Night Must Wait

by Robin Winter

  She turned to look at Wilton.

  "Oh hell, Wilton. I'm sorry."

  Wilton looked back at Gilman, her warm brown eyes narrowed with her smile. She continued to nurse her tonic water, her fingers curled around the frosted glass in the humid evening. Here on the enclosed porch at Wilton's place, screens stopped mosquitoes and the many deaths the delicate insects carried. A last vivid gold light tipped the leafy branches on the horizon, then vanished into sudden night.

  "I'm describing ligatures and you didn't stop me."

  "Why ever should I?"

  "Boring, as Sandy would say. Gross."

  "Hardly."

  "Don't want to make you wish you hadn't invited me. It's good to be on vacation even for a short go. How's the book coming?"

  "Books. Plural. A full accounting of West African birds would take a shelf. Bannerman's eight volumes are only a beginning," Wilton said. "New species, changing ranges. Which should I leave out? I love them all. But Gilman, no. I wasn't bored by your ligature. Truly."

  No, Wilton never showed a lack of attention. Always the perfect audience, which in itself should be suspect. Gilman felt far too happy to worry. She remembered the afternoon and the angry crowd in heroic colors and took a deep satisfied breath.

  "You really believe in us, don't you," Gilman said. "You've got some guts yourself, Wilton. What were the odds that the crowd might've turned? You held them, Wilton. Amazing. Wish I knew the languages you do. You told me don't waste the time."

  "I still would," Wilton said. "I had leisure growing up. No television, too few books, hanging out by the servants' quarters."

  "You're so formal with them now it's hard to imagine you palling around in the servants' quarters."

  Wilton smiled.

  "English is the lingua franca, the medium of commerce, of science and of politics," she said. "More than two hundred languages here, some even divided into dialects. How would you ever choose one tribe's tongue above all others?"

  "How arrogant to push a foreign language on a country," Gilman said.

  "How arrogant to chose one of theirs above the rest. Too late to change, anyway. English is the language of power."

  A borrowed tongue, a borrowed system of politics…did these impositions cause the coups in the Western Region and the massacres in the North? Could anything be mended from the outside by foreigners?

  "You think even with the political balance shot, Lindsey will be able to help? I still don't get what it is she does or what you expect her to do. Cultural attaché or whatever in the US State Department isn't the whole story and I know it, even if you two don't trust me with the rest." Gilman tried to make that sound like a joke and hurried on. "Anyway, I'll heal every patient in West Africa, Sandy will find oil and minerals to make the country rich and you'll finish the definitive compendium of West African Birds. Twenty volumes and not one subspecies left out."

  Wilton set her glass down on the elephant table. She picked up one of Gilman's books, a slim clothbound volume and flipped pages.

  "You brought this for light reading?"

  "It's out of date," Gilman said. "World War I cases of shell shock. I like reading old stuff."

  Wilton looked up.

  "What's astasia-abasia?"

  "Inability to stand or walk normally. Incoordination."

  Gilman got to her feet to demonstrate the lurching gait. As ever, Wilton looked fascinated as if this were some kind of treat rather than a clinical description.

  "You look like you're expecting the question on the final." Gilman flung herself back into her chair. "Maybe you should've been a doctor. I've thought that before."

  Wilton smiled, looked away. "I'll have to be off. You stay on here. Just let my people know what you want. Besides, you'll be able to smoke without me looking at you."

  "You're leaving? But there's a curfew in all towns and cities," Gilman said, disappointment lowering her voice. "Starts in an hour. You can't keep breaking the law. They'll arrest you."

  "Don't worry." Wilton picked up her glass. "I'll be far on the bush roads before curfew starts. No one cares out there."

  "But where are you going?"

  "West. Don't worry," Wilton said.

  "Do you seriously have a clue what's going on? How dangerous is it? Will they shoot? Do you need me to come?" Gilman said.

  Wilton shook her head. "It's not your country, Gilman. Don't forget that. You're American. Time may come when I'll have to tell you to leave Nigeria again and then you'll listen. I never intended to bring you here to live in violence. But I saw you standing up to that crowd like you were born to it and I was proud to know you. Tonight I'll go faster alone. I hope to take a missionary plane at dawn and you know how tight space is on those little Pipers."

