A Change in Altitude

by Anita Shreve

  The task was to photograph a teacher. Margaret expected Jagdish as she chatted with Lily, the receptionist, a woman with an acerbic wit worth hanging around for. Margaret was taken by surprise when a tall Asian man stood in front of her, held out his hand, and introduced himself.

  “Rafiq Hameed,” he said.

  Margaret said nothing.

  “And you are Margaret,” he said.

  “Yes. Sorry. I was expecting… No, this is good,” she babbled.

  “And we are to interview a teacher.”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled, whether at her sudden awkwardness or simply because he was looking forward to his interview, Margaret couldn’t tell.

  “Well,” she said.

  Though Rafiq’s skin was the light brown of the Indian or Pakistani and his hair the thick black Margaret had become familiar with (Rafiq had neither mustache nor beard, however), his features were distinctly European.

  Rafiq checked his watch. “We should get going. We’ll take my car. It’s just outside.”

  Rafiq had a car. This would make a pleasant change.

  Margaret said good-bye to Lily while Rafiq held the door, an unexpected gesture. Jagdish more often than not had barreled through a door, leaving it to shut in Margaret’s face. He was either a thoroughly evolved male or simply rude. Margaret had decided on the latter.

  “This interview is part of a larger piece I’ve been working on for a few weeks about the state of education in Kenya,” Rafiq explained as they jogged down the three flights of stairs. “Apparently, the Ministry has been eager for the Tribune to do such a piece, since it’s the one thing the government offers that actually works. A hundred problems, of course, but all children want to go to school.”

  “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before,” Margaret said.

  “Well, I’ve seen you,” Rafiq said with a tilt of his head. “Hard to miss a young white woman in a sea of brown and black.”

  Margaret was about to protest that there were several (well, two) white women who contributed to the paper besides her, but she let it go.

  “What is this?” she asked about his car when she was inside.

  “Citroën,” he said, pulling out of the parking space. “A stranger vehicle was never invented. Did Obok talk to you about what he wants?”

  “Portraits,” she said.

  “We’re headed to Parklands. I imagine he wants some children in the shots, but maybe not.”

  “I’ll do a little of both,” Margaret said.

  Rafiq had on the uniform of the respectable journalist—jacket, tie, and white shirt—but it looked less rumpled and ill-fitting than Jagdish’s had. Margaret tried to guess Rafiq’s age but couldn’t. The jacket and tie probably made him seem older than he actually was. Margaret wasn’t any better with Asian ages than she was with African ones.

  “So you are here from America?” he asked.

  “Boston. Massachusetts.”

  “And that is on the coast.”

  “The northeast coast. Frigid in the winter.”

  “Yes. And what led you to Kenya?”

  “My husband is a physician and is completing work on equatorial diseases.”

  “Important work.”

  “It is.”

  She thought of Patrick, who was on the Kenyan coast, and tried to imagine what he was doing. Was he vaccinating impoverished children or was he sitting on a white beach, contemplating a swim? No, that wasn’t fair; Patrick was nothing if not hardworking. Still, she’d like to be on that beach with him.

  “What about you?” Margaret asked. “How long have you been in Kenya?”

  “Since nineteen seventy-two, when the Asians were chased out of Uganda. I’m actually Ugandan.”

  “During the purges?”

  “Sixty thousand of us,” he said without bitterness. “The Asians ran the economy. Idi Amin wanted us out so he could give the businesses and jobs to Africans. Gave them all our land as well.”

  “That must have been brutal,” Margaret said, trying to imagine what it would be like to be stripped of everything and forced to move from one’s home, one’s country. She thought of her parents in the suburban home they’d lived in all their marriage. Unthinkable.

  “It was very bad for an entire people, certainly,” Rafiq said. “I think for my family, it was a jolt to the spine. Made them realize they really wanted to return to Pakistan.”

  “Your parents are Pakistani?”

