A Kind of Compass

by McKeon, Belinda; Rahill, Elske;

After lunch – another disappointing meal of plain white rice and fried fish with too many bones – I tell Andrea I’d like to go out and take some pictures of the village. I have begun to feel hostage to the house, as though – inexplicably so – there’s an unwritten rule that I am to stay put and not wander out. It is decided that Farida is to accompany me in my wanderings. Apparently it doesn’t look good for any woman – mzungu or local – to be out on the streets by herself. This has of course not been openly stated, but somehow I get the drift. Farida reappears clad in her black buibui, showing an unforeseen eagerness for the assignment she’s been given, and off we go. The minute we are alone she urges me in sign language to enter a neighbour’s house. I try to protest – I’ve had enough of being shut inside – but she won’t relent. Evidently she’s no longer so scared of me.

  We enter another squared house with a small inner courtyard where an old lady wrapped in a bright pink cloth sits quietly next to a goat with her withered legs stretched out in front. She looks blind, and strangely beautiful. Farida ignores her and we enter a dark, stuffy room. I hear giggles coming from its depths. There are two young women about Farida’s age who get up from the floor and come toward us. Farida shows me off to them with pride, like a girl with a new doll. I have a feeling that news of my arrival has been spreading and the neighbours are expecting to get a glimpse of me. There is a brief discussion, then the young women decide I have to follow them to the next room, darker than the first one. Here they pat the floor mat till I sit down. More women, both young and old, join us now, appearing from the recesses of what looks like a big house, and sit across from me, making sounds of appreciation. I am surrounded. The room smells of cheap lotions, cloth, sweat, boredom and sleep. Farida must have told them it’d be OK to go ahead and touch me, because now they tug at my hair, at my clothes, they inspect the fabric, grab my wrist, discuss my rings, my watch. The room is stifling; my clothes stick to my back as sweat rolls down my spine. I glance at my watch and I see it’s only half past three. The end of the day still feels a long way ahead.

  After two more visits in the neighbourhood, we are back on the road, although the way Farida grips my arm enhances the feeling of being her prisoner. We walk past the mildewed Soviet tower, toward what looks like the centre of town, but soon I realise there is no centre, no pretty square as such, no leafy gardens, no latticed verandas, no bustling heart of the village, but only more cement buildings decaying among heaps of trash. The market – the destination I have so eagerly prepared for – sits underneath yet another concrete structure, built by the same ghastly planners. At this time of day it’s half empty except for packs of stray dogs wandering through the leftovers of market day.

  I look around, searching for a view of the ocean. It comes to me that since I’ve landed I haven’t seen a single shade of blue. I look in every direction, walk this way and that, but the sea is nowhere to be seen. How can this be possible? How can an island – especially such a small island – conceal the water surrounding it? My anxiety mounts. There must be an outlook, a promontory, a belvedere from which one can see water. I pose the question to Farida. Where is the sea? The sea! I ask in an almost desperate tone. Water? But she shakes her head, amused. I try with Italian. Mare? Acqua? Eau? No, she doesn’t understand a word, and I didn’t carry my Teach Yourself Swahili with me. Suddenly I must see water. My heart pounds. This must be what a real attack of claustrophobia feels like.

  It is then, from out of the corner of my eye, that I get a glimpse of khaki. My brain registers the shade, the texture of the fabric, and instantly flashes a message. Your tribe. It is indeed a man in his thirties, in a light blue shirt and shorts. Right behind him are the loafers of Carlo Tescari. He and his friend Jeffrey Stone – tall, with thick blonde sideburns and round across the waist – are chatting as they come out of the fishmonger’s with a parcel wrapped in newspaper.

  My brain flashes again. I know exactly what’s happening here. They will have delicious peppered shrimps in chili sauce for dinner. I raise my arm and yell.

  ‘Hey!’

  It has not been easy to get rid of Farida. She was very upset when I began to smilingly signal ‘You can go home, it’s fine, I know the way. Just go home now, I’m OK.’ But the stubborn girl didn’t want to move.

