by Anita Shreve
Margaret found the tall streetlight Isaac spoke of with the shattered glass. She drove until she came upon the garden of white roses, after which the Z began. When she finished the sharp curves, she counted six houses. She arrived at the front gate and waited for the askari to question her.
“You are here to see the memsahib?”
“No,” she said. “I just wanted to say a few words to James, their cook. Do you know James? Does he work here?”
The askari’s demeanor changed. Asking for a servant was a different matter from asking for the mistress of the house. He stood, pondering the circumstances. It might have been the first time a white woman in a car had come calling for James.
“You must visit the memsahib first,” the askari decided. “To ask permission. James is her boy.”
For a moment, Margaret was confused. But in the next instant, she understood. In the askari’s eyes, James was the woman’s property.
Margaret took out a ten-shilling note. “I just need to speak to James,” she said. “There’s no need to bother the memsahib.”
Every askari understood the language of the ten-shilling note.
“I must wait for my replacement,” he said.
“I’ll guard the gates while you are gone. Simply lock them, and I’ll tell anyone who comes that you will be right back.”
The askari nodded, and Margaret hoped the mistress of the house would not be one of those looking for entry to her own home.
She was watching two dogs playing in the street and wondering if they were the Mbwa Kali of the warning signs at all of the gates—they looked pretty harmless to her—when there was a sudden knock at her window.
“James,” she said, getting out of the car.
“How are you, Miss Margaret?”
His face lit up with a broad smile. She wanted to hug the man, but the gesture would only have embarrassed him.
“I am fine,” she said. “We miss you, Patrick and I. How are you doing with your new employers?”
“They have a great many parties,” he said, miming the expression of ooooff. “Much work. But I have a small house, which makes me very glad.”
“And you are well?”
“Oh yes,” he said, dismissing the question. “Always well.”
“And how is Adhiambo?”
“Better,” he said. “Better.”
According to African manners, this pleasant banter could have gone on for fifteen minutes or even a half hour. But Margaret knew that James had been called from work and might be needed at any moment. Perhaps he, too, was afraid of seeing the mistress’s car.
“Well, it’s Adhiambo I’ve come to talk to you about.”
James misunderstood. “She is finding temporary jobs, but not a job with a family, which she must have. I go there every week to check on her door.”
Margaret smiled. “You’re a good friend.”
“Her brothers in Kericho, they are not so good. They come to her house that night, but not to find the men who did Adhiambo harm and punish them. Instead, they find her little cloth of coins under her bed and steal them.”
“Oh my God,” Margaret said.
“It is very bad luck to have such brothers,” James said, shaking his head.
“James, listen. That’s sort of why I’ve come. I know someone who wants to write a story for a newspaper about how hard it is for women—and men—to live in a place like she does.”
“A slum,” James said.
“Well, yes. The newspaper will pay five hundred shillings just to talk to her.”
James tilted his head, the money registering. “She is using her own name?” he asked, already thinking of reprisals.
“I’m not sure about that,” Margaret said. “But I will ask if she can have another name, just for the purpose of the story. But she has to tell the truth. You would have to impress that upon her.”
“Oh yes. Adhiambo is always telling the truth.”
“And the reporter is Asian,” Margaret said. “I would take the photographs. The reporter is a very nice man. I can vouch for him.”
James pursed his lips. He was silent for a long time. Margaret wondered if either “Asian” or “photographs” would be a deal breaker.
“So will you talk to her?” she asked finally.
“I will talk to her tonight.” He paused. “How will I give you the answer?”
“I have a telephone,” she began, but James shook his head. She thought a minute. “I’ll be right here, tomorrow,” Margaret said. “At this same time. You can just run out and tell me. I’ll need a date and time for the interview and some directions.” Margaret knew she wouldn’t be able to find Adhiambo’s shack on her own.
“No, is not good you wait here.” James pointed back down the street where the Z had ended. “You are seeing that tall house?”
Margaret nodded.
“Wait there. The people, they are away now. Do not be early.”
Margaret laughed. “I doubt anyone has ever said that to me before.”
“I must go,” he said. “I am hoping for the luck.”
“James,” Margaret said as he began to run up the long driveway, “what is your last name?”
He broke into a broad smile. “Ogollo,” he called.
Margaret got into the Peugeot and turned the car around. She would have to persuade Rafiq not to use Adhiambo’s real name and to get the full five hundred shillings.
The next day, Margaret pulled up to the tall house at the appointed time. James must have been watching from his gates because he walked briskly in her direction. She rolled down the window. James had on a hand-knit sweater with short sleeves and a pair of cotton pants. His shoes were burnished to a high gloss.
“I am free in the morning,” he said. “I will take you there. You must be here at nine o’clock.”
“Thank you, James.” Margaret shook his hand through the window.
“I must be telling you. If she is using her real name or if you do not have the shillings, she will not speak to you.”
“Everything you ask will be taken care of,” Margaret said, promising herself that she would supply the shillings if Rafiq couldn’t wrest them from the Tribune. She had set up expectations, and she would have to fulfill them.
At the very least, she was looking forward to seeing Adhiambo again.
