Thirty Girls

by Minot, Susan

  Back in the car Harry handed Jane the bracelet. You need a souvenir, he said. He gave it to her casually, and she felt her face flush. Thanks, she said, as if she were used to having men give her things. In truth it was rare and, snapping on the bracelet, it seemed important he not know it.

  In a valley of light green trees they turned off the paved road onto beige dirt. At an open aluminum gate they drove on a smoother road with farmed fields of crops on either side. At a huddle of trees they passed a white barn trimmed in black with wrought-iron windows and a yard of carts with handle pulls tilted to the ground. A long avenue of towering eucalyptus made a roof as high as a cathedral with a white stucco house at the end. The villa had a red tile roof in the Italian style, with a wide terraced balustrade on one side full of potted palms and blooming hibiscus trees.

  They piled out of the truck, and Jane felt the thrill of arriving at a beautiful place. At one end, wide double doors were flung open to a gigantic hall with a black and white checkered floor and a great archway in the shape of a spade. French doors were open all along the veranda. An interior balcony rimmed the second floor, with doors behind the wooden railing, some open to windows beyond, some shut. Children came running across from the far end in wet feet and bathing suits, followed by a young woman in a bathing suit top with a kanga wrapped around her waist languidly advancing, shaking out long wet hair. A swallow swooped past Jane’s head. Lana picked up two children in her strong arms.

  I thought you were getting here for lunch, the woman said, gliding across the hall. She kissed Lana’s cheeks.

  We tried, Lana said vaguely. To everyone else: This is my sister, she said brightly. Lana stood a head taller though her sister was the elder. Beryl, with her flat stomach and blasé manner, looked more like a teenager than a mother of four.

  Well, you’re in time for tea at least. Like Lana, Beryl had the Kenyan brand of British accent, but where Lana’s was full of enthusiasm, Beryl’s was flat. She seemed to be sighing at the boredom of life, particularly incongruous to Jane in this paradise swooping with children and flowers and birds.

  Pierre, I knew you were coming, she purred, kissing both his cheeks.

  Hey, beautiful, Pierre said.

  But Harry, too? Lana doesn’t tell me anything. How’d she rope you into it?

  Flying, Harry said, kissing her hello.

  That all? Beryl raised an eyebrow toward Jane, but she wasn’t done with the boys yet. And you … are Dan.

  Don.

  She put out her hand, looking at him straight-on. Welcome, Don. Then she turned to Jane. And you must be the American writer, she said, as if another person might find that impressive.

  I am, Jane said. It’s so nice of you to let us all stay.

  Oh God, it’s nothing. Thrilled to have visitors. Lana, take them out and I’ll get the tea organized.

  She pushed through a heavy door and Jane got a glimpse of a large kitchen with a number of dark-skinned people in light blue uniforms standing at sinks or bent over a table dusted with flour.

  They crossed the gigantic hall, Jane’s nerves still vibrating from the jostling ride. The whitewashed veranda overlooked a garden of spiky bushes and hedges dotted with flowers. Mown paths meandered among more tangled jungle beyond. A sliver of light green pool could be seen at the end of an alley of cedar trees and a gigantic palm tree rose far past the other trees like an exploding firework. Marsh stretched beyond with inky grass markings and black twisted trees. The purple lozenge of the lake lay farther.

  On the porch a low table with benches had been set for the children. There were bowls of berries and cookies on plates and pink cups filled with hot chocolate. A higher table of dark wood with brass corners and pale wood inlays was set with a silver tea set and plates of digestive biscuits, lemon slices, brown sugar lumps and a pitcher of cream. Blossoms of jasmine and red hibiscus were scattered among the plates.

  Now this is more like it, Don said.

  Everyone took a chair but Harry, who sat at the edge of the porch, feet hanging down, leaning against a pillar near the children.

  Beryl appeared empty-handed, trailed by a woman in a light blue uniform with a white apron, carrying a tray of more tea and more cups.

  Asante, Fatima, Beryl said, and sat. She poured the tea. Her arms were thin and tan. A young boy appeared behind Fatima, rattling a red lacquer tray. A wonderful smell rose.

