An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  “If I were you,” she replied confidently, “I would go with ‘First Love’ and ‘Finish Strong.’ In my view, Jim, these are your two finest.”

  Pleased—and relieved—to have his choices confirmed, Jim smiled. “Mine, too!”

  The day of the event, Jim rose at 6:00 AM, practiced his reading from 6:30 to 7:30, and went for his twenty-minute jog around the grounds.

  After a cool shower and breakfast of Mealie, an oatmeallike porridge similar to the hominy grits he’d learned to like in the Army, he headed to the veranda, poems in hand. Easing his rejuvenated body into the rattan armchair Josiane had found to fit his rangy frame, Jim rested the poems on his lap and gazed out over Lake Tanganyika, a view that always filled him with tranquility.

  He would miss it, but not in the way that he would miss the sense of fulfillment he’d derived from teaching the game he loved to young men he had grown to love. Nor would he miss it in the way that he would miss the camaraderie of his inner hoops circle of Bill Foster, Mathias Bizimana, Terrance Ndayisaba, Jesse Abbot, and the others who had embraced his presence. And he surely would not miss it in the way that he would miss one of the most admirable people he had ever known, whose compassion and goodwill had shored up his self-command.

  There were attractive elements to his returning to Worcester. Thanks to the pay he had received in Burundi, he would have enough money to live more comfortably. And, no doubt, he could find part-time work at the Ionic Ave. Boys’ Club or at a local school, coaching and mentoring young people. But the appeal of his hometown would not, he knew, diminish his sense of melancholy over leaving the most rewarding job he’d ever had.

  After an hour or so of quiet review of his poems and more reflection, Jim headed off to the Nimbona Court. He took care not to stretch his vocal cords before the reading. When the practice session ended, Jim headed back to his apartment, only to see Corporal Jim Roberts in an embassy car exiting through the gates. Jim was surprised when Roberts did not stop to chat, but instead smiled and drove on.

  Jim was still wondering where Roberts was headed when he opened his apartment door and was startled by a familiar voice. “Hello, Daddy.”

  As early as two months after his arrival in Burundi, Jim had offered to pay Sarah’s way to Africa for a visit. But she had stubbornly refused his help, making clear that her teaching job would afford her the opportunity to save enough for the flight.

  Though he did miss her greatly, Jim was proud of his daughter’s resolve. He was also pleased that the distance separating them had, indeed, brought them closer together, a condition reflected in the tender sentiments that each expressed in letters and on calls.

  When Jim had first told Sarah about his new avocation, she was overjoyed. “Galway Kinnell is a Princeton grad and one of my favorites, too!”

  Sarah had followed up by sending her father other books of poetry she thought he would like, including the works of Jack Ridl, a sports poet. Jim had known Jack’s father, the late Buzz Ridl, a renowned basketball coach at the University of Pittsburgh. He took delight in reading Jack’s poignant verses about growing up the son of a great coach.

  Through many conversations with Jim, Ambassador Foster was also aware that Sarah would not accept any financial assistance from her father. The ambassador finally decided to take matters into her own hands.

  In a confidential letter to Sarah, she wrote, “Your dad has told me that you will not accept his financial help. However, through the State Department, I have been able to make arrangements for a diplomatic discount on a round-trip air ticket. This is a perfectly legitimate perquisite that we offer to immediate family members of individuals who have performed with distinction here in Africa. If you are able to come, I know your dad would love to see you. Hopefully, you can arrive just in time for his reading on Summer Solstice Night. Let’s keep it a secret, though!”

  The day she received the letter, Sarah wrote back to Ambassador Foster, expressing her gratitude and agreeing to the offer.

  After a long embrace, and a failed attempt at holding back tears of jubilation, Jim reveled in his daughter’s narrative about her life since his move to Africa. She filled him in on matters ranging from her teaching position to Ambassador Foster’s unexpected letter, to the challenges and opportunities that lay in her future as an aspiring writer. Sarah made no mention of her boyfriend, and Jim did not ask, sensing that she would bring up the relationship when she was ready.

  It was the longest uninterrupted conversation that Jim could ever recall having with his daughter. He became so engrossed in their discussion that he forgot his anxiety about the impending reading.

  After a couple hours of catching up, Jim could see that Sarah was weary. He escorted her to the small guest room for a much needed nap and then went out to the veranda to finalize his preparation.

  The first poem that Jim had decided to read, titled “First Love,” was about his lifelong romance with basketball. The second poem, “Finish Strong,” addressed the harsh challenges of aging and his personal strategy to confronting those challenges.

  In the past, reading these poems in the solitude of the veranda, Jim had sometimes found himself fighting back mild fits of grief, for both evoked a plethora of emotions. But though he felt a sense of anxiety returning, he vowed that he would hold his voice steady at the reading, a task that would now be more difficult due to the presence of his daughter.

  As he continued his preparation, he was pleased to feel his qualms give way to a rush of adrenaline—the same sensation he’d felt the morning of the Rwanda game.

