The Weather in Africa

by Martha Gellhorn

  Oh yes, Jim was happy as a lark. He was thrilled by the work and by its progress. He loved Mary Ann. He hadn’t a problem in the world; England, Adele, the boys, the future were blotted out as irrelevant to the exciting present. Mary Ann steered around a deep pothole and told herself that she must not, she absolutely must not take against Jim. No one was guilty; inexperience could not be a sin though it was obviously a hell of a disadvantage.

  Jim had been stunned when he realized Mary Ann was a virgin. Well, why not, a virgin of thirty must be a peculiar event; spinster was probably a better word than virgin. He was far from happy then, on the contrary, almost tearful, blaming himself, begging her forgiveness, wretched with the certainty he had hurt her, which he had, though she could not see it mattered so much, it was by no means a fatal wound. She’d had no time to consider how she felt about her initiation into the rites of love, being too busy consoling Jim. It turned out that whereas he was her first man, she was his second woman. He had married at twenty-four, a gawky shy studious young man, a virgin himself, and been faithful not from love but because he had neither opportunity nor confidence to stray. His field had always been botany, not sex.

  Innocence protected them both. Mary Ann went openly to Jim’s room when he came to the hotel, and no one remarked on it. They ate at a separate table, obviously wrapped up in each other’s talk, and no one gossiped. Sometimes, in the late afternoon, they wandered off into the forest and Jim, overcome by the sylvan idyll aspect, made love to her, and no African spied on them. Hiding nothing, no one seemed to notice there was anything to hide. They were accepted as a pair of botanists, not a pair of lovers.

  Meanwhile, inexperience was the enemy. Though Mary Ann was a virgin, Jim assumed she knew the drill on birth control since she did not mention the matter. Adele had managed all that side. Mary Ann was waiting for guidance, to be told what to do next. So no one did anything and the result was known now only to Mary Ann, and known by instinct; she was sick in the mornings, she felt sick and weak all day, her body had never failed her before and now it was a burden. All she really wanted to do was lie on her bed and feel awful and drizzle tears.

  It seemed a fearful price to pay for an act which wasn’t important to her. In fairness, Jim ought to be sick and sick with anxiety, since he was the one who took such pleasure in love-making. No, she told herself, stop it. Perhaps sex wasn’t all that important for women anyway but afterwards was lovely, snug and cherished in his arms, feeling herself special because apparently she was unique and wonderful though she could not imagine why. But now, now: what in God’s name should she do now? Not tell Jim at any rate because there was nothing he could do. He might have erased Adele and the boys from his mind but Mary Ann had not.

  There were old women on the mountain and Mary Ann knew all about them in theory. They brewed up weird disgusting things and girls drank the brew and aborted, or so the Africans said. She had known of this since childhood, as she knew so much, without relating it to herself; African ways, African troubles, part of her knowledge but nothing to do with her. She had friends among the Africans, she could be led to one of the old women, probably what worked on an African girl would work on her, or kill her as the case might be, you’d not know without trying. But she wanted to have this child, for herself. Jim would go away and right now she didn’t mind, feeling too sick and harassed to care for the cause of her misery. But she wanted a child to love and look after in the long years when she was going to be older and older, struggling with the hotel, alone on this mountain.

  The problem was her parents and how not to shame them, for they would be horrified and she understood that. Europeans got married; Africans rollicked around lustfully and had babies all over the lot: two different worlds. She was cleverer each day with little lies. She agreed with Dorothy that she wasn’t well and drove to Moshi allegedly to consult Dr Ramtullah and returned saying a liver upset had been diagnosed, and produced a bottle of vitamins with the label washed off as her prescription. She could only be in the second month, and must have a ghastly physique to be sick so soon, but nothing would show for some time. She had planned it all and now Jane threatened her plans.

  She intended to plead exhaustion to the parents, knowing they would insist on a rest. She meant to go to the Seychelles, where she knew no one and no one from here ever went, and from there write that she had found a baby she meant to adopt as she longed for a child but would never marry. And have the baby in the Asian hospital in Mombasa, and return with it, fudging dates as best she could, recognizing that she and the baby would be trapped in the lies to spare her parents. Perhaps it wasn’t a brilliant scheme but she could think of nothing better. And now there was Jane, who wouldn’t go away and wouldn’t stop guzzling, and Mary Ann could not leave her parents alone with that blowsy selfish bitch, for Jane would break their hearts.

