by Tim Downs
“Daddy, can I get some gum?”
Jengo looked down at his daughter. Daddy—he couldn’t get used to the word. He knew the word was an expression of tender affection, but still there was something sad about it. As a child he had addressed his own beloved father with the Amharic word “ah-BY-ay” and had hoped to be called the same by his own children one day. But that was Ethiopia and this was America. Ayanna had taken to the English tongue with a child’s facile skill and already her native vocabulary was declining; her pronunciation and knowledge of American vernacular were better than his own. Jengo and Mena had once worried about Ayanna’s ability to adjust to the American culture, but Ayanna had adjusted only too well. They were very proud of their daughter, but Jengo also felt a little betrayed. Like it or not, Ayanna was becoming an American child.
“May I,” Jengo corrected.
“May I have some gum?”
“It will decay your teeth, Ayanna. Perhaps another time.”
Ayanna stomped her foot and charged off in search of her mother. Something else she learned in America, Jengo thought. His own father would never have allowed such a display of disrespect—it would have brought a swift and stern rebuke. But again, that was Ethiopia. Perhaps it was because Ayanna was his little princess that he took a more tender approach. Or perhaps it was more than that; perhaps in some ways Jengo was becoming an American too.
His wife returned again with another addition to the cart.
“What is this?” Jengo asked.
“Savoy cabbage,” Mena said.
“I have never heard of it.”
“I want to try it. I have a recipe.”
“Is this a necessary purchase?”
“Jengo—must I justify each purchase to you?”
“I was only asking,” he mumbled.
He watched his wife as she went about her shopping. Mena moved from shelf to shelf quickly, eagerly, like a delighted child in a toy store. Jengo understood; no matter how many times he visited an American supermarket he still felt a touch of that same sense of childlike wonder. He hoped he never lost it. He hoped he might experience the same emotion in his own country one day.
Jengo looked at the items in his cart. He saw beans and cooking greens and a five-pound sack of russet potatoes. There was a loaf of organically grown seven-grain bread and a block of bright yellow cheese. Most of the items could have been purchased in a market in his own village—except for one. It was a box of instant breakfast cereal—a food so thoroughly processed that it resembled the original grain in name only. Jengo picked up the box and looked at the label. There was a white banner across the top designed to look like a tailor’s tape measure. The words on the banner read: A Friend to Your Waistline. He was struck by the irony. While two hundred million Africans struggled to consume enough calories to stay alive each day, Americans struggled with obesity.
A familiar feeling of indignation began to swell inside him.
But it suddenly occurred to Jengo that Mena was purchasing the breakfast cereal for herself, not for their daughter. He looked across the store . . . Was it possible? Was his own wife becoming an American too?
Mena returned with a thick bundle of celery stalks held together by a red rubber band.
Jengo looked at her. “Are you happy here?” he asked.
“I am almost finished, Jengo—be patient.”
“No, I mean here—in America.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you miss Ethiopia? Do you ever think about it?”
“Of course I do.”
“Could you remain here?”
Mena stopped and looked at him. “Why do you ask me this?”
“Please, I wish to know.”
She paused. “I think it has been good for Ayanna. I think she has many opportunities here.”
“But you, Mena—could you remain?”
Mena smiled. “I will go where my husband goes.” She patted his arm and turned away.
Jengo considered her response. Mena had made no protest—she had raised no objection to the idea of remaining in America. Jengo thought about the gradual changes he had observed in his wife’s behavior over the last several months. She had begun to read American magazines and she listened to American talk shows on television now. She attended a women’s group at their church and had been warmly received. She had even invited their neighbors for an American-style barbecue. Mena was adapting to America just as Ayanna was—just as he was. Who knows? he thought. Perhaps we are all becoming Americans.
Jengo thought about this, and he couldn’t decide whether he should feel angry. The Americans he had met were good people. Indulgent perhaps, arrogant at times, culturally elitist in general, but essentially kind and compassionate people. Americans were not the oversexed barbarians that they appeared to be in their movies—that was just a ridiculous image they projected to the rest of the world. Up close, face-to-face, in person, Americans were much like anyone else. Jengo had not always thought so. Perhaps Mena and Ayanna were teaching him otherwise.
Jengo heard a soft hiss and looked up. The automatic spraying system had been activated, freshening the vegetables with a gentle mist until they glistened like jewels. One thing was clear to Jengo: Americans enjoyed abundance—so much abundance that they were blind to the rest of the world’s ravenous hunger.
So much abundance that they would actually presume to turn food into fuel.
That will soon change, he vowed again.