  ‘Who is she?’ Jeffrey Stone asked. We had just been introduced by Tescari, who had rejoiced when I had invited myself for a drink.

  ‘You need a break from that madman, eh?’ Tescari said, and I think he winked, too. ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘Who is this girl now?’ Jeffrey Stone asked again.

  I didn’t reply and Farida didn’t budge.

  ‘Can you speak to her in Swahili? Please tell her she can go home, that I’ll be fine, I know my way back.’

  Both Tescari and Stone spoke to her with the brisk tone people use with servants in this part of the world. Farida seemed hurt. She gave me a look under her long eyelashes, perhaps expecting me to explain her role to these men. She was my hostess, her face said, she was responsible for me. We must go home together. But I didn’t obey her silent request. Instead I moved my hand again toward what I figured was the direction home.

  Please. Please go.

  Then a couple of words from the Swahili book resurfaced.

  Nyumbani, tafadhali.

  Reluctantly she turned and started walking away.

  Jeffrey Stone lives in a slightly nicer concrete box than Andrea’s, although no building on this odd, seemingly seaview-less island meets any of the requirements that might elevate it to something even remotely romantic. Stone has made an effort to make the place look cosy, though. He has a few colourful throws scattered across his sofa and armchairs, a Moroccan rug on the floor and a few coffee table books with old photographs of hunting expeditions or East African interiors. We sit outside on the veranda on plantation chairs and an older man with a severe expression in kanzu and kofia brings out a tray with iced gin and tonics and freshly roasted cashew nuts. Apparently Tescari has brought the booze all the way from mainland Tanzania and, judging from what’s left in the bottle, they’ve had quite a lot of it already.

  Tescari has an appointment tomorrow morning with the Ministry of Land and he’s pretty optimistic that he’ll get his permits without a problem.

  ‘Despite,’ he adds, turning to me, ‘what your friend claims.’

  I ignore his remark and say yes to a refill of my glass.

  ‘He has married a local, right?’ Jeffrey Stone inquires as he pours.

  ‘Was that her?’ Tescari asks.

  I nod and feel both men’s eyes on me. I know they expect me to make a remark or to crack half a joke as a sign of solidarity to the white man’s cause when stranded on such unfriendly land, but I keep my straight face and ignore the question, asking Jeffrey what his job involves and whether he’s planning to stay here much longer. He isn’t, he’s applied for a post in Uganda. Come the end of the year and he’ll get the hell out of this hole.

  This short parenthesis in the colonial world on the island has had the power to rejuvenate me, probably because of the alcohol intake, but I walk home strengthened, and full of ideas.

  Andrea’s on the porch, crossed-legged on the baraza. Pretending to be looking into some miraculous cloud formation in the sky. I know he’s been waiting for me, but when I walk in he just says hi, as though he’s not interested in where I’ve been. I move to sit next to him and he scoots over to make room. We sit quietly for a moment, though I am not quiet inside. I am energised and determined to pierce through the armour with which he has been shielding himself. We enjoy a moment of silence, then I begin.

  ‘How come one never sees the ocean on this island?’

  ‘On this side of the island it’s more difficult to see it.’

  ‘Then take me somewhere where I can. Otherwise I’ll never believe this is an island.’

  He stares into nothingness.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go. Just you and me this time.’ I make my voice sound as
conspiratorial and commanding as I can.

  But he looks up at me, as if weary.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve come all this way to see you, and you, Andrea, haven’t spent a minute with me. You’ve either handed me over to your wife, or talked to me like a stranger.’

  He doesn’t reply and looks away. I can feel him retreating, curling up. I raise my voice.

  ‘Come back!’

  He looks at me, startled, almost frightened. ‘What do you mean, come back?’

  ‘Just come back, for God’s sake!’ I shout. ‘Come back into yourself! Come back! I feel you have turned into an alien.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter and who cares? It’s exactly what I think. This person you are pretending to be – is not you.’

  ‘Oh really? And who am I then?’

  ‘I’ve known you a long time. Longer than anybody else here. I know this is not you.’

