Rules of the Wild

by Francesca Marciano

  He kept looking into my eyes as I sat frozen, feeling my pupils dilate, as if I had taken some hallucinogenic drug.

  “Life has to go on. Nothing stops life, nothing. Not even the nuclear bomb. Two weeks ago in Rwanda, Ruben and I arrived at a church near a village. People had been hiding inside, hoping to be spared. Well, we got there very early in the morning, he had his camera rolling. Outside there were hundreds, I mean hundreds of bodies. The smell was so bad you couldn’t breathe. That smell you never get rid of, it’ll stay with you for the rest of your life. Inside there were decomposing bodies piled up one on top of the other up to your waist, all right? There must’ve been thousands in there. Women, children, everything. Your ankles were six inches deep in body fluid, in liquescent…matter. The dogs had already been in there and had done their job. I’ve never been crazy about dogs, but after that…” He flicked his cigarette into the fireplace. “Anyway. The place of course had been evacuated, but the Catholic priests had tended this small rose garden in back of the church, all right? Miraculously the flowers had been spared, they were perfectly intact, like nothing had happened. I stood in front of the roses, and watched them for a long time. It was the only thing I could concentrate on to keep my sanity. You know, it was a sunny morning, and the bees were busy as on every other morning, flying from rose to rose. This little parallel world was going on as ever, completely untouched by it all. Ruben was shooting everything on his Betacam. The thing about a Beta mike is that it picks up the oddest frequencies, it’s totally arbitrary in picking up sounds. The only soundtrack to that scene—one of the largest, most horrifying scenes of carnage I’ve ever seen, or humanity has seen as far as I’m concerned—was the buzzing of bees and the chirping of birds.”

  I felt the warmth of tears as they started streaming down my face.

  “We kept driving across the countryside passing through the villages, sobbing like two idiots, and everywhere we went we met this eerie silence. Just the birds. Literally, we only needed to stick our noses out the window to find more bodies. The incredible thing was how animals had taken over the houses. In every house you’d find the cows in the bedrooms, pigs in the bathroom. Feeding off whatever was left. The owners lying in pools of dried blood on the floor. The animals quietly roaming about. Everything wrapped in this endless silence.”

  He saw that I was crying, and that, I think, woke him up.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Sorry, Esmé,” he said. “I didn’t want to—”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For you. For everything…” I started sobbing.

  He leaned towards me and wiped my tears softly with his fingertips.

  “Don’t cry, please.”

  “Why not? Why shouldn’t I?” I asked almost angrily. “When is a good time to cry, then?”

  It was coming down like water tumbling into a ravine. I was crying for him, for Iris, for the bodies in the church, for me, for my child, for my father, my mother. For everything that had been broken, taken away, lost, for all that had been forgotten.

  “Yes,” he said, “you’re right. Cry, but come here.”

  He pulled me on top of him. I felt his arms wrap tightly around my shoulders, his fingertips rest on my cheekbones. We stayed like that for a long time, until I stopped crying. We sat listening to each other’s breath and heartbeat, learning each other’s smell, afraid to move, to say anything. We listened as one listens for every stir, every creak, every murmur in the dark, our heartbeats thumping faster, as if distant footsteps were getting closer in the night. I was afraid of what I wanted. I was longing for those footsteps to stop at my door and come in, and afraid they would fade away instead.

  Finally he said:

  “Let me sleep here with you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I don’t want to go.”

  “No…”—my heart was pounding furiously—“I mean, yes. You can stay.”

  I let the words fill the room, I let them carry every hidden possibility. Then I broke away from his embrace and looked into his eyes.

  “You can sleep here, on the sofa.”

  “Yes, that’s okay. The sofa is fine,” he said, the condescending tone creeping back into his voice.

  I realised he had probably meant that all along. He smiled as if to ease me out of my embarrassment.

  “I just don’t want to leave you now and drive home. I want to sleep close to where you sleep.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “But why?”

