by R G Ainslee
Not my type, but she's kinda cute, besides she's a nun, or was. We share something. I understand what she's going through. What difference does it make? Can't get involved.
* * *
After the meal, we sat on the veranda and watched birds returning to Manda Island. Lisette kept her reserve. The doctor asked about my plans.
I inquired if the hotel had a telephone. Maybe a call the embassy would be possible. The nearest phone was in the post office in Lamu. Decided it would attract too much attention to make a call from town. They might even want me to produce a passport.
"Need to get to Mombasa or Nairobi and obtain help from the American Embassy. They can issue a new passport and perhaps loan me some money."
The doctor glanced sadly at Lisette. "That is so, but you should rest, do not take a chance with a head wound."
"You're right. Want to stay, but I must go. Need to get there soon as possible."
He gave a sigh of resignation. "If you wish … and of course you will need money."
So much for planning my next move, I hadn’t even thought about money or in my case, a lack of. "The only other alternative is to walk to Mombasa."
"No, no," he laughed. "You may have some Kenyan Shillings and pay me back some day.
"Thanks, you're very generous."
"It is like the old times."
He turned and explained to Lisette. She understood I was going to leave and raised a hand to cover her mouth, trying to hide a look of disappointment. She rose from her chair, descended the veranda, and walked slowly along the beach.
Her expression took me by surprise. Had I misread her feelings? The thought of causing her more pain gnawed at my conscience.
As Lisette ambled down the beach, he spoke about her sorrow and thanked me for talking with her. "You have been good for her. I can see a difference. I hoped Lamu would help her. It has not been so, until now."
"But she still seems distant."
"True, but progress has been made, perhaps only a beginning, but progress nevertheless. Her time in the convent made her strong, she only needs time."
Or someone, I thought.
Ali came to the door and spoke to the doctor. He excused himself and returned inside.
She needs someone, but not me. Don't need any more disappointments in life and neither does she. This is crazy. What am I thinking? Don't know anything about her, besides, she may decide to go back being a nun.
The doctor returned. "Your memory, has it improved? Do you remember your arrival in Lamu?"
"No. Recent events are still a blank."
"The memory will return, gradually, or perhaps in a response to a visual stimulus or a familiar sound. The human mind is fragile but … how would you say … resilient."
"Hope you’re right. How did you end up in Lamu?"
"My wife died ten years ago, from the cancer. The old life finished, as you understand, I came to Africa to find peace."
It dawned on me. He lost his sister and best friend in the wreck that killed Lisette's parents. "You shared the loss with Lisette."
"Yes, I served with Lisette's father in the Résistance. He chose the path to the Right, the Church. I chose the path to the Left, the Party." He paused and gazed down the beach at Lisette. "Like Lisette, I lost my faith, turned to the drink, lost my profession, and chose to run away from sadness." He shrugged. "Life has been good in Africa, away from painful memories. The pain was not so bad. The tears are gone. Now Lisette is here, I have the pain."
An older French couple joined us and then another. Soon the veranda hummed with melodic tones of the French language. Lisette returned from her stroll as the sun set, took a chair on the far end, and stared off into the night. Alone in my thoughts, I did the same.
* * *
A pleasant breeze drifted through the bedroom, sounds from gentle waves lapped at the shore. Thoughts of tomorrow occupied my mind. I was almost asleep when a shadow came into view beside the bed. A beam of moonlight through the open window revealed…
Lisette — what’s she want? Good grief, she was a nun. What do I say? Unsure, not trusting myself to speak, I remembered his words, ‘She’s innocent in the world of men.’ A warm tingling sensation ran through my body. I stumbled for words and mumbled, expectations in overdrive, then lapsed into silence.
She sat on the edge of the bed, gently placed a finger over my lips, closed her eyes, and recited a melodic prayer in French.
A sense of calm and well-being returned.
She moved her hands in the sign of the cross accompanied by a Latin incantation. She leaned over and whispered tenderly, "Bonne nuit, mon cher."
In an instant, she was gone. The sweet fragrance of her presence lingered until I drifted off into a dream world.
