Gus left Stanley and conferred with Mohammad. When he returned, Stanley was napping on the sand. “Mohammad says he didn’t know you were a magic man,” Gus said, nudging Stanley with his foot.
“He has no idea,” Stanley said, yawning. “Tell him he has no idea.”
“He wants you to convert your money into peaceful silence for years to come.”
“Wily rascal.”
“As it turns out, there’s nothing they need.”
“He speaks for everyone? I don’t believe for a moment that no one in the village is in need.”
“Unless you can provide pure joy.”
Stanley raised himself to his elbows. “This man is impossible.”
“He wants you to know that he’s very practical. He worries about what he is responsible for, no more. He looks to gain nothing from others.”
“Well, tell him I’ve got a problem. I’ve bought this land and I’ve invested money to build a hotel and it’s too late to change any of it. It’s going to happen. Tell him it’s going to happen.”
“Mohammad says everything can and does exist in potential. Power lies in manifestation.”
“What are you, his spokesman?”
“He’s made his views extremely clear.”
“So he’s challenging me. Fair enough. The conversation is over. The next time I see him he will have no choice, none of this mediated talk. I’m going back to get the rest of my things. Tell your workers not to kick off to sleep yet, I’ll be back later today.”
Back at Salama, Stanley sat on the veranda and ate a club sandwich. The hotel bar was deserted, and Stanley let his mind wander to Ingrid Holtz. The panic of his adulterous act had already been overtaken by the possibility of another night with her. He found it hard to remain stationary. The sandwich he was eating was as dry as a napkin in his mouth and, though he did not usually drink during the day, a beer now seemed essential. He motioned to Jackson for a Tusker, using the interruption as a way to refocus on the more practical issue of the hotel. The immediate image of half-built walls supervised by stoned and apathetic Gus made him finish his beer in one swallow. Thinking would achieve nothing. He simply had to get back there.
He decided that before returning to Kitali, he would pay Ingrid a visit. From talk at the bar he knew she wasn’t well, that she couldn’t, for the time being, leave her guesthouse. He would bring her dinner and spend some time in that little room of hers. He would carry up a fresh candle and offer her some of his fancy painkillers. The idea of her pain distracted him; he knew there was something he could do to relieve it. The past days he had found himself running through his mind the details of her face and body, the few things she had said.
Stanley ordered another beer. Was he falling in love with her? He didn’t know. A choice lay before him. Either he could move toward Ingrid or retreat back to Daisy and try again in earnest. The idea of being with Ingrid was enticing for obvious reasons. And with him, her chances of recovery would be considerably improved. He would start by getting her off the island, taking her to Nairobi to have her foot treated. They would get to know each other better. Besides, she might need someone like him. He stopped himself there. Beyond what she could do for his ego, did his interest amount to anything more than novelty and lust? Impossible to know. It was like an experiment in quantum physics; you couldn’t find out the answer without first ruining the experiment.
Once more he tried to rationalize his desire. Ingrid was his Adolpho: his healer. He had needed something for so long. Why should he deprive himself of such a therapy, such a nice girl? Stanley regarded himself as a noble, moral man, but had he ever been tested? If marriage to Daisy was his first test, he had failed. He had committed adultery and now he was finagling a way out of the marriage for good.
The thought of Daisy made him crave a cigarette. After finding one at the bar, he sat down again to consider the possibility that this juncture presented the marriage with a second chance. He could go to Daisy and confess. He could lay himself bare: Come, he could say to her, my neck is unprotected. Break it if you like. I may desire another woman, but I haven’t given up on you. After this pronouncement there would be nothing to say, nothing to do but to look at the woman he had married, watch the expressions travel across her face as she decided what to feel. He wanted to retrieve the softness he had seen in her in the beginning. Then he might be able to forget about what had come between them and stay. They would start over . . .
Danny wobbled by on his way to the bar. “Stanley! I’ve heard talk that you have designs on my girl Ingrid. Now that’s not fair, as you have a wife. We may be in Africa, but those legal attachments count for something, I think.”
