I opened the note. It was from William. About Christophe. If I hadn’t been sitting, I would have fallen over.
Hi Fiona, it read. Was hoping to stop by on my way back from Oyem, but it was late and I had someone with me. Saw Christophe in Oyem and he asked about you. Told him I’d be in Bitam next wknd and he proposed a group meet-up for Sat pm. Told him sure. That ok? Send msg to me thru one of the bus drivers by Thurs if not. Otherwise, see you Sat pm!
I looked back up at Lance, who had a hopeful smile on his face. “So, that night works, doesn’t it?” he asked. “We were talking about doing dinner together this weekend anyway.”
“Are you telling me you read my message?”
He nodded, unconcerned, and my voice rose accordingly.
“You knew I had to respond by Thursday and you still didn’t remember to give it to me?”
“Fiona, please.” Lisette laid a hand on my arm.
I showed her the note and watched her scan it. Lisette knew of Christophe; he was renowned in Gabonese social circles as being both a playboy and a prize catch. She’d been in Paris at the same time as him during university years, and a friend of hers had known him intimately. That had been the way Lisette had phrased it to me. I’d nodded and chuckled wryly, and there’d been no need for me to further elaborate on my own situation.
“This is not a problem,” she said to me. “We can have it at my house.” Her eyes brightened with enthusiasm.
I sputtered and searched for words.
“I love hosting dinner parties,” she said. “And did you see? The grocery store had whole chickens today. Perfect for my menu.”
“And hey,” Lance added, “I’ve got all those chocolate biscuit things I bought today. And the five kilos of guavas. Here you were, thinking I’d made a mistake, Fiona. See? Somehow I know these things will come in handy.”
“Maybe you knew because you read the friggin’ note.” I glared at him.
Lisette and Lance ignored me as they chattered about the menu and who else might want to come and what time we should all meet. I’d been outnumbered. I stewed in silence and berated myself. I should have elaborated further, back during the “known him intimately” conversation. I should have explained to Lisette then how raw and vulnerable I still felt about Christophe. Instead I’d laughed it off as a long-ago fling, its intensity a thing of the past.
Lisette noticed my tension and patted my arm. “Don’t you worry about this. You need only show up at my place. And introduce me to him, of course!”
“Yes.” Dread filled my heart. “Of course.”
Preparing myself late Saturday afternoon, I recited everything I had going for myself. I loved the mission and my snug home. I’d made friends. Teaching was going well. In short, life was as good as it had been since I’d arrived in Gabon, sixteen months prior.
I had no intention of continuing an affair with Christophe. I’d bawled the afternoon he’d driven William and me to the airport, as we said our goodbyes. He’d gently steered me to a quieter spot. “Baby,” he’d said, with a note of confusion in his voice, “it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m just a phone call away. I travel to Oyem regularly and I can easily meet you in Bitam.”
But I hadn’t wanted that either. Not after the way he’d talked about Mireille, how her father was a provincial governor and how her brother was counselor to the Minister of Education. “Their connections are going to be invaluable to us,” he’d said, and the painful reality hit me. This was no fly-by-night relationship. I could hear it in his voice. Much like I’d foreseen Alison’s plan to marry, I could tell Christophe was planning on a future with this woman. I had my own life to live.
And I’d found it, on my own. But the thought of his return made it all seem as stable as a house of cards.
Hold strong, Fi. Just hold strong.
When Christophe arrived, I put on my performance face, greeting him with a carefully rehearsed smile and a kiss on both cheeks. Together we strolled over to Lisette’s house. Ignoring my hammering heart and the pained awareness that he looked so very good, I introduced Christophe to Lisette, who introduced her three other guests, all fellow teachers. Lance and William arrived minutes later. I’d never been so glad to see William; I latched onto him. By his side, I found it easier to look Christophe in the eye and treat him as the good friend I’d told him I hoped we could be.
“How is Mireille doing?” I asked Christophe from my seat, trying to sound casual. Code for, is she still in your life, the other woman?