  That was the difference; Mary Ann might disgrace them which was bad enough, but Jane was the one who could break their hearts. It’s cruelty to children, Mary Ann said in her mind, pleading with Jane, can’t you see? They’re as simple and trusting as children inside themselves; wrinkles and grey hair are just on the outside. Jane wouldn’t see so it was up to her to protect them. She had become older or wiser or tougher than they were. They lived by the rules they’d been taught by their own simple God-fearing parents. Right and wrong and no complications. They wouldn’t understand anything, they’d look stricken and curl up and die of broken hearts.

  If only she could spill all this on Jim but what was the use? He couldn’t help with Jane and if she told him about herself he’d just be harassed and unhappy too. She was a woman of thirty, supposedly in her right mind, and the man hadn’t raped her, and she had to take the consequences of her acts and cope with Jane somehow and she also had to stop this loathsome habit of dripping tears all the time.

  Jim was drawing a heart-shaped leaf with a flower like a green and red caterpillar but put aside his work as the Landrover drove up the track. He said at once, ‘Darling, you look ill and sad, what’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a bum day at the hotel, I think I ate something funny, nothing really. What’s that?’

  ‘You mean to say you’ve never seen it before?’

  ‘Never.’

  Jim seized her in his arms, lifted her in the air, and whirled around before the tent, shouting, ‘Oh Linnaeus, here I come! I’ve discovered a new species!’

  ‘Put me down, idiot,’ Mary Ann said. ‘New to me. I don’t know every foot of the forest.’

  ‘Well yes, but it is wonderful, I can’t believe it. It’s Piperaceae but I can’t find a description of anything like this species in my books. I’ll have it checked at the Herbarium in Nairobi and at Kew, if they don’t know it, and no doubt it will turn out to be as common as dandelions. But it is exciting, isn’t it? Koroga and I set off very early and ploughed on, north-west, much farther than we’ve gone before and this proves I must move camp and tackle a whole other area.’

  That too, Mary Ann thought, now she would not have the relief of the afternoons, the satisfaction of sharing this work to take her mind off the miserable troubles at home.

  ‘Mary Ann, dearest love, you’re crying! Oh no, don’t. I’m not going miles away, do you think I’d leave you, I couldn’t, I need you every way. Just a few miles, we’ll figure it out together, it might mean a little longer drive but I’ll never get out of range.’

  ‘I’m being silly. We could drive around on Sunday with Koroga and see what’s the best next site.’

  So they sat side by side on camp stools and Jim gave her his treasure and said, ‘You make a drawing of it, darling, you’re much better than I am,’ and she took up the fine pointed pen while he sorted and noted the rest of the day’s samples and her stomach did not feel queasy and her headache went away and she forgot Jane.

  All week, Paul Nbaigu had been planning this, he could think of nothing else, he was in a fever to get back to Jane and arrived earlier than usual on Friday evening. That
night in his dark room he was kind; the terrible whispers ceased; he made no degrading demands. After months of torment Jane was allowed to take her ecstasy freely and again and again. Pain washed from her mind and body; she felt beautiful once more; she would stop drinking. Sensing the return of her power as the desired object, she was sure she could persuade Paul to let her rent a flat in Dar; night after night like this, all she wanted on earth.

  When Paul suggested that she come with him tomorrow, as he had to visit a nearby coffee Co-op briefly, and then they could drive up the mountain and find a moss bed for their purpose, Jane believed her long torture was finished. Something had poisoned Paul, he was a mysterious animal, perhaps he had been gripped by an evil spell cast on him with burning herbs and bits of feather and skin and incantations. She had watched these dread performances as a child, hidden with African children who were deeply frightened while she was only watching. What Africans believed came true. Cobras, Jane thought vaguely, a curse of cobras and now he was released because her magic was stronger.