“I agree,” Stanley said.
“You seem very serious today, Stanley. Are you brooding about something?”
“I was just having a sandwich.”
“A sandwich. How peculiar for you.”
“I did find it a bit rough going. In any case, I’m off to Kitali for a spell.”
“Give my regards to the natives.”
Yes, he would go to Kitali before making up his mind. There was nothing there to distract him from his decision.
Stanley stopped by Abdul’s guesthouse after lunch. As he reached the house, the door swung open, expelling Finn onto the street. Finn raised his eyebrows at the sight of Stanley. “Hello, Wicks. After more of what you got last week?”
For a moment, Stanley was speechless. “Just taking a walk, Finn.”
“Well, I wouldn’t brave the gauntlet of Abdul, if getting to his roof is what you’ve got on your mind. Ingrid’s too sick for physical exertion anyway.”
This provocation was so unlike Finn that Stanley was more puzzled than angry. “I intended nothing of the sort.”
“You intend nothing,” Finn said. “Which is why you destroy so much.”
“What have I destroyed, Finn, that you haven’t?” Stanley asked, his confusion giving way to anger.
“You seem to feel entitled to take what does not belong to you. Some would call it stealing. What’s odd in this case”—he nodded to Abdul’s roof—“is that I think she actually likes you. It must be because you’re such a . . . gentleman.”
“I’m not interested in arguing with you, Finn,” Stanley said. “Anyway, I’m on my way to Kitali.”
“Are you now?” Finn asked, turning away. “Well, then, we may meet again soon.”
CHAPTER
29
Guidance from the Dead
That afternoon a dhow deposited Henry Chisham on the quay. He had, he told the captain of the dhow, come all the way from Nairobi by bus. When the bus broke down, he’d hitchhiked with three hash-smoking hippies from Australia driving a twenty-year-old Land Rover with no shock absorbers and only the remnants of seat cushions. “Nearly killed me,” Henry told the captain in Swahili. “You’ve never seen a road more full of potholes. I tell you, my insides feel pureed. Ninasikia maumivu.”
“It’s Allah’s will that you survived,” the captain said as he nosed his dhow against the stone steps. Henry stumbled onto the stone wall and headed immediately for the hotel bar, where Danny was feeling so pleasantly drunk that he had skipped lunch.
“Hello, Henry. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to tell you your mother’s fallen ill.”
“You look a little sickly yourself,” Danny told him. “Pale and damp as a diaper.” Henry pressed his cold beer bottle to his forehead. “They want her to go to London for treatment,” he said. “She won’t go without seeing you.”
“Bloody hell,” Danny said. “Get her on the phone.”
Henry shook his head. “She wants to see you.”
“This is the best trick yet.”
“They’re saying it’s some kind of cancer.”
“Rubbish.”
“Talk to Kipo if you don’t trust me.”
“And trust Kipo! Don’t make me laugh.”
“He’s running the Chichester while I’m here.”
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“So the natives have finally taken over,” Danny said. “It was only a matter of time.”
“I think you must come, Danny,” Henry said. “Your mother’s ill.”
“Anyway, I can’t go, ill or not ill. I’ve cut my feet.”
Henry finished his beer and stood up. Aside from an initial greeting, the two men had not looked at each other. “Well, then. That’s what I’ll tell her, that you couldn’t come because you’ve cut your feet.” Danny scowled. Henry had his hat in his hand. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Bloody fucking hell,” Danny said. “All right, all right. You win. I’ll go.”
“I’ve brought a letter for Ingrid Holtz,” Henry said. “It came to the Chichester a few days back. I assume she’s still here.”
“Better give it to me,” Danny said.
“Actually,” Henry said. “I’d like to see her. How is she doing?”
“Splendidly. This climate really suits her.”
Henry was almost not allowed into Abdul’s guesthouse. “Too many men!” Abdul exclaimed. “Is my house a brothel?”