On the other side of the coffee table, he smiled at me. “She’s doing well, and thanks for asking.” Code for, yes, she’s there, we’re together, and are you sure you need that to matter?
Before I could radio back a code response, Lisette joined us, making herself comfortable in the seat next to Christophe. “Alors, close friends, catching up?” she said, and we both nodded and smiled. “It’s lovely to see. You are a good friend, Christophe, for driving all the way to Bitam.”
“It’s my pleasure. Thank you for hosting this gathering.”
“You’re most welcome.” Her next words were directed to him alone. “Do you know, I believe we have friends in common.”
“Oh?” He shifted her way. “Do tell.”
“Ndinge Marie-Louise, from university days.”
He considered this. “In 1982, perhaps? Paris, winter?”
“Yes, indeed.” She beamed. “I was there, too.”
“Une étudiante à Paris?”
“Oui!”
“Au même temps?” he exclaimed.
“Oui, exactement le même temps!”
“C’est génial, ça!”
“Oui, vraiement!”
They smiled broadly at each other. Their French grew quicker, more difficult to discern, the lower volume of personal conversation. Who had charmed whom first, I wondered? No matter. They’d become fast friends.
Fortunately there were other guests, equally charming: Moussa and Bintou, a Malian husband and wife who taught sciences at the mission, and Benoît, a Cameroonian and Lance’s teaching colleague at the lycée. Like Lance, Benoît was friendly, outgoing, curious. He spoke excellent English. When he heard William had done undergrad fieldwork in eastern Africa, he wanted to hear all about William’s impressions. William told him about the Ethiopian refugee camp and the four weeks he’d spent in Malawi. The latter had culminated with a memorable event, a festival, featuring something called the Gule Wamkulu.
Benoît’s dark eyes widened in delight. “Excellent! You saw them perform?”
“I did.”
“What is it?” Lance asked. “Or who is it?”
“A group of traditional dancers from that particular region,” William said.
“The Chewa tribe,” Benoît supplied.
William nodded and gestured for Benoît to continue.
Benoît explained. A male-only secret society of dancers called the Nyau brotherhood, around for centuries, they disguised themselves when performing, kept their identities secret, so the emphasis could remain not on the man but on the spirit presence they summoned forth. “Because, you see,” he said, “the Chewa believe it is the spirit who dances, not the man.”
“Oh, come on, that’s not possible,” Lance protested, but Benoît shook his head.
“But it is, my friend,” he said, and the conviction, the reverence in his voice, stirred something in me.
Spirit dancers.
Benoît explained how the Gule Wamkulu performed at initiation ceremonies, weddings, funerals, the harvest festival and important local and national celebrations. Disguised in costumes and masks, or simply body paint and palm frond skirts, they embodied the spirits of the ancestors—the deceased being far and away the most powerful influencing factor of anything in Africa—in order to instruct, entertain, chastise or dispense wisdom. “Even the costumes, handmade with great care, are considered sacred and otherworldly,” Benoît said, and I saw that he had the attention of everyone in the room.
“What was it like
, watching them?” I asked William. “Did it feel… different?”
“It was like nothing I’d ever seen before,” he replied. “It was theatrical, but something more. You really felt like you were watching something greater than the dancer. Their movement was so fast, their feet seemed to spend more time just above the surface than on the ground. They’d kick up dust as part of it. It made it look like they were hydroplaning. And, the way some of them moved their bodies—ways you normally don’t see on humans. Cat-like. Boneless, between their knees and their chests. It was astonishing.”
“I would have loved to have seen that,” I said wistfully.
Christophe met my eye. “I don’t know if you others know this, but Miss Garvey is a dancer of the highest caliber in the Western tradition.”
“I’m not that good,” I protested.
“Did you know Fiona was a dancer?” Christophe asked Lisette.
“No, I didn’t!” She wagged a finger at me. “When we talked about going dancing last Saturday night in town, you expressed no interest.”
