumably a servant presumably a servant - - emerged from the shadows, dismissed the errand boy with a bark, and introduced himself as Mr. Salim. Would Thomas care to look around before Mr. Salim brought him cold tea? Thomas checked his watch as he'd done just ten minutes earlier, vaguely afraid, on this exotic island, that time might spool ahead of itself with its own set of rules. Yes, said Thomas, he would look around, and he would be grateful for a gla.s.s of tea. emerged from the shadows, dismissed the errand boy with a bark, and introduced himself as Mr. Salim. Would Thomas care to look around before Mr. Salim brought him cold tea? Thomas checked his watch as he'd done just ten minutes earlier, vaguely afraid, on this exotic island, that time might spool ahead of itself with its own set of rules. Yes, said Thomas, he would look around, and he would be grateful for a gla.s.s of tea.

The servant disappeared into the shadows. Thomas stood for a moment in the courtyard, open to the sky, its narrowness casting cool shadows on the stone floor. A low well was at its center, surrounded by yellow flowers, and in the corner was a pawpaw tree. There seemed to be a kitchen on the first level, though Thomas did not venture inside, unwilling to disturb Mr. Salim at his preparations. Instead, he went up a flight of stairs with sculptures in recessed niches, a sense of water flowing over stones. The stairway led to a second level, meant as a kind of sitting room, with low carved furniture and bleached-cotton bolsters. Engraved copper and silver plates and large ceramic urns decorated the walls and niches. Still the stairs went up, and on the third level, open to the sky, Thomas discovered bedrooms with canopied beds and mosquito netting. There was a jasmine tree near one of the beds, and frangipani on a coral terrace. The perfume of the flowers filled the rooms and erased the smells of the streets. He looked at the roofless bedroom and thought to himself that it must never rain in Lamu, and he wondered how that could possibly be true. Exploring further, he found a bedroom with a basin of fresh water and washed his face and hands. Above the marble-topped dresser on which the basin rested, a hibiscus tree rose, bright blooms against the navy of the sky. As he left the room, he saw that someone (Mr. Salim?) had placed jasmine blossoms on the pillows.

The servant had prepared a meal of eggs and yogurt and cold tea, which Thomas accepted gratefully at a table in the courtyard. He wished the Arab man would linger, for he had questions - - Who owned the house? Did people like himself often stay there? Who owned the house? Did people like himself often stay there? - - but Mr. Salim had vanished into the kitchen. Thomas ate the eggs and yogurt and felt as though a benign spirit (or at least a mildly sympathetic one) had arranged his astonis.h.i.+ng good luck; and it was hard not to take it for a sign that what he was about to do was, in a world that might run parallel to his own, accepted but Mr. Salim had vanished into the kitchen. Thomas ate the eggs and yogurt and felt as though a benign spirit (or at least a mildly sympathetic one) had arranged his astonis.h.i.+ng good luck; and it was hard not to take it for a sign that what he was about to do was, in a world that might run parallel to his own, accepted - - perhaps even encouraged. But then, in the next instant, thinking of Regina at home nur