  Paul gave instructions before Jane left his room. ‘Walk down the road away from the hotel, I’ll pick you up out of sight of here around nine.’ Jane was very gay in the car, surprised at how exciting it was to sit near him and move over the daylight world. She could not take her eyes from his profile nor stop thinking of what it would be like under the great trees with sun seeping through to make gold patterns on his smooth black skin.

  ‘Be quick,’ Jane said. Paul had parked his car on a track by the coffee bushes, far from the Co-op buildings and the farmers’ huts. Paul grinned at her. And he was quick, but not as she’d expected. Jane was smoking and dreaming about Dar, they’d find deserted stretches of beach where they could swim naked and make love in the warm sand, when she heard an African girl giggling. Even as a child, Jane had detested African girls, complete imbeciles the whole lot, giggling and teetering around on their ungainly big bare feet, and she was annoyed at this intrusion on her fantasy, the white beach, the black body, the aquamarine water.

  But the giggling was near and insistent, to the left, in the low coffee bushes, and Jane turned her head, meaning to say crossly, wacha kelele, shut up, when she saw Paul. Paul with a little African girl of fourteen or fifteen, giggling her head off, all teeth and wide fascinated eyes and sharp little tits and a neat hard little bottom under her cotton dress, but nothing else under it most obviously. Paul pulling the little African girl by the hand, wheedling, and the little African girl slowly coming closer, giggling less, closer, closer, under the covering bushes but clearly in view from the track, the car; and the girl crouching on all fours, with Paul lifting up her dress and Paul kneeling, his hands holding, reaching, and then and then. Jane watched as she was meant to do until she yanked open the car door and stumbled to the side of the road and retched. She could hear the giggling, renewed now, and a slap like a friendly hand on a hard little bottom, and Paul’s voice, amiable and brisk, telling the girl to be off, she was a good little piece, he’d see her again soon.

  Jane got back in the car, stone cold, with that bile taste in her mouth. Paul came out on the track, ahead of her, casually doing up his trousers, and looked around, pretending to search for the car and then sauntered towards her. Opening the door on his side he said, ‘Funny, I thought I’d left the car up that way.’

  ‘You did not,’ Jane said.

  He turned expertly and headed out towards the main dirt road but not before he had studied her face, which was white and set and haggard, a ruin of a middle-aged woman. Smiling, Paul said, ‘Oh you saw? Jealous, pretty Jane? That’s a sweet age for a girl. The kid’s been following me around for weeks. I couldn’t resist giving her a bit of what she wanted. I like to oblige the ladies.’

  ‘You filthy pig.’

  Not taking his eyes from the road, Paul hit her backhanded across the mouth. But he was smiling again, his voice calm and pleasant, when he said, ‘Okay, get out here, mustn’t be seen driving in together. I’m feeling a bit tired, I’ll be taking a nap after lunch if you want me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Now or never, as they say.’

  He had passed beyond all caution. After lunch, when the corridors were full of guests going to their rooms, when the servants were all over the place, bringing down luggage, readying rooms for new arrivals: his recklessness added to the excitement, because now he knew he was winning. He only had to prove it finally; if Jane would take this and still come to him, he knew he would feel nothing and be absolute master, despising her far more than she had dared despise his country, his people, himself.

  And she did come, reckless too or beyond thought. Jane understood the threat, it was always the same. Now or never. Hating Paul and hating herself, but going to that room because she could not endure the never, knowing herself diseased in mind and body, mad, or under his spell. Paul had paid the witchdoctor, he had watched the medicine mixed on the fire, listened to the incantations to enslave her and drive her insane, it didn’t matter, she could not stop herself, she was blind to the startled glances of the servants and only habit made her close the door quickly before any passing guest saw a splendid black body naked on the white sheets.

  ‘Ah, you’ve come,’ Paul whispered, triumphant because her face was no longer beautiful but somehow shrivelled, haunted, with crazy staring eyes. He was well satisfied by the juicy little farm girl and Jane was no one to rouse a man today but there was the last step, to play with her and use her and prove to himself that he felt nothing.

  ‘I forgot how nice that African way is,’ Paul whispered. ‘All this time fooling around with a Memsaab but I find I like it, maybe best of all. Hurry, take your clothes off, I have to get back to work. You know what to do; you saw.’

