Thank you kindly, he said to the lobby man.
The lobby man gazed expressionlessly away. At least he didn't charge the john five dollars to get in.
I was just thinkin' 'bout you! the prostitute said. I was afraid you'd quit me. Come on!
She ran ahead of him up the back stairs by the toilet, and there was the man who had laid out his or somebody else's possessions on the stairs, including pennies and nickels, and stood patiently waiting for them to make him rich. The prostitute had already run high into the smoky darkness above him as he picked his way past more loungers, and then he had caught up with her and she'd taken his hand. Soon now he could tell her. Men like salt-encrusted pillars of carven ebony walled them on both sides, looking on silently as she kissed his lips and thrust her tongue repeatedly into his mouth. He wondered if he was tasting other men's sperm. She slipped her arm around him and led him to the room where the two lesbian whores lived. The lesbian whores did very well in that hotel by renting out their room to strangers for five dollars for fifteen or twenty minutes. That was why they were so well furnished. They had a TV and even a single bed. The prostitute (who knew that the john would pay her back) gave the white whore some money, and the white whore slipped out. Inside the room, another white boy was sitting on the bed. He was smoking crack and he was very nervous.
Y'all make yourselves comfortable and I'll be right back, the prostitute said, as prostitutes so often say, and the john thought to himself: Why not? What do I care if she doesn't show? I have all night, and I haven't even paid.
The white boy offered him a piece of rock, and the john thought again: Why not? because the prostitute was still there and she was serving him so tenderly, holding the crack pipe to his mouth, lighting it, reminding him not to swallow the smoke or he'd get nauseated, and then the feeling hit, the good feeling, and the prostitute grinned and went out.
I don't like this, the other white boy said. I gave eighty dollars. Well, forty was just business, you know. But forty was to get me some more rock.
You'll see her again, the john said. You can trust her.
Usually I take her to my place and she stays the night, said the white boy. I don't like this place. This place is dangerous.
The john could not tell what exactly the prostitute meant to this other person. He wanted to find out. He wanted very much to find out.
How many times have you done her? he said.
Oh, two or three times. Maybe four or five.
Listen, he said to the other white boy. Can you do me a favor? When she comes back, I need to speak with her, just for five minutes. Then you can take her home. I won't get in your way.
I don't wanna do that, the white boy said. He was out of crack, and so his hand was clenched around the crack pipe and his face was swearing.
OK, the john said.
They sat in silence on the bed, and then the black whore and the white whore came in to get toilet paper. — Your friend sure is keeping you waiting, they said. That's rude.
I'm gonna go talk to her, said the white boy. I need some rock. I gave her money. I need rock! Where's her room?
Number sixty-four, said the john. It's a real nice room. Lots of company scuttling up and down the walls.
The white boy went out, and the white whore sat down next to the john on the bed while her lover sat in the corner. The white whore (who had been going out with the black whore for eight years) was wearing a very lowcut dress that showed her rich plump breasts, and she bent toward him a little to make them move and said: You wanna like do anything?
Just then somebody knocked on the door. The black whore unlocked it, and the white boy came in. — She said she'll be down in a minute, he said unhappily.
So, the white whore was saying to the john, you think you might like a date?
You're beautiful, he replied, but I've already got a date.
Well, what if she don't come back?
Maybe then. I don't know. Maybe then.
Anybody got any rock? said the white boy.
She sure ain't showin' you no respect, said the black whore.
I don't like this, said the white boy. I'm getting very upset about this.
What makes you attracted to her? the john asked.
Oh, I don't even know her name exactly, the white boy yawned. It's just I run into her on the street sometimes.
Just let me know if I'm in your way.
No problem, dude. We can all hang out. Once she comes back, you and me and these other girls can go to my place and party.
You wanna date? the white whore cut in, her eyes lighting up. I'm sorry my face is kind of a mess. I got into an accident. But if you wanna date me I'll be real good.
You see, the white boy said, I gave her eighty dollars.
Eighty? laughed the black whore in the corner. You gave that bitch eighty? Shit.
I'm getting like tense now, said the white boy. I'm afraid I might do something.
I'll take care of it, the john said.
He went upstairs to sixty-four, and just as he was about to knock the door across the hall opened and an ancient Asian lady in a nightgown stuck her head out and flapped a moth-colored titty at him and he bowed with his hand on his heart, at which she closed the door. Behind the other door, the prostitute he'd come for was saying: Just gimme a dime bag, just this once. I swear I'll never ask for no more favors.
He knocked.
Who is it? the prostitute shouted in her fiercest voice.
It's me.
