Night Must Wait

by Robin Winter

  "And you like it," Wilton said.

  "Could eat the whole can by myself," Gilman said. "How nice under the trees. Peaceful."

  "Let's hope it can stay so," Wilton said. "But the woman told me refugees came down this road a few nights ago. You wouldn't know it to look around now."

  Gilman finished the last crumbs of her cheese and ate another banana. She sat on the hood of the car, gazing away from the vendor. There was no way she was leaving without trying again, but she could be less aggressive.

  A little naked boy with a herniated umbilicus came down the narrow pathway through the woodland south of the motorway. His eyes had a swollen look. Belly bulging—hookworm? Malnutrition? Gilman took cigarettes and her box of matches from her pocket.

  "You've seen a lot of refugees," Wilton said. "I talked with Doctor Johnson before he decided you could have a holiday, and he spoke of the stress. Lack of resources at the Methodist hospital."

  "The Catholics have better supplies. I'm glad I get to move around. It's strange how quiet it seems here now," Gilman said. She lit her cigarette. "A woman came in yesterday, eight months pregnant and raped two weeks ago by Hausa soldiers in the North. Hung on the roof of a rail car to make it down here to Igboland. The rest of her family killed. Husband and two children, toddlers. So young. It wasn't mercy left her alive. They missed her on their last pass through the compound."

  She stood and stretched. The sun had shifted and the back of the car had a band of sunlight across it. Baking hot, with the light harsh over the road. Gilman looked at a distant puff of dust. People walking or some kind of cart? Maybe rising ripples of heat, a mirage.

  "What's going on up North really is a pogrom. No exaggeration," Gilman said. "I feel like I'm watching a Holocaust start, with Igbo Christian victims instead of Jews."

  "I know. Why do you think I'm saying you should leave?"

  Gilman looked at Wilton—yes, Wilton did know. What had she seen to know so much? Wilton always traveled a lot, visiting different parts of the country in her search for birds. Gilman bit back her question. Wilton had a haunted look. It would be cruel to ask.

  "Okay, Gilman." Wilton swept a hand across her skirt and tossed her orange husk into the bushes. "We try the woman once more. But you can't push."

  "I get it." Gilman dropped her cigarette on the ground, grinding it under heel. "Let me try another way."

  The little boy started off, brown as dust, and turned back on the path, staring over his shoulder at the exotic white people. The woman's face stiffened and she avoided Gilman by turning her shoulder. Universal dismissal. Gilman looked away, embarrassed, pretending she was interested in the road ahead.

  "I'll simply leave the medicine," Gilman said. "Two pills a day, one morning, one night. The ointment's for the eye, wash hands first, then squeeze a quarter inch in each, once in the morning and again before sleep at night. Do you think she'll remember?"

  "This woman runs a tally of business dealings, the intricacies of family relationships and affiliations through the complex of villages hidden in the bush south of this road, and stores everything in her head without help of pencil and paper," Wilton said. "She can remember. If she wants."

  Gilman looked down at the woman with her brightly colored wrapper muted by deep shadow, the head of her sleeping child bobbing behind her shoulder. She peeled another orange, face and body slanted away as if to deny Gilman even the view of her face. Darkest Africa.

  If she wants. Gilman wished there were some gesture of respect, some expression of sincerity that could translate past that negative raised shoulder. She gave Wilton the medicines, startled when Wilton's voice switched from friendly and appeasing into that of a mother scolding.

  The vendor answered back, sharp and defiant. Wilton said something more, nasty now, gesturing at Gilman. The vendor quailed, fear in her swollen face. Wilton made a gesture as if to throw the medicines upon the red dirt and the woman thrust out her hand. Wilton dropped the tube and vial into the nervous salmon-colored palm and stalked back to the car.

  "That sounded like swearing," Gilman said.

  "Yes," Wilton said. "I said you'd curse her with blindness if she didn't use the medicine and put the ointment in her children's eyes as well."

  "Me? So much for the impulse to indiscriminate charity." Gilman wanted to laugh.

  "Get in the car," Wilton said. "Hurry."

  What the hell? Gilman cast one last glance at the ground to make sure they'd forgotten nothing important, then looked down the road again. Yes, there were people coming.

