A Dancer's Guide to Africa

by Terez Mertes Rose

  “Green bean casserole—bet you’ve never had that. With those canned french-fried onion things on top. Beans and hot dogs, tuna noodle casserole. You’re not living till you’ve tried those.” I found myself saying anything to keep him looking at me that way, his lips parted, his green eyes smoky. “Velveeta cheese. In a color you’ll never find in nature. My mom used to wave the cheese cutter through the loaf as she was slicing it. She’d call it ‘nervous cheese’ because of the squiggle shape. That was a Saturday night special.”

  His approach sent a jittery thrill of anticipation through me. “How about dining out?” I continued. “Nebraska’s finest, Pizza Hut, with plastic cups of Coors Light. Or for the final touch on that special cake, Betty Crocker canned frosting…” My voice faltered as he came up and rested his hands on the counter, on either side of my hips. He didn’t say a word. He took one more step closer so that my open legs brushed against either side of his waist. The shock of the contact coursed through me like an electric current, leading straight to my pelvis.

  “Keep educating me,” he said. “It’s fascinating.”

  My reply faded when he set his hand on my thigh. We both observed its progress, the chocolate skin sliding down my paler flesh. The hand took a detour around my knee, coming back up along the inside of my leg. My stomach contracted. Caveats flooded my mind: he was a womanizer, he had a serious girlfriend. Then I thought of my earlier words. I don’t want to be this way anymore.

  And one last whisper: get it out of your system once and for all.

  Best idea yet.

  Christophe’s other hand slid behind my neck, drawing my face closer to his. His lips brushed my ear. “Mademoiselle Garvey,” he murmured, like a caress, before his lips moved to cover my mouth. His tongue slid into my mouth, tasting like red wine and danger. He nudged me off the counter and I slid slowly, deliciously against him on my way down. My hands, clamped like starfish against his chest, confirmed his skin was as hot and silky as I’d remembered from that long-ago Lambaréné afternoon. When my legs began to wobble, he lifted me, hoisting me around his hips, and carried me over to the couch, where we tumbled down.

  His hands dove beneath my blouse and skimmed it off me in one swift gesture. As he kissed me, one hand moved over to my breast, while the other stroked and nudged me into a better position beneath him. It was intensely pleasurable and yet startling, unfamiliar. And that described everything: my writhing; the momentary sense of confusion when my fingers, seeking thick hair to plow through, encountered close-cropped curls instead. He felt foreign. But of course I was the foreigner here, bumbling and insecure about what came next. I was growing uncomfortable as well. He’d pushed my other hand down toward his crotch and the hand had gotten squashed en route, twisted at a bad angle.

  Christophe rolled off me and pushed himself to standing. “You’re coming to my bedroom,” he told me, which produced a flicker of anxiety in me. I looked at the glazed stranger he’d become and nodded. He pulled me up and led me to his room, bumping against the door frame in his haste. An enormous bed with a plush white comforter dominated the room. With a swipe of his arm, the decorative pillows adorning the bed went flying. I took a deep breath and climbed aboard.

  It had become a different game. I commanded myself to relax as he reached for me. He’d pulled off his shorts and I felt the shock of his nakedness and its intense heat. When he tugged off my shorts and underwear, nothing remained to protect me. His hands and mouth grew impatient, making my lips feel bruised and scratched. Leaning over me, he reached into the nightstand drawer to pull out condoms. He fumbled with them and then he was pushing inside me as I gritted my teeth, my head thumping on the headboard every time he thrust too deeply. I gave up on trying to enjoy myself and instead focused on just getting through it.

  Afterward, when he’d finished and had slumped on top of me, a wave of terrible disappointment engulfed me. This event I’d anticipated, craved for a year, turned out to be the same animal coupling it had been with Lane. I’d been so sure someone as exotic and beautiful as Christophe would have transported me to the kind of ecstasy I’d read about in romance novels. At least, I comforted myself, it hadn’t been furtive and guarded. Christophe had clearly enjoyed himself. He had rolled over onto his back where he lay, catching his breath, a smile on his face.

  He inclined his head my way and laid a hand on my thigh. “Did you enjoy that?” he asked, his voice and expression telling me he was expecting only one answer.

  “No.” The reply slipped out before I could censor it. Then, to my horror, I promptly burst into tears, one of the most undignified, vulnerable responses I could have chosen. Christophe looked stricken, shocked. In different circumstances, I might have laughed at him. For a minute, neither of us spoke. He watched me sniffle and dab at my face.

  “You were a virgin, after all. Weren’t you?”

  “I was not.”