  “Because there’s no reason to be apart, you and I, on a night like this.”

  I laid my head on his chest again. I felt his heartbeat gradually slow, his muscles relax, until he fell asleep. When I heard the first birds in the trees I stood up, pulled a blanket over him and slipped into my bed.

  I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, hopelessly attempting to detect any stir coming from the living room. His physical presence right beyond the door perturbed me beyond my wildest expectations.

  It was driving me mad not to be making love to him.

  The realisation that this was what my body was aching for terrified me. I kept turning over, hoping the feeling would abandon me and I could fall asleep. Instead I saw the sky grow pale behind the trees and cast a white shadow in the room. Then I heard the roosters in the distance.

  “Fucking hell!” I whispered, pulling the sheets over my head in a desperate attempt to seek deliverance in darkness. But there’s no escape from light: it comes, at the same time every day, shining upon all the things you are not yet ready to discover.

  I must have been asleep for no more than half an hour when the phone rang. I heard the long-distance beep.

  “Hi darling, sorry to wake you,” said Adam, “but I wanted to catch you before going to sleep.”

  The sound of his voice startled me. I sat bolt upright, sweating, my heart bursting out of my throat.

  “It’s very late here and I’ve just come back from this insane party at—”

  “Adam,” I cried, “oh Adam…”

  “What is it?”

  “Something terrible happened. Iris…”

  “What?”

  “She was in a car accident.”

  “Oh, no. Is she badly hurt?”

  “No. No…she is…”

  This time it would have to be me saying it.

  “She’s dead.”

  There was a very long silence. I listened to the beeps, the rustle of the line.

  “When did it happen?” His voice sounded flat, robotic.

  “Three days ago. The funeral was yesterday. I didn’t know how to get hold of—”

  “I’m coming home. Now.”

  “Yes, please.”

  I heard a click and the hissing of the international connection came to an end.

  In the living room all that was left was a dent in the pillows.

  I stepped into the kitchen. Saw the empty mug of tea on the table. Wilson turned to me from the sink and smiled.

  “Good morning, Wilson. Habari?” I tried to act as normal as possible.

  “Mzuri, mama.”He caught me looking out the window in the drive.

  “Bwana Hunter ametoka saa hii.”

  His car was gone.

  “Amewacha barua kwa wewe.” Wilson handed me a piece of paper.

  His handwriting was very small and neat.

  “I’m off. I’ll be thinking of you.” Just like that. Imperial.

  Yes, everything was back to normal. Adam was coming back home and Hunter had vanished once again, somewhere out of my reach.

  I sat in the kitchen, my eyes on Wilson’s swift movements as he poured hot water from the teapot and took the toast out of the oven.

  Another breakfast for the living, I thought.

  But I didn’t throw away the note. I wanted to keep it to go over later on.

  I’ll be thinking of you, was what I would read over and over in the vain hope that the ph
rase would disclose more of its meaning.

  You cannot help searching for a hidden surprise if all you are left with is a small piece of paper.

  I rang Nicole.

  “Are you awake?” It was still before eight.

  “Awake? Are you joking? I never slept,” she said. “I’ve smoked two packs of cigarettes and had six mugs of espresso.”

  “And Miles?”

  “Unconscious. Sleeping the sleep of the just. Come over and let’s smoke some more together.”

  She was sitting on the verandah, wrapped in a faded kimono, her nails still encrusted with oil paint.

  “Oh,” she said when she saw me, “thank God you’re here.”

  She looked wired, her dark hair disheveled. Her bare arms were white and sinewy, streaked by blue veins.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing really. I’ve just spent this endless night with Miles, and now I’m worn out. First I had to console him for not having paid enough attention to Iris, for never telling her how wonderful he thought she was before she died. Then”—she sighed—“we had sex. Passionate sex.”

  “Oh.”

  “Vicarious sex, of course.”

