The O. Henry Prize Stories 2011

by Laura Furman

  Susan Minot

  Pole, Pole

  Goodness, she said. That was something.

  You’re something.

  With you I am. She added under her breath, apparently.

  She looked across the room of the cottage to heavy curtains, which blocked out the daylight.

  That sliver of light, she said, it’s totally white. You can’t see the trees or grass or anything. It must be late.

  The African noon, he said.

  It’s blinding.

  Too bright to go out in. You better stay right here.

  Here? she said. I don’t even know where I am.

  The night had ended late. It had started way back there at the engagement party she’d gone to with Bragg. Bragg was the ex-fiancé of a friend of hers in London and the bureau chief in Nairobi, who’d taken her under his wing when she’d arrived in Kenya a couple of weeks before. He seemed to know everyone in the crowd at the Muthaiga Club, which spread out into a lantern-lit interior garden. At one point he called to a tall man who walked toward them, looking at her. Here was one of his boys, Bragg had said, fresh in from Mogadishu tonight and Bragg had winked, leaving her to chat with the man. Then it was Bragg who corralled them both afterward to dinner at the restaurant in Langata. The restaurant was called the Carnivore and waiters sliced long strips of meat from spits set on carts which were wheeled from table to table so you could choose zebra, antelope, buffalo, ostrich. The side walls of the restaurant were low and open to the black night. A thatched roof towered above. She and the man sat beside each other at the long table, but chatted with everyone else, shouting above the noise. At the end of the meal the man turned to her, smiling with a presumptuous look.

  Connected to the eating area by a concrete ramp was a throbbing dance floor with another bar and tables and chairs. After dinner the group flowed down the ramp and disappeared into the jumbling crowd and danced and drank more beer. They both danced till the crowd began to thin out.

  In an unlit parking lot Bragg was sorting out rides. Some people were going back to somebody’s house, and there was the usual indecision and stumbling and pulling of sleeves and keys stabbing at dark ignitions. She told the man she really did need to call it a night even though she wasn’t working the next day and he replied he had a car. Coming out of the restaurant’s driveway to the main road, the red taillights of the other cars turned to the left, floating one after another in the darkness. He and she, in a partly open Jeep, turned to the right.

  There were no other cars on the road, so the only light was the dim topaz bar cast by the headlights of his rattletrap Jeep. Sometimes the road was paved, with enormous black craters bitten out of it, then it would revert to a rusty dirt, polished hard with a deep rut, like a road beside a farmer’s field.

  As the Jeep rounded a bend it lurched off the road. She thought he had lost control. Then he applied the brake and she saw they were in a pull-over. She looked at the man, whose face was solemn, staring ahead.

  What is it? she said.

  He said he needed to kiss her. He said it still looking through where the windshield was detached from the hood to the darkness beyond the headlights.

  The direct statement stopped her. A direct statement often had that effect. She sat there, powerless. It was a welcome feeling. She felt the outline of herself begin to dissolve.

  When they pulled back onto the road, the Jeep made a sharp U-turn and headed back toward his place.

  She rode in the passenger seat on the left side, not the right. Many things here were like that. These were the sort of moments she waited for, being whisked away in the dark. It wasn’t something you could do on your own. So much of what she did was on her own. Though that had its advantages, too. On your own you could pick up and leave. You could visit new lives and try them on for a while. What else was life for but to check it out?

  She rode with a hand on the roll bar, taking the bumps as if riding waves. His kiss had both woken her up and made her sleepy. A warm air blew around them in the dark.

  They turned onto a smaller road and drove till they came to a driveway. The Jeep stopped in front of a metal gate. A figure rose up out of the darkness. A face turned toward the headlights, squinting with an offended expression. He was one of many Masai warriors who’d left nomadic life on the savannahs to find work as askari, guarding houses in Nairobi’s suburbs. This askari wore a gigantic overcoat, his black and red shuka showing below the hem. He lifted his spear in greeting, ducking away from the light, and went to unwind a heavy chain from the gate post. He walked the swinging gate out toward the car and stood beside it as the Jeep drove in.

  Does he stay there all night? she said.

  The man shrugged. He’ll go back to sleep.

  They drove up a short hill, rocking side to side, then stopped in a turnaround in front of a cottage. Paned French doors reflected the light back at them. Off to the right she could see the pale shape of a low building with one small window and a door. When the headlights went off everything was black. She saw nothing as he led her to the door and then inside.

  Now they lay in bed with the curtains closed and the noon light slashing a blade of light across the floor. From the front room, the other room in the cottage, came the sound of something like a couch being scraped across the concrete floor.

  What’s that? She looked alarmed.

  Nothing, he said. Just Edmond.

  Who?

  My man. The extent of my staff.

  That’s what you call him, your man?

  No, I call him Edmond. Edmond takes very good care of me. He has done for a long time. He lives in that little place next door with one of his wives.

  How many wives does he have?