  The car doors slammed. Wilton got the engine going, the vehicle stuttered onto the tarmac and fast down the road, jerky, not like Wilton's usual driving. Gilman started to put on her seat belt.

  "No. Don't belt in. That crowd has something. Someone."

  "Has someone?"

  A flashing of sticks in the dust. Wilton braked when they came close and the sound of ranting triumphant voices surrounded them. A man stumbled forward out of the belly of the group, blood leaking from his mouth, his clothes tattered, a beading of blood crisscrossing his nearly naked torso. They'd ripped his blue shirt across the shoulders and sleeves along the seams. Beaten, his face too broken for any sense of tribe to show, wet with tears and sweat and snot. His eyelids seeped blood and a thick drool of blood and saliva striped his chin. God, how his breath moaned through his open mouth. Look at his right eye.

  "Do something." Gilman heard her voice stutter.

  "We should go, while we can," Wilton said. But it was Wilton who had told her not to put the seat belt on. Was this one of Wilton's tests?

  "Please," Gilman said, reaching for her door handle and Wilton shifted to neutral, yanked up the hand brake, slammed open her door, and swung out of the front seat. As if she'd practiced. Giddy pride hit Gilman. She jumped out too and abrupt silence fell.

  Wilton's words came fast, clipped.

  "Goddamned animals." Gilman heard her own voice in shock. Wrong wrong wrong Gilman. You can never say that kind of thing. Doesn't matter what you think. Don't go stupid American on Wilton. She has enough to handle. "Hand him over."

  She heard Wilton's quick talk without understanding. Of course, she wasn't speaking English, was she? Igbo, Ibibio, maybe something else…Faster, Wilton. Make this work.

  Wilton stepped forward, laid a claiming grasp on the man's arm. She pushed him past her to Gilman who steadied his shoulders with both hands. Wilton darted forward when a man surged out of the crowd, her pointing index finger stopping a scant four inches from the second man's scowling face.

  "You." Wilton switched to English. "You, an educated man. A civilized man and a leader. An example. How is it you turn you back on all your traditions, your role as protector of guests in your land? Ignorant Northern people have forgotten their honor, are you not better than they?"

  Gilman hovered between the loose crowd and her limping man. She managed to walk backward, steering her charge. She'd never experienced such a strong perception of territory as she did now between the mob's space and Wilton's car. Jeering strangers all, estranged by fury. Youngsters in the crowd, adolescents and women, faces creased into masks.

  Wilton held the only thread of control. "This is not the man," she said as if she quoted words that for her held a deeper significance. "The man you seek is not him. This man was here, in your land working, when your friends and relatives in the North were attacked. You know he didn't hurt your people."

  The crowd made a muttering sound. How many were there? Gilman felt as though it would be stupid to glance around, that she had to keep staring at the man closest to her as if like a dog, he would not bite so long as she held him back with looking. Take another step back. Don't stumble. The mob must be tired and thirsty as well as angry. How hot the sun felt on Gilman's head.

  She pushed the man into her seat and knelt to put his legs in. At least he wasn't struggling. Impossible moment. God. No atheists in a foxhole. No atheists in the Citroën. She wanted to howl with laughter. If
the crowd broke now…Wilton's finger hung a perilous five inches from the angry leader's chin.

  "I never thought to be so rude to a man of your importance," Wilton said. Her hand went down to her side. Was the English a deliberate flattery? "Have I misunderstood? I apologize, sir, for forgetting myself, but I feared too much."

  No shit. Gilman slid into the backseat, locking her door closed, sneaking her hand forward to lock the front. The window was wide open and she didn't dare try to crank it—she would look weak, scared.

  Now Wilton stepped back, facing the angry confused faces.

  "You are understanding people. He's not to blame. We'll take him to the hospital." Wilton nodded as if of course they all agreed, turned her back and walked unhurried to the car.

  "Not police?" the big angry man said, as if he'd woken up and hadn't yet decided what next.

  "Medical care," Wilton said. "I shall take him for that, then send him back where he belongs."

  Seated, she raised her hand and waved, slipped off the brake and put the car in gear.

  "God," Gilman said. "Floor it."

