Ingrid moved behind him and raised him by his armpits. “Come on, we’re getting you to bed.”
“Yes,” Danny mumbled. “High time for a bonk.”
Ingrid removed his shirt and left him facedown on his unmade bed. She took off his shoes and covered him with a light blanket. She paused in the doorway before leaving. He was so still, he might have been dead.
Ingrid woke early and bathed her foot. The crimson of the infection faded at her anklebone. She wrapped the widening cut in gauze and then worked the foot into a sock. Down in the harbor, the spectral shape of Uma was still gone. Finn was at sea. She went to the fishermen’s beach and looked for Ali, but Ali had gone by dhow to Mombasa.
She set out for the hotel to see if the phones were working and instead found her way to Finn’s house. The door was wide open and the ocean air blew in from the veranda. The pages of an old paperback rustled on a table, its cover torn off. The only other paper she could find was a pile of receipts for Uma. No letters, nothing. If Templeton had instructed him, he had done so verbally. How had he phrased it? Take care of her, she loses her way.
Ingrid walked around the house, stepping carefully. In one of Finn’s drawers was a stack of folded kikois. In his bathroom of raw rag coral, she dug to the bottom of his hamper, pressing his damp, soiled clothes to her face. She rolled a T-shirt into a ball and carried it under her arm back to the guesthouse. Back in her room, she laid the shirt flat under her pillow.
The next evening Danny invited Ingrid to eat dinner at Salama. “To make up for my bad behavior,” he said. “And to get some real food in you.” Nearby were Stanley and Daisy Wicks, having a silent meal. Stanley was reading a newspaper, Daisy studying her fingernails. Danny paused at their table to bow. “Good evening. Meet my dinner partner, Miss Ingrid Holtz.”
“You’ve introduced her to us at least five times, Danny,” Daisy said.
“Have I? Well, have a lovely evening. Stop reading and talk to your wife, Stanley. It’s bad manners.”
Stanley’s eyes were on Ingrid and they drifted rhythmically throughout the meal from his wife to the table where Ingrid and Danny sat.
An improperly dressed and malodorous Nelson joined them after he had talked to Stanley and Daisy, who yawned instead of greeting him. “Danny, old man,” he said, pulling up a chair and straddling it backward.
“Hello, Nelson. This is Ingrid.”
“We met at the bar once but hello anyway. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Ingrid’s having lobster and I’m having a bloody rare steak.”
“I may have both. I’m hungry tonight.”
“You’re not dressed for dinner, Nelson. Here in the hotel we dress for dinner.”
“We were out late.” A smile broke across his face.
“And?”
“Came damn close to Finn’s record marlin. Sailfish on the way back, not so big.”
“Have some wine, Ingrid,” Danny said.
Nelson leaned to take a glass from another table and filled it to the rim. “Didn’t see Uma at all. She was gone before dawn. Any idea where Finn was off to?”
“It’s a common enough question.”
“I think he might have gone north. I had a feeling about it this morning. Thought we’d see him.”
Across the room, a wineglass shattered on the tile floor and Stanley’s cautionary voice droned beneath Daisy’s titter. “Don’t be so embarrassed,” Daisy brayed. “I’m sure she’s not watching you as closely as you’re watching her. Let’s find out, shall we?” As she stood up, Daisy dropped her water glass to the ground. “Oops, I’ve broken another one,” she said, laughing. “Danny, I’m getting to be like you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t approximate your grace.”
“Well, thank goodness.” Daisy rested her hand on Nelson’s shoulder. “And your new friend, the one my husband is having wet dreams about, what’s her name again?”
“Miss Muffet,” Danny said.
“Well, she’s got a rude habit of encouraging married men. Don’t they teach you manners in America?” Daisy took Nelson’s wineglass out of his hand and gave it a perilous swirl before smelling the wine. “Rotten wine. But then you’re cheap, aren’t you, Danny?” She set it down on the edge of its base so it toppled and spilled toward Ingrid. Burgundy dripped into her lap. “Pity you’re wearing white. Cheap red wine leaves such a beastly stain.”
