Then She Was Born

by Cristiano Gentili

  Charles began to embrace the African conviction that there’s a link between physical stature and power.

  “It’s even stronger in Tanzania than in Zimbabwe,” commented Jackob. “Sir, you have the good fortune of being tall like a Masai. However, if I may say so, you are as thin as…” Jackob had difficulty finding a suitable and, in his mind, inoffensive simile.

  “As what?” insisted Charles. He dragged his assistant into the kitchen so his wife wouldn’t overhear them.

  “As… no offense, sir…as a beggar,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Well, yes, you’re right. I can’t think of any small, thin African leader.” Fat was synonymous with affluence. And now—with his temporary financial setback—was no time to lose weight.

  “If you gain some weight, sir, you will put to shame any African man. In part because you are white, in part because of your size.”

  Jackob excused himself from the kitchen, and Charles immediately began foraging for any rich food in sight that he could grab. To the cook, Adamma, who was chopping up some vegetables, he growled, “I want fatty meat tonight, and it should be black and hard as a bar of chocolate!”

  “I am sorry, sir, but…”

  “And what is this?” continued Charles, pointing at the uncooked perch. “You know the sight of raw fish makes me nauseous.” He swiftly dumped the contents of the plate into the trash. “Even the odor drives away my appetite.” The plate clattered in the sink before he walked out of the room.

  Charles had difficulty gaining weight since he didn’t like desserts because he believed they made him sleepy, and he rarely drank beer as it was, in his opinion, “an indigestible worker’s drink.” He had to find a solution that would cause the needle on the scale to shift toward the right, to rise like the price of gold at the start of a war.

  He decided to contact a famous dietician in Nairobi and made an appointment in his Dar es Salaam office. After the examination, the doctor said, “Sir, you are in perfect health. As a physician, I strongly discourage you from gaining weight.”

  “I need a high-calorie diet,” Charles said in a firm voice.

  As always, Charles got what he wanted: a dietary regime that included two thousand calories beyond what was necessary as well as an excessive amount of protein to increase his muscle mass. He doubled the quantities that the doctor suggested. Eating became another occupation.

  Charles finished every morsel of the lunch that was served in his office. He ate alone and, as if he wanted to prove his pleasure in ingurgitating his food, he used his hands to eat more quickly—after having first locked the door. No one must see me stuff myself like a Negro, he thought. He chewed with his mouth open, letting the condiments drip from his chin. Sometimes he’d eat in front of a mirror so he could watch the food be torn to shreds by his teeth. He drew pleasure from seeing oil coating his food, sugar whitening the top of sweets, and melting butter soaking thick slices of toasted bread. He began to detest water since it added no calories. Beer, which he previously shunned, became a trusted ally. Light foods were for hypochondriacs; whole grain products were for the poor. Vegetables—which took up space in the stomach better devoted to other foods that were richer in nutrients—were for the idle and squanderers. He kept dried fruit in his Rolls Royce and munched on it constantly, supplemented by candies and other sweets.

  The diet produced the desired results in six weeks. The scale showed a twelve-pound gain. That wasn’t enough, though, to set his mind at ease. He wanted to weigh so much that he flattened the world under the unbearable poundage of his existence.

  That Monday, Charles and Sarah had been invited to a dinner and reception organized by the Territory and Mining Ministry, a lead-in to a meeting the following day. The most important businessmen in Tanzania would be there. The minister had organized the prestigious event, offering lodging and dinner at the most luxurious hotel in Dar es Salaam.

  During the party, Sarah noticed Charles was biting his lip, a rare habit of his but one that had become more common since the rise of his caloric intake and his frenzied eating. She saw him look around and—when he thought no one was watching—lift the tablecloth to touch the tabletop. He was trying to knock on wood. She laughed to herself and, moving closer to Charles, smiled, although a faint, insidious worry pervaded her. “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “What do you think is wrong?” he responded. “Haven’t you heard what people have been saying about my business? They’re going to bring me bad luck, that’s what’s wrong.”