  Tears burned her eyes, her head hung down like an animal being beaten to death, and yet and still her body ached and yearned and welcomed and clutched and dissolved. Paul stood up, naked and strong before her, revenged on all of them, proud, certain of himself forever. Jane had fallen back on her heels, lifting eyes that had gone dark and blank. There was no pride left in her.

  ‘Now apologize,’ Paul commanded.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me, apologize.’

  ‘I apologize.’

  ‘No,’ he said furiously, ‘Apologize for what you said.’

  ‘Said?’ Jane repeated. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You said this was a stupid little tinpot African country.’

  Slowly, groping for sense and memory, Jane remembered, long ago, that first lesson in misery when Paul told her she must wait his convenience, the first time he had threatened punishment. What he wanted or not at all. Slowly, she recited those words in her mind: stupid little tinpot African country, and suddenly she seemed to understand.

  ‘That was why?’ Jane cried. ‘Just for that? That was why all along?’

  Paul nodded. ‘And now you will apologize.’

  At first Jane hiccoughed and gasped out words, hard to hear, then he got them patchily, through a choked mixture of sobs and wrenching laughter. ‘Poor little … black boy … Jane … hurt his … feelings.’ She was rocking back and forth on the floor, the laughter swelling to screams, broken by sobs, her eyes closed with the tears pushing out from under the lashes. ‘Poor little … black boy …’

  Paul stared at her in terror, paralysed for the moment by this hideous noise and the sight of her and by that pitying contempt; poor little black boy … hurt his feelings … Then instinct took over, flight, as fast as he could move and as far from here as he could get. He tore into his clothes and slammed the door behind him and raced down the passage, down the stairs, across the empty reception hall to his car, and was driving at speed towards the hotel gates when Jagi came into Paul’s room. Jagi flung a blanket over Jane’s nakedness and ran for Mary Ann.

  ‘Someone sick,’ Jagi said to guests peering out from their rooms, alarmed by the muffled but incredible sounds, was it pain, or drunken laughter, what was it? ‘Sor
ry,’ Jagi threw back to them. ‘Someone sick. All right soon.’ Mary Ann followed Jagi up the stairs, walking as fast as a run. She had no idea what had happened but slapped Jane’s face hard and repeatedly, told Jagi to fetch a pail and threw cold water on Jane again and again. The insane sounds stopped and Jane sat on the floor, huddled in the wet blanket, silent, staring at the wall.

  Mary Ann gave orders. Jagi was to get a driver to bring a covered Landrover to the back door, and leave it; Jagi was to make sure the upper hall was empty and that the parents were not anywhere around; then Jagi was to help her take Jane down the back stairs to the car and come with her to Moshi. Mary Ann managed to get Jane’s dress on, but nothing more; she wrapped Jane in a dry blanket and waited until Jagi gave the all clear. Jagi half carried, half dragged Jane to the car, sitting on the rear seat with her as Mary Ann instructed. He stayed with Jane, who was limp and still staring at nothing, while Mary Ann hurried into Dr Ramtullah’s office and made the clerk understand he must interrupt the doctor, it was an emergency. Dr Ramtullah followed in his car to the hospital; Jane was put in a private room; Dr Ramtullah injected a strong sedative.

  ‘Now,’ said Dr Ramtullah, standing in the corridor outside the closed door.

  ‘I think a nervous breakdown,’ Mary Ann said. ‘She was hysterical, laughing and crying. I must tell you, Dr Ramtullah, that Jane’s been drinking for several months. A lot. Probably because it was a great blow to give up her career and come home; she must have been brooding.’ As she spoke, Mary Ann realized this would be the story for the parents, with the drink part excepted, and for guests or friends or anyone who inquired or had to be told. The Africans in the hotel would know, that could not be helped and did not matter, as long as the parents never found out.

  ‘Miss Mary Ann,’ Dr Ramtullah said. ‘I am keeping Miss Jane here until she is being calm and rested, but then you should be taking her to Nairobi. I am writing to my colleague Dr Kleber, he will be treating her. Here we are not having facilities for such a case. Miss Jane is needing treatment, do not think she is well again in one week, no, from hysteria and alcohol it is longer than that.’