  He sat up to study me better. I looked around for my clothes. They were scattered all over, from the living room couch to the bed. I reached down and grabbed a pillow from the floor instead, tucking it up against my body as I sat up. “I had a boyfriend, for your information. And we had sex.” I could hear the distaste in the way my mouth formed the words. He heard it too. His smile returned, but at the same time, a stealthy look came into his eyes.

  “How many times?”

  “Plenty,” I retorted. Christophe didn’t need to know just how few times. It pained me to think of how little Lane had desired me, the last two months.

  The ocean murmured and receded in the background before he spoke again.

  “How many men?”

  “One.” I summoned as much dignity as possible into the word.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  I didn’t know how to answer this. I’d always liked the initial sensations, the kissing and gentle stroking. But things would ramp up, Lane would get frantic, and the wisps of growing pleasure would retreat, leaving me feeling tense and oddly cheated. I wasn’t frigid; I’d had orgasms. Just not at the right time.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Your face answers my question.” He reached over, yanked away the pillow I was clutching and tossed it. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, and tugged at me until I was resting alongside him. He began to stroke me again, calmer this time, until I began to relax.

  “It’s just that I always tense up,” I said. “I can’t enjoy myself.”

  His hand slid over my hip and waist in a soothing back-and-forth motion. “But you’re such a natural sensualist.”

  “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

  “When you dance, for example, with all that passion. What are you thinking about?”

  “I’m not thinking about anything. I’m just dancing.”

  “My point exactly.” He began to nibble on my neck, little insistent bites. Goose bumps sprang up on my arms as something in me lurched back into action. “Maybe,” he murmured against my skin, “what you need to do is make love the way you dance.”

  “Impossible.” It was growing difficult to speak. “There’s no music.”

  “Of course there is. You just haven’t heard it yet.”

  With the initial sex business out of the way, my spirits bounced right back. I had two full days to watch him, touch him, feel his eyes on me as I crossed the room, not stopping until I was pressed up against him. After the disastrous first time, it became better. I relaxed and felt something in me give in to his persistence, becoming more pliant and succulent under his hands. It was all still too unfamiliar to be completely comfortable. Instead, however, it was exhilarating, daring. Why not grab his ass whenever he passed by? Why not reach over and rub his erection, or examine the frightening thing up close? I’d watch his face grow helpless whenever I touched him. He’d become instantly passive, almost slavish. I’d had no idea I could hold such power over him.

  It was as if someone had flung open a door within a house I’d lived in all my life, only I’d never seen this room: ful
l of pillows, sunlight streaming in and sensuous things like whipped cream, sultry music and slippery, cool, satin sheets. This room, this way of life, was something Christophe didn’t seem to question. Sex just seemed to be a natural extension of who he was. I wasn’t some furtive conquest, as I’d feared. I was simply another delicious dish from the cornucopia that seemed to comprise his personal life. I could get outraged about his casual attitude. Or I could leap in and enjoy the buffet myself.

  I didn’t waste my time on introspection. For the first time in my life outside of dance, I simply existed in the sensuality of the moment. Like eating mangoes. The stringy, juicy flesh and thick pit made them messy and difficult to eat gracefully. But the flavor was intoxicating, sweet, lush and complex, unlike any fruit I’d ever eaten in Nebraska. We’d take a basket of them down to the beach and I’d eat mango after mango, letting the juice dribble down my chin, neck and arms, until I’d have to run into the crashing surf and dive in the water to clean myself. Afterwards I’d lie in the sun and feel the salty water dry on my skin, tightening it, until Christophe bent over to make it moist again. There were other sensations as well, like the nubby comfort of thick cotton towels against my naked body, the jammy, silky taste of the red wine he poured, the soft rasp of his tongue on my abdomen, the sound of his breath catching when I did the same to him. Everything we did, from the profane to the mundane, seemed sensual. Had life always been like this, I wondered? Had the air in Gabon always been this heavy with fragrance and suggestion, the palms so intensely green and pliant, bowing and rustling in the soft breeze?

  The getaway was a dream, like some exotic fantasy. And yet, it failed to quench some nameless yearning in me. Even with my lack of experience, I could tell Christophe was not a consummate lover. He didn’t have to be—he’d always had the looks, wealth, privilege and charisma that guaranteed he was going to get laid. But I sensed there was more to great sex than proficiency and technique. I wanted to use the act of making love to deepen my understanding of him, to see behind the glossy exterior he put up to the world. Whether consciously or not, he resisted my efforts.

  I wondered if all of this was characteristic of African men. The subject brought about our only argument of the trip. He’d mentioned his personal surprise at all he’d confided to me, and how normally he didn’t let people, especially women, see this vulnerable, sentimental side of him.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  He looked at me, puzzled, as if I’d asked him why liquid felt wet.