  "They can easily stop us," Wilton said, her voice calculated in its cheer. "Ten of them could do it. If I hit someone, run over a toe…"

  The Citroën chugged sedately by the crowd, people moving out of the way and a few waving back at Wilton. Now the kids jumped and grinned, ducking in and out around their elders. Dust, and the slow putt of the motor. Some of the boys stood too close to the car and Gilman wanted to push them away. A woman put her hand onto the warm blue metal as though she might yet stop them, then her hand slipped away, the gesture like a caress.

  The last boys danced after them a few steps as the Citroën gathered speed. Gilman heard the rescued man panting through his open mouth. She leaned forward and the man flinched when she touched his shoulder as if she'd touched him on a burn.

  "I hope he's not too injured," Wilton said. "Massive bruising. They said they cut the tip of his tongue off for lying and he may lose the eye, but he won't die on us right now unless he dies of shock or fright."

  "I wasn't scared but someone sure shat in my pants," Gilman said.

  Hysteria swept through her. Brutal to laugh like this in front of their poor patient. Gilman could hardly breathe. She felt tears coming down inside her nose.

  Wilton laughed too, same note of wildness, the car veering. Wilton caught herself up, cleared her throat and steadied her steering.

  "If I stop, can you get him down in the backseat so he's not visible? Cover him up for shock? Then on to Nsukka. You know this man isn't even a Northerner. He's from the West, I think. The villagers simply took out after him. Maybe he ran. A running stranger. That's all they needed."

  Another hour and they entered the long wide streets of the university at Nsukka. Jacaranda trees, their leafy branches shading the way in a planted row, with clumps of eucalyptus at the corners. Streets straight and clean, with none of the roadside shops or box towns that Gilman expected to see in any populated area. Where else in Nigeria were there crossroads without vendors? Gilman was perishing for another cigarette to steady her. She'd been so aware earlier of the unspoken disapproval Wilton communicated.

  Wilton drove up to the Nsukka University house she rented, a neat blue painted bungalow surrounded by garden and trees. The garage door stood open like a mouth full of shadow and Wilton turned right, driving into it. Sudden darkness. Marvelous to have a place of safety, a place you could trust. Gilman still felt cold at the memory of white-eyed black faces in the sun-filled dust.

  Wilton got out and pulled down the garage door.

  "I'll go get sheets, blankets, a cot," she said. "Faucet and sink around the corner by the washer."

  A switch clicked and Gilman could see again. Lighting from one bare bulb of low wattage, feeble compared to the bright sun leaking through the cracks in the garage door. The place smelled of washing and disinfectant Milton water with a trace of kerosene.

  Gilman peered into the back of the car. Her patient seemed asleep or unconscious. She'd tucked him in with clothes pulled out of her laundry bag, and used her other bag under his feet to deal with shock. Nice. Blood spots. Now she really had to do laundry.

  The back door swung open on a burst of brilliance.

  "This is Christopher," Wilton said, "He'll help."

  Didn't Wilton know that the fewer people who knew a secret, the better it would be kept? Wasn't Christopher most likely Igbo?

  "All will be well," Wilton said as though she understood what Gilman hadn't said.

  Chapter 7: Gilman

  December 1966

  Nsukka, Eastern Region, Nigeria

  Gilman had visited Wilton before. After an afternoon spent hiding a man in the back of the rattling car, she found it hard to believe in the transition to this familiar home surrounded by Wilton's burgeoning tree-filled garden, set among other professors' neat bungalows. Six speckled hens and a suspicious rooster with a lovely iridescent tail scratched about in a large pen under the magenta bougainvillea.

  Was there really a patient in the garage, his gauze soaking through with slow blood? Gilman lit a cigarette. Maybe she could reassure him again, soothe his panic. His tongue mutilation kept him from talking. She'd had to sedate and novocaine him to stitch it, and she worried about that too. How could she and Wilton walk around in the garden admiring hens in the waning afternoon sun?

  Wilton hurried about, reminding Gilman where the outside water faucet stood. As if Wilton rescued people every day, a modern Scarlet Pimpernel for God's sake. Gilman drew on her cigarette, felt the nicotine steady her, mending the jagged edges of nerves.

