An Obvious Enchantment

by Tucker Malarkey

  As she grew older, the chiefs requested her counsel often. They were happy just to have her sit quietly in the dark corner of the meeting hut. Even stone silent, the mganga’s presence on the island was formidable.

  From what he had heard about this mganga, Bergmann assumed the village had a taste for drama. He also assumed that all of the cats on the island were the same. It hadn’t occurred to him that the cats, two in particular, would be missed.

  The mganga did not need to find the abandoned hut where the remainders of the raft building were still in evidence. She did not need to see the strange geometric tracks to the sea. She knew where her cats had gone.

  She pierced the night with a wail that she sustained for a quarter of an hour. Then she fled from her hut at the edge of the village with a chalk-white face and ran through the center of the village, stomping the earth in front of the chiefs’ huts. She was livid. They were all in danger of the white evil that lived in the mzungu, Henrik Bergmann. The white evil would ruin them, incur the wrath of wandering spirits, make their own spirits wander after death. There would be no peace.

  No one had ever heard her say so much. The chiefs stood before her with their eyes lowered. They waited for her to finish. After a long silence, the head chief said, “Bergmann gives us jobs.” The mganga’s blue eyes grew wide and crossed even more. The head chief stared at her, unable to look away. She stared back at him for a long moment and then screamed a heart-stopping scream that chased his hand to his chest. She began running around and around in a circle, making grunting noises and kicking up dust. She came to a sudden halt in front of the chiefs.

  “He gives you only hunger for things you did not need before,” she told them. She stared at each of them, forcing each in turn to raise his eyes to hers. Each chief looked from one of her eyes to the other, unsure of which one was looking at him. “He steals your souls,” she hissed. “And he has stolen my cats.”

  The chiefs did not entirely understand why the mganga was so upset, but they didn’t press her. Her cats were missing. Do what you must do, they said. And they went back to their huts to sleep.

  Henrik Bergmann was warned.

  “Nonsense,” he told Abdul. But he watched where he walked, checked his bed for snakes and poured all his own water. He survived that day and the next and then on the third day carried on much as before, putting the mganga, the cats and the curse out of his mind. On the afternoon of the third day, Henrik Bergmann rowed back to his yacht to return the canvas bag. His dinghy stayed tied to the yacht all day and through the night. When Bergmann hadn’t returned the next day, Abdul took a dhow out to the yacht, but there was no trace of his employer. The boy sat down on the edge of the boat and stared into the water, trying to imagine what might have happened to Bergmann. It was the mganga’s curse, he was sure.

  “His heart stopped beating,” he announced back on the island. “He fell overboard.” Abdul walked down the long beach every morning for a week, hoping to find a body to confirm his story. But no one ever saw Bergmann again. The islanders were sad for little Finn. They were also sad that Bergmann didn’t live to hear that the raft of cats had landed safely on neighboring Tomba Island, which, in a short period, they proceeded to colonize.

  Soon after, the sister of the mganga appointed herself to take care of baby Finn. She was called Fatima. Some referred to her as Mama Salama, or “mother of peace,” because she had been called by Allah to mend the tear between the Bergmann family and the islanders. The islanders came to respect Finn as he matured under Fatima’s native influence, trusting the towheaded child was, in some ways, like them.

  Finn reached for the Tusker beer bottle under Jonah’s sleeping berth.

  “Jonah,” he called up the stairs. “You were drinking last night?”

  “You know how it is,” Jonah answered from above. Finn put the bottles in the rubbish bin and sat down to check the rods.

  “And your wife, did you see her?”

  “No, not this last night.”

  “She was looking for you. She said she doesn’t know where to find you anymore.”

  “Of course not.” Jonah threw him a thick rope from the roof of the boat. “You know how it is. When you drink you do not always go home.”

  “Brother, the difference is, I have no wife.”

  “Were you to take a wife, you would have big problems.” Finn waved his hand by his ear. It was an old conversation. Jonah jumped down from the roof. “And last night? There was someone? I saw you and Danny at the hotel bar, up to no good.”

  “Maybe. I don’t remember.” The girl had left by the time he woke up. He could not picture her face; he did not try. “The next trip will be a long one, Jonah.”