Chapter 8 ~ Lamu
Friday, 10 February: Lamu Island
The next morning, with Lisette as my guide, I set out towards Lamu town dressed in a casual outfit typical of island tourists. Tan shorts, a white shirt, sandals, and a wide brimmed hat. Ali produced the clothes in the evening. A French tourist left them behind, they fit and wouldn't stand out in a crowd.
Lisette volunteered to show me where to find the boat to the bus stop on the mainland. The town lay about a mile away. As we ambled along, she displayed only a hint of disappointment. I wanted to make conversation but didn't know what to say.
At last, she spoke, "The place on your head is not red."
"It's a lot better, the swelling’s gone, and the bruise isn't so bad this morning." The rest and food had done wonders. A headache lingered, and an occasional dizzy spell bothered me when I moved too fast. "I'm grateful for your uncle’s help. He is a kind and decent man."
She strolled ahead and turned back towards me. "He likes you."
"And you?"
She looked away, ambled along a few steps, and answered in a low tone, almost a whisper, "Bien sûr."
In her own way, she had a natural and enduring beauty. She wore a white floppy hat, simple blue shorts, and a red tee shirt more complimentary to her petite figure. She walked slowly, with her head down.
A few moments later, she asked with a hesitant tone, "Have you religion?"
"Not since … well you know … not really." My dad, born an Irish Catholic, worshiped spirits distilled in Kentucky, not Rome. Raised a Presbyterian by my mother, I too had lost faith after a tragedy.
She gave me a glance laden with disappointment and continued in silence.
One question lingered, one that would not go away. "Do you plan to return to the convent?"
She answered tersely and without hesitation, "Non."
"Why?"
"Is not the life for me."
"You didn't like it?"
She stared straight ahead with a pained expression and mumbled something in French. Her mood changed, and she retreated into silence.
We continued along the beach towards town. What did she mean? Sounds like she's finished with being a nun. But why ask about my religion?
The silence was almost unbearable. I had questions, but was afraid to ask, might say the wrong thing. What was that all about, last night? … Don't matter anyway, she's not my type and I'm leaving.
We leapt over a small rivulet. I stumbled, and our arms brushed releasing an electric charge between us. Started to say something, faltered, and kept silent.
She peered up into my eyes and spoke in a seductive and melodic tone, "Entre deux coeurs qui s'aiment, nul besoin de paroles."
"Sounds pretty. What does it mean?"
Lisette skipped along for a few steps. "Someday I will say to you."
"No, please tell me."
She blushed, lowered her head, and walked on for nearly a minute. "From a poème, I think, as you say — between two hearts, no words necessary."
* * *
After a half hour, we arrived in picturesque Lamu, a typical whitewashed Arab style town with buildings dating from the period when it thrived as a major slave port. The piquant aroma of the seaside villag
e gradually replaced the fresh smells of the sea. Solitude tuned into the noisy chaos of the street. We were no longer alone.
Lisette took my hand. We entered crowded narrow ways between two-story buildings. At last, cool shade and relief from the morning sun. Her mood changed, she pointed out carved wooden doors and doorframes adorning shops and homes in the alley like streets. She seemed more alive, beginning to come out of her shell.
We made our way, hand in hand, through the busy alleyways. An interesting assortment, Black Kenyans, Arab Kenyans, men in skullcaps, white robes, and dirty robes mingled with hippies and tourists from every continent. Lamu had become a destination for nature lovers, backpackers, and overland travelers in search of a quiet restful haven after months of travel across Africa, a miniature cauldron of humanity.
Along the water's edge, dhow owners called to us suggesting excursions to the nearby islands or to the mainland. Young boys displayed an array of tourist items for sale, offering everything from knives to tortoise shells. It was easy to understand why Lamu was such a popular destination for those seeking a complete change of pace.
Lisette led me to an office on the waterfront where I bought a bus ticket. The clerk pointed to dhow at the main jetty. The motorized boat carried passengers several kilometers down the channel to the bus stop at Makowe on the mainland. The bus went as far as Malindi, halfway to Mombasa.
