Kahawa

by Donald E. Westlake

  “I’d forgotten,” Lew said, “what the son of a bitch looks like.”

  The plane flitted on, between sky and cloud, a cheerful toy left to play on its own while the titans were elsewhere; at lunch, or taking their naps. Their clothing dried, and the air in the cabin became sweet. Balim stopped patting his seat belt. Ellen relaxed her grip on the wheel and looked at her reflection in the mirror she’d mounted on the post between windshield and door. Lew sat back and grinned, stretching luxuriously. The sun shone, and all was right with the world.

  The descent into Nairobi was like a self-inflicted wound. With obvious reluctance Ellen pointed the plane’s nose downward, picked fastidiously at the wispy top threads of the clouds, then all at once dropped down from sun through sunny translucence through eerie white through increasingly dirty gray, with water droplets running rearward along the side windows. Then they dropped out of the cloud layer, like a bedbug out of some grungy flophouse mattress, and there below lay Nairobi, sopping wet and feeling very sorry for itself.

  Wilson Airport was just beyond the unfinished new airport. Ellen had to circle while a KLM flight landed and a small private plane took off; then she came down through the bead curtains of rain toward the runway, which looked as slippery and treacherous as glass. Balim started six or seven sentences on as many topics, finished none, patted his seat belt a lot, and they were on the ground, taxiing forward, losing speed, not fishtailing or somersaulting or nose-diving or doing any of the other things they’d all been more than half expecting.

  It seemed strange to leave Ellen here, but of course the pilot stayed with the plane. She would deal with airport formalities and buy gas and then wait for Lew and Balim to return.

  The rental car was waiting: a four-door maroon Peugeot 504. Balim sat in back, visibly delighted to be no longer in the plane, and Lew drove through Nairobi, following Balim’s directions.

  Wilson Airport was south of the city, while the coffee plantation they wanted was to the north; unfortunately, there was no way to go around the town. Still, despite the rain and despite the congestion, traffic scooted along at a pretty good clip. Lumbering trucks, little rusty taxicabs, wetly gleaming Mercedes-Benzes, saturated bicyclists, and completely oblivious pedestrians all contested together, weaving a manic tapestry on the wet streets.

  In all the cultures in the world, the rich live on the hills above the city. Leaving behind the crowded, raw-looking, hurriedly constructed streets of the main part of Nairobi, Lew steered upward through decreasing traffic and increasingly expensive-looking houses. After a while the streets became wider and sported gentle curves, sure signs of wealth. They passed the German Embassy, two other official residences. They passed a boarding school where the visible children were all white.

  “This is why Kenya has remained a stable country,” Balim said from the backseat, “while so many other independent African nations have fallen away into bankruptcy and corruption. Kenyatta is of the Kikuyu tribe. When independence came, the Kikuyu thought they would be moving into these houses, but they did not. The whites are still here; the Indians are still here; the successful blacks are still here. That’s why international commerce can continue in Nairobi, and Kenya remains solvent. It would have been very popular politics to give these houses to the Kikuyu down from their mountain villages, but it would have killed the country. And where would we be today, eh, Lew? You and I?”

  “I don’t know where you’d be, Mr. Balim,” Lew said, grinning at him in the rearview mirror. “I’d be in Alaska.”

  “We owe much to Jomo Kenyatta,” Balim said.

  The city itself was left behind, and then the suburbs, and still the Peugeot climbed upward into the foothills of the Narandarua Range, north of Nairobi. A group of black schoolgirls in bright purple jumpers, carrying many-colored umbrellas, waved and laughed at them as they drove by, and a few minutes later Balim said, “That is coffee.”

  This time Lew frowned into the rearview mirror. “What is?”

  “The shrub growing on both sides of the road. We are in the plantation.”

  Lew then realized they were driving through cultivated fields. The shrubs were about three feet high, very bushy, and with intensely green leaves. In the rain-swept distance he could see their parallel rows curving across the hillside, like a drawing in a children’s story, grainily reproduced.

  “Beyond the next curve,” Balim said, “there is a white house on the left. That is our destination.”