Ingrid smiled too sweetly.
“Oh, look, Prince Stanley’s here to save the day. I’ll say my good nights. Ta.”
Stanley had gathered napkins from other tables and dipped them into a pitcher of water. He offered the soggy mass to Ingrid. “This may help. Salt as well.” Ingrid pressed the napkins onto her skirt. She allowed Stanley to sprinkle salt on the pink stain.
“What a lovely night it’s turned out to be,” Danny said. “Daisy should be paid for her performances. Our conversation was on the verge of becoming dull.”
“Please accept my apology,” Stanley said to Ingrid. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“Poor Stanley,” Danny said.
“We did well today, Stanley,” Nelson said through a mouthful of bread. “Those new rods are magic. We got one almost as big as Finn’s.”
“Fine, fine,” Stanley said. “Keep up the good work.” He leaned down and put his hand on Ingrid’s knee. “My apologies again.”
“Nonsense,” Danny said. “We enjoyed it.”
Ingrid had deposited the damp napkins on either side of her skirt. She was hunched over, patting the stains.
Ingrid left Danny at the bar. Outside, Stanley was sitting on the terrace. He smiled when he saw her. “I’ve just opened a splendid old bottle of wine. Could I persuade you to share it with me?” Ingrid sat down next to him and accepted a glass. She drank it quickly and let Stanley refill it. The sea was bright with the moon and they watched it as if it were a stage. “Sometimes at night from my veranda I see dolphins playing,” he said. “They swim in circles and leap out of the water. Now I have started looking for them.” Stanley refilled his glass and was silent for a time. “I don’t know if Daisy’s exactly happy here.”
“Take me to Kitali with you,” Ingrid said.
“Perhaps you think me a coward . . .” Stanley trailed off. “Something strange happened at the construction site.”
“What?”
“It sounds silly, but a plate of food was left in the main room. A nice-looking three-course meal, all laid out. More food than we normally have. But no one came near it. The crew drifted around it for a while and then half of them simply left.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“In Swahili culture, there’s something called Kafara, a ritual where food is taken to a polluted place and takes the pollution, the evil, with it.”
“So my hotel is polluted and evil.”
“Someone seems to think so.”
“My damn driver won’t even take me there. He pretends to be sick. So now, as I refuse to go alone”—Stanley raised his glass—“I’m as stuck as you.”
Ingrid put down her empty wineglass. “Come swimming with me.”
Stanley laughed. “Now?”
“The water is beautiful at night. I went once before and I haven’t had the nerve to go by myself.”
“What about your foot?”
“I can barely feel it.”
On the beach, the sand was cool. They carried their shoes and walked away from the lights of the hotel. Stanley chatted about the progress at Kitali and then fell silent.
After a while Ingrid said, “I don’t think you’re a coward.”
Stanley looked back toward the hotel and then at Ingrid. “I have an urge to kiss you again.”
As he took her hand, Ingrid pushed out thoughts of Templeton and the Kafara and Finn and his female hotel guest. Then there was only poor Stanley. She let him press against her, realizing there are few things as urgent or as unthinking as a man’s desire. But t
he depth of Stanley’s trouble opened her to him. He was even more helpless, more lost than she. She held him closer, thinking it had been too long since she had acted on her own desire. Briefly recalling Finn’s woman in the floral dress, she dropped to her knees. Hardness wanted to be soft. She could, she thought, do him that favor. It’s what women did for men. Stanley moaned and held her head. “You’re divine,” he whispered.
Ingrid pulled him down to the sand.
“I’m sorry about the wine,” Stanley continued. “I’m sorry about your foot. When it comes down to it, I have a lot to be sorry for.”
She watched as he carefully worked the buttons on her blouse. “I have a weakness for your manners, Stanley.”
“This is not good manners, I assure you.”
Ingrid took his hand and placed it on her breast. “Don’t be sorry.” She closed her eyes. “But remember you’re married and we’re a little drunk. I’m doing this partly so you’ll reconsider Kitali. We could go together.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Is this?”