We had time, the bus not scheduled to arrive for two hours. The doctor warned it might be late, often several hours late. I didn't want to deal with the authorities and would have to keep my eyes open before boarding the boat.
A vague uneasiness lingered. If I was in some way involved with the dead men, I could be in danger. Conflicting emotions surfaced. If I was in danger, I didn't want to involve her or her uncle.
We walked along the waterfront to a thatched roof restaurant with open sides and a few tables. It was obvious, by reading the menu, the place catered primarily to the budget traveler. Middle of the morning, we were the only customers. She ordered lemon sodas and told me the drinks were good, but the food was bad, except for the yogurt.
We sat across from each other and tried to carry on a conversation. A young couple wandered in, occupied a table, and continued a spirited discussion in German.
She asked, her voice poignant, almost a whisper, "Will you return?"
"Don’t know." What am I supposed to say? I’ll never come back, what is she—
"Will you forget me?"
"No." Didn’t dare say anything else and changed the subject.
We chatted for twenty minutes. Small talk, inconsequential subjects, about the town, the hotel, the beach. My words chosen carefully, not wanting to cause more pain, Lisette had experienced more than enough grief.
Three men drew my attention as they walked past the hut. A man dressed in a dirty white robe stood out, his face, clothes, and mannerisms somehow familiar. They passed by without looking our way, continued down the waterfront, and merged with the crowd.
Lisette carried on with the conversation, her words lost as my concentration shifted elsewhere. My eyes darted about, searched for any sign of the man, as I struggled to place where I had seen him.
A sail wafted in the breeze. A dhow beat a zig-zag course up the channel. Mesmerized by the image, my skin tingled, heartbeat raced. A recollection began to form — insufferable heat, a shimmering sea, a rough wooden deck, a white sail floating above like a storm cloud.
The Arab from the dhow.
The sixth sense of a hunted animal triggered an anxious chill down my spine. Every muscle tensed simultaneously. The dhow — events on the boat recalled: the Arab, the swim to shore, and the dead men.
I was on that boat. The men are dead. This guy's still alive. Did he kill them? The knife: he tried to kill me. I swam from the dhow. He knew I would be on the island. Knows what I looked like. Is he looking for me?
Real and immediate danger stalked the streets. I had to get out of town. She may be in peril if seen with me. Couldn’t take a chance, couldn't stay with Lisette any longer. Shook off the chill of fear and focused. Paralysis and panic subsided, followed by a shot of adrenalin, the adrenalin of survival. The world had changed from an idyllic sojourn to the raw reality of predator and prey.
I stood from the table. "I need to leave right away."
She stayed seated, puzzled. "I come with you to the bus."
"No, it’s not possible. You must go back to the hotel."
Lisette confused, rose and pleaded, "Why? I will—"
My response, sharp and final, "No. Leave now."
She eyed me with a frown, a look of betrayal, turned without a word, and disappeared along the narrow main street.
I sat down, absorbed in a sea of conflicting emotions. Her feelings hurt. However, it was better than having her involved in my troubles. At least she would be safe.
Fear and panic can produce extraordinary results. They also can generate tunnel vision, a narrow view of the immediate environment, leaving one oblivious to a threat.
Time to refocus and deal with the problem. Gotta concentrate on survival. Focus on what really matters, survive today, tomorrow will just have to happen.
Everyone in the crowd dressed in similar outfits. No one stood out. I left the thatched hut and made my way down the waterfront to search for the men.
Around a corner, the Arab had halted twenty yards away to inspect an alleyway. I froze, whirled, and ducked behind a tall man carrying a backpack emblazoned with a Canadian flag.
The Arab resumed his search towards the ferry landing. I tried to follow and lost him in the throng. Pressed on in the same direction until I realized it would be easy for them to spot me. I stood out. They blended in.
Perplexed, I huddled beside a wall. A street vendor approached. The young man offered an assortment of knives. The blades rekindled a fragment from my past. For several summers, I worked on my uncle's ranch and learned the intricacies of self-defense from an old Apache ranch hand. That’s how I disarmed the Arab on the boat. Hours of practice behind the barn saved my life.
