The Last Time They Met Part 12

Thomas studied the ground, and reflected that once it had been soaked with blood.

-He was made to dig his own grave before he was shot. His wife and children were brought out and forced to watch. Ndegwa was ten years old when he saw this.

Thomas looked at the cross and its inscription: Njuguna Ndegwa. Freedom Fighter. Husband. Father. Go with G.o.d. Njuguna Ndegwa. Freedom Fighter. Husband. Father. Go with G.o.d.

Ndegwa, his friend, had watched a soldier shoot his father when he was only ten years old. Age mates. What, in his own childhood, Thomas wondered, had been remotely comparable?

Mary Ndegwa put a hand on Thomas's arm. He knew her words before she spoke. Yes, he wanted to say, he was a poet, standing in a doorway.

A dozen children, in shorts made gray with use and age, swarmed over the Escort - - peering inside, turning the steering wheel, touching the radio. He patted the pockets of his sports coat and was relieved to discover that he hadn't left the keys in the car. He'd have liked to give the children a ride but knew himself too drunk or dazed to do so. peering inside, turning the steering wheel, touching the radio. He patted the pockets of his sports coat and was relieved to discover that he hadn't left the keys in the car. He'd have liked to give the children a ride but knew himself too drunk or dazed to do so.

He pulled away from the shamba slowly, terrified he would hit a child, and drove along the steep terraces, distracted by too many thoughts, not sequential, that were crowding his mind for attention - - so that he had only bits of sentences, half-told stories, pictures skittering behind themselves. Regina with her arms crossed; Mary Ndegwa with her fly whisk; Linda bent to pineapples. so that he had only bits of sentences, half-told stories, pictures skittering behind themselves. Regina with her arms crossed; Mary Ndegwa with her fly whisk; Linda bent to pineapples.

He arrived at the crossroads at Ruiru, not entirely sure how he had gotten there. A wrong turn? A left fork taken when he ought to have taken a right? He hadn't been paying attention. The sign said Njia to the north, Nairobi to the south. It would not be truthful, he knew, to say that the wrong turns had been accidental. Njia: 80 kilometers. With any luck, it would take him an hour. He pulled to the side of the road and sat with the motor running, watching a matatu, loaded past possibility with people and luggage and chickens and goats, lurch recklessly past him. They were death traps, they told you in the training sessions. If you had to use one, sit in the back and wear sungla.s.ses to protect you from shattering gla.s.s when the vehicle tipped over.

Sunday afternoon, and Linda might be with the man she called Peter. They could be sitting on a verandah, or (he hoped not) lying in bed. He preferred to imagine her sitting alone in the doorway of a mud-and-wattle hut, reading. He didn't try to tell himself that he was in the general neighborhood, or that it was perfectly acceptable to go an hour out of his way to see an old friend from home. He understood, even as he put the Escort in gear and turned north, exactly what he was doing.

He traveled through dark forests of eucalyptus, between thickets of bamboo, and along moors trailing mists like veils, emerging to a landscape of soft green hills and broad valleys, watched over by snow-capped Mount Kenya in the distance. A buffalo stood in the middle of the road, and Thomas stopped the car just feet before he would have hit the ma.s.sive beast. He rolled the windows up and sat unmoving. Of all the animals in Africa, they told you in the training sessions, the buffalo was the most deadly. It could kill a man in seconds, goring him with deadly accuracy, stomping him to death if the goring only wounded. You were supposed to lob stones at it, and theoretically it would run away; but Thomas thought the only strategy simply to walk slowly backward. In the Escort, he didn't move. Cars piled up behind him, but no one honked a horn. After a time - - fifteen minutes? twenty? fifteen minutes? twenty? - - the buffalo, at its own stately pace, moved on. Thomas put the car in gear. He was covered with sweat now. the buffalo, at its own stately pace, moved on. Thomas put the car in gear. He was covered with sweat now.