  Sarah was taken aback. She didn’t believe her husband truly had financial woes and imagined what was troubling him was the imminent opening of the Ukerewe clinic, which had taken only a year to build. He’s fabricating financial problems, she figured, as a way of distracting himself. She thought the widening of his waist was a byproduct of the same anxiety. She hugged him and whispered comforting words.

  Charles stiffened in his wife’s arms and thrust his hand into his pants’ pocket. “Damn, I left my lucky charm in the hotel room!”

  Sarah fought a wave of irritation, mitigated by tenderness. “You could send Jackob to get it, love.” She remembered, not that long ago, when Charles still possessed the dignity to hide his silly superstitions from her.

  “How can I do that?” sputtered Charles. “I would have to give him the pass code…You know I use the same number for all my combinations.”

  Sarah laughed, trying to lighten the mood, and said she’d get the gold nugget for him.

  He was annoyed by how patronizing she was being. “You have your lucky charm with you,” he nearly shouted. “You wouldn’t be so calm if you’d left yours in the room.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Charles grabbed her hand. The Asscher-cut diamond ring glittered under the lights.

  Sarah looked into the eyes of her husband, but they were not the eyes of the man she knew. Charles’s swollen face was oily, and his flesh smelled of fat. Before her stood the stranger, the weak one who had visited her a handful of times in the past. “You think this is my lucky charm?” she asked, her temper rising. “This is a symbol of my most beautiful memory.” Her husband’s fingers squeezed her wrist with force. She pulled her arm away and saw a red welt label her as his.

  “Of course it’s your lucky charm! Your luck began the day I slipped the ring on your finger. Since then, you’ve had every luxury you’ve ever dreamed of.”

  Stillness passed between them, and the air seemed to gulp.

  “What in the world are you saying?” Two tears dropped onto the collar of her black dress.

  Charles inhaled the thick air and glanced around the ballroom to be certain no one was watching them. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m going through a difficult period.”

  “Do you really think I’ve been by your side all these years for your money? You’re the one who always wants more. I’m the one who begged you not to buy the second mine, but you clearly have such a low regard of my opinion that you went ahead and bought it without consulting me. Charles, darling, I want you,” sniffled Sarah, dabbing at her eyes with a piece of cloth she took from her purse, “not your cursed money.”

  Charles embraced her.

  She slipped out of her husband’s arms and commanded him not to touch her. Her look of disappointment was one he had seen on his mother’s face.

  Sarah scowled at her engagement ring. “As soon as we return to Mwanza, I’m putting this in the safe. I’m not going to wear it until I’m convinced that you know I care nothing for your money.”

  27.

  Construction of the clinic was completed on time. Zuberi’s evil spell had failed.

  From Jackob’s perspective—not aware of the healer’s malevolence—the witch doctor’s powers were confirmed. The magic amulet placed in the first brick used in the clinic’s foundation brought the project to realization.

  Charles, who was amazed that the clinic was opening on schedule—considering the government’s red tape—agreed with Jack
ob that Zuberi’s benevolence and supernatural powers were responsible for the success.

  The soothsayer thought about a plausible excuse he could give to avoid participating in the grand opening. Jackob had expressed to Zuberi that Mr. Fielding recognized the shaman’s role in the achievement, and Zuberi wanted to take advantage of being placed in a position of power by a white man. At the same time, attending the ceremony would encourage the villagers to make use of the facility, and he would lose customers. Zuberi thought about how to handle the awkward predicament and finally decided he would stay at the ceremony only long enough to greet the white man. Then he would leave quietly, without being noticed by many.

  Sarah had gone to Ukerewe a few days before her husband arrived so she could be on hand for the preparations. The clinic sat midway between White House and the village, and the ceremony was planned for Saturday. Local and regional authorities, inhabitants of the island, the management team of her husband’s mines, Mwanza expats, and members of high society would be in attendance. The program included traditional dances and a buffet dinner. Sarah had arranged for a famous Italian chef from a restaurant in Mwanza to prepare the buffet of foreign dishes as a special treat for the local people.