  Three, poor sod.

  In the other room a radio went on, very loud, then immediately switched off.

  He’s in there tidying up. It’s okay.

  Okay, she said.

  After a while she said, Doesn’t anyone around here have to work? Besides Edmond.

  No.

  Don’t we have to get to work?

  Sure, he said. Let’s go to work.

  Really.

  No, really. I’m ready. His arms wrapped around her.

  I thought you said you had a story to file.

  It would give Bragg a heart attack if I handed a story in on time. The man spoke with a Kenyan accent, We are not in a hurry hee-ah.

  Then he said, What are you doing to me?

  She gave a small laugh, unconvinced.

  You’re dangerous, he said.

  Okay. I was wondering if you were sincere. Now I know. You’re not.

  From the front room a door banged shut, rattling panes.

  You’re brave to be here, he said.

  How’s that?

  Usually I scare them off.

  She looked at his profile. It was not unusual for a man in his late thirties to have an unlined face, but the man’s skin was unusually smooth and fair. It was not a face that would scare off a woman.

  Them? she said. She looked past him to the curtains. They were thick and white but looked dark in the shadows. She sat up a little.

  Hey, she said, something just went by. She narrowed her eyes. A red streak.

  Where?

  She pointed to the window. In that sliver of light.

  He lifted his head off the pillow, looked concerned for a moment, then laid it back down. Who knows, he said.

  Doesn’t worry you? Can’t.

  You don’t get worried about the attacks?

  Oh, them. We’ve always had the attacks. They’re just more newsworthy to the world at large at the moment. It’s nothing new for us. He closed his eyes. If you let yourself worry here you’ll go mad.

  I thought everyone here was mad.

  He opened one eye, interested. So she had been listening to what he’d said the night before. He peered back toward the sliver of light. Could be anyone out there. Edmond’s got nine children. At last count.

  Yikes. They’
re not all next door, are they?

  No, but Cecily lets them visit. Which not all wives do. Cecily rules the roost. She also does my clothes washing.

  Your staff is expanding.

  He held his fist to her chin.

  Where do the other wives live?

  In Kibera.

  People here are spoiled, she said.

  Not in Kibera.

  She gave him a withering look. The whites, I mean.

  Did you know Kibera is one of the largest slums in the world? That’s something to make us Kenyans proud.

  She looked past him into the shadowy room. There was a kilim-covered hassock near a small table with an old brown dial phone on it. Clothes were gathered in small piles at the edge of the room and newspapers and books rose in loose stacks against the wall. Hanging in the doorway instead of a door was a faded purple and yellow kikoi with dangling tassels. On the wall beside it was a large black-and-white photograph of a Masai warrior leaping a few feet into the air above blowing dust. A heavy iron hat stand made by a local artist whose ironwork she’d noticed in other Nairobi houses held a dirt-spattered oilcloth, a few safari hats with curled brims, and balanced on top, a rungu, a carved wooden club with its persimmon-shaped knob. She looked at the room, but she was thinking of the Kibera slum. She’d been filming the children there at an orphanage. Most of her work before had been in nature documentaries; she’d not seen this sort of poverty up close. At first the children she was filming had watched her with an expectant stare as if she were about to burst into flame. Then gradually they became animated till they were swirling around her like a school of fish, showing the most perplexingly joyful smiles. These children had lost their parents and were living in a place made up of a jumble of lean-tos the size of armchairs and she couldn’t get over how much they were smiling. The camera around her neck cost more than most of them would see in a lifetime. Most of these children had a deadly disease. She told herself, I am here to help, a weak plea of self-justification. She had an even more uneasy feeling she admitted to no one, that in some way she was worse off.

  We are spoiled, said the man with his hands crossed behind his head. But there’s justice. We’re also miserable wrecks. What are you looking at?

  You.

  The man’s face may have been smooth, but his eyes did not look spoiled. They looked worn out.

  She turned on her back and faced the ceiling. It was painted dark blue and where it met the stucco walls you could see the undulating line of the human hand. The plaster had been smoothed by hand, too, making a soft, uneven surface.

  So what are you doing here? he said.

  She glanced at him to see if he meant something more. His face was placid.

  The documentary, you know—

  He shook his head. I mean, really. Here, on the other side of the world.

  I always wanted to come here.

  His eyebrows rose.

  You mean, what am I running away from? She went on in a flat tone. Nothing. Getting as far away as possible from Darien, Connecticut?

  Is that where you’re from?

  Was.

  Not anymore?

  It’s not a place I ever really related to.

  So you’ve come to Africa to relate?

  Oh no, she said. You’re not going to be one of those people.

  What people?

  Who give you a hard time for being in Africa.

  He shrugged. I just don’t have a lot of patience for the thrill-seeking tourist.