The town of Njia was larger than he had thought it would be. He drove along a street called Kanisa, past a clock tower and a bar called the Purple Heart Pub. He stopped at the Wananchi Cafe and asked the proprietor, an old woman with scattered teeth and one bad eye, if she spoke English. She did not, but agreed to speak in Swahili, which reduced Thomas to words and phrases that could not be put into sentences. He said mzungu mzungu and Peace Corps and and Peace Corps and manjano manjano (yellow) for the color of her hair and (yellow) for the color of her hair and zuri zuri for beautiful. The old woman shook her head but beckoned for him to follow her next door to another duka, where he bought a bottle of Fanta, his mouth parched, from nerves or from the drive. The woman and the man spoke in their own tribal tongue and seemed to argue extensively about the matter. As they gestured, Thomas listened to a group of street musicians with soda bottles and bottle caps. The air was cool and moist, like an early June day at home. Finally, the woman turned to Thomas and said, in Swahili, that there was a for beautiful. The old woman shook her head but beckoned for him to follow her next door to another duka, where he bought a bottle of Fanta, his mouth parched, from nerves or from the drive. The woman and the man spoke in their own tribal tongue and seemed to argue extensively about the matter. As they gestured, Thomas listened to a group of street musicians with soda bottles and bottle caps. The air was cool and moist, like an early June day at home. Finally, the woman turned to Thomas and said, in Swahili, that there was a mzungu mzungu just off the Nyeri Road who was a teacher. Thomas thanked the pair, finished the Fanta, and left them. just off the Nyeri Road who was a teacher. Thomas thanked the pair, finished the Fanta, and left them.

At a small church on the Nyeri Road, he needed only to say the words mzungu mzungu and Peace Corps to a s.e.xton who was sweeping the steps. The man himself supplied the word and Peace Corps to a s.e.xton who was sweeping the steps. The man himself supplied the word beautiful beautiful.

The way was not so simple, after all. The road diverged twice, and Thomas had to guess at the correct fork, not having been given any clues at the church. As he drove, he ascended into a landscape washed clean by a recent shower. Water droplets from macadamia trees overhead sometimes stormed across his winds.h.i.+eld. The air was so crisp he stopped the car to get out and breathe, just to taste it. And to slow his racing heart. He practiced the beginnings of conversations, preparing for all contingencies. The man named Peter would be there. Or Linda might be leaving to go elsewhere. Or she'd be frosty, not welcoming his visit. I was in the area, he rehea.r.s.ed. I thought I'd just stop by. I forgot to ask you. Regina and I would like.

In his electrified state, it seemed to him that the very road itself hummed and vibrated. Beyond his destination, a purple backdrop advanced, signaling a cataclysmic rain. He had seen these deluges before, the rain pouring straight down, as though someone had simply pulled a plug and let down a lake of water. The sun, behind him, lit up fields of chrysanthemums, vast improbable plains of yellow and mauve, and then, at the end of the road, the white stucco of a cottage, bright geometry against the blackened sky. A beacon, if he had chosen to see it that way. Rusty-red tiles made a pattern on the roof, and around the door and windows frangipani and jasmine climbed. An old Peugeot was parked in a driveway, and he left his own car behind it. Announcing himself to anyone inside the cottage, as isolated as a hermitage on an Irish cliff.

She opened the door as he reached the steps, having had ten, maybe twenty, seconds to prepare herself, which was as good as no preparation at all. She had bathed or had been swimming, her hair in long ropes down her back. She wore a halter top and a kanga, a different-colored one than before. She did not dissemble, made no pretense that this was normal. She merely watched him. Standing face-to-face on a doorstep somewhere at the end of the world.

Thomas said h.e.l.lo.

Her face unreadable, her eyes searching his. h.e.l.lo, Thomas, h.e.l.lo, Thomas, she said. she said.

In the light of the doorstep, he saw her more clearly than he had yesterday in the gloom of the market. Her face was washed clean, without artifice, a spray of freckles across her nose. She had sun wrinkles at her eyes, tiny commas at the sides of her mouth. Her lips were full and pale, with hardly any bow at all.

-My desire to talk to you won out, he said, abandoning he said, abandoning in the area in the area and and just stopping by. just stopping by. Recklessly, for he did not yet know if a man named Peter was within. Recklessly, for he did not yet know if a man named Peter was within. Though it wasn't much of a debate. Though it wasn't much of a debate.

She moved aside so that he could enter. It was a small room with two paned windows, cas.e.m.e.nts rolled open to the air. A table with two chairs had been snugged up against one window. Armchairs, relics from the 1940s (Thomas imagined war-torn Britain, a Bakelite radio between) faced the other window. There was a low bookcase along one wall. A carpet, old and Persian, underfoot. A single lamp.