  "Okay," Gilman said. "But I'm sorry for what I said to the crowd. I'd have used it even in New York, you know. "

  "We all slip up sometimes, but I'd never use the word 'animal' again on a Nigerian. Too many old scars. The first whites traded in 'animals.'"

  Gilman knew that and she almost said so, but her furious words still echoed in her own ears. Wilton's houseboy padded up on bare feet to freshen her drink, his white uniform gleaming. 'Servants insisted on uniforms,' Wilton said. It hurt their pride to wear regular clothes. They moved with pride in silent efficient service. Snacks and meals and drinks on these rare nights when Gilman had the chance to come here for a rest. Made her feel pampered, like one of those colonial masters of yesteryear. The White Man's Graveyard, the Gold Coast. That said it all—contrast. Death and riches, and the glitter of sun in the trees.

  "Don't worry little Wilton. I won't bail. I'll hold down the fort while you're off. You know what my life in a New York hospital would be? More paperwork than blood work."

  Chapter 8: Gilman

  December 1966

  Nsukka, Eastern Region, Nigeria

  Gilman stared into the mirror over the sink. Old and cloudy, the blurry impression of white face, blue eyes and tawny hair that needed brushing. She poured a little water from a pitcher into the stoppered sink, then soaped and rinsed her hands. Letting the slops go, she tipped water over each hand to rinse it twice. Erratic water supply, but such things mattered more in the hospital. She had a vacation now, and for that she'd put up with water out of pitchers. Gilman thought she heard someone in the passageway outside the bathroom.

  "Christopher?" she said.

  Gilman stepped into the corridor and almost collided with a tall man who avoided her with the grace of a dancer. Not Christopher. The shock of the stranger's presence, his size, silence and blackness all forced a startled sound from her.

  He looked down at her. Nothing distinctive about his clothing, only a white short-sleeved shirt and khaki trousers, his face peaceful behind his wire rimmed glasses, like a man who practiced never being surprised.

  "Who may you be?" he said in perfect English.

  "That's my question," Gilman said. Was he looking for the refugee?

  "I am sorry," he said, backing up one more step, his face smooth with politeness. "Maybe I have the wrong house?"

  "This is Professor Wilton's house," Gilman said.

  "Madam?" Christopher's voice came from the garden. He must have thought Gilman called him.

  Calculation, that was what she saw when the stranger looked over at the closed door to the laundry and hesitated. Was the Edo man safe in the garage?

  "Who are you and who are you trying to find?" she tried to speak with authority, louder, so that Christopher would hear.

  The stranger made a little bow.

  "It is the wrong house," he said. "I was looking for one particular person. Alone."

  She positively disliked him now. Who could be more alone than a man from a different tribe, isolated in a hostile land?

  "Christopher," she called, trying to project her voice far enough to be heard beyond the passageway. "He'll help you out," she said to the stranger.

  "Do not trouble yourself," the man said. "I shall be able to
find my way."

  He moved down the hall, silent and graceful. Gilman stood staring after him. He seemed to know which way to turn when he reached the main rooms. Surely Wilton didn't have a male friend? Not that kind. Wilton was way too religious to have that kind of fun.

  "Madam?" a voice came from the window and she saw Christopher peering in.

  "I found a strange man inside the house," she said, feeling inadequate. "Tall, glasses, cleanly dressed. I don't think he was a thief, but…"

  "Excuse me, madam," Christopher said. "I believe I know this man. Mr. Oroko. He runs errands for the professor sometimes. Professor Wilton has assigned him to take our guest West. She told me to inform you that she will return in time for dinner tomorrow."

  "Do I need to help Mr. Oroko?"

  "No. I shall make sure it is well. Professor said before she left that Mr. Oroko will care for all. He is skilled. She wants no fuss to bring attention."

  Gilman took the route the strange man had back down the hall, reassured by Christopher's words. Disorienting to feel that Wilton had reached in under her hands and taken away the responsibility. So much for holding down the fort. The shadowy front room, its floors gleaming, seemed an invitation to stay inside, but Gilman left the house, walking down the uneven cement steps to the hard ruddy ground.