“All right, then, I’ll think about it.”
Lying on her veranda the next morning, Ingrid watched the deep green of the palms finger the sapphire sky and touched her breasts and abdomen gently with her fingertips. She had no desire to move. She no longer cared about the things she had cared about yesterday—Templeton, Finn, Kitali. There was nothing she needed to do or know, no right action to take. She sensed that in this surrender she would find some sort of lasting victory.
At prayer time, she went to the Friday Mosque, the island’s most orthodox mosque, forbidden to women. The sound of the chanting and the warmth of the afternoon lulled her. She closed her eyes, listening for repetitions, for words she had learned to recognize, for the spaces in between in which she felt she could swim.
She stood in the doorway, letting the sun loosen her muscles and joints while she watched the backs of men sway in unison. Soon the afternoon rain would release the moisture from the air.
The spit landed on her forearm; an old woman she had never seen hissed at her and shooed her away from the doorway. Shame burned in Ingrid’s face. She turned abruptly from the mosque and back toward the village, searching for the path that led to Templeton’s old room. She walked in a circle, recognizing nothing. By the time she found her way to the seawall, the clouds were cracking above her and the rain came down with a fury that seemed intentional. The rain made crying easy, a slow grief that caught in the back of her throat and tore into her chest. She sat on the seawall with the rain like a room around her and wept. Beyond the walls of rain she imagined a clear day and, somewhere in that day, the mother she had never known, a woman who might have helped her understand her heart better than she could.
She moved blindly along the seawall until she reached the hotel, where she went directly to the office. She was soaked; a hotel worker raised an eyebrow and went to find her a towel.
“Are the phones fixed?” she asked when he returned.
“Sorry, madam, not yet.” He resumed placing papers into a file cabinet. Ingrid wrapped the towel around her shoulders and sank into a chair next to it, absently running her eyes over the file headings. They looked like financial statements, separated by year. From what Ingrid could see, they dated back twenty or thirty years. A name on one of the headings made her straighten. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to the file.
“Our records,” the worker said.
Ingrid was now straining toward the open drawer. “Why would Mr. Nicholas Templeton be in your records?” The hotel worker placed his hand on the drawer and closed it.
“Templeton takes care of the hotel’s finances?” Ingrid pressed.
The worker was now standing guard in front of the cabinet. “He used to oversee them,” he said tersely. “When Finn was small.”
When she entered the bar, Danny saluted her. “You keep coming back,” he said. “You don’t know what else to do.” Jackson offered her a clean bar towel for her hair while Danny studied her with what seemed like kindness. “He’s got you, hasn’t he? Who knows where he is or when he’ll return. It’s not something to run your life by. I, on the other hand, am as regular as the rain that drove you here. I can be counted on. It’s a modest attribute, but I claim it proudly as my own. You can always find me, Miss Muffet. It gives you a shred of stability, something to build upon.”
“Oh, please,” Ingrid said.
“I’m being quite sincere.”
“After two drinks you’re very sincere. I’m not looking for anyone.”
“Now, now, let’s be nice.”
“It’s my father’s birthday,” Ingrid said as she finally sat down. “I was going to phone him.”
“Beastly thing’s not working, I hear.”
“Speaking of fathers,” she asked tonelessly. “Who ran Salama after Henrik Bergmann died?”
“Come to think of it, I think it was your Templeton.”
Ingrid paused. “And why do you think it might have been Templeton?”
“Probably because he’s Finn’s legal guardian.” Ingrid stared. “Neither man promotes the relationship, so it isn’t talked about much.” Danny added, “Clean forgot about it myself.”
“Did you, now?” Ingrid said acidly.
“I don’t think Templeton relished the job, but the alternative was Fatima, and she would have shut the place down.”
“Fatima?”
“The woman who raised Finn. She despises Salama because this is where Finn gets his booze.” Danny pushed Ingrid’s hair back from her face. “Look at you, melancholy creature. Do you miss your papa?” Ingrid moved out of his reach. “What does he do, your father? Is he a lawyer? I hear most American men are lawyers.”