“I can wait outside if you’ll just tell her I’m here.” Abdul swung the door closed and Henry found himself alone in the swelter of the dusty street. He set his hat back on his head and resumed sweating. When the door opened again, there was a young woman behind it. She beckoned him with a henna-painted hand. Henry removed his hat again, his eyes on the swirling, intricate design on her hand. It looked like a subversive lace that brought to mind women’s underclothing. Henry felt flustered, unsure of whether he could meet her eyes. He blotted his forehead with a handkerchief as they crossed the empty courtyard, noting happily that the short-tempered old man had retreated into one of the rooms. At the top of the stairs, Henry shut his eyes against the blinding white of the roof.
He could smell Ingrid’s illness at the doorstep of her dark room. She had no idea who he was. “Stanley?”
“No, it’s Henry, from the Chichester. In Nairobi,” he added.
“Oh!” She struggled to sit up. “The light—I thought you were someone else.”
“I just popped in to see how you were.” Henry took a few steps toward her bed. “I see you’ve become acquainted with my son.”
Ingrid closed her eyes. “Your son?”
“Danny.”
“Danny!” she exclaimed. “Why doesn’t he ever visit me, damn it?”
“He seems to believe you’re in good health.”
Ingrid laughed feebly.
“I’ve been trying to convince him to come to Nairobi,” Henry said quietly. “His mum’s taken ill.”
Ingrid raised herself on her elbow. “Nairobi? Are you going to Nairobi?”
“I’m going as soon as I can get off this damn island. The phone’s been out for more than a week. Had to come myself to get a message to Danny about his mum.” Henry paused. “You remember Christa?”
“Yes.” Ingrid was confused. “She’s sick?”
“It’s happening quickly, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry. There’s a chair in the corner, there. Please sit.”
“If you like,” Henry said as he dragged the chair to the bed. “I can try to arrange to take you back to Nairobi with me.”
“Did you come in a seaplane? I saw a seaplane.”
“God, no.” Henry nearly fell into the chair. “It took me bloody forever to get here.”
“If I left with you today, I wouldn’t be able to come back, would I?”
“Not for a while anyway.”
She smiled weakly. “I don’t think I can go with you now.”
“I think you should, you need to see a good doctor.”
“But I’m not done here. I still have work to do.”
“You are in extremely poor health. I can’t imagine what work you’ll be getting done.”
“No, you see, I’m used to it.” She smiled more strongly. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
Henry held up his pocket watch. “It’s so dark in here. I can barely see.”
“Give it to me.” She held the watch face in front of her. “It’s just past noon.” Henry traced the rim of his hat with his finger. “Danny told me you were his real father,” Ingrid said.
“Did he now?”
“You’re not, though.”
“No.”
Poor Henry looked hot. His shirt stuck to his chest. He wore brown leather shoes and white socks and looked like an aging schoolboy. “Tell me about Colin,” she said. “Is he still looking for worms?”
“Poor chap’s dead, I’m afraid.”
Ingrid sat up. Henry stared down at his hat. Over Henry’s shoulder and through the open door was the sea. Dully she thought, the sea is big, Colin was small. I am small too.
“He’s dead?”
“Yes.”
There was nothing complicated about it. The sea was big. Colin was dead. It was so easy to die in Africa. Death had the inevitability of a downward swing in a dance that undulated continuously. Up and down and up and down. Life and death. It was so natural, so fluid, so easy. There was no reason she shouldn’t be the next downward swing.
At least in Africa, she thought, death was part of a bigger dance. Maybe that was why Colin had stayed. Knowing he would die, why would he return to a country that would never join dancing to death, a country that stood and walked and lay down at night, migrating through time with no dance at all.
She thought with sudden urgency that Colin had been extraordinary. Who else had witnessed him as she had? Who else could attest to the goodness of his soul?
“He read the Bible,” she said.
“Did he?”
“I think he liked it. It’s a good thing you had them in the rooms.”
