A Dancer's Guide to Africa

by Terez Mertes Rose

  I reached through the netting and turned off the light. I lay in the bed, awake, for a long time. Smiling.

  Chapter 8

  It didn’t take long to decide the driver of the beer truck delivering me to Oyem was a madman. He raced the lumbering vehicle down the narrow, unpaved roads, swerving wildly to avoid crater-sized potholes that punctuated the washboard ruts. Chickens fluttered and goats scattered in panic as we thundered through villages. Ascending hills, the weight of the truck slowed to a crawl. The driver made up time on our descent, giving the term “breakneck speed” new significance. He glanced over at me after an hour.

  “The last white woman who traveled with me begged to be let out,” he commented. No surprises there. I unclenched my jaw long enough to tell him I could handle it. “Peace Corpse?” he asked in English. When I told him yes, he nodded as if that explained it all.

  Rich had recommended taking the beer truck to my Christmas reunion in Oyem. “It’s one thing here you can count on,” he’d said. “No crisis, strike or bureaucratic drama is big enough to stop Regab from being delivered. And besides,” he’d added, “from Makokou, it’s either that or hitchhike.” In Makokou’s general store that morning, I’d negotiated a ride on a Regab truck that was leaving, the clerk promised, immédiatement. But “immédiatement” was a relative term in Africa. My five-minute wait turned into thirty minutes. One hour became two. Now, however, we were on our way. All I had to do was survive the trip.

  We crested one particularly steep hill and began rocketing downward in the center of the road, where it was the smoothest. I glanced sidelong at the driver’s face. He was smiling, his expression filled with the kind of rapt glee you see on the faces of ten-year-old boys playing arcade games, the type with steering wheels and virtual roads displayed on the screen. The difference, of course, was that with the game, when you made a bad turn and your vehicle rolled and exploded into a churning inferno, you simply shrugged and put in a few more quarters. But the constraints of the real world and the laws of physics didn’t seem to deter my driver. Nor any other driver, judging from the trucks that came barreling toward us from the other direction, also in the center of the road, veering off to their respective sides only at the last moment to avoid head-on collisions. It was then I decided that Gabonese truck drivers were indeed mad as hatters.

  When we arrived in Oyem at the end of the day, I couldn’t decide whether to throttle the driver or kiss him. Instead I asked him to drop me off at the high school where Carmen taught. I followed her directions from there, and found her home just as the sun was setting. It was another one of those “why couldn’t this have been mine?” kind of houses, an elegant cream cottage framed by palm trees and hibiscus. It was big; she shared the house with a second-year community health volunteer, who, according to Carmen, spent most of her time in Libreville, officially due to chronic tropical-related health problems and, unofficially, because she had a French boyfriend there.

  Carmen flung open her door and greeted me with a hug and a cry of welcome. I studied her afterwards. “Something’s different with you,” I said. Her hair was getting longer, prettier. I looked down at her feet. Sandals. “Where are your boots?” I screamed.

  She shrugged and grinned. “Hey, my feet were getting hot. I got this gross foot fungus and Rachel told me to give them some air.”

  “Damn, you’re looking so feminine.”

  “I know, I know, isn’t it awful? Anyway, come on in—everyone else has arrived.” We wandered into the kitchen where Daniel was at work peeling green papayas. “He uses them for a pie that’s a dead ringer for pumpkin pie,” Carmen said, reaching out to stroke his arm. “Wait till you try it.”

  “You said everyone’s here. Who’s everyone?”

  “Henry and William,” Daniel replied. “They’re out buying a truck part.”

  Carmen handed me a Regab and raised her own bottle. “Here’s to no teaching for two weeks.”

  The three of us clinked bottles. “Wait…” I looked around. “If everyone’s here, where’s Robert?”

  “Not here, of course,” Carmen said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  Daniel and Carmen glances. “You mean you haven’t heard?” Daniel asked.

  “Heard what?”

  “Robert quit.”

  I stared at them. “No way. He friggin’ quit? After all those little know-it-all speeches and he was the one to quit? Why? What happened?”