  You have croissants, Pierre said with a happy look.

  No, no, Wilson, put it here. And take these to the children. No, these. The boy set down the tray, sneaking glimpses at the guests. So, Don, where are you from?

  Los Angeles.

  Wait. She looked at Lana. Is this the movie producer?

  No, Beryl.

  Oh, he sounded interesting. What was his name? She frowned at the children’s table. Tessie, stop it. Now.

  But Roan’s pushing me off.

  Then go on the other side. Roan, you know better. She faced back to Lana. What was his name?

  Beryl, Lana said.

  What?

  It was Michael.

  Right, he did that movie about the wizards. The children loved it. But you’re not in the movies, she said to Don, smiling.

  No, can’t say I am. I’m in finance.

  Right, Beryl said. So you’re all off to Rwanda?

  Uganda, Jane said.

  Never been there, actually, she said, surprised. Does everyone have tea? None of us have been either, Pierre said.

  So what’s in Uganda? She tucked her legs and curled around her cup, sipping it. Something was knocked over at the children’s table. Mama! someone cried.

  Willa, for God’s sakes, ask Tess to pour it. Fatima! Beryl screamed.

  That wasn’t me. Porter did it, said a little girl with tangled hair.

  Fatima appeared and mopped up the spillage. She spoke to the children under her breath, not in English.

  Well, help Porter out, then, Beryl said. Tessie, come on, you’re the one they’re looking up to. Honestly. Beryl decided to stop noticing and turned in the wicker chair, facing away from the children, draping her legs over the armrest. But Uganda has got gorillas, too, I know.

  That’s in the south, Lana said. We’re going to the north. Jane’s doing a story about the abducted children.

  Oh, right, the rebels. Beryl’s attention was already straying. Tess, enough! She spoke over her shoulder. Go on, if you can’t behave. The children went running off, except for a boy who stayed to talk to Harry. They appeared to be examining a butterfly.

  They call themselves rebels, Jane said, but it’s really a roaming band of bandits terrorizing a rural community too poor to defend themselves. They’re not getting much help from the government.

  Well, that sounds fun, Beryl said.

  Lana was looking at the coins on her necklace, hitting them. Fun isn’t exactly the idea, Beryl.

  No, God forbid fun. No, I’m kidding. Obviously. It sounds good. I mean, good for you to do it. Really. To be honest, I wish I could come.

  Where’s Leonard? Pierre said.

  On safari. Where else? The younger girl came and draped her arm around her mother’s neck, observing the guests. Beryl patted the little hand.

  Oh, I thought he’d be here, Lana said. When’s he back?

  Think he tells me?

  Lana stood and pointed into a side garden. Some of his pieces are here. Don, come look.

  Yes, go look, Beryl said, staying in her chair.

  Everyone else rose from the chairs.

  Dark hedges enclosed large figures that looked at first to be made of sticks. Then Jane saw the material was bones. Hundreds of bones were cobbled together in hulking forms, one in the shape of a birdcage with a large skull inside, another a tornado with bones seeming to swirl. There was a large foot.

  He made practically everything we’re sitting on here, too, Lana said.

  Don, arms crossed, observed the sculptures with a particular expressive reverence some people display when viewing art.
He was frowning and nodding.

  My favorite is that one. Pierre pointed down the veranda to a rope hammock strung between two elephant tusks.

  Don brightened. That for sale?

  God, no, said Beryl.

  It’s a little controversial, Lana said.

  She means illegal.

  He found them, for God’s sakes, Beryl said. Not even Leonard would kill an elly. Lana, shall we show everyone their rooms?

  Let’s.

  Roy and Damian are flying in tonight, Beryl said offhandedly.

  Really? Lana regarded her sister with glittering, knowing eyes. Beryl was absorbed in folding stray napkins and returning them carefully to the tray.

  That should be interesting, Lana said. They staying long?

  Beryl shrugged. Who knows. I better go see if the children have killed each other. She stood, languidly. Harry, you’re in the blue room. Beryl whispered loudly to Lana. Is he staying with—what’s her—?