“Do you know where Rafiq is?” she asked Lily at the front desk of the Tribune. Lily missed nothing and narrowed her eyes at Margaret. “I need to find him for a story,” Margaret explained.
“Sure, sure,” Lily said. She consulted a log-in sheet. “He was here, but he has left to interview the old mzee Mr. Kamante, the man who was once a servant to Karen Blixen. They are meeting… at the café next to the theater.”
“Kamante, the man who cooked for Karen Blixen? The boy with the wound in his leg?”
Lily chuckled. “Yes, the little boy.”
“How long ago did Rafiq leave?”
Lily consulted her watch. “I am thinking… mmmm… twelve minutes.”
Margaret knew where the theater was because Patrick, she, and their friends had gone there to see Sleuth. She ran down the stairs and sprinted to her car. Who knew where Rafiq might go after the interview?
Margaret could have run to the theater from the Tribune, but the car had the advantage of perhaps three minutes. She entered the small Indian café. As she did, Rafiq looked up at Margaret with surprise. On the table between him and the mzee was a tea tray and its accoutrements. She walked directly to the table.
“Hello, Rafiq,” she said. “I’m very sorry to bother you.”
He stood. The old man did not. “Margaret, this is Kamante, a respected and famous fellow.”
Margaret and the old man shook hands. “I have read about you,” she said. “I am honored to meet you.” Margaret could hardly believe she was with the man who was once the slight, limping Kikuyu boy of Out of Africa. He was now heavier and white-haired. He wore an orange V-neck and a short-sleeved cotton shirt.
She turned to Rafiq. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you. I’m sorry. I can wait and come back.”
“This interview may last awhile. Excuse us,” he said to Kamante. “This won’t take a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Rafiq and Margaret walked as far as the door. “I have someone who has gotten in touch with the woman we mentioned,” Margaret began. “In fact, we have an appointment to speak to her. Tomorrow morning at nine we’ll meet my friend in Lavington, and he’ll take us to her. Rafiq, I went ahead and promised the woman friend that she could use a false name. She is, quite understandably, afraid of reprisals. And you must have five hundred shillings with you.”
Rafiq whistled. “That’s a tall order. The paper doesn’t like using pseudonyms. But sometimes it’s necessary. It’s just a question as to what Solomon will say, but I’ll do my best. Let me phone you when I have the answer.” He took a notebook and a pen from his pocket. Margaret gave him her number in Karen.
“I don’t want to keep you from your interview. Just let me know.”
“I will,” he said. “Thank you. This is a big thing you have done for me.”
“For me, too,” she replied.
When she slid into the passenger seat of the Peugeot, she realized she hadn’t thought about Patrick the entire morning.
That evening, when the phone rang, Margaret thought it would be Patrick. He called every other day. The domestic routine had changed a bit since Patrick had left. When Margaret ate alone, she never asked Moses for a three-course meal. At best, she would have a salad, or salad and soup, or just guacamole with celery sticks. Moses, who believed a woman should keep a few extra pounds on her, worried over her diet and tried to tempt her (successfully) with pastries he’d made for breakfast and for tea.
But it wasn’t Patrick on the other end of the line.
“I’ve got the anonymity and the five hundred,” Rafiq said. “It wasn’t easy. I am to try to continue on with the interviews and use accurate names with those. So you are not to make that offer to anyone else.”
Margaret felt vaguely chastised, but before she could work up a head of steam, Rafiq said immediately, “We were both amazed at how quickly you managed to arrange this. Solomon said I should hire you as an assistant, until I pointed out he would lose you as a photographer. So I am set for tomorrow.”
There was nothing more to be said, but Margaret could sense that Rafiq didn’t want to hang up. Nor did she.
“How is your piece on education going?” she asked.
“It’s coming along. I was hoping to be able to add a slightly different angle after tomorrow. I want to see if those children get any kind of education at all.”
“This might be kind of rough. When I went to Adhiambo’s house, if you can call it that, I was pretty shaken.”
“That’s her name?”
“Yes.”
“Believe me, I’ve seen plenty of rough.”
The telephone had been placed on a high pedestal table in the hallway with no seating within the wire’s radius. Margaret thought the reason must have been to keep conversations short and therefore less expensive. She was longing to sit down.
“And your husband?” Rafiq asked. “He is well?”
“He’s traveling.”
“Yes, you said.”
“I thought it might be he when I answered the phone.”
“I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
“You’re not disappointing me at all. If it had been Patrick, he would have told me about the doctors he’d met or the patients in the clinics, all the while trying not to mention the glorious beach outside his window and the tiki bar at the pool beneath his room.”
“You are jealous,” Rafiq said.
“A little. Maybe. Not really. To be jealous would mean that I didn’t like my job, and that wouldn’t be accurate. I could use a vacation, though.”
“So soon?”
“I’ve been in the country nine months. And some of those months have been a strain.” Margaret didn’t elaborate.
At the other end of the line, Rafiq was quiet.
“So I should go,” she said.
“Yes, absolutely. Who is driving?”
“I think I should,” she said. “James will feel more familiar in my car, and I’m pretty sure your Citroën wouldn’t be that comfortable.”