“He was a lovely boy,” Henry said. “I shall miss him.”
Ingrid realized that she had no one like Henry. If she died, there would be no witness. No one to bear the news. She wanted to ask what had happened to Colin’s body. Had there been a service? Had his wife in England been notified? Was the body buried or burned? Did they keep his glasses on the face, his shoes on his feet?
“What did he—” she began. “It seems so fast.”
“He helped himself along a bit. Can’t blame him for that.”
Ingrid looked out again at the sea. Maybe the only real choice you had was the moment of your death. Colin had chosen his. Had he thought about going to hell as he did it? Henry cleared his throat and her eyes drifted back to him. He seemed infused with pain. Or maybe he was just hot. Poor Henry. He had lost two sons and now his wife was dying. He was a good man. Ingrid was glad he had come.
“Maybe I could come with you,” she offered.
The suggestion seemed to enliven him. “Well, I’m to meet some chap at five o’clock on the quay. He’s going to sail me down to Malindi, where I can get the bus back. It would be jolly smart of you to come along.”
“All right,” she said, working through the idea in her mind. “I will try to be there at five.”
“Good girl. Now I’ve brought you some mail that came to the hotel.” Henry handed her an envelope and she recognized her father’s writing.
“Thank you, Henry. Thank you so much.”
“See you this afternoon, then. Five o’clock departure.”
Departure. She laid the envelope on her stomach. She had a few hours to consider it. Her thought process had become as unpredictable as cloud formation. Departure. The word itself had taken on an abstract, shape-shifting quality. Departure from what, toward what? She had already departed. How could she depart more or further? She wanted to think about Colin, pay him the brief, superstitious homage one would pay the body of a soldier who’d fallen in front of you, instead of just stepping over the corpse.
At last, Ingrid tore open the envelope. Inside was a note attached to a letter. The note was from her father—Happy birthday, Ingrid. Hope the work is coming along. Much love, Dad. The handwriting on the letter inside was different. The date in the corner was
September 16, 1975. Ingrid’s eyes skipped to the bottom of the page. The letter was from her mother, written twenty-three years before.
My darling baby girl,
Baby no more, for you are soon to be thirty! The few helpful words I have for you would not be pertinent until now—you see, I have never raised a child. I have lost one and am abandoning the other. Your father has done it instead and if you’re reading this, he must have muddled through it on his own. Perhaps, as I have urged him to do, he has remarried and you have the all-important two fountains of wisdom from which to drink.
The only counsel I can offer is in regard to marriage. Treat your husband like he is a beloved child who cannot speak. It sounds silly, but I have found it to be a useful approach. Try not to visibly doubt his authority. Instead, do what you want to do quietly without fanfare and you shall both be happy. I have found it is possible to live fully even when you are one half of a whole. Treat yourself gently, like you would treat your own daughter.
I’m sorry I will not be there to see this day or any others. While I have grown uncomfortable with this illness and am resigned to my passing, it is not seeing you I regret the most. I hardly know you, sweet child, but I miss you already, and all that you will become.
Be strong, but not too strong. Strength can be its own undoing. There is much to be learned from surrender. That’s very old-fashioned in these changing times, but it is what I know—what I have come to understand.
If I could, I would tell you all this myself. What a delight that would be! Be happy, sweet girl. Live life as if it will always end too soon.
My love always,
Your Ma
Ingrid folded and then unfolded the letter. She let her eyes drift over the words, picturing the woman who had written them seated at her desk in front of the bedroom window, absently tapping the glass owl next to the lamp with her pen. By then she was grounded by her disease yet still gracious, still loving. The phantom memory of this woman’s love created in Ingrid a debilitating ache. She read the letter again and then again, submerging herself in a sorrow that hardened only when she glanced at the inscrutably brief words of her father—and for a moment she hated him and Henry for allowing her mother’s memory to find her now. She folded the page and stuffed it back into the envelope.
An Obvious Enchantment Page 29