  “My father is. My mother is Welsh.”

  Margaret twisted her head and looked directly at him. “Really?” she said. “You don’t have anything like a Welsh accent.”

  He laughed. “No, I was educated in the UK. London tends to take the edge off whatever you were before.”

  The Citroën was tiny. Rafiq’s knees hit the dashboard.

  “What were you doing when you were expelled?”

  “Studying law at Makerere. I thought I would continue my studies here, but my father lost all his fortune. Hence this job. Saving up for the fees. I’ve been at the Tribune for only six months. Before that, I was with my uncle in his typewriter business, but I discovered I’m an abysmal salesman.”

  “Do you mind being a reporter?”

  “No, I don’t, funnily enough. Great way to learn a country.”

  Parklands, a suburb of Nairobi, was home to white-collar Asians and Africans, as well as a scattering of whites. They drove through residential roads, on which the houses and maisonettes were much the same: stone, stucco, red-tiled roofs. The area bore a striking resemblance to a suburb of London—one with a better climate.

  When they arrived at the school (stone with multipaned casement windows; Margaret might have mistaken it for a residence), they were met by the headmaster, who in turn introduced them to his staff. In Kenya, any occasion was reason for ceremony. As Margaret looked around, she thought about the difference between this school and the one she’d attended in the States. Where there had been concrete parking lots in Massachusetts, at Parklands there was a large garden with many flowers: carnations, lavender, orange lilies, and roses. The football fields of home became cricket pitches and soccer fields at Parklands. Tea was served at eleven each morning to teachers and students alike. Even in the schools, there were servants.

  As Margaret took pictures, she listened to Rafiq’s interview with the teacher he’d come to talk to. She was a pretty, westernized African who wore a dress Margaret had admired in Jax, a shop that catered to European women looking for a blend of African and European style. She had an Afro and a beaded necklace. In the photograph that would be used for the paper, she looked at schoolwork with an Asian boy with a bowl haircut. While she appeared to be trying to explain something to the boy, he stared wide-eyed at her.

  In Kenya, teachers were revered, even regarded with awe. They held a respected place in any society of parents and children. Margaret hadn’t seen in Africa the unruliness that she associated with schoolchildren in the States. Children in Kenya wore uniforms to class and paid hefty school fees, often a strain on a family’s budget. One incidence of bad behavior could lead to expulsion.

  Between photographs, Margaret watched Rafiq at work. Nimble, he wandered among the children, squatting to be at their level. Whereas Jagdish had been a no-nonsense reporter, leaving an interview as soon as he had the facts he needed and often conveying some of the deep depression that was always with him (which tended to deflate the interviewee as well, not to mention the photographer), Rafiq’s manner put the subject at ease. He often lapsed into a patois of Swahili and English, keeping the questions light.

  After the interview, Rafiq and Margaret had tea with the teacher and the headmaster. With the teacher, Rafiq had used a small portable tape recorder, which now sat on the headmaster’s desk. The discussion in the headmaster’s suite centered on the school itself. He spoke passionately about overcrowding and the necessity for better supplies; of a much-needed release of funds marked for more classrooms. They shook hands politely a
ll around, and Rafiq and Margaret left and headed for the Citroën.

  “Would you mind,” Margaret asked, “if we took a walk in the garden? I hate to leave these beautiful flowers so soon.”

  “Of course.”

  Rafiq found a wrought-iron gate that opened to the garden. It was a bright day, the temperature in the midseventies.