  “Fine.”

  The land sloped down on that side, and the house would have been very easy to miss, being set low and back from the road and surrounded by trees. A rain-gullied gravel driveway lay just beyond the curve; taking that, Lew circled down and around amid the trees and came to a stop at the side of the house, facing a three-car white wooden garage.

  Before they could open their doors, a broadly beaming skinny black man with a huge black umbrella appeared beside them. He gestured for Lew to wait in the car and opened the rear door for Balim. Having safely escorted Balim from car to house under the umbrella, he returned for Lew. “Good rain,” he said, smiling and nodding as they hurried toward the side door. “Excellent rain.”

  “Very good rain,” Lew agreed.

  Lew’s first impression inside the house was of darkness, as a setting for a tiny woman dressed all in white. This broad brushstroke was followed almost immediately by far too many details. The woman was very old. She was clearly an Indian, and in fact with her round spectacles she looked absurdly like Mahatma Gandhi. The white swath of cloth covering her from neck to toe was a sari. The rings on her tiny gnarled fingers were all of a style: intricate dark-gold vine-like bands clutching small glistening stones of red or green.

  The black man with the umbrella disappeared down a narrow dark corridor crowded with furniture. There were dark-green walls, mahogany sideboard, rococo gold-framed mirror, small Persian rugs spaced on the gleamingly waxed dark floor, a wooden staircase leading upward with black steps and white risers and banister.

  Balim’s normal politeness was redoubled in here, intensified into an almost palpable concern, as though this old lady were both extremely fragile and terrifically important personally to Balim. “Mama Jhosi,” he said, “may I introduce a young friend of mine from America, Mr. Lewis Brady. Lew Brady, may I take pleasure in introducing Mama Lalia Jhosi, who is the mistress of this magnificent house.”

  Lew could rise to formality when required. Taking Mama Jhosi’s hand—a collection of pencil stubs in a tiny leather sack—into his own, and half bowing over it, he said, “I am very pleased, madame.”

  “You are tall,” she said. Her voice was as gnarled as her hand, rough and very faint. “A man should be tall.”

  “And a woman should be beautiful,” Lew said, smiling broadly to show he meant to compliment her, and released her hand.

  The giggle and head bob she gave were astoundingly girlish—heartbreakingly girlish—in acknowledgment of the gallantry. Then, stepping slightly to the side, she said, “And may I present my grandson, Pandit Jhosi. Mr. Lewis Brady.”

  The grandson was eleven or twelve, a slender solemn boy with soft Indian skintone and features, and huge dark eyes. He wore sneakers and blue jeans, but his white-and-blue vertically striped dress shirt was buttoned at neck and wrists, making him look like a miniature of a formal Indian shopkeeper. Lew saw in his eyes that he was intelligent and shy, a bright boy who knew it was appropriate now to shake Lew’s hand but was too shy to initiate the move. Lew helped him out of the impasse by extending his own hand, smiling, saying, “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you.” The boy’s handshake was correct; two pumps, and release.

  His grandmother touched his shoulder. “Tell Ketty we would like tea.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Balim said gently, “Pandit, Lew Brady knows very little about coffee plantations. Why don’t you take him with you to the kitchen and tell him about them?”

  Ah. The pilot stays with the plane; the c
hauffeur waits in the kitchen. Whatever Balim’s business in this house, it didn’t include Lew, who grinned at the seriousness with which Pandit accepted the task, saying to Balim, “Yes, sir, I’d be happy to,” then looking up at Lew to say, “We have a very modern kitchen.”

  “I’d be interested to see it.”

  As Pandit led Lew down the long corridor, Mama Jhosi ushered Balim into a room to the side. Now they could talk Hindustani together without rudeness. Lew was still grinning at the courtliness with which people around here got their own way, when Pandit opened a door at the far end of the corridor and ushered him into a gleaming large kitchen, which was, as he’d been promised, very modern. Copper pans hung over a large pale-wood central table. The appliances along the walls were all brushed chrome or white porcelain, and included a large separate freezer. The uniformed black woman reading a newspaper spread on the table was middle-aged and just a bit hefty. Pandit said to her, “Ketty,” and then flowed away at her in Swahili. Ketty nodded, folded her paper, got to her feet and, turning away, presented a huge behind, tightly swathed in the black uniform skirt and framed by the string and side hems of her white apron.