But this time his vow lacked conviction; for the first time Jengo felt a wave of vague doubt. Could the damage really be restricted to one industry as they planned, or would the devastating economic loss have consequences that none of them could foresee? And would the destruction really stop at the American shoreline, or were national boundaries just an illusion in this global economy? An image began to take shape in his mind—the image of a group of plants growing so tightly together that their roots had become intertwined. One of the plants was pulled from the ground—and all of the other plants were uprooted with it.
Jengo felt a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Pasha had assured him that they would all be safely out of the country before the devastation ever began—that by then any trace of their involvement would have long since disappeared. But mistakes had already been made; how many more might still occur? He had trusted Pasha and Habib because they all risked the same fate if the American authorities ever caught on. Suddenly that thought didn’t seem as reassuring. What good would it do Jengo if all three of them were discovered? Would there be any comfort in their company then? Would they be left to rot together in some American prison? Did Pasha and Habib worry as much as Jengo did about the risks they were taking? Did they have wives and daughters to protect?
The last thought made Jengo feel sick to his stomach. If he was somehow discovered, what would happen to Mena and Ayanna? Mena had never met Pasha or Habib; Jengo had been careful never to even mention their names. Jengo had simply attributed his late hours and late-night meetings to the demands of his doctoral research. Mena knew nothing about Jengo’s involvement in this effort; he had kept everything from her. But would the authorities believe that? The boundaries between spouses are illusions too. If Jengo was discovered, Mena and Ayanna would surely suffer as well.
And even if he wasn’t discovered—would Mena and Ayanna still suffer? When their plan was first conceived, it had seemed like a calculated attack against a deserving enemy. But somehow America no longer seemed a hostile and alien foe; it was a country that his wife and daughter had grown to love. Could he hurt the country they loved without harming them as well?
He thought about Pasha again. He remembered the look on his face that day at the insectary when he knocked Habib to the ground. It was more than a look of anger—it was a look of savagery. For the first time he wondered if Pasha Semenov was really the simple environmentalist that he pretended to be. For the first time he wondered if Pasha’s motives might be deeper and darker than
he knew.
The doubts in Jengo’s mind were flurrying like snowflakes now, but they gradually crystallized into a single solid thought: I cannot go through with this.
He knew he would have to tell Pasha—and soon.
29
Noah—have you got a minute?”
The old man looked up from his desk. “Nicholas—for you, my door is always open.”
Nick looked at the empty doorframe. The office had no door—according to departmental legend the old man had had it removed when he first became chairman of the department many years ago. Nick believed it. It was the perfect symbol of the old man’s attitude toward anyone who needed his help. Noah Ellison’s door had never been closed to anyone—especially to him.
The chair that faced Noah’s desk was the most comfortable in the room. It was another symbol of the man’s constant hospitality: The guest was always made more comfortable than the host. Nick pushed the chair a little closer to Noah’s desk and took a seat.
“I’m glad you stopped by,” Noah said. “I’ve been meaning to call. I received a rather disconcerting phone call this morning from the Sampson County police. Are you in some sort of trouble, Nicholas?”
“I’m just doing a PMI for them,” Nick said. “They’re investigating a murder.”
“Yes, you mentioned that—but I was a bit surprised to find that you seem to be one of the objects of their investigation.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Sampson County police asked me if our department keeps your schedule—if there was any way to verify your whereabouts over the last several weeks. They specifically asked if I was aware of any visits you had made to Sampson County recently.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been out there two or three times a day.”
“They were interested in the time prior to the murder.”
“What?”
“I assured them that I had no knowledge of any such visits, but I was forced to admit that your whereabouts can be very difficult to ascertain. We both know it’s true, Nicholas—no one is ever quite certain where you are. Not even your students—not even during class.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nick said. “I’ll be talking to them soon—we’ll straighten it out.”
“Then that isn’t the reason for your visit?”
“No,” Nick said. “I need to ask your advice.”
“Always glad to help. What are we discussing today? Diptera? Lepidoptera? Perhaps that fungal growth on your Manduca sexta specimens—was Dr. Lumpkin able to help with that?”
“No, it’s something else.”
“All right. What would you like to talk about?”
Nick paused. “Women.”
The old man raised his bushy eyebrows. “Women?”
“I need some advice, Noah.”
Noah hesitated. “For the first time in thirty years I wish I had a door. I should warn you, Nicholas, the topic is a little outside my area of expertise—so caveat emptor.”
“At the party the other night—I had a chance to talk with your wife.”
“Yes, I recall. Barbara said she found you quite charming.”
“See, that’s just the thing—your wife would find anyone charming. That’s because she’s so charming. She reminds me of a Scarabaeus sacer.”
Noah blinked. “Barbara reminds you of a dung beetle?”
“Have you ever looked at one closely? The cuticle is shiny black with tinges of iridescent red and green and blue around the edge. It looks elegant and mysterious—it almost seems to change color when you look at it from different angles. You know, the Egyptians considered them sacred.”