“It’s ballet, la danse classique, that I’m good at. The rest, I’m pretty white.”
Which made everyone laugh.
Lisette rose and excused herself to check on her roasting chicken. Christophe continued to scrutinize me. “Does this mean you’re still not dancing?” he asked.
“I’m not.” I kept my tone light. “I jog on the mission’s sports field, though. Three afternoons a week. It’s great.”
Jogging didn’t interest him. “No dancing,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe it. “Not even since Cap Estérias?”
Code for, not since we spent three days in a frenzy of sex and eroticism?
It all came rushing back.
Worse was the way he kept his eyes on mine, hypnotizing me, pulling me back to that house, the getaway’s reckless, careless euphoria.
“No,” I managed. “Not even.”
“Fiona,” he said, playfully chastising. “You really should change that.”
He turned to Moussa and Bintou and began chatting with them about Mali. His manner was cordial, relaxed, as if he hadn’t given our conversation a second thought. I, meanwhile, felt bulldozed.
“I’ll just go help Lisette,” I mumbled to no one in particular as I rose and fled the room.
Over dinner, the wine, a velvety-smooth Bordeaux courtesy of Christophe, served to further chip away at my carefully laid defenses. At one point toward the end of the meal, I looked his way. He caught and held my gaze from across the table. A terrible jolt of desire ripped through me. I looked down quickly, seized my water glass and took several gulps. When I looked back up, Lisette, sitting next to him, had once again claimed his attention.
Lisette was a beautiful woman. Her full-figured body would have been considered heavy in the U.S., but when I looked at her proud bearing, the way she was so comfortable in her big frame, I could understand why African men found women like her so attractive. They liked her spirit, too, the way she returned their admiring glances with a flirtatious, speculative regard of her own.
Tonight, reassured by my fine performance of proving that Christophe and I were nothing more than friends, she grew livelier, more flirtatious with Christophe. Over dessert and coffee, she pointed out a speck of digestive biscuit that she claimed had landed on his arm, one she took great pains to brush away. I saw the way he shifted his attention toward her after that, attuned to her next move. Possessiveness slammed into my gut like a fist.
Unwilling to watch my friend flirt with my ex-lover, I rose and busied myself in the kitchen. My ears monitored the different conversations, particularly the one that mattered. I knew when it ended five minutes later and a chair scraped against the floor. Please, please come to me, a voice in me pleaded. The sound of his footsteps grew closer. I plunged my hands into the cold, soapy water, intent on cleaning plates, aware of the moment he joined me in the kitchen. I could see him without even looking. He would be leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, a smile on his face, his green eyes intent. I could sense, as well, the increased rising and falling of my chest, the feverish flush on my cheeks. The more sensible Fiona had somehow been consigned to the basement, where she hammered at the door with her fists and hollered to be let out so that she could knock some sense into this silly girl who stood washing the dishes, trembling, awaiting Christophe’s touch.
When his hands found my hips, the plate slipped from my paralyzed fingers and sank back down into the dishpan with a soft clunk. “I was wondering,” he murmured against my hair, “whether you might have interest in a private tutorial on African dancing. To help you get started back up with dance again.” He took a step closer and spooned his body behind me. As if on cue, dance music sounded from the living room, coming from Lisette’s stereo, amid cries of pleasure from the other guests. Christophe began to move his hips in that astonishing, fluid way African men did, and I wasn’t sure which aroused me more—being with a male partner who really knew how to dance, or the eroticism of our tandem movements.
He didn’t want Lisette, he wanted me.
My spirits soared. My body relaxed and I melted against him. Sensing acquiescence, he tucked his arm closer around my waist.
“Do you really think we should remain only good friends?” he murmured, his breath warm on my neck.
I could hear the strong Fiona, still downstairs, pounding at the door and shouting. I ignored her, choosing to listen instead to the soothing, dulcet tones of the weak Fiona. Just one night. You deserve it. You know it would be wonderful. And besides, you know you can’t resist him. And he knows it too.