  Pandit said, “Would you like some tea?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Lew sat at the table, across from where Ketty had been, and drew her folded newspaper close. But then he saw it was in Swahili, and pushed it away again.

  Pandit brought to the table: two teacups with saucers and spoons; two small plates with butter knives; a teapot on a tray, the pot covered by a quilted tea cosy; a small silver tray holding a silver cream pitcher and a silver bowl containing lump sugar; two linen napkins; a butter dish; a saucer of lemon circles; a graceful china ashtray; a plate containing an assortment of cakes and pastries. Meantime, Ketty was assembling a similar though larger grouping on a silver tray; as she carried it out of the room, moving in a stately manner only partially undercut by her absurd rear end, Pandit sat down across the table from Lew and said, “Are you very much interested in coffee plantations?”

  Something told Lew this was a kid with whom honesty was the best policy. “Not really,” he said.

  “I am, of course,” Pandit said. “But it is my job to be.”

  “Because you’ll inherit.”

  “I already have some managerial responsibilities,” the boy said.

  Lew grinned at him, hoping he’d understand the grin was one of comradeship and not mockery. The boy was so solemn and intelligent, and yet still a kid. “I saw the coffee bushes on the hillsides,” he said, “when we were driving in. I can see there’s a lot of responsibility there.”

  “Oh, that isn’t all ours.”

  “No?”

  “No. It used to be, but when my parents died and we came here, my grandmother had to sell most of our land.”

  Already knowing the answer, Lew said, “Came here? From where?”

  “Uganda.”

  “Ah.”

  “Have you been to Uganda?”

  “Yes,” Lew said.

  “I was seven when we left,” Pandit said, “so I don’t really remember it.”

  “It’s not a pleasant place,” Lew said. “This is much nicer.”

  “Still,” Pandit said, “I would like to see it someday. When things are different, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Getting to his feet, Pandit said, “The tea should be ready.” He removed the cosy, picked up the elaborately black-and-gold pot, held the top with his fingertips, and gently swirled the tea for a moment. Then he poured out Lew’s cup, and the room filled with a delicious aroma. “Sugar?”

  “One lump, thank you.”

  Pandit gave him sugar, using small silver tongs. “Milk or lemon?”

  “Milk. That’s fine.” This was the pervasiveness of British civilization: in the middle of a coffee plantation, they sat down to a formal tea.

  At last Pandit, having poured his own tea, covered the teapot with the cosy, sat down again, and they both chose pastries.

  Lew said, “What are you interested in besides coffee?”

  “Football,” Pandit said.

  “Oh, really?”

  “I am a very big fan of the Italian team,” Pandit said, his eyes shining.

  “The Italian—” Then he caught on. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was confused. I thought you meant American football.”

  “No, soccer. I don’t like American football.” Then, catching himself in a possible discourtesy, he quickly asked, “That doesn’t offend you?”

  “Not at all,” Lew said, smiling at him. “What don’t you like about American football?”

  “It keeps stopping,” the boy said. “Every time it starts, you just begin to get interested and it stops. Football—excuse me, I meant to say soccer—soccer isn’t like that. I find it much more exciting.”

  “I suppose it all depends what you’re used to,” Lew said. “Baseball, now, in that game nothing ever happens, and yet it’s still the most popular sport in America.”

  “That’s the way it is with cricket,” Pandit said, and shrugged. “Cricket’s all right,” he said dismissively.

  There was a door in the far wall; this now opened and a girl came in, carrying two string bags, both filled with various small packages. She was dressed in tan slacks and a tan raincoat and round soft rainhat. “Ah,” she said, smiling at Lew and then at Pandit, “you brought a friend home from school.”

  Pandit, flustered but still the gentleman, jumped to his feet, saying, “Amarda, this is Mr. Lewis Brady. Mr. Brady, may I present my sister, Amarda Jhosi.”