  He stares at me and doesn’t say anything. I hold my breath. Does he hate me?

  ‘No you don’t,’ he says coldly. ‘You think you know me, but you don’t.’

  He glances toward the door of the house. ‘And please lower your voice.’

  Fifteen years of never eating fresh vegetables, but only rice, chapatis and fried fish in coconut oil have modified his shape, the texture of his skin, the molecules of his inner organs. Fifteen years of not having access to decent books, but just airport paperbacks snatched from the few foreign visitors, must have starved his mind, shrunk his intellect. Fifteen years of not speaking his mother language, forgetting its poetry, its songs, its sonorities and rhythms. And how about going to prayer five times a day, kneeling on a mat, his forehead touching the ground? In which way might that strict discipline transform an agnostic, a free spirit, a biker with long curls?

  ‘Why are you still here?’ my voice breaks. I had no idea I’d be so crushed.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  I think about my boyfriend of five years, Gregorio, whom I’m not sure I’m still in love with but who has become my family, our sunny two-bedroom apartment in Monteverde Vecchio, my old dog, Olga. My daily morning run in the park, my small, cluttered office at the faculty, a couple of my brightest students. The list of my life’s highlights is not that long and maybe not that interesting.

  Who am I to judge? Maybe Andrea didn’t come here seeking adventure. Maybe he has chosen this place to venture inward rather than expand, since everything here – the people, the buildings, even the geography – lacks beauty and brilliance. Maybe he was relieved when he found a place where he could shrink and settle into a smaller life, away from the eyes of others. From all our expectations.

  ‘I am here because this is my home now,’ he says, looking up again, to somewhere far away, above the mango trees across from the house.

  ‘Don’t you ever miss Rome?’

  ‘Rome?’ he asks, as baffled as if I’d said Mars. ‘No. Never. I never think of Rome.’

  ‘And us? Don’t you ever think of us?’

  He shakes his head slowly.

  ‘No I haven’t. In a long, long time.’

  That’s fair, I think. I hadn’t been thinking much about him either. I hadn’t truly missed him till now.

  ‘Take me to see the ocean, Andrea. Just the two of us.’

  He stares at me and something shifts in his eyes – is it tenderness? Or maybe just a spark of it.

  We drive for almost an hour in his battered Toyota with the NGO’s logo painted on the side, heading north through a thick forest and then turning west, toward the setting sun. We walk on a sandy path through the bushes and suddenly it’s as though a curtain has been lifted. Miles and miles of open view, of deep blue sea and sand lined with the vibrant green of the forest. The sand is as fine as talcum powder and snowy white, just as Tescari’s brochure described it. I fill my lungs with the salty air, exhilarated by the open space. We sit, and watch the sun go down. It’s low tide and the water has just started to retreat, its rivulets are sculpting wavy furrows in the sand, the crabs running obliquely on its translucent surface.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ I say.

  The sun looks like an egg yolk ready to plop into the sea. I stand up and quickly strip off my shirt and unbutton my trousers.

  He stands up, too, alarmed.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going for a swim.’

  ‘No. You can’t go in like that.’

  He quickly picks up my clothes and hands them back to me.

  ‘Yes, I can. There’s nobody around for miles and miles. And you’ve seen me naked before.’

  ‘Stella!’

  I drop my panties on the sand and I slide off into the velvety, lukewarm water. I dive in and swim until I’m almost out of breath. When I re-emerge I see him standing on the edge of the water with my clothes crumpled in his hand.

  I swim out and out, where the sea gets bluer and darker, and after the last strokes I can muster, I wonder if I should worry about sharks. Suddenly, I make out a shadow, as a dark, elongated shape darts past me. I shoot up screaming, and he emerges from the froth, like a shiny dolphin, stark naked.

  We drive back in silence. It’s a good kind of silence, as if the swim has exhausted us but also washed something away. The opaque film that has shrouded my days here has dissolved and now everything looks brighter.