I'm comin', I'm comin! she cried impatiently.
I've got to go now, he called, smiling a little. I'll see you another time.
That worked wonders. The prostitute practically flew out the door in her eagerness to keep him, and they went downstairs.
These two girls are coming with us, the white boy said.
Oh no they are not! the prostitute cried. Ladies, I don't mean to disrespect you, but this is my business. We gonna go to his place and kinda get established, and then if we need you we'll come an' get you then.
So I'll meet you at two A.M. at the corner, the white boy was whispering to the white whore.
Come on! the prostitute said.
The two johns got up and followed her into the lobby where the manager studied them from within his glass cubicle, and the prostitute (who could tell by taste whether crack was good or not) opened the grating and they went downstairs past the black men and through the second grating and onto the street.
I wouldn't be doin' this for just anybody, the prostitute said to the white boy. But you're such a dynamite guy. You're my baby. I love white boys.
That was the first time that night that the john's heart ached. The prostitute always told him he was a dynamite guy, too.
The prostitute ran across the street and bought the white boy some of the crack she owed him. Then she called laughing: I love white boys!
The john put his arm around her while the white boy stood watching. — I love two kinds of crack, he told her, the kind I smoke and the kind between your legs. — She laughed and laughed.
Thanks for letting me come along to your house, he said to the white boy. I sure do appreciate it.
No problem, dude. We'll chill out and party, you know, just a couple of mellow crackheads.
Everything OK, baby? the prostitute said to him. Soon we'll all be doin' some really good rock. Danny here don't mind. He's quality, he really is.
They got to the white boy's house, and the prostitute and the white boy were kissing. The john looked away.
While the prostitute was in the bathroom the white boy said: Come into the bedroom for a minute. Why don't you sit down on the bed with me for a minute?
You sure I'm not in your way? the john said. You paid for her. I didn't. I can take off anytime.
Let's you and me do her together, the white boy whispered.
Sure, the john said. You go first. That's only fair. Besides, it's your place.
No no no, you don't get it. Let's do her toget
her.
Oh, I'm not exactly into that, said the john, watching to see if the white boy might suddenly scream in rage and pull out a knife or gun. — I only do girls.
I'm not queer or anything, the white boy pleaded. There's nothing to it. We just turn out the lights, get under the covers, and you won't even know whose mouth it is.
Well, I'll have to think that one over, the john said, wondering if he would be able to knock the white boy down and run if the white boy turned out to be coeval with the white boy in the newspaper who kept other boys' heads in his refrigerator. He decided that he could take the white boy easily. The white boy was very pale and puffy and unhealthy. If he had a gun, of course, that would be different.
Please, the white boy said. If you don't do her with me, my whole evening will be ruined.
The white boy was weeping. Because he had broken so easily, the john felt fairly sure now that he must not be dangerous. He put his hand on the white boy's shoulder and said: I just don't think I can do what you ask. I'm really sorry. How can I make it up to you?
Never mind, the white boy said in a desolate voice.
The prostitute was still in the bathroom. The white boy went and opened the door.
Can't you see I'm tryin' to shit? said the prostitute.
I just wanted to give you this T-shirt, the white boy said, peering in eagerly. I thought you might like it.
Thank you, the prostitute said. I appreciate that. You're a real dynamite guy.
When she came out, the john said: Well, I have to go.
What's wrong, baby? said the prostitute. Come on. Smoke a little rock with us and relax.
She took some of the white boy's crack and gave him a nice big hit. He felt the feeling again, the happy excited feeling, and for a moment it was so strong that he couldn't talk. He exhaled through his nostrils, and his nose went numb. He could no longer feel the weight of his body's sadness.
Why don't you stay over? the white boy said. It's so late. You don't wanna be out on the street.
Maybe I'll just take a stroll around the block, he said.
He put his coat on, and the prostitute gave him another rock, holding him tighdy so that he could not get away. — He's my baby, she said to the white boy, embracing the John desperately. He's the best. He's dynamite.
I guess I'll go now, said the john.
What's the matter, baby? said the prostitute. Listen, come on into the bedroom and tell me what's going on. Excuse us for a second, Danny.
Sure, the white boy said dully.
Now what's goin' on? said the prostitute, sitting beside him on the bed with her hand on his knee, looking into his eyes like a worried mother whom he must not disappoint.
He wants him and me to do you at the same time, he said, in a low voice because the bedroom door was open and he did not want to hurt the white boy's feelings. I just can't. I'm sorry.
He said that? cried the prostitute in amazement. I don't do that!
It's okay, he said. Anyway I'm going to go.