The kid presented a cheap switchblade with a black plastic handle and six-inch blade. The action wasn't smooth, but it snapped opened just fine. Twenty shillings and it was mine. At least, now I was prepared.
The man and his friends might be waiting at the main jetty. I wasn't sure if they were looking for me, in any case, couldn't invite trouble. The waterfront would be the logical place to wait.
Seeking an alternative, I cautiously walked away from the landing, checked back over my shoulder, uncertain what to do next. A kid, about fourteen or fifteen years old called up from a mooring on the water's edge.
"Hey Bwana, want boat, you go Mande, you go Makowe?"
We sailed away in a little boat, a small dhow. Out in the channel I peered towards the jetty trying to spot the Arab and his friends. They were nowhere in sight.
Someone had associated me with the boat and the poor men had paid the price. I hadn’t killed them directly, but I knew, in the end: they're dead because of me. A wave of guilt rushed in as the water reminded me of the smell of their bodies. The memory of a spot on the lonely road between Alamogordo and Las Cruces, where everything I loved died, burst forth in agonizing detail. They died because they wanted to see me. Now it had happened again. I thought I had found peace…
The sail popped as the boy expertly tacked back and forth to find the wind. The sound triggered more recollections, the two Soviet aircraft, the pressure suit, the helmet, the life raft. Is that what it's all about? But why? I had no answers.
Chapter 9 ~ The Road
Friday, 10 February: Makowe, Kenya
An hour later, we reached a decaying jetty. After paying the boy, I tramped over to the bus stop, a decrepit open shed with a long wooden bench. A dozen people sat or stood waiting: locals, and a few European travelers including the Dutch sunbathers.
The bronzed Dutchmen, busy describing their ordeal to two rumpled Australian girls, didn't acknowledge m
y presence. Dressed in ragged jeans and tie-dyed tee shirts, the girls responded to the lurid tale with a mixture of outrage and awe.
No sign of the bus, I glanced around and peered down the dusty road.
"It has not arrived," said an attractive young woman with short dark hair, the only other person traveling alone. Taking advantage of the opportunity, I settled in beside her.
She introduced herself, Kara from Finland, and eagerly told me about her trip to Kenya with her brother’s East African Safari Rally team. Now she traveled back to Nairobi to meet friends. They planned to go overland through Zaire and the Sahara on their way home to Europe. It seemed like a fascinating plan and she filled me in with all the details. She had been in Lamu for about three months and was ready for more adventure.
Thoughts drifted back to Lisette and the doctor. I feared the Arab might connect my presence on the island with the hotel. An image of Lisette's dismay lingered. Seemed to be attracted to me, but she was a nun. What do I know about nuns? Me fooling around with a… who'd a believed it? Besides, she’s kinda plain, not my type.
A quick glance at Kara: Now that’s more like it. She noticed, and her coy smile sparked a rush of anticipation.
The scheduled arrival time came and passed. One of the Dutch guys remarked, "The bus is always late and sometimes will never arrive."
The taller Australian girl glanced down the road and called out, "Here it comes now." A cloud of dust in the distance revealed a vehicle heading towards us.
Moments later, a motorized dhow with a load of local passengers turned from the middle of the channel and approached the jetty.
The vehicle came into view. It was not the bus. A blue Peugeot station wagon pulled up across from us. My breath caught, the vehicle sparked a recollection. I had been to Kenya before. In the army on leave from … Asmara … a trip to Kenya … three of us hired a Peugeot with a driver.
Two black men who looked to be locals, one sturdy like a boxer the other thin and wiry, exited the vehicle and hurried towards the jetty. They wore similar tan safari like outfits and dark sunglasses.
The other men, two guys with light brown-skin, also wore sunglasses and were clad in perspiration stained brown outfits with a slight military flair. The taller of the two, with a pockmarked face emblazoned with a thick black mustache, surveyed the scene with the confident air of a leader.