“One reason our colleagues get that respect,” Carmen was saying, “is that the African males have no qualms about sending students out to be punished. Our surveillant’s favorite method is whipping. I’ve got a Gabonese male colleague who kicks out two or three students per class session. Anyone who whispers or giggles is out. And whipped.” She shook her head. “They’re all convinced absolute silence and passive students are the best way to go.”
“I remember Christophe pushing that style during training,” Sharon said. “I’ve always felt guilty I couldn’t teach more that way.”
Christophe. Even hearing his name hurt. I reminded myself that it had to be even harder for Diana.
But Diana didn’t seem to be hurting. “I think Christophe is a little too set in his ways,” she said. “It annoys him when we Americans can’t see the world through his eyes.”
If Diana could rise above the situation, so could I. “Glad to hear I wasn’t the only one who felt intimidated by his advice.” I kept my voice light. “He was always foretelling gloom and doom if I taught my own way.” I didn’t bother to share just how gloomy and doomed my classes had become.
Keisha snorted. “Don’t go thinking Christophe was the best teacher in the world, anyway. I mean, he’s not even teaching anymore. What does that tell you? He’s always been more interested in networking and deal-making.”
“Yes, and it helps having the influence of Dad, the Minister of Tourism, in his back pocket.” This time Diana didn’t sound quite as gentle.
“He’s a spoiled little boy,” Keisha added. “All the men have it so much easier than the women here.” And then we were off, complaining about African men, American men, and how we American women could do just fine without them, thank you very much, but it helped to have them around to lug heavy crates of Regab back to the case de passage.
Carmen saw him first, as we were debating whether or not to go out for a beer. “Uh oh,” she murmured, “looks like we’ve got a visitor.” Her warning tone made us all look up.
The front screen door squeaked as it opened, and Christophe walked in.
It was like a mirage. A dream. I had trouble drawing a full breath.
He’s come back for me.
Keisha’s expression grew hard. Diana swiveled to face him. She didn’t say a word.
The silence in the room was electric. “Bonsoir, tout le monde,” he addressed us all with a smile, but his eyes returned to Diana.
I felt sick. Of course Diana. You idiot. You fool.
“How are you?” he asked Diana.
“Why are you here, Christophe?” Keisha interrupted.
Christophe frowned at her. “I’m here to see Diana.”
“Dropping in on her just like that?” Keisha snapped.
“It’s not as if I could have called in advance. There’s no phone here.”
Keisha glared in response but Diana waved her down. Christophe turned back to her. “I was hoping we’d get the chance to visit while you’re in town. Are you free to go for a drink?”
Diana studied him, her expression cool. “I’ve got plans the next two nights.”
“What about right now?”
I’d never had the opportunity to watch him like this, so focused on another woman. Christophe had no eyes for anyone but Diana. Maybe he’d broken up with the Other Woman already. Maybe he wanted to get back with Diana.
She paused to consider his question before flicking her curtain of glossy black hair over one shoulder.
“Sure, why not?” She rose to get her bag, leaving Christophe with six unfriendly females staring him down.
But Christophe wasn’t the type to get intimidated, especially around women. He smiled easily at us before turning to Sharon. “Did my phone call to your proviseur make things better?”
Sharon blushed and stammered. “It did. It did help me out. Thank you for talking to them.”
“Glad to be of assistance.” His gaze continued around the room until he caught my eye.
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to touch him. I settled for a frosty stare.
He returned my gaze unflinchingly. Then he looked away. My heart gave a vicious twist. I struggled to keep the breath moving in, out, in, out, as he focused next on Keisha.
“Keisha,” he crooned, advancing toward her with a teasing smile.
Her lips were compressed into a tight line. “Stop it. I’m still very angry at you.”
He ignored her words and repeated her name in a singsong fashion until he was close enough to grab her. He lifted her to her feet.
“Stop it,” she shrieked again, but began to laugh and bat at him as he hugged her.