She sat motionless on the bed.
The white boy walked him to the door. He looked back and she was sitting on the bed crying. — Please come 'ere, she said.
He went back to her, hesitated, and said: I love you. Then he strode out without looking back.
THE BEST WAY TO
CHEW KAAT
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
* * *
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
She could open soda bottles with her teeth. Her plump and delicious lips, her nipples swollen from nursing babies, her succulent clitoris, these and other dainties enthralled her customers all night, until at last they must snatch greedy gobbets of sleep. She never let anyone fuck her up the ass because that would be trying to fool God.
When he asked her if she loved him, she opened her eyes wide in the bed and said: My God! How can you ask me that? I treat you like my own husband!
One night he was chewing khat with her and her sister, holding each one's hand in the theater's darkness. Her hand was hot and excitingly sweaty. The sister's was cool and getting colder, because the sister chewed khat too much. She said: When I chew khat, I can't stop. Just want to chew more!
He remembered the boy at the Twenty-Four-Hour Green Bar, fallen asleep with his head on the table, pale like riverbottom sand. — From smoking brown sugar, the sister whispered.
The sister caught the smooth red skin of a khat stalk between her teeth and pulled, ripping it away from the bad green flesh inside, like a hyena nuzzling the dirt sideways to snap rotten meat in his jaws.
The sister kept passing him fresh stalks of khat even after he'd had enough. She gave him chewing gum so that his mouth would not go numb and dry. Her hand got colder and colder. She laid her head down against his neck and watched the movie with a silent smile.
The other one, his love, burned his hand with her hand. She chewed khat in silence. He could not stop thinking about the way her thighs glistened with water after she had shaved her pussy. Her pubic hair had been lush like the black lump on a lion's neck, but not long-stranded like an American girl's, not like the bundle of leaves hung from street signs or tobacconist's signs to betoken khat, because the heat of Africa always made her crop it into a darling checkerboard. This time she had gone farther and shaved it all off with his razor. Now it itched. With her free hand she kept scratching herself and then stuffing khat into her mouth.
The two sisters had different mothers. Both mothers had been circumcised (they cut only the sweetest part, his love whispered). When the sisters had become women, they'd refused to let that happen to them. The sister's mother was a fat old lady in a blue and red kerchief who sat very slowly sifting the grit out of red beans in a wicker basket, picking out pebbles with one hand. The courtyard, bright with dripping laundry, smelled like piss.
The heat of his true love's hand drenched him with lust. Her hot wet fingers encircled his in just the same way as the black areolas ringed her nipples, not mere virginal speckles of some untested theory of circumnavigation, but solid disks from breast-feeding, sturdy like steel washers. Her hand was equally strong. Its grip came from work. Twice a week she washed her clothes and the baby's clothes, scrubbing and wringing them in her iron-hard palms. She was always bending over the baby (his bald round face slightly more orange than hers), always putting on his little shoes. She'd taught him to shit nicely on a scrap of paper bag on the bathroom floor. She cleaned him and carried him and spanked him a hundred times a day, striding tall and brown down the street with a ten-pound bag of rice under her other arm. The baby cried and she bounced him gently. (As for the man, he thought to himself: to mate with a widowed lioness, the lion first kills her cubs.) On her slender well-callused feet one toenail had been split by a stone years before. She had scarred knees. Her hair was always stiff and greasy with sweet oil.
The sister's hand was very cold now. Lovingly she popped a stalk of khat in his mouth.
Nairobi, Kenya (1993)
There was a long pale green plain with dark green trees topped by flatfish elongations, and then far away a blade of sky-blue mountain, translucent like church-glass. The plain was stained with crawling emerald shadows by the clouds. Its grass was frosted with seedheads. Low green trees shone with white thorns. A leopard was in a tree like a mass of white stare in muscular darkness. — No, I fear to see a wildebeest, his love said. I fear the strange high shape. — His love said: I don't like Masai, because they don't fear animals. They live just like animals. They drink blood. — Near the leopard was a buffalo like a lump of burned wood, black-eyed, humped atop his skull like a coolie's hat. Almost in sight of the buffalo, a cheetah lay under a tree like a puddle of speckled milk. Then came dirt roads and shanties and the muddy place behind the
wall where his love sat by the open door, cleaning rice. The low bubble of the camp stove was a loving voice. She had once been a girl with skinny chocolate knees who uncapped soda bottles with her teeth.
She was dicing a fresh steak, bending and laughing with her friend who'd just come in and was sitting on the bed. She chopped up onions and carrots and added giant spoonfuls of cooking fat.
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