He laughed. “So you will collect me? No, I will meet you in front of the Tribune office.”
“Okay,” she said.
Rafiq and Margaret discussed the time she should pick him up if they were to make it to James’s street by nine.
“Well, good night,” Rafiq said.
“See you tomorrow,” Margaret said.
After Margaret hung up, she hadn’t walked a dozen steps before the phone rang again.
“Who were you talking to?” Patrick asked at once.
James walked in front of Margaret, Rafiq behind. Margaret had noticed, when she picked Rafiq up, that he had on a suit. Though he had been deep in conversation with James as they drove, he grew silent as they stepped out of the car. He took notes as they walked.
Margaret had put the camera in a straw basket such as a woman might take to market. She didn’t want to advertise her intent.
James went into Adhiambo’s hut first while they stood in the pathway outside her door. Margaret watched as Rafiq looked around and took notes. She saw that Adhiambo’s wooden window was gone, replaced by a canvas shade that rolled up and down. How on earth did she have any security?
Rafiq and Margaret stood silently side by side, trying not to attract attention. Margaret was counting the seconds until James emerged.
“She will see you now. But first I must present the money to her, and you must tell me now what name you are using. In the story.”
“Teresa,” Rafiq said without hesitation, as if he’d prepared for this. He pulled the five hundred shillings from his breast pocket.
James nodded and went inside again.
“That’s an African name?” Margaret whispered to Rafiq as they remained outside.
“As much as James is an African name.”
James opened the door. The interior was so dark that at first Margaret couldn’t find Adhiambo’s face. The only light was filtered through the canvas at the window. When she could see, she walked toward Adhiambo. “How are you?” she asked.
Adhiambo nodded.
“You’re okay with this?” Margaret noted that the money had already been tucked away. She hoped Adhiambo hadn’t put it under her mattress.
Adhiambo nodded again.
Margaret saw that she had cleaned up for the interview. A newish quilt lay over her bed. She had borrowed three chairs and set them around her table. On the wall next to it, she had a hanging Margaret hadn’t noticed before. Margaret saw another one by the bed. She was certain the wall hangings had not been there before. Adhiambo wore a colorful head scarf and a plain, shapeless dress.
“Thank you for agreeing,” Margaret said. “This is Rafiq Hameed, the man who will ask you questions.”
Rafiq extended his hand, and Adhiambo shook it. Even this small gesture seemed like a victory of sorts.
“Do you want me to sit here or to wait outside?” James asked.
“No, no,” said Rafiq. “We should all sit around the table and just think of this as a conversation. James, you should feel free to add anything you want.”
Adhiambo studied Rafiq, as though judging whether or not she could trust the man. Even James had tilted his head. Margaret could smell smoke and the scent of meat cooking, probably from the hut next door. She looked to see if Adhiambo had replaced the drinking glass that had been broken. She had.
James suddenly grinned. “Adhiambo, she is making these,” he said, pointing to the hanging on the wall near the table. Margaret examined the cloth. In the gloom, she could just make out a batikish sort of print, studded with brass and black beads.
“They are very nice,” she said. “When we are done, may I take
them outside to see them properly?”
“You will love them,” James said.
“Your name is Teresa,” Rafiq began.
Margaret had decided not to take any pictures until the interview was finished. She tried to frame the shots. She knew that nothing inside would work because of the lack of light, but she might be able to get Adhiambo standing at the threshold of her door. Either that or get her face through the window opening.
Margaret learned that Adhiambo was twenty-four, that she had left her three children with her mother in Kericho so that she could travel to Nairobi and make money for her children’s school fees. She said that she had had a good job where she made 360 shillings a month with a family, but the family had gone away. Of that 360 shillings, she had sent 160 back to her mother. She paid 90 shillings for her single room, which was without electricity or running water. She also had to pay for the pots of water she used for bathing and cooking from a common tap. She had a simple diet of posho and vegetables. She made only one reference to the rape: she often worried at night, she told Rafiq, because drunken men from nearby bars tried to force her door. Shortly after that, Margaret heard her say, “I’m just all right. I have no bad luck.” Margaret was certain the phrase would make it into Rafiq’s piece.
An hour turned into two hours, which turned into three. Adhiambo boiled water on the stove as she talked and then served them tea. Margaret took from her basket a packet of shortbread cookies she’d brought to prevent hunger pangs in the event that the day went on longer than was expected. For a few minutes, around the table, Margaret forgot her surroundings. The chatter was convivial, and she could have been at any friend’s home having tea. Rafiq scrupulously addressed Adhiambo as Teresa, so much so that Margaret wanted to call her Teresa, too. The woman seemed a happier person as Teresa than she had as Adhiambo. Perhaps all the talking about her troubles or the attention paid to her had lifted her burden somewhat.
James spoke at length as well—about his life before he finally got work as a cook with a family. In the thirteen years he had lived in Nairobi, he had held a series of jobs ranging from dishwasher in a hotel to a guitar player in a band. His wife and four children tended a six-acre shamba back home in Kitale, and because of the demands of that work, they visited him only once a year for a week, a fact Margaret had known but one that still staggered her.