  By the time we reach the village it’s night; there has been a power cut, and the house is wrapped in darkness, but for the faint glow of the kerosene lamp flickering through the windows. I can tell that Farida has been looking after our supper, there’s a smell of curry wafting onto the porch. Before entering the house Andrea stops for a moment and rests a hand on top of my shoulder.

  ‘You are the first person from my old life who has come to visit. It was a shock to see you. It was a shock to be speaking Italian again. I am sorry if I’ve seemed distant. It just felt like – well, like a lot to contend with.’

  ‘Of course. I understand. Don’t worry.’

  ‘The day you arrived I was up all night, I just couldn’t go to sleep. I was reminiscing, you know – all this stuff that I thought I had forgotten started coming back.’

  ‘I’m sorry I barged into your life just like that, I didn’t –’

  ‘No. No, it’s great. It’s really good to see you, Stella. Yes.’

  I reach for his hand, which is still resting on my shoulder, and I wrap my palm around it.

  ‘Do you see me as a failure?’ he asks. ‘Like some kind of beached hippie?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I say, and I squeeze his hand in mine, hard. ‘I really don’t.’

  We enter the house and in the semidarkness I discern Farida sitting still on the floor, slightly slumped, her head hanging low. Only now I realise how worried she must be, seeing that Andrea and I have disappeared together. After all I am an impenetrable mystery to her – an older mzungu woman – an enigma she cannot even converse with or maybe even begin to grasp, like all of Andrea’s life before her.

  But as she hears us coming in, she leaps up and comes forward, and her face lights up. Maybe I’m wrong again here, I keep misreading the signs. From the way they look at each other, the way they gently exchange a few words, I see their bond is even stronger than what I’d glimpsed earlier. I look at Farida again. No, she isn’t concerned after all. I’m not a threat to her. She knows her husband intimately.

  And far better than I.

  The next morning they drive me to the airport in the NGO’s car. I’m flying back to Dar and from there on to Rome. Gregorio is coming to pick me up at the airport with Olga. Strange, how home has never felt so blurred.

  For the occasion Andrea and Farida have put on their nice clothes – immaculate white kanzu and embroidered buibui because there will be people they know leaving or arriving on the small plane from the Big Island and there will doubtless be polite conversations and exchanges of news. Andrea moves around the tiny airport with ease, he weigh
s my bag on the scale, has a chat with the man in overalls who checks my ticket and passport, greets the people he knows. Farida has once again been holding my wrist tightly all along and now that Andrea has gone to get me a bottle of water she keeps repeating something to me in a hushed voice, something urgent, which he’s not meant to hear. She repeats it two, three times and I turn my palms up. I don’t understand. She reiterates the same words, more forcefully this time, but I widen my eyes.

  ‘Nini? What?’ I ask.

  She laughs. And then Andrea comes back and tells me it’s time I go, they are about to board the plane, so I am going to have to leave without knowing what Farida so urgently wanted me to know. Though I’m aware this is not the right thing to do here, I hug her and kiss her on the cheek. And yet I don’t shake hands with Andrea because I’ve been told that’s another taboo, one I don’t wish to violate as my parting gesture.

  ‘Wait! Just a second!’ I call out, before they get back to the car. I have pulled out my phone. Farida immediately strikes an awkward pose, as I take the picture of the two of them. This is the only picture I’ve taken during the whole trip. I peer at the tiny screen. It’s a good one.

  I know they will have beautiful children.

  ‘Same flight again, eh?’ I hear a voice behind my back.

  ‘Yeah, same flight,’ I say to Tescari. Today he wears another freshly ironed blue shirt and orange trousers, hair still wet from a shower.

  I see Jeffrey Stone in the lot, too, standing next to his brand-new SUV into which he’ll soon climb and drive off.

  ‘I bet you’re happy to be heading back. At least I know I am,’ Tescari says under his breath. ‘This place would drive anyone nuts. Mosquitoes, crazy people, no booze, mangroves. It’s hopeless.’

  I know that Carlo Tescari will sit next to me and talk nonstop for the entire length of the flight. He’ll feel even more entitled to do so now, given our newly born comradeship, which we’d sealed earlier with gin.