  Jane.

  Right. You have the blue room. With Jane. And Pierre is in the tower. She strolled off.

  Cheers for the tea, Harry called after her, practically the only thing he’d uttered since they’d arrived.

  You are so welcome, darling. We’ll catch up later. I want to know every little thing.

  Lana had a residence of her own on the property, a platform tent out of sight of the house. There was a large bed covered with yellow and orange Ethiopian kente cloth, and a claw-footed bathtub the servants filled with warm water in the evening.

  Jane and Harry’s room had a four-poster bed painted silver.

  After tea she and Harry took a swim in the light green pool beneath the gigantic palm. The early evening was still and quiet. When an owl flew above them it made an eerie whoosh. Jane and Harry exchanged a glance, heads above the surface. She dove underwater and held the glance with her as if it had entered a vein.

  Back in the house the cavernous black and white hall was booming with Beethoven. The transporting melody seemed to roil in the arching ceiling like thunderclouds.

  Jane shut the door to their room on the ground floor near the entrance. The music was muted. She lay on the bed and fell asleep in her wet towel. Traveling, one slept at odd times and suddenly. She opened her eyes to Harry’s face with his eyes closed beside her in the soft shadowless light. His face was smooth and inscrutable. In sleep it looked ageless. She looked at the curve of his eyelashes and the dark eyebrows. The thing that frightened her in his open eyes was not there in his shut eyes. When a person was asleep you could ponder his face.

  His lip curved over his teeth. The mouth was the same as when awake, composed and calm, a little obstinate. She had the strange sensation that he was a younger version of herself. What was that familiar thing in him? Was it because she had been that age once? She had the odd notion that she’d been inside his head, at another time in her life. But Harry was much further along in self-possession than she’d ever been.

  There were no freckles on his face, though his shoulder was sprinkled with them. She kissed his shoulder and, without opening his eyes, he came alive and reached for her and turned her around, pulling her back against him to hold her tight, then lay still again. How many years did she have on him? She hadn’t yet counted, but now she did. Sixteen, no, seventeen. Well, that was a record. She guessed the older one got the more records like that one could break.

  He slept against her and she looked around the room. There was an armoire whose ivory handles had carvings of bows and arrows, and by the door an iron hat stand with antler hooks. A brass lamp had a colored glass lampshade. She thought how these things would have had to be transported in some bumping truck, wrapped in thick burlap or canvas, to get here. The silver ribs of the bed curved over them, with a white canopy draped on it. The bed looked Mexican with its thick layer of paint shimmering.

  She felt far from everything. She often felt far from things in familiar surroundings, so it was a reassuring alignment when she had the feeling when actually far from home.

  Here her thoughts didn’t dominate the landscape. The landscape and the new people in it, asking to be explored, took over. Far from home, she had less need to answer the questions, Why was she here? What was she thinking? What was the point? Those questions hovered, but did not insist on an answer. Habit was left behind, and with it, the old perspective. Her perspective stayed alert when she was far away. Back there was not so important anymore. She dozed off again.

  She woke to the deep sputtering of an airplane motor. It grew louder as it descended and seemed to land directly outside her window. Harry was gone from the bed; she got up. She went to the window and opened the shutter to see a small plane in the blue and brown light rolling forward in the field. It came to a stop past where the cars were parked, just another vehicle of transport. The door opened, and a thin metal stair folded down. Two men ducked out and descended. One was pale and fair, the other dark. The pale man went to the rear and opened a door and pulled out some backpacks and a few boxes. The other in rolled-up pants was setting wood blocks under the airplane wheels. An askari with bare black arms and draped in a blanket stood by holding a spear. They exchanged words, and the two men left the plane under his watch. Striding toward the house, they were laughing. Jane wondered which one was for Beryl.

  Who was that? came Harry’s voice from the bathroom, echoing in the high ceiling.