  "We have water this week," Wilton said, "so I'm told. The flow comes first to this outside faucet. If the neighbors tell you we're only going to have about an hour's worth, collect from this faucet and have it dumped in the cistern. Tell the boys to do it. If they think you're not paying attention they'll sell the water to the villagers and our own tank will run dry."

  Odd that Wilton talked as if she wasn't going to be here.

  The yard gave off the sharp pong of chicken manure, but Gilman stopped in her tracks at the sight of fat heads of cabbage and blooming roses by the door. Vegetables and flowers intermingled, but if you didn't care about categories, the vigor of growing things had beauty. Cabbages—that made her hungry. She could taste the green onions when she looked at them.

  "I need to start my laundry." Gilman stubbed out her cigarette on one of the pale apricot rocks in the garden border. Strange rocks with holes in them as if sculpted by water. Sandy could have explained them. Gilman wanted see the patient again, assure herself he was all right.

  "By all means." Wilton knelt down and poked some bits of weed through the fence to the interested chickens. She made murmuring noises to them and they answered.

  "I think you know a lot more than Igbo," Gilman said, "you even speak chicken."

  She went into the dim bloody-smelling garage and heard the instant response of the cot creaking and a rustle of bedclothes.

  "I'm the doctor. The American doctor," Gilman said. "Stay down, don't worry."

  "What do you think?" Wilton said.

  Gilman jumped. She hadn't heard or seen Wilton follow.

  "He should be okay, but I wish I could be sure there's no concussion. With that eye swollen shut I can't even check if his pupils react bilaterally. He shouldn't sleep with a likely concussion."

  "Christopher can keep him awake."

  "I'm sorry, Wilton, but do you really trust Christopher?"

  "A bit late to ask." Wilton sounded like she wanted to laugh. Maybe she was right. "Yes. I do trust Christopher. How's the patient?"

  "Not certain what the real damage to his eye might be. The tongue will heal and so long as he can do without whistling, he'll be all right. He's been lucky on the beatings. Dislocated couple of fingers, now splinted, possible cracked ribs. Nasty facial contusions, broken nose—but I reduced the fracture so no danger now of occluded breathing."

&n
bsp; "Not bad for a refugee," Wilton said.

  Wilton took a deep breath and went to the man on the cot. She began to speak. He nodded, then nodded again with a moan.

  "Edo, from the Mid-West," Wilton said and went back to talking.

  "Hell. Poor son of a bitch." Gilman felt as if her mind fragmented away into the trivial now that she no longer needed to focus. So tired now, standing here on shaky legs in the dim light of the garage. The liquid sounds of Wilton's voice halted. She rose from her crouch by the cot with a token pat to the man's shoulder. Wilton didn't like to touch people. She did it as little as possible, always flinching away when Gilman gave her a hug.

  "I explained to him about staying awake for a while longer and about Christopher. Your room's ready—bet you could use a nap."

  The evening grew around the little porch where Gilman and Wilton sat in folding chairs, a drift of breeze bringing the fragrance of frangipani and jasmine.

  "Igbo expect snake-bite victims to die. In fact an old man told me once snakes were returning spirits, so if they bit a person, there wasn't anything to be done but accept the ancestral will. Two weeks ago, a ten-year-old, underweight like all of them, got hauled in by some Sisters of Mercy to my clinic, bitten not more than ten minutes before."

  "What'd you do?"

  "Sliced and suctioned, gave him a shot of adrenaline then sent for the old antivenin the local Dutch businessman had in his fridge. I had to tell him it was probably so out of date that he needed a fresh bottle anyway before he let me buy it.

  "When we let his father in to see the boy the next morning, he touched him like he believed in miracles," Gilman said. "He'd never seen anyone survive a mamba bite before. No one in the village had. Pure luck the kid was near our clinic when it happened and one of the Sisters saw. Otherwise, pfft!"

  Wilton was doing that thing where she wasn't smiling exactly, but she made Gilman feel witty and brilliant.

  "You're right. There aren't any limits here. I order everyone around. And these people can be so frigging tough—they don't wimp and whine like Americans. I don't have to get approvals or go through channels. Hell, I'm all the authority I need. Anything I'm willing to learn I can try. I managed a really difficult ligature the other day in an infant..."