  Everyone must have had sex last night, I thought. It’s what usually happens when somebody dies. To counteract the loss, to reaffirm the principle of life.

  “But you know, it shook me up a bit. Even though I knew perfectly well why it was happening. She’s probably laughing at all this,” said Nicole with a grin.

  “Who, Iris?”

  “You bet. All the women in this town get laid by proxy by her ex-lovers the night of her departure.”

  I looked at her stunned. Had she seen Hunter’s car in my drive? Anything was possible in Langata.

  “Hunter came around last night,” I admitted like a suspect who thinks it better not to hide anything from the cops.

  “Ah-hah! Hunter,” she said, Holmes-to-Watson-like, “… and?”

  “Nothing. He slept on the sofa, he didn’t want to sleep alone at his place. He needed some warmth, I guess.”

  “One can’t really refuse that, right?” said Nicole sadly. She looked away, somewhere out of focus. “Especially on a night like last night.”

  “We didn’t…nothing happened,” I added in haste.

  “Much better that way,” she said and then sighed, thinking of her own misjudgements, “much wiser never to cross that line. Sometimes snapping back into your original position is much more arduous than you’d think.”

  “Yes, I totally agree. Much too dangerous,” I said, a bit too vehemently.

  That woke her up: she looked at me, surprised. I stared back, holding her gaze without flinching. That’s when she knew I was gone for him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Good walking leaves no track behind.

  GEOFFREY ORYEMA

  “What are you doing still in bed?”

  Miles barges into my room, disrupting my daydreaming.

  “Oh God, Miles, you gave me such a fright. What do you mean, still? I’ve been up since seven. I was just relaxing. I had to fight off a bit of a hangover, but I’m fine now.”

  I have been lying in bed since coming back from Kilonzo’s shop, staring at the ceiling, as I had planned. My mind has been going around in circles, and has brought back surprising details I thought I had lost forever.

  Miles sits beside the bed and looks at me closely. I’m slightly annoyed at this intrusion.

  “What have you done to your hair?”

  “Got a haircut. Do you like it?”

  “Kind of.” He looks undecided.

  “Oh well, too late now.” I don’t like anybody sitting at the side of my bed staring at me like I’m sick or something. So I get up and head impatiently towards the living room.

  “I didn’t say I don’t like it.”

  “Hey, my hair is the last worry on my mind.” I shake my head. “Got a cigarette?”

  “Yes.” He promptly lights me one. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  I can feel by the tension in his body that he hasn’t turned up, like he usually does, just to have a chat and hang out. He needs something, and once he gets it he’ll be out of here. I pour two cups of coffee from the flask which Wilson has left in the kitchen. Miles follows me, keeping up a bland chatter.

  “Great dinner party last night, wasn’t it? Was the American film writer fun?”

  “Not exactly,” I answer sullenly as Wilson takes out the cold milk from the fridge. “Thank you, Wilson. Come Miles, let’s sit out on the verandah.”

  “Oh. He seemed like a cool guy to me,” says Miles, disappointed by my bad mood.

  “Maybe. Not my idea of cool, anyway.”

  “Okay.” He sips the coffee and tries to look relaxed, stretching his legs on the low table. “That American photographer, Linda. I liked her a lot.”

  “Really?”

  “Quite a babe, I thought.”

  “Mmmm.”

  I hope he’s not going to go through the whole guest list.

  “I saw her work. Not bad, I must say.”

  It’s infuriating to me that he should even mention her work. I am thinking of Iris, and I am furious on her behalf. Why do we replace people, why do we forget so easily?

  “When I took the girls home last night…her and… Claire”—he clears his throat, sheepishly, as he pronounces her name—“Linda showed us some of her most recent work.”

  “Really? She travels dragging her portfolio along?”

  “Oh, come off it, Esmé,” he says reproachfully, “she was just carrying some back issues of magazines where her work had been published. So she could show people here.”