  Two men in a plane, she said. She wrapped herself in a kikoi and went into the bathroom. A lightbulb clustered by glass grapes hung from the ceiling. The sink mirror was stuck with eagle feathers in a fan shape. Harry was sitting in water smoking a cigar. The tub was cast iron with feet, claws clutching balls.

  You look happy, she said.

  Come in.

  She slipped into the water facing him. It was a long bathtub. A part of her checked to see if she felt shy with him. Only a small part did. Then that part was gone. Jane picked up a blue bar of soap and lathered her hands. She was glad to be there with him, but didn’t say it. Instead she said, Good cigar?

  He blew smoke, nodding.

  They heard commotion in the hallway, the two men arriving and being greeted.

  On the wall was a framed ink drawing of a naked woman, pregnant, lying on her side. Is that Beryl? she said. They both gazed at the frenzy of curving lines.

  Yes, it looks like a Leonard.

  She doesn’t sound particularly pleased with Leonard, Jane said.

  Beryl has a lot of putting up to do.

  And four kids on top of it, Jane said.

  There was a silence in the tall room. Harry’s face was relaxed. Jane felt silence was something which must be filled.

  I can barely imagine having one child, she said.

  Which was not exactly true. Silence often got filled with things not exactly true. Jane did in fact imagine having a child somewhat often, and rather more often lately. Images of it appeared in various mirages. She was holding a baby in bed just after birth; a child was walking unsteadily across a lawn, arriving to her outstretched arms. Though in the vision Jane somehow looked more like her older sister, Marian, a real mother, and the child was teetering on familiar grass in front of Marian’s house in New Jersey.

  I’m going to have lots, Harry said.

  Really? Lots?

  Loads. Their mother is going to crank them out.

  That’s nice, she said. A breeze swept in the window and she lowered herself into the warm water.

  As soon as I sort myself out and start making a living, he said.

  Oh, not yet.

  No, not yet. He took a puff of his cigar. I’m not ready to sort myself out yet.

  So you don’t worry then?

  About what?

  The future.

  Why should I worry about the future?

  I don’t know. People do.

  People are idiots, Harry said. He watched the cigar roll in his fingers. At least the ones who worry.

  The smell of grilled meat wafted into Jane when she stepped o
ut of her room. At the far end of the rounded hall where music played quietly with a pulsing beat was a sitting area and a fire going in a wide fireplace. Beryl was circling a large table set with red goblets and a turquoise tablecloth tasseled in gold. She wore a long dress from the sixties with an orange and black geometric pattern and cut-out back. Her lips were plum-colored, and long earrings dangled to her shoulders. Jane had on a blue slip dress she had unfurled from her bag and ironed with her hand on the bed and a white flower snapped from the bush outside her window set in the knot at the back of her neck.

  Beryl asked her to run down to Lana’s tent and tell her to come up. Don’t worry if you run into a warthog, she said. That’s just Freddie.

  Jane followed the narrow path among bamboo trees, watching for animals. Someone had mentioned a hippo appearing the other day in the garden, which Jane thought alarming. Hippos apparently had vicious jaws and could run very fast. In the dusky light she made out bleached white skulls dotting the clearing by Lana’s tent. She stopped at a strange noise, then realized they were human noises of an intimate and animal nature drifting through the netting. She turned and retraced her steps. Then from a distance, and out of sight, she shouted that it was dinnertime. She waited for Lana’s breathless voice to answer, then heard the laughter following. When she returned to the house, her heart was beating chaotically, as it does after seeing a wild animal.

  Once inside she found the night outside had quickly gone black.

  An older servant in a white jacket passed her, carrying empty platters to the barbecue pit off the veranda where silhouettes stood before the coals and smoke. Two other servants were lighting candles on the long table. New staff kept appearing; Jane wondered how many there were working behind the scenes.

  Pierre was sitting on the couch beside a girl of about twenty who had long shiny hair and wore a crocheted halter top.

  Hey, beautiful, he said to Jane with his sleepy pleased look. Pierre looked at women as if he’d already slept with them. Did you meet Lulu? This is Beryl’s stepdaughter. Lulu lifted her hand, palm up, unsmiling. Her bad posture did not diminish her beauty.