“You’re saying Barbara is elegant and mysterious.”
“Exactly.”
“Thank you for clarifying, Nicholas. I’ll pass on the compliment, but I may leave out the reference to the dung beetle.”
“How do you find a woman like that?”
“Are you interested in finding one?”
“I’m not sure. How do you know if you’re interested?”
“Nicholas—that’s a bit like asking how to know if you’re hungry. You either are or you aren’t. Are you?”
Nick paused. “Imagine being in a coma since the day you were born. You’ve never had to feed yourself; you’ve survived on life support the entire time. Then one day you wake up and you feel something you’ve never felt before: an emptiness, a craving. You’re hungry—but you don’t even know what hunger is.”
“Well, there you have it.”
“What? What have I got?”
“Your description fits perfectly. The emptiness, the longing—the sense of waking up to life for the very first time. You may not be a poet, Nicholas, but I think you’ve captured it rather well. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say you’re in love.”
Nick didn’t respond.
“I sense this is more than just a theoretical discussion. Am I correct in this assumption? In my experience, Nicholas, the emotion of ‘love’ only presents itself as a response to a specific stimulus. Is there one?”
Nick nodded.
“The young woman at the party, perhaps? I thought she was striking.”
“That’s one of them.”
“One of them? How many are there?”
“Two.”
The old man paused. “I must say, Nicholas, once you get started you don’t waste any time.”
“I can’t help it,” Nick said.
“Yes—that fits the description as well. Tell me about these women.”
“The one at the party—her name is Alena. I worked with her a few months back in Virginia. She has a cadaver dog.”
“Well, what man could resist that?”
“She’s a professional, someone I can respect—someone I could work alongside. She doesn’t mind long hours and hard work; she doesn’t mind the bugs and the bodies.”
“In other words, she’s a lot like you.”
“Is that bad?”
“It explains the attraction. How could one fail to be captivated by someone with such admirable qualities?”
“Aren’t you supposed to look for someone you’re compatible with?”
“Don’t confuse compatibility with identity, Nicholas. Two chemicals can be compatible, but when they combine, heat can be released in the process.”
“What about you and Barbara?”
“It might surprise you to learn that Barbara and I are as different as night and day.”
“But you seem so similar.”
“Compatible, yes—similar, no. It would be sheer folly to assume that the two of you are similar just because you both enjoy ‘bugs and bodies.’ I assure you, you are also as different as night and day—and it will take years to ferret out all the differences.”
“Terrific.”
“Don’t let that discourage you, Nicholas. The important thing is not how different you are; the important thing is the attitude you take toward your differences. Barbara completes me. You might say she ‘combines’ with me, and the chemical reaction isn’t always pleasant.”
“‘Heat is released in the process.’”
“Precisely. It’s one of the virtues of marriage, I think—it tends to take away one’s delusions of grandeur. What about this other woman?”
“Her name is Kathryn. I worked with her before too—a few years ago. She’s a very caring and compassionate woman—very loyal to her friends.”
“In other words, she’s nothing like you.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“It’s not a criticism, Nicholas, just a helpful observation.”
“Kathryn’s a single mom. She’s got a four-year-old girl.”
“Responsibility for a child—are you prepared for that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you suppose you find yourself attracted to someone so unlike you?”
“I’m not sure. She seems to sort of make up for what I don’t have.”
“Her strengths correspond to yo
ur weaknesses.”
“Right.”
“Which you find very fulfilling—for now.”
“And later on?”
“You will tear your hair out by the roots—because her weaknesses also correspond to your strengths.”
“Then you think I should choose the other one?”
“Not at all. A man who marries his equal has set his standards too low.”
“Stop playing the Zen master, Noah. Tell me what to do.”
“Well, what kind of woman are you looking for?”
“I want someone like Barbara—at least, someone who will turn out that way thirty years from now. How do I find a woman like her?”
“You don’t.”
“Barbara’s the only one? Lucky you.”
“You’re thinking of a woman the way you think of a car—just pick one with the features you’re looking for. But a woman grows and changes over time, Nicholas. The woman you marry today will not be the same woman thirty years from now. A woman is an investment; what she becomes has very much to do with what you’re willing to invest in her.”
“Tell me something, Noah: Did marriage interfere with your career in any way?”
“In every way.”
“Really?”
“Your hours, your schedule, your sacred privacy—they all become subject to interruption. But isn’t that what you’re looking for, Nicholas—something to interrupt the monotony of a career?”
Nick shrugged.
“These two women—do they both return your affections?”
“I think so.”
“Then you face a difficult choice.”
“I know.”
“The fundamental question is, ‘Do you wish to choose at all?’”