“He’s a professor,” Ingrid said flatly.
“Another professor! Well, well, he must be very proud of you, and all the professorial work you’ve done.” Danny cupped his hands to light a cigarette. The cigarette seemed to animate him. He straightened up and smiled. “He must love you deeply, beyond imagining. You must be his jewel. Or perhaps he’s sitting at a bar this very moment, a bar like this one where he can forget his work and think instead about what he’s done to get you on the wrong track. Childless, wasting away on a remote island.” Ingrid stood up. Danny’s eyes drifted to some point above her shoulder. “Don’t leave. You want to say something, say it. You think I’m abominable. Come on, girl, where’s your mettle.”
“What happened to your father, Danny?”
“Henry? You know what happened to him. He’s been getting pickled in Nairobi for the past twenty years.”
“Your real father.”
“Henry is my real father, for better and mostly for worse.”
“That’s not what he told me.”
“Oh, he’s telling tall tales again, is he? Well, I suppose it runs in the family. Comes naturally, actually.” Danny laughed as she left the bar. “Who knows what the truth is, Miss Muffet,” he called after her. “It’s unfortunate for you that it’s become so important.”
She was too tired to walk carefully. On her way home, she put her full weight on her bad foot, feeling the chafe of sand in the wound. The pain was sobering.
Instead of soaking her foot in Detol when she reached her roof, she sent Sari to find Hamilton, Danny’s houseboy. Before lying down, she folded her pillow under her foot and then turned her cheek to rest on Finn’s shirt.
The fever had started. It moved up, slowly attacking her ankle, her lower leg. It’s not my fault, she would tell Finn, I have been hobbled by your island.
Very soon, it seemed, Hamilton was at her door, smiling broadly. “Miss Ingrid, are you well?”
“Well enough. Give me a moment.”
“Your foot is bad?”
“A little. Thank you for asking. Can you take me to the professor’s room?”
“You can walk?”
“If you help me.”
“Later I will find you a cane. Now take my arm.”
>
On the street they met Boni. “Hey, Boni!” Hamilton called. “Have you sold all your fish today?”
“Only half,” Boni called.
“Save me a tuna. Not a big one. Can you take me out with you tomorrow?”
Boni grinned. “I am going alone. Wicks has given me a wire line.” He turned to Ingrid. “Tell me your name again, pretty lady. I saw you on the water with my friend Finn.”
“She’s Danny’s friend,” Hamilton said protectively. “Miss Ingrid.”
“Yes? Good man, Danny. I’ll have a nice tuna for you later, Hamilton.” Boni bowed his head. “Miss Ingrid. I hope you can share this tuna with Danny.”
“Thank you.”
“Good man, Danny.” Boni rested his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder as he passed.
“Danny’s well liked,” Ingrid said.
“You think it is strange?”
“He’s a drunk.”
“One cannot hate him for that.”
“I think I could.”
“Have mercy, Miss Ingrid. He will not live for long.”
The pain in her foot drove all mercy out of her. She could feel nothing else. She turned to Hamilton at the professor’s door. “Leave me alone this time.”
Hamilton nodded in consent. “I will return in one hour.”
Ingrid lay on the floor and propped her foot on the bed. The blood ran out of the infection and, for a moment, eased the throbbing. She thought about the depth of Templeton’s collusion in managing the hotel’s finances. Years of aiding the institution that would eventually destroy the thing he loved most. How had he done it? And who knew what he had done? How much did this explain his present course of action?
She turned to the bed and noticed that the briefcase was not where she had left it. It had been moved, and now lay closer to the edge of the mattress, so that its binding was in full view. She pulled it out and held it to her chest. Closing her eyes, she tried to feel the presence of good or evil around her. The normal relationship between cause and effect did not seem to exist on this island. There were other forces at work, invisible wisps. Listen to yourself, she thought. You’re losing your perspective just like Templeton lost his.
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