The last thought stopped me cold. It would seem the strong Fiona had found a back door and slipped upstairs to whisper in my other ear. In the course of a split second, she pointed out all that I stood to lose if I gave in here.
I pried myself free from him and forced the words out. “Yes, I think it’s best we remain just friends.”
Christophe waited till I’d turned to face him before he spoke. “That’s your final decision?”
I nodded.
A flicker of surprise, almost disbelief, flashed across his face. “I hope you can respect that, given your decision, I’m going to go back out there”—he gestured to the living room—“and follow a less thorny, less challenging course of action. One that requires no cajoling on my part and, indeed, appears to be an invitation.”
I marveled at his ability to send my spirits soaring, only to allow them to crash to the ground a second later.
“You do that,” I said, mirroring his smooth voice. “My goodness, why brood about loyalty and morality at a time like this? Have your fun. Forget about Mireille or myself. After all, having fun is what matters.”
Christophe’s eyes glittered with anger. “I’m glad you feel so principled and self-righteous. Enjoy your judgments, all by your lonesome.” He eyed me, his expression coolly dispassionate. “I believe I’ll head back to the party and the hostess now, but perhaps you’d like to compose yourself further here. Your face is flushed. You look aroused. And that seems to be a problem for you.”
“Thank you for the suggestion,” I spat back. “Your consideration is exemplary.”
“Yes. I know it is.”
Rage made my hands shake. I left the kitchen to use the bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face, counseling myself to not give him the satisfaction of seeing me reappear all upset. Returning to the kitchen, I took my time, knowing I did not want to see how Christophe would ultimately retaliate. I neatened, scrubbed two pots, and decided I couldn’t delay it forever.
Cheery music blared from the speakers. Dancing was imminent. Christophe’s hand rested on the table inches from Lisette’s body as they chatted and laughed. Her swaying hips suggested a tacit encouragement that prophesized the hand’s placement on her hip, if not her ass, within the next ten minutes. Her hand on his shoulder a moment later sent a knife thrust of hurt and jealousy through me. Lance began dancing with Bintou as Mouss
a and Benoît remained engaged in conversation.
William stood watching the others. He looked over and eyed me in concern.
I strode over to him and knocked my hand against his. He enveloped mine in his, a warm, reassuring grasp. He leaned in to catch my low, shaky words.
“Help me. I don’t think I can stay here.” To my horror, tears rushed up from nowhere and I knew I had to leave right then and there.
“Go,” William said. “I’ll explain.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I fixed an unconcerned look on my face, pretending that the leaking eyes had more to do with dust particles in my eye than emotion, and bumped my way past the chatting, dancing people.
The moment I stepped outside, I knew I’d made the right decision. The cool night air cleared my head, loosened my shoulders. I took deep, cleansing breaths that gradually slowed down.
William came out of the house and joined me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“No problem.”
“Do you suppose I should I go back in there and tell Lisette thank you, and good night?”
To my relief, William shook his head. “I did the honors for us both. Christophe told me to tell you he’d come by tomorrow, later in the morning.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
We began walking in the direction of my house and the guest room the sisters offered him when he stayed overnight.
“I’m sorry I made you leave early,” I said.
“I was ready to go anyway. I have to leave early tomorrow morning.”
“I owe you. I seriously owe you.”
“No, you don’t. Lance told me what happened with the note. You didn’t have the chance to say no.”
“It needed to happen sooner or later, seeing him.”
“I’m so sorry. I assumed you two were involved. You looked so close, there at the airport, when he drove us for our flight.”
“We are close. Except when we’re not. It’s…complicated.”
“I can believe it.”
He said no more. The scene we’d left had required no translation.
We trudged in silence up the hill toward my house. The full moon had risen high in the sky. In the bluish light, the mission grounds had never seemed more beautiful, the enormous, shaggy palms like prehistoric creatures crouched in repose. The manicured lawn felt like an endless carpet. My spirits lifted.
A Dancer's Guide to Africa Page 17