Carmen caught my eye. By the pity and concern on her face, I knew how bad I looked. Pretty much as bad as I felt.
Which turned out to be precisely how I felt late that evening, as I lay on a couch in the darkened living room, sleepless, forced to listen to Diana and Christophe when they returned. Her melodic voice, outside, and Christophe’s deeper chuckle were followed by a long silence, painfully easy to interpret. Afterward they both laughed softly and exchanged murmured goodbyes before she came inside, tiptoeing past those of us who hadn’t grabbed a bunk bed fast enough, all sleeping peacefully except for myself.
Yet another bad night’s sleep.
On Easter Sunday, the volunteers were invited to join the American expatriate community at the American ambassador’s residence for a party. It threw me back into another world, one with trimmed lawns, white picket fences and prosperous-looking, chatty Americans. Hungry for exercise, even if it couldn’t be ballet anymore, I headed for the swimming pool. The other volunteers stampeded over to the buffet table, which was crammed with trays of Virginia ham, smoked salmon and roast beef. Bowls of potato salad, cole slaw and fruit salad sweated over ice. No canned corned beef or manioc anywhere. Further down, a big pink cake was beginning to ooze at the edges from the heat. There was Budweiser in addition to Regab, but no Peace Corps people touched the former, so pale and insipid next to Regab. The volunteers crammed potato chips into their mouths as they piled their plates high. They acted as if they’d been fasting for months, which, in a way, was true. From the pool, I observed the pained expressions on the carefully made-up faces of the American expatriate wives. In their pressed khaki slacks and tailored white blouses, they had the uneasy demeanors of zoo visitors watching lions feed on raw meat.
I swam, hoping to quell the uneasiness bubbling inside me. Not only was it Easter, a major holiday for my Catholic family, but I’d just called home for only the second time since leaving Omaha. The conversation had felt rushed and distracting, with a transatlantic hiccup whenever both parties tried to talk at the same time. Russell had been surprisingly warm. Mom had cried. Alison, too, had sounded choked up.
“Fi, you’re so far away! I miss you so much.”
Her easy affection, the way it felt both familiar and foreign, threw me. I stuttered a reply. A few minutes into our conversation, she paused.
“Hello?” I called out. “Still there?”
“Fi, I’m getting married.”
I’d seen this coming for a long time, but sensing it was different from hearing it. I took a deep breath. “Wow. Congratulations to you.”
“Thanks. Do you… does it bother you?”
“No.” I tried to brighten my voice. “I’m happy for you. The two of you seem well suited.”
“It’ll be next spring. Any chance that you’d come home for it?”
I chose my reply carefully. “I think that would be too much of a challenge.”
“All right. I understand. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She turned the phone over to Dad for one last exchange and that was it, my family time for the year, until the next difficult transatlantic call.
Now, as my arms and legs churned through the water, I tried to push the loneliness away. A few minutes into my efforts, I noticed someone else had joined me in the pool. He didn’t linger; after a few laps, h
e hoisted himself up to sitting on the pool’s edge. As I came to his end each time, I’d see his pale legs dangling in the water, feet wiggling. It made me feel like a shark. When I finally popped out of the water, he was looking straight at me, as if reading my thoughts. I grinned back. He introduced himself as Brad. His accent immediately identified him as American.
“Can I interest you in a beer?” he asked when we both rose from the pool’s edge. I nodded and two minutes later he was back with two dripping Budweisers. We sat on lounge chairs and chatted. I learned Brad was twenty-nine, had been in Libreville for a year and worked as an information management specialist in the embassy’s information program center. He was blond, well-built and decidedly attractive. He launched into a lengthy description of what the job entailed. I lost interest in what he was saying and instead watched his face, marveling at the lack of scruff, the smoothness of his skin and his even tan, as if he’d been plucked from a Southern California beach, hermetically sealed and popped open just for the ambassador’s party. Brad didn’t seem terribly interested in Libreville. For entertainment, he informed me, he went out to French restaurants with his colleagues. He had an extensive collection of videos at his apartment, shipped to him monthly via diplomatic pouch.