  “A long trip. Next week? I did not tell my wife.”

  “I told her.”

  “So we will go for marlin.” Jonah grinned.

  Finn nodded. “More marlin than last season, hopefully.” This season had started out well, but then engine trouble grounded them for weeks. Getting parts for a Ferrari boat engine—getting parts for any engine in Africa—was problematic. For Uma’s part, Finn contacted a dealer in Mombasa who contacted the Ferrari supplier in Milan who had the part shipped, supposedly by air freight. Technically, it should have taken no more than two weeks for the part to reach Mombasa. It would stop in Cairo and then proceed to Nairobi. From there, one of the puddle-jumper Cessnas that made regular trips to the island would get it to Pelat. But once on the African continent, the part slowed, ceasing to obey Western laws of efficiency.

  Finn no longer expected even relative timeliness. He had been through it too many times. When Uma’s cooling tank had exploded last season, Jonah scrambled to the engine while Finn sat down and closed his eyes because, for all intents and purposes, the season was over for them. Finn clenched his fists and unclenched them. He let his head roll around on his neck and then stood up and stared down at the boat’s planks, down to the engine, to the soul of Uma, and climbed into the dinghy. Once on shore, he had pulled the dinghy only a few feet up onto the beach and then walked home, trancelike, leaving Jonah to swim. Jonah was happy enough to swim. He had known Finn for many years. He knew his temper.

  Being separated from the sea had profound effects on Finn. He stayed in his house, became totally inert. He drank and smoked cigarettes, pot, hash—anything he could get his hands on. In his altered condition, he read airport novels that tourists had left at the hotel. Every day seemed to bring him closer to death.

  Half-naked on his veranda, he’d sat with a paperback folded over his thigh, Kip on his lap, the telephone and an overflowing ashtray on the table next to him. From where he sat he could see the hull of Uma beached below. He was waiting. When the phone rang he picked it up, keeping his eyes fixed on the boat.

  “It’s Ramin,” the caller said. “Mr. Bergmann, it seems the part was sent from Italy three weeks ago. That’s what their records show, but you know the Italians. I wish I could tell you where it was.”

  “It’s probably in front of you,” Finn said quietly. “I know how you run things down there, Ramin. Don’t give me this about the Italians; you wouldn’t know your ass from a generator. That place of yours is a mess. The part has been there for a week, at least. Take another look.”

  “Mr. Bergmann, the part is not here. My workmen have looked already. Twice.”

  “Offer a reward—from me. They have no reason to find the part for you, you don’t pay those poor s.o.b.’s anything. If I were them, I wouldn’t bother looking either.” Finn scratched behind Kip’s ears. “Offer whoever locates the part a thousand shillings.”

  Finn heard Ramin draw in his breath. “That’s very generous, Mr. Bergmann, but I’m afraid you’d be wasting their time.”

  “I know something you don’t, Ramin. Offer it. Call me back when you find it, because you will find it, Ramin.” Finn hung up the phone and lit a cigarette. He continued to stroke Kip while he stared at the sea.

  When the part arrived three days later, Jonah
called Finn from the door. Finn stubbed out his cigarette, draped Kip around his neck and strapped on his sandals. It was almost the end of high season. After they put Uma back together, they brought in another marlin, in addition to the two they had caught before the boat broke down. Tarkar had seven marlin and sailfish.

  This year would be different. After he made a quick trip to Nairobi to pick up a new carburetor, Uma would be in good shape; Finn had inspected every inch of her. Nothing was going to blow. Tarkar wouldn’t know what had hit her. She would have to start getting up and out before dawn if she wanted to have a chance against Uma. Finn had been dreaming about big fish; he knew he would find them.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The Second Hotel

  Stanley Wicks was jolted awake at dawn by Uma’s gunshot start. He lay awake until sunrise, then got out of bed. His wife mumbled into her pillow and stretched a sunburned arm to the place Stanley had vacated.

  “Sleep some more, darling,” Stanley said. “It’s still early.”

  “Mmm. Be down soon.” She was never down before ten-thirty or eleven.