  “I got a letter a few days back,” Carmen said. “It was this tirade about how he hated teaching, hated speaking French all day long, felt lonely and alienated, etcetera.”

  “No shit! Was he expecting to have fun here?” I flung my duffel bag to the floor.

  Carmen regarded me curiously. “You mean you’re not? Not at all? Your letters have all sounded pretty upbeat.”

  My outburst had taken me by surprise as well. I’d told myself I liked my job, reciting the phrase like a mantra to keep my spirits up. But I could be honest with Carmen. No, I suddenly realized, I didn’t like my life in Makokou. I was always sweaty and lonely, I missed my ballet world and I’d made no local friends.

  “I can tell the students enjoy my class,” I said, “but it’s become so tiring to teach. They’re not even meeting me halfway anymore. It’s like they just want to sit there and be entertained. On top of it, I had this weird occurrence last week.”

  “Do tell.” Carmen gestured to the living room and we wandered to the couch.

  “You got any problem students, the big, hulky redoublant kind?” I asked as we sat.

  “Sure.”

  “So this kid, Calixte, was getting disruptive last week, as per normal. I marched over to his desk and, in a loud voice, asked in English if he was too busy for me. All the students went wild.”

  “Busy,” Carmen repeated. “Oh, you didn’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh no. I know what’s coming next.”

  Her amused reaction annoyed me. “Okay, the joke’s on me, and clearly everyone gets it but me. Do you mind telling me where the grand faux pas is?”

  “Baiser,” she replied.

  “No, busy.”

  “Yes, but it sounds like the French word, ‘baiser.’”

  “Which means?”

  “In the old literary sense, it means to kiss. But in current slang, basically…” Here, even Carmen looked abashed.

  “Basically what?”

  “It means ‘to fuck’.”

  Great. I couldn’t have picked a worse student to humiliate myself in front of.

  “How did your students react?” she asked.

  “Oh, they just screamed with delight. Or shock. I don’t know.” I buried my face in my hands.

  As for Calixte, he’d been gape-mouthed with astonishment and silent the rest of the class. I’d assumed I’d chastised him good, but Carmen’s words explained why he’d strutted, not slunk out of the classroom when the bell rang. Furthermore, he’d been smiling.

  Carmen began to chuckle. I scowled at her. “It’s not funny,” I said.

  “Yes it is. It’s hysterical. And you’re probably the hundredth English-speaking teacher to make the same mistake. It’s almost a rite of passage.”

  “You’re saying you did it?”

  “No, but the volunteer before me did. I got the scoop from the other English teacher at my school. But I did try to explain to all my colleagues that I was a happy person. I described myself as une fille de joie.”

  “A girl of joy? They had a problem with that?”

  “Ah, but une fille de joie means something different in French slang. I pretty much announced to the entire lycée staff that I was a prostitute.”

  The beer I’d just sipped sprayed out of my mouth. This set Carmen laughing harder, which got me started as well. “Have to tell you,” Carmen wheezed a minute later, “I’ve had no trouble making friends here since then.” We sat there and howled with laughter till my sides ached.

  On Christmas Eve day, all of u
s piled into Henry’s truck and headed to the city center to shop. Oyem was Gabon’s third largest city, a bustling metropolis more reminiscent of Libreville than Makokou. For the first time in over three months, I encountered heavy traffic, stoplights and taxis. Some of the streets—all paved, of course—even had four lanes. Business professionals and shoppers, both African and European, thronged the sidewalks. I drew no stares here; instead, I was the gawker, like the rural Nebraska hayseeds I used to snicker over, who would stumble through downtown Omaha, wide-eyed and gape-jawed. I’d forgotten how sophisticated the well-dressed Africans looked, how cosmopolitan the city dwellers seemed. It was as if a giant vacuum had sucked up the glossy, attractive people throughout Gabon and deposited them in the big cities. I half-expected to see Christophe pop out of a shop here. I decided I liked Oyem. A lot.