  She blinked in the brazen light and pulled out her cigarettes. Gathering storm clouds threatened the sky, intensifying the glint of stray sun. Drama. Even a quiet afternoon in Nsukka looked like a portentous set from Hollywood. The African Queen, maybe, color added, cranked up high. In the highlands of Nigeria the weather came emphatic in all its moods.

  Nsukka had a rural feeling despite the flourishing university it harbored. The roads were stained with clay. Bright orange dirt, crawling vegetation clambering over itself, strangling itself and a sky that looked like God was coming. Gilman the atheist, in a land where God was always coming, brought there by Wilton, the Christian missionary. A missionary of education and reform. A champion of refugees. Go figure.

  "Storm coming," Christopher said behind her. "Dry storm."

  Figurative or literal? She turned to smile at him and he smiled back before walking around the corner of the house to rejoin the work group in the front yard.

  Chickens muttered and clucked under the hedge and Gilman heard the distant rhythmic slash of a machete in the roadside grass. She remembered the sway of bodies and blades when the servants cut the rank lawn yesterday. How far removed seemed the world of lawnmowers. Gas powered lawnmowers, pure safe water rushing out of faucets, refrigerators that worked. The clean predictable world of America faded like some dream she had taken out to look at too many times.

  She heard two men talking beyond the corner of the house. No, not the stranger but two of Wilton's servants. The words took a moment to register.

  "No, Henry, no," Christopher said. "Even when Professor Wilton is gone, we always talk English on this property. If we do not obey there be plenty bushmen come beg for our places. She says we don't learn English if we talk village palaver. You want to go back to village? I, Christopher, can tell her that is what you want, today."

  "No, Christopher, sah." Henry's subdued voice blurred behind her.

  Even while this country fell apart, Wilton's man Christopher maintained consistency, his loyalty to an absent mistress foremost. How did he feel about his country if he had such dedication to her instructions when she wasn't even here? Gilman stubbed out her cigarette and buried the butt under a rock.

  She straightened, looking at the bright moss roses where their magenta clashed against the red-orange earth. The vivid spill of purple bougainvillea on the hedge, the little manikin birds fluttering on the stony ground where they collected seeds and gravel, peeping to each other for comfort and courage.

  Gilman would never tell anyone, but sometimes when violence surged past the doors of her hospital she wished that she, like the little birds, had someone to peep to for comfort and courage. She hadn't bridged the differences between herself and the Nigerians in these two years. Surface friendliness and warmth, yes, but she sensed resentment from the other doctors. Wariness from the nursing staff. Too many do-gooders came and went after mere months. The rural folk had a passionate affection quickly offered, but she wasn't sure she was human to them. No one offered the kind of friendship that she'd had back within the brick walls of the Wellesley years, except for Wilton and Sandy. Sister Catherine was a friend, but she must be nearly fifty and so nunly.

  Once Gilman had a house in the suburbs in her sights. She'd almost married John when some deep unease about the good old USA, a picket fence, a husband and a couple of babies sent her fleeing to Africa. Now the idea of John's hands on her skin made her shudder like a horse under an unwanted touch. Bridge parties. Hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill, a T-bone steak. Gilman shook herself. The comradeship she wanted wouldn't be there either. She took out another cigarette, glanced behind her as if Wilton might be watching.

  No, not for her. Even if she didn't have fellow birds to cheep with, Nigeria was worth its price of discomfort and unease. Lindsey and Sandy had each other in Lagos. She could feel envious. She wondered what Lindsey might be doing. Did Lindsey meet Wilton's expectations?

  Chapter 9: Wilton

  December 1966

  Ibadan, Western Region, Nigeria

  Wilton hesitated in the doorway. Sandy saw her and jumped to her feet with a wave of her beer bottle. "Wilton, dammit, aren't you ever going to learn to tell us when you're coming?"