  On the night before the inauguration, Charles had difficulty falling asleep. He’d spent the entire afternoon and evening correcting and rereading his speech. Stretched out on the bed in the dead of the night, he watched the mosquito net wave in the breeze, drifting off only occasionally until sunrise flooded the room. The sun dug its nails into his eyes and laid its heat on his body, forcing him to get up. In Tanzania sunrise is not like in England. Neither pinkish aurora nor muted rays ease out the night. Instead, a ball of fire rises quickly and close to the earth, embossing the sky with daybreak.

  Charles wanted to hurry to the clinic to thank Sarah for arranging the food and entertainment, kiss her, show her how much he needed her. And he wanted her to read his speech and tell him how brilliant he was. Though he realized he was behaving like a child, he couldn’t help himself. With his financial reserves diminished, his confidence and spirit were fading.

  He hugged her the moment he arrived at the clinic, noting the anxious mask she wore.

  “Do people here really believe that a man with AIDS will be cured by having sexual relations with a woman with albinism?” Sarah asked immediately upon seeing him.

  Charles’s desire to be near his wife vanished. “How should I know?” he replied. “How are the preparations going?” he asked, attempting to direct the conversation to the important matter at hand.

  “From the moment the doctor mentioned it, I’ve been thinking how absurd it is. And dangerous.” She paused. “Can you believe he was laughing when he told me?”

  “We’re in Africa, dear,” said Charles with nonchalance. “Can you please read my speech? I want your opinion.”

  Charles couldn’t understand why his wife wasn’t giving him her undivided attention. Instead, she appeared as surprised by her husband’s indifference to such inconceivable depravity as she was by the doctor’s. She took the speech he handed her and skimmed it.

  “It’s perfect,” Sarah said quickly, flashing a smile. As she returned the paper to Charles, she noticed her bare left hand. She was still surprised when she saw no ring on her finger, and was even more surprised by the new feeling of freedom and of self-empowerment that her gesture of dissent had resulted in.

  Charles hugged her. If he had stopped for a moment to look at her, he would have noticed that, rather than a smile, she wore a grimace to hide the confusion and sense of oppression she felt from his indifference to human life.

  Nkamba’s smile was not much different when her granddaughter told her about the comments made by her stepsisters, Sefu’s daughters from his first wife.

  “Bibi, my sisters told me I have to stay home this evening because I’m too young. They were teasing me, weren’t they? I know my classmates are going to the party so they must be too young as well! Not to mention that one of my stepsisters is younger than me.”

  Nkamba knew her other granddaughters didn’t want to be seen with Adimu. “You’re right. They don’t want you there out of envy,” she said, satisfied that she found a way to make Adimu feel proud when Sefu’s other daughters were being petty and cruel. “The day you were born everyone, including your father, thought you might be the daughter of the mzungu—his name is Mr. Fielding—and many people still think it. Your sisters don’t want you to be the center of attention.” Nkamba went on to suggest Adimu stay home, that there would be lots of people at the party, even more than at the market, and she reminded her treasure that neither of them liked crowds. Adimu shut out her grandmother and receded into her own world the moment her bibi let on that everyone thought she was the white man’s daughter.

  If people think so, then maybe I am. I am white, not black like the other children, she said to herself. And the black man, Sefu, who Bibi said is my father, doesn’t act like my father.

  Nkamba’s words gave Adimu one more reason to go to the party, though she was well aware that her grandmother wouldn’t be there to protect her. Her bibi preferred her fields, her animals, and her hut, and she knew she was just as unwanted at community gatherings as her granddaughter.

  Adimu thought it would be easy to recognize the white man at the party. She was convinced the two of them would be the only white ones there.