There were flowers on a table, a kitenge cloth neatly folded over a chair. Behind the small dining area, a kitchen and an open door in the back. There was a sisal basket on a hook, a Makonde sculpture on the floor against the wall.

The water fell from her hair, hit her shoulder blades and the parquet floor. She wore an elephant-hair bracelet on her wrist. She had amber earrings in her palm, which she hooked into her ears as she stood there.

-You've come from Nairobi, she said. she said.

-I was in Limuru.

She was silent.

-I needed to see you.

No man in evidence, despite the two of everything.

-Your presence in the market was a shock, he said. he said. I felt as if I were seeing a ghost. I felt as if I were seeing a ghost.

-You don't believe in ghosts.

-Having been in this country a year, I think I'd believe in almost anything.

They stood facing each other, not a foot apart. He could smell her soap or her shampoo.

-Your hands shook, he said boldly, and he could see that she was taken aback by this a.s.sertion. She moved a step away from him. he said boldly, and he could see that she was taken aback by this a.s.sertion. She moved a step away from him.

-Simple shock doesn't mean much in itself, she said, not willing to credit the trembling hands. she said, not willing to credit the trembling hands. Our time together ended so abruptly, there will always be a certain amount of shock a.s.sociated with you, no matter what the circ.u.mstances. Our time together ended so abruptly, there will always be a certain amount of shock a.s.sociated with you, no matter what the circ.u.mstances.

An adequate defense. They moved further into the room. On the bookcase was a photograph, and he squinted in its direction. He recognized the cousins with whom Linda had grown up: Eileen and Michael and Tommy and Jack and the rest. A family grouping. There was another photograph, of Linda and a man. Who would be Peter, he thought. Not academic and anemic after all, but rather tall and dark and boyishly handsome. Smiling. A proprietary arm snaking around Linda's slender waist. Her smile slightly less exuberant. Insanely, he took heart from this.

-Can I get you something to drink?

-Water would be good, he said. he said.

The birds outside were a frantic wind ensemble on a Sunday afternoon. They, too, signaled the approaching storm that blackened the kitchen window, even as sun poured in at the front of the house. A cool breeze, gusty, snapped blue-checked curtains. He watched her take a pitcher of water from the half fridge and pour him a gla.s.s.

-It's been purified, she said, handing it to him. she said, handing it to him.

He drank the ice-cold water and realized only then the terrible thirst his nerves had produced. How are you? How are you? he asked. he asked.

-How am I?

Having come - - having, against all the odds, found her again having, against all the odds, found her again - - he could not now speak. He sought desperately for a reference point. he could not now speak. He sought desperately for a reference point.

-Do you remember anything from the accident? he asked. he asked.

She was silent, perhaps surprised by the question so soon.

-I have a blank, he said. he said. It begins with seeing the little girl on the tricycle and ends with my nose filling with water. When I couldn't see you, I felt a sense of panic so terrifying that even now it can make me sweat. It begins with seeing the little girl on the tricycle and ends with my nose filling with water. When I couldn't see you, I felt a sense of panic so terrifying that even now it can make me sweat.

She smiled and shook her head. You were never any good at small talk. You were never any good at small talk.

She sat at the table, an invitation to join her. He shed his jacket, the sweat drenching him.

-What happened to your jacket? she asked. she asked.

-It got washed by mistake in the bathtub.

She gave a small laugh. And for a moment, lit the room with sound. But then the light went out as abruptly as it had come. Is the scar from then? Is the scar from then? she asked. she asked.

He nodded.

-It must have been bad, she said. she said.

-I hardly noticed at the time. I didn't feel a thing. Didn't even realize the extent of it until my mother started screaming.

-I remember the car tumbling, she said, offering him a memory after all. she said, offering him a memory after all. And I thought, This can't be happening. The window brace, or whatever that piece between the windows is, buckled, and we rolled. I never lost consciousness. I swam out the other side and started shouting. Some boys were ice-fis.h.i.+ng nearby. Well, you must know that. They got you out. It can't have been a minute that you were unconscious. Though you were groggy, and the police put you on a stretcher. And I thought, This can't be happening. The window brace, or whatever that piece between the windows is, buckled, and we rolled. I never lost consciousness. I swam out the other side and started shouting. Some boys were ice-fis.h.i.+ng nearby. Well, you must know that. They got you out. It can't have been a minute that you were unconscious. Though you were groggy, and the police put you on a stretcher.