  While Henry and William visited the hardware store, Daniel and Carmen brought me to Score, a supermarket that catered to the French expatriate community. I discovered caviar, foie gras, cheeses by the dozen and produce I hadn’t seen since leaving Nebraska. The prices shocked me, such as the equivalent of twenty dollars for a stalk of limp broccoli, but it was broccoli, nonetheless. Chocolate filled an entire row. Wine comprised another. I wandered the aisles in a happy reverie.

  Holiday music played through the overhead speakers, as out of place as a dusty village mama at an English tea party. Bing Crosby should be dreaming of a “White Christmas” on another continent, I mused, wiping the sweat off my face. I was perusing the spice rack when, to my shocked surprise, Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers” from The Nutcracker played next. The music invaded my senses like a drug injected into my bloodstream. Something in my body leapt to life, while another part froze in dismay. It was like seeing an old boyfriend I wasn’t yet over.

  I’d performed in The Nutcracker—or Nutz, as we dancers called it—every year for the past ten Christmas seasons. I’d purposely avoided playing the cassette recording Mom had recently mailed me, to keep from feeling the nostalgia that now swept over me. But like an alcoholic being handed a drink, I had little choice but to succumb to its seductive power. I shut my eyes and I was there, lights blazing down as I leapt across the stage, every muscle and nerve in my body tuned in, focused on the dance, the other dancers, the backstage crew in the wings, the audience’s captivated silence. Listening to the store’s muffled music, I could almost feel the high of dancing it again, that surge of power coursing through my limbs. That intoxicating, otherworldly feeling—it was why I danced.

  “Fiona?”

  My eyes flew open. Carmen had reappeared with the shopping cart. “We’re ready to check out. Are you okay?” she asked.

  I tried to shake myself free from the music’s spell, which now seemed to mock me, rubbing in what I’d lost. “I’m fine. I just need a little fresh air. Could you pay for my stuff?” I dumped my purchases into Carmen’s cart and thrust a handful of CFA currency bills at her. “Thanks, I’ll wait for you outside.”

  Home, the place I’d successfully avoided thinking about, until the Nutz music brought it back. Following dinner that night, I stepped outside Carmen’s house to look up at the stars. The memories, along with the rage, slid back into place.

  Christmas Eve, last year. The family had, like always, gathered at the house. A Christmas tree filled one corner of the living room, bloated with decorations, gifts spilling out from underneath. I’d come home from college two days earlier, having just finished a run of eight Nutz performances. By the last one, I’d felt unutterably drained, both physically and emotionally, yet paradoxically missing it all terribly. In Omaha, once again just crabby, difficult, little-sister Fiona, I felt like Cinderella the morning after the ball. Except that Prince Charming was heading the wrong direction.

  Things weren’t going well with Lane Chatham. We’d been dating for twelve weeks, which was eight weeks longer than any other relationship I’d had. It was love, or so I’d thought. But something had gone off. I could see it in the way he seemed to be seeking out things to disagree about, or the way he recoiled in annoyance when I spoke too philosophically (“stop showing off your vocabulary”) or reacted emotionally to something (“stop overreacting”). I’d tried to modify my moods, my words, to accommodate his preferences. I tried to be lighthearted and stick to cocktail party chitchat. Nothing worked; it only grew worse. He started avoiding me, making excuses. At opening night of Nutz, he thrust flowers in my hands (cheap, wilting ones) and told me we needed to talk. I looked at his handsome, smooth face, his now-unreadable eyes, and told him I couldn’t possibly discuss anything during Nutcracker season. He looked relieved. Which made me feel relieved. It wasn’t a breakup if the guy looked relieved about not discussing things.

  Was it?

  He went home to Kentucky for the holidays while I completed the Nutz run. I told myself we’d talk about things after the New Year, back at school. No New Year’s Eve together? No problem. These things happened.

  But here in Omaha, in the house, it was family business as usual. Russell had flown in earlier from Palo Alto, California, where he had a new job in research and development for Xerox, something baffling to do with computers. My brother and I shared the same pale-blue eye color, the only thing to mark us as siblings. He’d been a short, bespectacled math geek growing up, five years my senior, but puberty had treated him kindly. He’d become tall and attractive, which, in turn, made him more intolerable to be around.