  She said nothing. She thought of Babette, the German woman who ran the orphanage they were filming. Babette was not a thrill seeker. She was a good human being as far as one could tell, stern one moment, loving the next. She had a purposeful manner. The first day filming she had taken one look at Babette with her steady eyes and strong jaw and thought, Now there’s the sort of person I’ll never be.

  After a while he said, I’m glad you’re in Africa.

  Can I ask you something?

  Anything. He sounded relieved.

  You don’t happen to have … her voice trailed off and she sort of laughed … a girlfriend or a wife, do you?

  Well yes, he said in the same gentle tone. I do.

  You do?

  Yes, I thought you knew.

  Her body went still. They were both facing the ceiling and neither turned.

  I thought Bragg would have told you, he said.

  She shook her head. They were silent.

  Which? she said.

  Which what? He too seemed surprised.

  Wife or girlfriend?

  Wife.

  They were silent again.

  Children? she whispered.

  Uh-huh. He cleared his throat. Two. Girls.

  She turned on her side, propping herself up on an elbow. She thumped him on the chest. It hit harder than she meant it to.

  Ow, he said.

  Sorry. She flopped onto her stomach and smushed her face into a pillow. She reached back for the tangled sheet and pulled it up over her backside. The sheets were sort of olive brown, typical bachelor sheets, she’d thought.

  That’s okay, he said.

  I’m an idiot, she said into the olive-brown pillow.

  No you’re not.

  I thought you lived here. One finger tapped the olive-brown sheets near her head while the rest of her remained frozen.

  I do. When I’m working in Nairobi.

  She peeked out of one eye. How old are they?

  Fiona’s six and Emma’s three.

  Jesus. She sat up, holding the sheet around her. I didn’t ask, she murmured. She looked at him. He looked back. Okay, so I didn’t ask.

  Where are you going?

  Getting up. She dragged the sheet with her and stood on the thin rug. She scanned the dim floor for her clothes.

  I thought you knew, he said again.

  It looked like such a bachelor pad, she said under her breath. She located her bra and wisp of a shirt. I thought … I mean, I wasn’t even … I mean, whatever. I didn’t want to think. She found her skirt crumpled under the bed.

  Are you upset? he said.

  She was putting on her clothes and stopped for a moment. I don’t know, she said. Then she started moving again.

  He got up. He put on new clothes, different from the ones he’d worn last night. He buttoned a light blue shirt, looking at each button. He went to the window and pulled back one of the curtains. More light came into the room.

  Where are they?

  He looked over, worried.

  Your family.

  In Naivasha, at the lake. His voice was still gentle but the honey had gone out of it. We have a house there.

  Oh, they’re out there, she said. She sounded as if she were daydreaming.

  My wife grows flowers.

  She looked at him, frowning.

  No, he said, a farm. It’s our business, a flower farm.

  Oh. She found her sandals. That sounds nice.

  He kept looking out the window. My wife’s really the one who runs it.

  Uh-huh. She sat on the kilim-covered hassock and began strapping on her sandals. They were well-traveled sandals with a worn-down heel.

  He looked back at her. We’re apart a lot, he said.

  She regarded him from lowered brows.

  Will I see you again? he said, watching her from the window.

  Her hands were occupied buckling her sandals. She didn’t roll her eyes when she looked at him, but the expression was the same.

  No?

  She rethreaded her sandal straps, first making them tighter, then making them looser. What for?

  I don’t know about you, he said. But that doesn’t happen all the time. He pointed to the bed.

  Oh, I think actually it does. She laughed.

  He stepped toward her and stood there with his bare feet and light blue shirttails untucked. You said so yourself it was something.

  She released her sandal and set her feet on the floor. Her mouth made a small puffy soun
d. I don’t know, she said, and seemed to deflate. Her shoulders slumped.

  I do, he said. He sat down beside her on the hassock. He slumped, too, but his shoulders still were above her head.

  It was great, he whispered. He sounded sure.

  For you, she shot back, but her heart wasn’t in it. Inside she felt a flutter of panic.

  He was sitting close to her and she would only have had to move her head a few inches to slump a little further against him. But she didn’t. She remained in the freeze position.

  Filming the wild dogs of the Kalahari Desert she’d learned about the three strategies for survival: flight, fight, or freeze.

  I’m not going to say I don’t love her.

  God no, she murmured. And then, Sorry.

  She felt how near he was. She thought, I’ll just stay here one more minute then I’ll stand up and smile and walk out. He’d accept that. Standing up, she could still keep a small amount of her dignity intact, maybe. She would pick up her handbag and go into the front room, find her cigarettes on the driftwood tree-stump table, get a drink of water in the bare kitchenette, and wait for him to follow with the car keys. They would get back in the Jeep and he’d drive her to the guesthouse in Karen where she was staying and where she’d stay another two weeks till they finished shooting. Then she’d check out about doing that story about the cattle vaccinations in the Sudan and go there, or would find another story to do or another project somewhere or anything as long as it was somewhere else and Nairobi was not in it.