-I was calling your name.

-They wrapped me in a blanket and took me away. I had burns on my side. They had to cut my clothes off me at the hospital.

-Burns?

-Sc.r.a.pes. From what, I don't know. The embankment, I guess.

-I'm so sorry.

She took a sip of water, reached back and squeezed her hair, then brought it forward of her shoulder. We did this already, We did this already, she said. she said.

-Do you live alone? he asked. he asked.

She hesitated. She wiped her hands on her kanga. Her feet were bare. Callused on the heels. More or less. Peter commutes. More or less. Peter commutes.

-Peter is?

-My husband. He lives in Nairobi.

Thomas tried to deflect the blow. Is that Peter? Is that Peter? he asked. He pointed to the picture. he asked. He pointed to the picture.

-Yes.

-What's he do?

-He's with the World Bank. He's here working on a pesticide scheme.

-You knew him before?

-I met him here.

Thomas stood, the better able to process these unwelcome bits of information. He clenched and unclenched his hands. Restless, feeling jumpy.

-Why the Peace Corps? he asked. he asked.

She took another drink of water. She looked out the window at the incipient storm. I had a friend, I had a friend, she said ambiguously. she said ambiguously.

A great waft of scent blew in with a gust, like an announcement of a woman standing in a doorway.

-It's not so unusual, is it? she added. she added. It seemed like the right thing to do. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Her shoulders brown and polished, her arms muscled. He wondered from what.

-You're reading Rilke, he said, surveying the low bookcase. He examined the t.i.tles and the authors. Jerzy Kosinski. Dan Wakefield. Margaret Drabble. Sylvia Plath. he said, surveying the low bookcase. He examined the t.i.tles and the authors. Jerzy Kosinski. Dan Wakefield. Margaret Drabble. Sylvia Plath. Looking for Mr. Goodbar. Looking for Mr. Goodbar.

-I read anything I can get my hands on.

-I guess so, he said, fingering a copy of he said, fingering a copy of Marathon Man. Marathon Man.

-I beg people to send me books. There's a pitiful library in Njia. In Nairobi, I go to the McMillan Library at the British Council. I've been on a Margaret Drabble kick.

-You teach.

She nodded.

-What?

He picked up a copy of Anne s.e.xton and flipped through it. He distrusted confessional poetry.

-A little bit of everything. The curriculum is based on the English system. There are exams the children have to pa.s.s. A levels and O levels and so forth. They have to memorize the counties of England. What good that will do them I've no idea.

Thomas laughed.

-I teach thirty children in a cement room the size of a garage. I use books published in 1954 - giveaways from some village in Britain. They have peculiar English graffiti in them. "Arthur is a w.a.n.ker," and so on. What does your wife do?

Thomas leaned against the wall and rolled his s.h.i.+rtsleeves. The humidity had saturated the room. A crack of thunder startled both of them, though they might have expected it.

-The storm, she said. she said.

She stood up and cranked the windows closed, even as the deluge began. The rain came straight down, at no angle, and created a dull roar on the tile roof so that they had to raise their voices. From somewhere outside the house, there was a wild riot of wind chimes.

-My wife's father was a missionary in Kenya shortly after World War II, Thomas explained. Thomas explained. An Episcopal minister. He's reverent about the time he spent here, says they were the best years of his life, et cetera, et cetera. Privately, I suspect there's a woman somewhere in the story. An Episcopal minister. He's reverent about the time he spent here, says they were the best years of his life, et cetera, et cetera. Privately, I suspect there's a woman somewhere in the story.

-It's a challenge any daughter might have to take on, Linda said. Linda said.

-Regina has a fellows.h.i.+p to study the psychological effects of sub-Saharan diseases on children. What she sees is pretty grim, he said. he said.

-Your wife must be very brave.

He felt cautious, discussing Regina. He wished they didn't have to. About this, very. About this, very.

Linda turned her head away and gazed out at the storm. Nothing to see but sheets of rain. When it was over, he knew, white and cream petals would blanket the ground. There was a smell of ozone in the air that he particularly liked: it reminded him of summer afternoons as a boy.

-You still wear the cross, he said. he said.

Her fingers automatically touched it. I don't know why. I don't know why.

Thomas was momentarily stung. He had, after all, given it to her.