  Any place was cooler than Lagos, any season. The two friends shared an apartment in Lagos, convenient for weekdays, but they had a whole house to themselves in Ibadan for weekends. No funny stuff, as Sandy would say, no intimate expectations, simply companions in an alien land pooling their resources. They had each other's backs.

  Lindsey and Sandy's house in Ibadan had old mahogany door frames and white painted cement walls that made Wilton think of the kind of American ice cream that came in boxes.

  Wilton crossed the high-ceilinged room, her sandals almost soundless on the palm matting. Lindsey and Sandy sat drinking beer and eating fresh-fried peanuts, rock and roll music low in the background. Wilton didn't like that kind of music. The smell of the nuts filled the room with a lovely mix of hot salt and oil. Wilton hadn't noticed her own hunger until the scent surrounded her. She'd traveled through the night from Nsukka with only a short break between her car ride and the plane. No time for food.

  Wilton watched Lindsey rise to her feet, classic features undisturbed, the chestnut coil of her chignon emphasizing her control over all, even the humidity. Spotless in her pale shirtwaist dress. Antithesis to Sandy with red flyaway hair coming loose from her long braid and her rumpled shirt and pants. Businesswoman and geologist. Maybe the disparity protected their friendship.

  Wilton shook hands. Sometimes she had to remind herself to smile because it was what Americans expected. The houseboy Jonas came in, perfect in his whites and handed Wilton a freshly uncapped beer bottle in a folded napkin.

  "Wilton don't be such a schoolmarm, beer's good for you," Sandy said. "Drink up."

  Sandy probably drank more than she should. Sometimes it seemed as if she'd never stopped being rebellious against some hand that had long since dropped away. Wilton gave the proper greeting to the houseboy. "I see you, Jonas. Thank you."

  She touched the beer to her lips and drank, and as though that passed as a signal of acceptance and release, both Sandy and Lindsey sat down again. But Wilton walked around the room, too restless to sit yet, viewing the masks and feathers on the walls, the bright calabashes and painted carvings, an array of thorn carvings contending for space. Sandy traveled all over Nigeria, geological surveys mapped by this array of curios. On the top of the bookshelves mineral samples green with malachite and pink or violet with rose quartz and amethyst glittered. How much of Sandy's life was spent running away?

  "Do you come here every weekend?"

  "It's our 'house on the Cape,'"
Lindsey said. "Takes over two hours to drive up here from Lagos on weekdays, or we'd do it every day. We need a break—insane city noise day and night."

  "And God, the humidity," Sandy said. "By ten it feels like I'm swimming in hot soup."

  Wilton took a swig from the bottle, the cold bitterness reviving her. She felt dwarfed here, outmeasured by her friends, their possessions and their ease. How well did she know them? She wound her energy tight. She must pace herself, test responses. Lindsey's answers would lead Sandy.

  "Lindsey, Sandy. Listen to me. Time for you to get out of Nigeria, now," Wilton said. Firm tone, barely a hint of condescension. "The violence grows. It's terrible in the North, and spreading. Nigeria's falling apart. We're a long way from Wellesley College. I can't watch you get hurt. I'm the one who brought you here. We had grand ambitions to shape Nigeria and her people and government—but war changes the game, Lindsey. Time to take our losses and leave."

  She stopped and put down her beer, leaned both hands on the teak table, looking at them over the gloss of the wood. The slow fan rotated overhead, stirring the cooling night air. Sandy glanced at Lindsey then took another handful of the peanuts. Wilton felt her heart lurch with hope. They'd already talked about this before her coming.

  "A couple riots," Lindsey said, "two military coups, and you tell me to flee? Run home with a few credits to my name so I can tell stories at cocktail parties about how great I could have been?"

  Mockery in Lindsey's voice, certainty, a tilt to her head. Wilton lifted her hand to hide her mouth and looked down. But a jolt of power like an electric shock made her quiver.

  "What's happened to you, Wilton? Have you no faith?"

  "I've never had anything else but faith. Persuade me," Wilton said. She hid the exultation, wiped her face with both hands as if to smooth away stress and tension. Not the right time to smile, she must show reluctance, be forced to agree. "Lindsey, tell me what entitles me to risk your life for a purpose not your own."