  The Wickses’ house was fully staffed for high season, which they had for years spent in Africa, missing the English winter completely. Stanley had taken up some projects that kept him busy and justified the time away from home. Now they had come for good. Leaving England was a liberation. After farming out his estate responsibilities, he governed his little province in absentia. Anyone was welcome to visit them on the island; the Wickses could not be accused of isolationism. A few friends did visit, flying to Africa on a drunken whim. One or two liked it so much they never left.

  Stanley generally rose between nine and nine-thirty in the morning. It was the least complicated, most satisfying time of his day. The unwavering regularity of his morning routine set him right, no matter how severely he had polluted himself the night before. He often forgot when he came to bed, and so, rather than risk waking before his requisite six hours, he slept until the sun reached the top third of the crack in the wooden shutter on his side of the bed. Daisy slept longer. She wasn’t fully awake until lunchtime.

  Stanley wrapped an orange kikoi around his waist, native-style. Over it he buttoned a pale pink cotton shirt and then lowered himself down the steep stairs to the capacious main room where their long wood dining table was set for two, with sliced papaw and lime, a thermos of coffee and a smaller thermos of warm milk. He smiled and pressed his hand into the softness of his stomach, creating the waistline he’d had at University. Three pairs of tall wooden shutters were opened to the sea. The water glistened before him. A vivid, sparkling day with a soft wind blowing the bright flowers and palms. The view never ceased to enthrall him.

  “Good morning, Jackson.” Stanley cheerfully greeted his new houseboy and eyed an envelope to the side of his place setting.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wicks. This letter has come under the door for you.”

  “Thank you, Jackson. Call me Stanley, will you? I prefer it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think I’ll have fried eggs this morning, sunnyside up. Bacon, two slices of toasted brown bread and juice. Grapefruit, if there is any.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wicks.” Jackson bowed slightly and disappeared down the stairs to the large kitchen below. Stanley leaned back in his chair and let his eyes idle on the water. He sat in silence for a minute and then poured himself some coffee and yawned. “Melissa!”

  “Mr. Wicks?” A voice rose from downstairs.

  “Bring the baby.” Stanley sipped his coffee until a young woman entered the room, holding a child. “Hello, Harry.” Stanley held out his hands to receive the child. “Have you been behaving yourself? Have you?” Stanley cooed and bounced the baby on his knee. It laughed until he reached with one hand for his coffee, gripping the child too tightly with the other. The baby howled.

  “Ohhh, Harry, don’t cry. Why are you crying? What’s wrong, my little boy? Are you hungry?” Stanley turned to Melissa. “Is he hungry?”

  “He’s had his breaky.”

  “Why is he crying?”

  “He’s in a bad temper, that’s all.”

  The girl was unhelpful. “Here, take him.” Stanley handed the child to Melissa. She stared back at him with characteristic impudence. Stanley smiled. “You do a much better job with him.” The baby continued to cry. Stanley raised an eyebrow at Melissa, who hadn’t moved an inch. “Is this the best place for him?” Melissa got the message and walked to the corner of the large room and set the baby down into a bouncing chair on wheels. It had a tray and an abacus with colored beads. Harry’s face was pinched and red. He sat with his legs hanging. He looked like a suffocated little frog. “Poor little chap is miserable,” Stanley said, squeezing lime on his papaw. “What on earth makes them cry like that?”

  Melissa was busy gathering toys from around the room. “Lookie here, Harry, look at this.” She shoved a blue rabbit in his lap.

  “Perhaps you should take him to the nursery. He might need changing.”

  Melissa scowled and lifted the baby from the bouncing chair and took him away. The sound of his wails grew rapidly faint. Stanley lit a cigarette and sipped his coffee.

  By the time breakfast was served, Daisy had descended in her silk kimono. She sat across from Stanley at the table. Her face was puffy and as red from sunburn as Harry’s was from crying. Stanley poured her coffee. She reached for his pack of cigarettes.

  “Who’s the letter from?”

  “No idea.”

  Daisy put her hand out for the lighter. “So what’s on for today?”

  “I thought I’d take the speedboat to Kitali, see how things are coming. I haven’t seen Gus for a while.”