  When Sarah awoke, Josiane made a traditional Burundian delicacy of red kidney beans mixed with green bananas, followed by Bananas Burundi, a favorite native dessert made with cinnamon and orange juice. When father and daughter were finished, Jim said, “Okay. It’s game time. Jesse will be knocking on our door any moment.”

  Sarah was amused by Jim’s unchanged habit of relating most of life’s experiences to sports, silently taking pleasure in her dad’s endearingly unadorned style.

  Jesse Abbot drove Jim and Sarah to the ambassador’s home. When Abbot pulled his car past the security gate, the site of the overflow crowd that had congregated on the rear lawn caused Jim’s heartbeat to quicken.

  “Looks like at least three hundred people,” said Abbot, “including President Buyoya.”

  “I didn’t know he was coming,” said Jim, slightly uncomfortable at the thought of reading before a head of state.

  “Oh, and by the way,” Abbot said to Jim as the coach was exiting the car, “there’s another special guest I know you’ll enjoy seeing.”

  Just then, Jim heard a familiar voice. “You didn’t think that I was going to miss the debut of a master poet did you?”

  Jim immediately recognized the voice of Barry Sklar, who, now standing in his view, held a glass of wine in one hand. A luminous smile lit his face.

  The two dear friends hugged, and Barry then said, “Seriously, Jim, when the ambassador told me about this reading, it helped me decide to come and check things out personally.”

  As was her custom, Ambassador Foster had planned well. A massive blue tent, on loan from the president’s office, provided shade from the early evening sun. At the west end of the tent, rows of chairs were set up for the guests, and a special section was cordoned off for President Buyoya, his wife, and the readers. An elevated podium with a microphone was situated directly in front of the chairs. Draped high above the podium was a sign—painted red, white, and blue—that read: WELCOME TO THE FOURTH ANNUAL EMILY DICKINSON SUMMER SOLSTICE READING.

  As more guests arrived, members of the ambassador’s staff employed their contingency plan by bringing out additional folding chairs. Servants walked through the crowd with heaping trays of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. And for the first time in months, Operation Deliverance was not at the center of conversation. Instead, the talk was about poetry and the mood was one of light anticipation.

  Too nervous to eat the hors d’oeuv
res, Jim sipped slowly on a glass of Perrier only to be caught off guard by an unexpected and well-known greeter.

  “While I confess to knowing little about poetry,” said President Buyoya, “your ambassador has piqued my curiosity. I am particularly looking forward to your reading.”

  As Jim pondered whether he should be flattered or uneasy over the president’s interest, Bill Foster, dressed nattily in white slacks and a bright shirt with a floral design, rang a decorative ship’s bell and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The readings will begin in five minutes.”

  Jim moved toward his seat in the front row. With a turn of his head, his eye fell upon the ambassador in amiable conversation with a woman he had never seen.

  A stunning woman.

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  Cynthia Foster had agreed to assume the dual role of reader and master of ceremonies. She would read first and the others would follow, based on a draw of straws.

  With well-modulated eloquence, the ambassador read two of her newest poems—the first about her love for her husband, the second about the strain of Operation Deliverance. The words of the second poem, emollient and heartfelt, had special meaning to everyone in the audience. When she was finished, her poignant treatment of this sensitive topic produced a thundering ovation.

  As bearer of the smallest straw, Jim Keating would be the final society member to read. While waiting, he tried hard to focus on the poetry of his fellow members, cheering joyfully for the ambassador and the others who preceded him. But as he mobilized his mind for what would be, for him, an uncharted experience, the positive adrenaline he had welcomed while on his veranda transformed to a serious case of jitters.

  The reader just before Jim was Dr. Mutara Karamera, who finished with a stirring poem about growing up a Hutu in a country governed by Tutsis. “Through the Eyes of Another” was critical of the Tutsi regime of his youth. The diverse audience, including President Buyoya, accorded him a courteous applause, causing Jim to reflect on something the ambassador once said to him, “Listeners of poetry are generally a polite and tolerant lot—at least until they are on their way home.”

  Seconds later, that thought was purged by one more daunting: It’s my turn.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Ambassador Foster, “I am pleased to call to the podium our final reader. Jim Keating joined the Emily Dickinson Society several months ago. Since becoming a member of our ranks, he has worked diligently on his verse and he has become a fine poet. I know that you will enjoy his readings of two very special poems.”

  Scattered applause followed the introduction, and Jim walked uneasily to the podium. He glanced at his daughter, who shot back a smile, and then at Barry Sklar, who gave him a thumbs up. The coach cleared his throat and then looked down at the typed, double-spaced page on the podium.

  “My first poem is about my introduction to a game that is special for many of us here this evening. The poem is called ‘First Love.’”

  In a strong, clear voice he had used so often in gymnasiums on three continents, Jim recited:

  He once read

  that love

  required

  an object.

  Aside from family

  the first object

  of his devotion

  was not a schoolgirl

  but a rubber sphere

  taut with air

  and tiny, protruding dimples

  to aid his grip.

  He dribbled it

  when dry,

  palmed it

  when wet.

  It accompanied him

  on the journey

  from push shot

  to jumper

  served as a catalyst

  for choosing sides

  and seizing lessons

  from laurel and loss.