  “How do you think that went?” Margaret asked as they strolled along a pathway. She noted that Rafiq was a good six inches taller than she. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

  “Fine,” he said, “though I could have written the piece without even coming here.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She was a sincere and lovely woman, but I could have predicted much of what she said. And though one can’t predict what children will say, I certainly knew ahead of time the tenor of the comments. I prefer to do pieces I can sink my teeth into, pieces in which I don’t know the answers before I ask the questions. I was thinking this morning of getting inside Mathari and taking a hard look at the conditions there, at what the people are thinking, perhaps a ‘Hope Among the Slums’ kind of thing. The Tribune has done pieces on Mathari before—I’ve checked the archives—but recently they’ve been centered around the bulldozing, with commentary from the government officials who ordered it. I have something else in mind. The trick, of course, is to get someone’s confidence. To find the right person who will open up to an Asian. Africans, as a rule, tend to mistrust Asians.”

  “I would like to go with you when you do that piece,” Margaret said.

  “Yes,” he said, glancing at her. “Of course.”

  They walked through the maze of flowers. The lush garden was a common bit of paradise in Kenya. Margaret thought about what she would say next.

  “I might know someone,” she said.

  Rafiq looked at her with interest.

  “The slum isn’t Mathari, but it might as well be. I know a woman who might talk to you. Are you allowed to pay for interviews?”

  “In some cases, yes. Usually, it’s the wrong end of the stick, though. The paper pays the ministers for interviews. Those who need the money least.”

  “How much?” Margaret asked. “For the woman I’m thinking of?”

  He thought a minute. “I might be able to get five hundred shillings. Are you sure about this story?”

  A little more than sixty dollars, Margaret calculated. It might well be worth it to the woman she had in mind.

  “I don’t know whether she will talk to you, but I’m sure that if she does, the story will be good.”

  “I’m intrigued,” Rafiq said. “When can you arrange this?”

  “It might take a few days.”

  In their excitement, their pace had picked up.

  “I want a rose,” Margaret said suddenly. “One stolen rose can hardly matter to the school, do you think?”

  “Kenyan roses have the straightest stems in the world,” Rafiq said. “Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “It’s because of being on the equator and the altitude. Good growing conditions and a straight shot to the sun.”

  A jackknife snapped open, startling Margaret. Rafiq cut a two-foot stem. He had picked a lemon-yellow blossom with many petals. He handed it to her, and she thanked him.

  “That’s quite a knife you have there.”

  “I never go anywhere without it.”

  When they reached the Tribune office, Margaret realized she didn’t want to get out of the car.

  Margaret walked to a shop on Kimathi Street and bought a map of Nairobi and its environs. She had a similar map at home, but she didn’t want to waste the time it would take to drive there. Over a quick lunch, she studied the city’s geography. She easily found the area in which Adhiambo lived, but she couldn’t figure out, even from the fairly detailed map, exactly where Adhiambo was located. Then Margaret remembered that Adhiambo didn’t actually live on a road but rather on a makeshift path. Margaret would have to get in touch with James, which would be difficult enough. He, too, had left the Big House when Arthur had, and Margaret didn’t know his whereabouts. Still, she thought Arthur and Diana’s former house the best place to start.

  A thick wave of nostalgia hit Margaret when she turned onto the old road in Langata. She hadn’t been back to the town since they’d left. Its soporific beauty and intoxicating scent were so familiar to Margaret that she felt as though she were returning to her true home. A series of images appeared: their small table covered with the vermilion-and-yellow khanga; the drawing room at the Big House with its seventeen patterns; James standing at the doorway to the kitchen, waiting patiently for the diners to get up from the table; Adhiambo at Margaret’s door, face covered by a cloth; Diana exasperated and eager to leave her with them.

  Margaret knew the Big House was now owned by the minister of transportation. She had never met a minister in person, but she’d unfairly developed a stereotype: overweight, arrogant, and powerful. She pulled up to the gates and studied the askari who came to speak to her. Margaret wasn’t positive about his identity, but it was worth a try.

  She rolled down the window. The askari in his greatcoat bent toward her and asked her name. His demeanor was stern, even menacing.

  “Do you remember me?” Margaret asked.

  At first he thought she was being flippant, and he seemed about to start in on a warning. But then he tilted his head and judged her sideways, and he nodded. “You are living in the banda.”