  When she arrived at the clinic event, she was shocked to find many wazungu and immediately panicked, fearful she might not be able to pick out Mr. Fielding. Her initial disappointment, however, was followed by joy. She was not, as usual, the only white person present, and all eyes were not on her.

  As Adimu wandered among the crowds, she was reminded of Sunday Mass when everyone had the chance to show off their finery. She was ashamed of her blue dress, nearly worn-out, and her everyday sandals. She kept her eyes down, lifting them only occasionally to look around. Her stepsisters and their scowls were at the party, and Adimu stayed away from them. Her stepsisters’ and stepbrother’s eyes were like big hands that pushed her toward the exit, nearly too strong for her to resist, and she had to force herself not to run.

  However, Adimu had two excellent reasons to stay: she was driven to meet her rumored white father, and she enjoyed eating dessert, which she heard would be served. The islanders had been talking for days about the special foods that would be at the party. “Italian” was the word they used.

  Adimu walked alongside a man with very light skin and curly hair and carefully observed him. His hair was black, not blond like hers; if he were the one, her real father, how could they look so different? she asked herself. Her poor vision hindered her from comparing their features. She did her best, though, to methodically study the face of each white man at the party, looking for a similar feature, some detail that would prove their relationship.

  Adimu had just reached the buffet table when Charles was about to unveil the signage bearing his family name. She heard “Fielding” announced on the loudspeaker, the name her grandmother had said the mzungu went by. Adimu froze, torn between good things to eat piled high on a long table and a burning curiosity to see the man’s face. She would eat later.

  She wiggled her way between the groups of people until she found a place by the door of the clinic that allowed her to see the podium. Mr. Fielding wore a white suit. He was a hefty giant. Adimu wanted to get closer to see if their facial features were similar, but a local boy, who was a little bigger than her, spitefully kept her hidden and would not let her move. She relied on her most developed sense: her hearing.

  The voice of the man at the podium was deep, not oppressive, and he left the end sounds of his words suspended in the room’s echo as if he were holding a musical note.

  When his speech was finished, people poured toward the refreshments. She was surrounded by comments, laughter, and exclamations. Groups of youngsters joked and played, trying to be the first at the buffet. Adimu heard Antony’s voice but wasn’t able
to locate him in the confusion of sounds. She would have liked for the crowd to thin out before returning to the sweets table, but her hunger and curiosity got the best of her, and she pushed on into the crowd.

  Waiters came and went with trays of food like she’d never before seen. She studied the consistency of the pasta, the shape of the pizza, the colors of the cakes—chocolate, pastry crème, whipped cream. She was so enthralled by the spectacle that she didn’t notice the pair of eyes that were glued on her.

  Sarah hadn’t seen the girl since the day in the grocery, three years earlier. Completing the invisible triangle, Charles, unobserved, was watching his wife. He saw a sparkle in Sarah’s eyes as she stared at the girl, whom he recognized as Adimu. That is her Asscher-cut diamond, he thought, her blue faceted eyes. He could sense the thoughts and desires piling up in Sarah’s mind.

  Adimu decided she would start with the desserts. She looked at them for a long time so she could memorize their shapes and could sketch them on the walls of the hut. Having committed the bounty to memory, she resolved to serve herself, but it proved more difficult than expected. She was afraid of spilling the food on the table and having someone yell at her. She noticed that many of the other villagers were having difficulty serving themselves too; like her, they were used to eating with their hands and were clumsy with the utensils. While she thought about how to solve the problem, she felt a hand brush against her shoulder. She startled, expecting that the hand was there to push her away, but the touch transformed into a caress.

  With a friendly smile, Sarah asked Adimu in Swahili what she wanted to taste. Adimu immediately recognized her as the ice cream stranger. What luck! She must be a dessert divinity.

  Shy at first but then with determination, Adimu pointed to the dessert she had spied earlier. She thanked the woman for serving, and quickly ran away with her plate to find a quiet place to eat alone.