  At evening’s close

  torpid from

  the day’s pounding

  on hot or frigid asphalt

  the rotund bunkmate

  rested

  still and sure

  atop his bed.

  When a shard

  of glass

  punctured its

  rubber skin

  Al Banks

  the gas station owner

  helped him apply

  a four-tailed bandage

  to halt

  its oxygen

  from seeping out

  and deflating his joy.

  He watched it age

  the protruding dimples

  transforming first

  to a smooth, seamless surface

  soon deformed

  by boil-like air bubbles

  that subverted

  its stable bounce.

  As the fullness of life

  unstrapped its

  full-court press

  of joy and woe

  he would remain

  forever faithful

  to that first object

  of his love

  a starbright, Spalding basketball

  which he first saw

  resting under

  the Douglas Fir

  on Christmas morning

  1933.

  The poem produced a roar of applause. Several people, including Barry Sklar, stood to express their delight.

  Feeling more confident, Jim said, “Thank you . . . thank you so much. Now, as for my final poem, called ‘Finish Strong,’ well . . . let me just read it.” His remark produced gentle laughter.

  On the matter

  Of aging

  The metaphors

  Abound:

  Last lap

  Fourth Quarter

  Home Stretch

  Final Round.

  Less in view

  An unclouded tract

  To guide me to the finish line

  With dignity intact.

  And so I set

  An unwavering goal

  A state of mind

  I may control.

  Rather than wallow

  In restive lament

  My call to arms:

  Stay relevant.

  When Jim finished, he tried to pick up the pages and get off the stage as quickly as possible. As he fumbled for a moment, the applause began to ascend. To his astonishment, it quickly rose to a crescendo. He looked into the audience, only to see his daughter standing in jubilation and mouthing the words “I love you, Daddy.” Barry Sklar clapped with even greater vigor, then Jim’s eyes locked on the woman who had been talking with Ambassador Foster. She was smiling broadly, nodding and clapping animatedly.

  Moments later, when the ambassador reached the podium, Jim was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes. Unable to speak, she simply hugged him.

  When the readings ended, Summer Solstice socializing renewed full-scale, and Jim was the focus of special interest. Among the first to offer congratulations was President Buyoya. “May I pull you away from your bearers of well-earned praise?”

  “Certainly, Mr. President,” Jim said, wondering what the president wished to convey.

  “You know, Coach Keating, I am now sixty-eight years old. I just wanted to tell you that I loved both poems and that ‘Finish Strong’ had special meaning to me.”

  The compact message, delivered with earnestness, touched Jim deeply. He felt both a male and an age bond with Buyoya, seeing the human side of a leader known to most as an autocrat.

  Jim thought back to another comment Ambassador Foster had made about poetry: “It can pierce the most hardened of hearts.”

  The congratulations picked up again, but several minutes later the backslapping was replaced by a gentle touch on the shoulder. Jim turned and was greeting by a smiling Ambassador Foster.

  “Jim, may I introduce you to a very dear friend. This is Francesca Cimbrone.”

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  “Mr. Keating,” said Francesca. “I am so pleased to meet you. Your poems . . . they were wonderful.”

  What a lovely voice, thought Jim. Seldom would a voice cause him to take notic
e. But Francesca’s was special, the timbre melodious, laced with vitality and goodwill.

  And then there was her appearance.

  Jim guessed Francesca to be in her mid-fifties, and he felt certain that a life of fitness and moderation had helped preserve her striking features. She was tall and tan with glossy dark brown hair that was slightly curled, cascading softly to her shoulders and framing a face of harmony and intelligence. Her eyebrows arched subtly over soft brown eyes that resonated with kindness. Her nose was delicate and slightly angled; her lips sugarplum and full; her teeth perfect and snow white.

  She was one of the most attractive women Jim had ever seen and her presence was spellbinding.

  Come back to Earth, Jim said to himself. But such reentry was not easy, and a line from his favorite poet came to mind: “By the force of beauty we are root and branch reduced.”

  That favorite poet then spoke up again. “Jim, Francesca and I have been friends for more than thirty years. Her dear husband, Nino, who passed last year, was also my good friend. Nino was the Italian Ambassador to France and a wonderful man.”

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” said Jim, and Francesca nodded her gratitude.

  “Francesca has traveled here for a reason,” said the ambassador. “She would like to share with you the details of a wonderful plan she has developed. It would be a dance version of Project Oscar.”

  The idea struck an immediate chord with Jim. “Well . . . yes, of course. That sounds like a great idea . . . a really great idea. I . . . I’d like to hear all about it.”

  “I am so happy you are interested, Mr. Keating,” said Francesca, and the ambassador followed up.

  “When things settle down here in an hour or so, perhaps the three of us could meet in my study and Francesca can tell you more about the plan.”

  “That would be great,” said Jim.

  “Thank you . . . thank you so much,” said Francesca. “And may I call you Jim?”

  “Yes . . . by all means.”

  “And please, Jim. Please call me Francesca.”

  She smiled, but along with the movement of her lips, her eyes seemed to tighten slightly as though she were—if only for the briefest moment—sharpening her focus on Jim Keating.