  She smiled. “I’m not anymore, but I used to. I think you worked here just before I left.”

  “Yes, that is so. I am coming here with James.”

  “Actually, I’m trying to get in touch with James.” Margaret was embarrassed that she didn’t know his last name.

  “He is not working here now,” the askari said, straightening a bit and relaxing his face. She was certain the askari was a Masai.

  “I know that,” she said. “I wondered if you knew where he lived.”

  “He is working for the Germans now.”

  “What?”

  “He is cook for Germans,” the askari said as if there could be no other possibility. Margaret supposed he thought the same true of himself—that he would be an askari until he died, not an unreasonable expectation. There was some pride in being an askari, a domestic soldier, battle-ready.

  “Can you tell me the name of the people he works for?” Margaret asked. “I could try to find him.”

  “I am thinking,” the askari said, standing perfectly still and closing his eyes. He bent one leg and rested it on the opposite knee. He remained that way for so long that Margaret thought he’d gone into a trance.

  “You must ask Isaac, who goes to the duka in the mornings,” the askari said finally. “Do you know Isaac?”

  Margaret shook her head.

  “Go to the duka and ask for Isaac. He is cousin to James.”

  Margaret got out her wallet and came up with a twenty-shilling note, which she gave to the askari.

  “Asante sana,” he said, bowing to her.

  It was a short drive back to the duka, a store she’d been to many times. She braced herself for the smell of meat, but once she got inside, she found the familiar products on their stocked shelves comforting. She went to the counter and asked Juma, whom she knew well, if he could tell her where a man named Isaac was.

  “And you are Miss Margaret? You are not greeting me? It has been a long time since you are here.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said with heartfelt apology. Where had her Kenyan manners gone? “How are you, Juma? And your family?”

  “We are well,” he said. “And you?”

  “I moved away,” Margaret said. “To Karen.”

  “Yes, I know. I am sorry, sorry about Miss Diana. A tragedy, that is sure. She was English, but she was generous.”

  Margaret wondered what he meant by that. Should she have tipped Juma all the times she’d been in his store?

&
nbsp; “In what way was Diana generous?” she asked.

  “She is always giving us the clothes. To my wife. Many clothes. For the children, too.”

  Margaret was surprised by the notion of a generous Diana.

  “Isaac is gone now,” he said, “but he will be here in the morning.”

  “Do you know what time?”

  “Always at six thirty. To buy the meat.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She didn’t tip the man, but she did buy provisions. She hadn’t looked to see what Moses, on Patrick’s instructions, had gotten, but she selected items that appealed to her: a pineapple, a packet of Aroma coffee, two bottles of Tusker, and, though she didn’t need it, a tube of Colgate toothpaste—in Arthur’s memory, she supposed.

  “I will be here in the morning,” she said.

  “And I am always here,” Juma said.

  In the morning, Margaret spoke with Isaac, who told her that James was doing well and that he liked his new job, mainly because it came with a small house. James was thinking of bringing his family with him from Kitale, but the German couple, whose names Isaac didn’t know, weren’t certain they liked the idea. Isaac also knew James’s address—not by a street or a number but by the markers he had used to walk there himself from the bus stop. After giving Margaret the location of the stop, he explained that further directions involved a light that was broken, a garden of white roses, a Z in the road, and six houses beyond that. She wondered how she would find a broken light while in the car, but Isaac said she couldn’t miss it. The light was a tall lantern in which the glass had been shattered.

  Margaret drove to Lavington, a suburb not dissimilar to Langata in that many expatriates had settled there, both in the past and more recently. Because Lavington was closer to Nairobi, the gates around the houses were more ubiquitous; taller and thicker as well. Margaret noted that in some cases, outer gates opened onto inner gates. Platoons of askaris manned these fortresses. The people inside could come and go with ease, but it felt as though an entire population was under siege. Did they lie awake listening for strange noises in the night?