We ran out of interesting things to talk about, but that didn’t stop him from talking. Interaction with him was like a dose of Midwestern food: predictable and on the bland side, but safe. And safe was precisely what I needed right then.
I thought of Christophe, gave myself a mental shake, accepted Brad’s offer of another Budweiser and later, a lunch date for the following day. Although I disliked first dates, I clung to the notion of this one. It was the only way to move on.
For lunch the next day, Brad had chosen a French restaurant near the ocean, a hushed, elegant place with linen tablecloths and gilt-framed artwork adorning the walls. The clientele, both Gabonese and French, murmured in Parisian-accented French, punctuated by the clink of forks against china. In my tee shirt, faded cotton skirt and dusty sandals, I was clearly underdressed. But my self-consciousness didn’t keep me from thoroughly enjoying my meal—poached fish in lemon cream sauce, flanked by tiny steamed potatoes and asparagus spears. Brad had ordered a bottle of wine, a Muscadet that slid down my throat like liquid velvet. Over lunch he droned on about his job, the inconveniences of living in Gabon.
Today, I had less patience for Brad. Oh, the heartbreak of a broken VCR, when you have to wait until the next day to pick up a new one at the embassy store, I wanted to say. Or when your monthly shipment of Hostess Ding Dongs doesn’t arrive on time. And when they serve your Muscadet at room temperature. The bastards! How can you bear it? Hey, Brad, ever had tumbu fly maggots plucked from your skin? I looked at his unblemished face, sipped the exquisite wine and finished my lunch, recognizing with regret that the best part of the date was over. Whatever comfort I’d thought I could find by spending time with him had long since disappeared.
It dawned on me how like Lane Chatham he was: attractive and self-satisfied, ruled by the comforts of his life, unwilling to delve beneath the surface of things. Back when I was dating Lane, any time I’d try to direct the conversation deeper, he’d chuckle and say, “There you go again, sounding like a philosophy major.” It was good-natured ribbing, but it would always annoy me. He was much like my siblings in that way. Like everyone I knew in Omaha, in fact. Sitting in the Libreville restaurant, it came to me with a flash of understanding that I would never run back to Omaha, no matter how bad things got here. I wasn’t ready to surround myself with such people again so soon. Leaving Africa after ten months, I’d be caught between two worlds, having admitted defeat in both.
I had to stay.
I wanted to stay.
The restaurant’s front doors swung open and Christophe walked in. I stared, afraid my eyes were playing tricks on me. But he was decidedly real, flanked by two men whose auras of power and privilege told me they were used to getting what they wanted. Their arrival caused a stir in the room. The restaurant owner hurried forward to greet them and show them to a table by the window. As they followed the owner, Christophe surveyed the room and caught my eye. He blinked twice before bringing a hand to his heart and pretending to stagger. The unaccustomed whimsy made me smile. Brad noticed my animation and turned around to look for the source.
“Oh, it’s Christophe Essono.” He said Christophe’s name in a way no African would—placing the family name last, American style.
“You know him?” I asked, watching as Christophe and his two companions settled at their table.
“Oh sure, he’s a good one to know. He’s lived in the U.S., so he understands us a lot better than the others. Speaks great English. And his father is the Minister of Tourism, so he’s got powerful connections. He’s really a great guy, for an African.”
For a moment I wondered if I’d misheard him. “Brad,” I asked carefully, “does your work require any interaction with the local population?”
“Me? No, not really. That’s more in the executive office.”
A curl of disgust settled in my stomach. “That’s maybe a good thing.”
I watched as Christophe excused himself from his lunch partners and walked toward our table. From across the room we exchanged lazy grins, rich with private mirth. Euphoria exploded inside me. Christophe was here; nothing else mattered, not even the way he’d ignored me earlier.