  Lew rose, hit his head on a hanging copper pot, winced, grinned, said, “Ouch. Hello.”

  “Oh, those pots,” she said with a commiserating smile. “We aren’t used to men around here. Tall men, I mean,” she said, bowing a bit at her brother. She looked to be about twenty, with Pandit’s large liquid dark eyes but her own softly oval face. The Indian Princess, Lew thought.

  “I’ll get you a cup,” Pandit offered.

  “Thank you. It’s beastly outside.”

  Lew watched, not yet fully realizing that he was smitten, as she removed her hat and shook out her thick black hair. The hat and raincoat went on a chair; she wore a white-on-white blouse, and around her throat a thin gold chain. She unloaded the string bags quickly, putting things away in the refrigerator or on shelves, while Pandit set a third place at the end of the table, between the males. He poured the tea, added a lemon circle, selected a brownish square piece of cake for her dish, and was just sitting down again when she joined them, saying, “Perfect.” Seating herself, she said, “But why are we hiding out here in the kitchen?”

  “Mama is in the parlor with Mr. Balim.”

  Her manner at once changed, understanding came into her face, and something else. Giving Lew a quick look of unconcealed distaste, she said, “I see.”

  The smitten one cannot stand rejection. Lew said, “Is it that distasteful to break bread with the chauffeur?”

  The look she gave him now was honestly bewildered. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I could wait in the car, if you prefer.”

  Pandit, shocked at this breach of etiquette but determined to maintain his own civility, said, “Surely not!”

  “Chauffeur?” echoed Amarda Jhosi; then she said, “Oh, I see what you mean. No, to be honest, I hadn’t even thought that word.”

  Himself bewildered now, Lew said, “What word did you think?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Have some cake.”

  Ignoring the pastry plate she held up for him, he said, “Miss Jhosi, what word did you think?”

  She hesitated, frowning at him, wanting it to be forgotten. But when she saw he intended to stick on this point, she gave an annoyed little headshake, put the cake plate down, gave her brother a little apologetic look, frowned at the lemon circle drifting in her tea, and said, “If you insist, the word I thought was thief.”

  Lew was so angry he could barely control himself. The sour
ce of her mad against Balim was her own business, but he wouldn’t let her tar him with the same brush. Holding his voice lower than usual, to keep from shouting, he said, “What have I ever stolen from you, Miss Jhosi?”

  Her annoyance showed itself again in a quick glare, and she said, “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Aren’t you here right now to negotiate with my grandmother about the stolen goods?”

  Stolen goods? Balim had said nothing about the reason for this trip, hadn’t even suggested it was connected with their own coffee caper, but now the whole thing laid itself out in front of Lew’s eyes, as clearly as if Balim himself had taken Lew into his confidence.

  Here is a family, the Jhosis, who used to have coffee plantations in both Uganda and Kenya. They were among the Asians expelled from Uganda by Amin in 1972, when in some manner the parents of these two died—or were killed. That would have left the grandmother and the children with nothing but this Kenyan plantation, part of which they’d had to sell off because of their financial bind. On the other hand, here is Balim, who will soon be in possession in Kenya of tons and tons of smuggled coffee; somehow it will be necessary to reintroduce that coffee into legal channels of trade. Why not arrange for the coffee to be shipped from the Jhosi plantation, under the Jhosi brand name? In typical Balim fashion, he will be solving a problem of his own and helping needy co-nationals at the same time.

  While Lew thought this out, Amarda Jhosi continued to study him, her expression gradually growing less certain until she said, “Didn’t you know? Did you truly not know?”

  “I suppose I should have guessed.” Sighing, Lew took his napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table beside his cup and plate. “Thank you, Pandit,” he said, getting to his feet. “I appreciated the tea, and the conversation.”

  Pandit stared at him, wide-eyed. “But where are you going?”

  “I’ll wait in the car. Nice to have met you, Miss Jhosi. That’s all right, Pandit, I can find the door. And I promise I won’t steal anything along the way.”