  Alison lived locally, but I didn’t see her until the family gathering on Christmas Eve. I prayed she wouldn’t ask how things were going with Lane. I wanted to sustain the illusion of having a successful romantic relationship, like my glamorous sister did so effortlessly, for a little bit longer. And magically, she cooperated. After she asked about the Nutz run, the conversation shifted to neutral, family-related banter, and what was going on in her world of public relations and the social and civic committees she’d remained involved in, since her Miss Nebraska reign.

  Tonight, Russell seemed to have designated himself as my tormentor. “Graduation will be here before you know it, Fiona,” he boomed, jiggling the ice in his highball glass. It made a musical sound, like the silvery, delicate celesta in the Nutz Sugar Plum Fairy solo. A role I would never dance again. I pushed away the grief before it could engulf me.

  “Yes,” I told Russell.

  “What kind of jobs are you considering? Just what does one do with an undergrad sociology degree? That is your major this year, right? Or did it change again?”

  “No, it didn’t change.” Asshole, I wanted to add, but I bit my lip. Alison, I noticed, didn’t seem to be relishing Russell’s harassment of me as much as usual. Instead, the flickered look she cast me seemed sympathetic. Even apologetic. Which made no sense, but I appreciated the quasi-support. I squared my shoulders and met Russell’s eyes without fear, the way you were supposed to do when a snarling dog confronted you.

  “Not too many jobs in the sociology field, I’m thinking.” He jiggled his ice again.

  “As it turns out, last month I had an interview with the Peace Corps.”

  “The Peace Corps?! Why?”

  “Well, duh. For a job. In Africa, or something like that.”

  He looked skeptical. “And just what were you planning to do in the Peace Corps?”

  “Teach English.”

  He studied me, still acting so baffled, you’d think I’d asked him to compare and contrast the trademark choreographic differences between Balanchine and Marius Petipa and their impact on twentieth-century ballet. He gave a slow shake of his head. “Little sister, where do you come up with these half-baked ideas?”

  “Russell,” Alison protested, even as she began laughing.

  Tonight, it was all more than I could handle. I looked wildly from Russell to Alison.

  “I’m so sorry I’m not some miracle of intelligence like you, Russell, with job recruiters clamoring to represent me,” I screeched. “I’m so sorry I’m not a carbon copy of the two of you pe
rfect people.”

  A hush fell over the room. My aunts, standing nearby, took two cautious steps back toward Mom, who was shaking her head.

  “Oh Fiona, let’s not start this again and ruin another holiday gathering,” she said. “Why do you let your siblings get under your skin? Come on, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

  The party continued, faces growing flushed with wine and good cheer. No one noticed when I grabbed my jacket and escaped outside.

  Silent night, black night. The frigid winter air hurt my lungs when I breathed in. Frozen puffs of rage rose and dissipated. The stars glittered above me, distant and aloof. Inside, Mom began playing “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” on the piano and the others joined in singing. My chest heaved as if I’d just finished dancing “Waltz of the Flowers.”

  “I’m getting out of here,” I said out loud. “To hell with all of you.”

  And so I’d gotten out of there. Problem was, I was the one to suffer for it. Back home, they’d be having the same Christmas Eve ceremony without me, probably commenting on how much calmer it seemed. Tears stung my eyes as I looked up at the night sky above Carmen’s house. Even the starry constellations were foreign, reminding me how very far from home I was.

  The back door creaked open and I hastily wiped the tears from my face. Henry joined me. He was silent for a moment, hands tucked into pockets as he glanced up at the studded sky. “So Minneapolis is fucking freezing as always,” he said. “I hear they had thirty days below zero and for seven days straight it didn’t get above fifteen below. Mom probably has ice on the brain, so I’ll forgive her, but you know what she sent me for Christmas?”

  He looked over at me and I shook my head.

  “A scarf, she sent me a goddamned scarf.”

  It was impossible to be in a gloomy mood around Henry. A snort of laughter escaped me and then we were exchanging “can’t beat this one” Midwestern winter stories. By the time we joined the others in the living room, I felt better. Homesickness had its advantages, I reflected. I was away from my family and I missed them. It was easier than being with them and hating them.