Brad looked up as Christophe approached. “Hey Christophe, how’s it going?” he asked in English, pumping Christophe’s hand. “I guess you’ve met Fiona—um, sorry Fiona,” he said, turning back to me. “I don’t know your last name.”
“Garvey,” Christophe and I supplied at the same time. I laughed and motioned for Christophe to continue. “We know each other through Peace Corps Gabon,” Christophe said.
“Okay.” Brad didn’t seem particularly interested. “Hey, did you know Bob is transferring to the American embassy in Dakar?”
“No, I didn’t,” Christophe said.
“There’s going to be a farewell party Friday afternoon at the embassy. You should come.”
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll consider it.”
Brad glanced at his watch. “Well, nice of you to stop by.” He balled up his napkin, dropped it onto his plate and looked around for the waiter.
Panic filled me. Brad was going to drag me away from Christophe, only to drone in the car about how he hated the traffic, the humidity, those sweaty Africans. “Are you ready to go?” he asked me.
I looked at my unfinished glass of wine and felt like telling him to go without me. Christophe caught my eye and seemed to instantly understand.
“Oh, but you haven’t had dessert,” he told us. “Their crème brulée is the best I’ve had outside of Paris.”
“Unfortunately I have to be back at work,” Brad said.
This was good news.
“I have a suggestion, if Fiona is interested.” Christophe turned to me. “If Brad doesn’t mind, why don’t you join my friends and me at our table. You could enjoy some crème brulée while we have lunch and I can drop you off afterwards.”
“Oh no, surely that’s an imposition,” Brad said.
Shut up, you moron. I smiled at the two of them politely. “That does sound appealing.”
“Then it’s decided,” Christophe said.
Brad didn’t seem heartbroken about ending our date in the restaurant. After the usual platitudes about nice meeting you and let’s do it again (as if), I strolled over to Christophe’s table, trying to appear casual. He introduced me to the other two men, who made a great display of standing respectfully and shaking my hand. As I settled next to Christophe, I decided this had been the kind of first date I could handle.
Chapter 13
I was finally alone with Christophe after lunch as we drove down the Bord de la Mer, the coastal highway, toward Libreville’s city center. I was so happy to be with him, I forgot all about feeling hurt or antagonistic toward him. “Your Frenc
h is coming along quite well,” he told me. “Your face has filled out too—you’ve gained weight.”
I ducked my head. “I know, I hate it.”
He stopped for a light. “You’re wrong in thinking it looks bad. You Americans always want to be thin. Here, gaining weight is a sign of health, of beauty.”
“So I’m more beautiful than ever, huh?”
The light turned green and Christophe resumed driving. “I remember the first time I saw you. It was in Lambaréné, the night you trainees arrived,” he said softly. “You looked so bristly and skinny and scared.” He glanced over at me. “Yes. You are more beautiful than ever.”
My heart sprang into fluttering mode. This kind of reaction, I decided irritably, shouldn’t be allowed to happen still. “So tell me about your new love.” My voice came out loud, accusing.
His manner, in turn, grew more curt. “She’s a Gabonese woman who works at the Ministry of Education, where I’m currently employed.”
“And…?”
“And what?”
“When did you meet her?” I hated my interrogating tone.
“November.”
“Before or after you mailed me that note?”
He looked puzzled. “After, but I would have sent it had I been dating her already. That was between you and me, no one else.”
I didn’t know whether this made me feel better or worse. “Well, that’s… great. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy here in Libreville.”
He sighed. “You’re making too much out of this.”
“Right. Out with the old, in with the new, no need to worry about hurt feelings, or anything silly like that.”
He was angry now. He turned off at the next exit and drove down a dusty lane that ended near a beach. He cut the engine as a cloud of dust settled around the car.
“What is your problem?” he demanded. “Why are you attacking me?”
“Forget it. I don’t understand you Africans and you can’t figure out American women, can you?”
A Dancer's Guide to Africa Page 12