  “I don’t know how you talk to that man.” Smoke billowed from Daisy’s mouth. No elegant, side-blown emission, but an industrial smokestack. “But it’s a lovely day for a ride.”

  “So you have no interest in joining me?”

  “Can’t. I’m lunching with Judy at Salama.”

  Stanley studied his wife. “Let’s say hello to Harry, shall we? Melissa!” Stanley bellowed. “Bring Harry back!” A door from the back of the house opened and there was the sudden noise of wailing. Melissa entered the room with Harry, whose shrieks were now ear-piercing.

  Daisy put her head in her hands. “Oh God, not now, Melissa.” Melissa stood at the far end of the table, bouncing the baby. She looked from one parent to the other with the enthusiasm of an indentured servant.

  “It’s fine, Melissa. Daisy?”

  “Stanley, please, I’ve got the most horrific headache.” She put another cigarette between her lips and lit it with the last, extending her free hand for the envelope. Stanley slid the envelope out of her reach.

  “Maybe not so much wine next time,” Stanley advised quietly, folding and stuffing the envelope in his pocket.

  “Melissa,” Daisy said. “Take the child away. I’ll look in on him later.” Melissa and the child disappeared. The noise died out. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m just off-color this morning.”

  Stanley walked along the seawall to Salama, trying not to think about how off-color his wife was. He could not imagine what color she was, except sunburned. He waved at a passing dhow and felt cheered. The justice of it was that here, in this place he had discovered and come to love, it didn’t matter what kind of woman, what kind of mother, Daisy was. She could do what she liked. She could keep eating like a cow and get as big as the Hindenburg. She could see her son for no more than ten excruciating minutes a day. No one here watched like they did in England. No one cared. Stanley had done what he could do. He had hired a nanny for Harry and had battened his own hatches.

  As he rounded the bend in the seawall, the hotel came into view, splendid and white in the morning sun. This was the island’s civilization, Stanley’s lifeline. He ate at least one meal a day there, usually lunch at the outdoor grill. He could spend hours at one of the sturdy white tables, his toes dug into the sand and a canopy of bougain
villea vines over his head, the slight stirring of ocean air all around him. What an extraordinary feeling to have one’s feet in the sand while eating a fresh lobster offset by crisp white linen. Daisy would be there for lunch that day. By the time he got back from Kitali, she’d be sleeping off the wine.

  In front of Salama, floating in a blinding patch of sunstruck water, was the dark shape of Tarkar. Stanley shielded his eyes to better view his boat. From where he stood, he could make out Nelson’s unevenly tanned bulk, moving around on the deck. A few darker bodies, too, all hard at work. Good. Stanley would have to go out with them for a few days, give his new rods a try. There was something better than carbon fiber now—aluminum oxide. Straight from the U.S. space program. Higher sensitivity, greater flex. They had lost three fish last year. This year they wouldn’t lose any.

  The rod came with a video on its use and maintenance. Stanley and Nelson had watched it together on Stanley’s video machine, the only one on the island. Nelson sat in front of the screen and inched forward, narrating the demonstration. “Gaff the monster,” he exploded. “Not that way, you idiot, both ends of the tail!”

  Nelson had a passion for the sport. It was the only subject he could talk about at length, not because he was shy, but because it was all he knew. Matters unrelated to fishing left him quiet, with an uncomfortable, slightly confused expression on his face. Because fishing was the business they shared, Stanley found Nelson excessively talkative. The man was excessive in other ways too. He ignored Stanley’s warnings about his food and alcohol consumption and Stanley found himself caught between annoyance and humility. He knew better than to condemn someone for his weakness. Nelson’s weakness was harmless; his indulgence hurt only himself. Besides, his homeliness was a cockeyed blessing: there had been no complications with women, no parties on Tarkar while Stanley was away in England. Nelson was too fearful to take advantage. In that way he was unlike the other European men who lived on the island. To his friends back home, Stanley described these white Kenyans as African, through and through. They were unruly, particularly the men. Their lack of any sense of time would have ruined them in a first or even a second world country. How would they survive, open bank accounts, catch trains, when they could plan for nothing beyond the present and whatever appetite was tempting them at that moment?