  “How convenient.” I enjoy getting on his nerves. “Was it exciting stuff?”

  “Well, average,”he concedes. “We had a few drinks and a couple more joints at her hotel.”

  “Sounds like you had quite a late night.”

  “Yes. They kept asking me stuff like I was some kind of survival kit. These girls are total urbanites, it’s their first time to Africa, basically it’s freaking them out.”

  “I bet they loved every minute of it.”

  Undaunted by my lack of response, he grins.

  “Linda was trying to act like she was more of an expert, right? Like she knew more about the bush and stuff. Then she goes into the loo, sees a spider and all hell breaks loose.”He sniggers. “She had such a fit.”

  “And what about Claire?” I ask nonchalantly.

  “I took her home. We talked a bit in the car. She’s very intelligent, extremely well read.”

  “Is she?” I say, trying to look bored.

  Wilson appears with a little plate of homemade biscuits. He smiles as he puts it on the table between me and Miles.

  “Thank you, Wilson,” I say. “What a great idea.”

  Miles starts wolfing down the biscuits.

  “Anyway, I’m going to take them both to see the sunset on top of the Ngong hills later today. I was wondering if I could borrow a cooler for the wine…”

  “You know, Miles, I wish that when you came to my house you would bother to say hello, thank you, how are you, to my staff. They are not objects, you know.”

  “What?” He looks at me in disbelief.

  “Just now. You’ve seen Wilson twice and didn’t even acknowledge his presence, like he was a sheet of glass or something.”

  “Hey, listen, I’m sorry. There’s no need to get so upset—”

  “No! You’re wrong,” I snap, “there is. Someone should get upset. For once.”

  I think I’m about to raise my voice. I can feel my face warming.

  “I can’t bear the way everyone is always so careless. Like nothing matters, like nothing makes the slightest difference! Like no one fucking cares!”

  I’m screaming now. I see my hand pick up the coffee mug and I watch it as, in perfect slow motion, it flies over the lawn and blows to pieces. Miles is horrified.

  “For Christ’s sake, what’s wrong with y
ou?” I detect panic in his eyes.

  “Nothing is wrong with me! Does it ever cross your mind there could be something wrong in the way you behave?”

  “I…I haven’t the faintest idea—”

  “Forget it. Go in the kitchen, ask Wilson to give you the cooler, get what you need fast and get the fuck out of here.”

  “Esmé, please, what is it? Listen, I’m sorry about Wilson, I didn’t mean to…But please, tell me, what did I do that—”

  “No, you didn’t do anything. Nobody ever does anything wrong here. I’m imagining it. All the time.”

  I kick a safari chair, which crashes on the floor. Miles stands up, in all his Britishness, horrified by my Anna Magnani–like behaviour.

  “’Bye Miles. Enjoy the sunset.”

  I step back into the house and close my bedroom door behind me. I count to fifteen, then I hear the engine start and the car pulling out of the drive.

  Adam came back from America distraught, tensed and hardened by pain and physical exaustion. As I drove to the airport to pick him up, less than forty-eight hours after his phone call, I couldn’t help thinking how different his homecoming was going to be than the one I had imagined only ten days earlier, when I was still running around in supermarkets, checking out what baby food looked like. In the meantime I felt like I had been through a fast spin in a tumble dryer, and had reincarnated into at least three different people since those happy days sitting in Dr Singh’s waiting room. I couldn’t tell which one of them I was at the moment, but I was certainly not the person Adam had left behind five weeks earlier.

  When I saw him at the airport he too looked different. He was thinner, his eyes were bloodshot, his skin whiter than I had ever seen it. He felt remote, not quite there.

  “I rang her parents from Boulder,” he said on the way home in the car. “I want to spend a couple of days with them at the farm. They said she is…in this beautiful spot under a tree. I just want to sit there for a while.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you be ready to go tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes. Are you sure you want me to go with you?”