  “Because I am a man.”

  “Oh, please. Haven’t you learned anything about American females? Beside the fact that we all seem a little spoiled, that is.”

  The mood shifted. “Why do you American women find it necessary to act as tough as men, anyway?” he asked.

  “We don’t. We believe women should be given the chance to rise to their full potential, that’s all. I think it’s appalling the way other cultures repress women.”

  “Oh, so the rest of the world is wrong and your country has all the answers? Here’s what I observed when I last visited the States—American females emasculate men with their aggressive behavior.”

  I stared at him. “What a crock of shit,” I said, eliciting a frown from him. “This may surprise you, but some men like women to be that way. They want women who challenge them.”

  “Like this former boyfriend of yours? Why did he leave?” His voice rang out, triumphant. “Where did he go?”

  I tried to draw in the breath that his taunt had knocked out of me.

  The anger left his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was impolite of me.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” My lips, like my heart, felt numb. “You proved your point.”

  “No, you proved yours.” He moved closer and laid a hand on my thigh. “I was just fighting back. You’re right, I like the challenge you offer. Even when I complain about it.”

  “At least you can’t say our conversations are dull.”

  He met my eyes and smiled. “Dull is not a word that will ever describe you, Miss Garvey.”

  I might not have heard the music that weekend, but I certainly learned how to have a good time. On our last evening, in a charming reversal of roles, I found myself the center of attention amid three Frenchmen, friends of Christophe’s, who’d joined us at our table at a nearby restaurant. Christophe retreated into a stony silence as the other men flirted outrageously with me. Back at the house, Christophe had to be coaxed out of his sulk.

  “You’re jealous,” I exclaimed, secretly delighted.

  “It’s not that,” he insisted, lower lip thrust out, like a petulant little boy. “It just that those men are the worst sort.”

  It didn’t improve his temper when I informed him they’d said the exact same thing about him. But he couldn’t stay angry for long. I’d learned the game too well, and how to manipulate his mood. The wine and attention of the evening had made me more assertive, and he responded in kind. When I climaxed, it felt more unhinged, uncontrolled, almost frantic, like the stomach-plunging sensation of falling off a cliff. I rocked against him and cried out, hardly recognizing my own voice. It was deeper, more infused with some feral element. I knew I was being loud, louder than I’d ever been, but even that was exciting, liberating.

  Afterward we lay there, both of us panting, chests heaving, slick with perspiration. I began to laugh, my limbs still shaking. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked down at him. He reached up to smooth the tangled hair from my sweaty face, run his fingers over my cheeks, my bruised lips.

  “That was you, baby.” His eyes glowed. “That was the woman I always knew was there.” He began to laugh with me, making us sound like two mad scientists who’d just come up with some spectacular theory destined to change the course of humankind.

  Then again, maybe we had.

  Chapter 16

  What goes up, must come down. I may have failed my college physics class, but even I couldn’t deny the irrefutable logic of this principle. And I came down with a vengeance after my Cap Estérias trip. Only the aerial view of Bitam, Gabon’s northernmost town, close to the Cameroon border and site of my new post, roused me from my grief-induced torpor. William had told me I’d like the mission, but I’d ignored the comment, the way I’d ignored his presence during most of our flight from Libreville. Instead I’d angled my face to the plane’s window and cried the whole way. I couldn’t decide whether the getaway with Christophe had been the smartest or the stupidest thing I’d ever done, which, I realized, summed up my feelings about joining the Peace Corps as well.

  William earned brownie points for knowing how to respond, interrupting me only to slip me Kleenex during the flight’s descent into Bitam. He himself had only just returned from Paris, where he’d broken up with his longtime girlfriend. He was somber; I sensed he too was looking for a place to lick wounds and recover.

  “Ready for this?” he murmured as he turned to me. His eyes with their thick fringe of dark lashes—oh, to have had those instead of false eyelashes for stage makeup—were serious, much like they’d been in training. This time though, instead of intimidating me, they reassured me.

  “Here goes Part Two,” I managed, and he smiled. He gestured out the window as we rolled up to the arrivals gate, where a trio of Belgian nuns dressed in white habits, an Africanized short-sleeved version with white headdresses, stood waiting.

  “Your welcome party,” William said, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt the tiniest bit of optimism stir in me.

  When I saw the mission thirty minutes later, a cluster of green-painted buildings located two miles from town, the optimism increased. The grounds were neat and manicured with an emerald lawn and a wide, palm-studded driveway. Flowers grew from windowsill planters. I stepped down from the mission’s van and serenity enveloped me. But there was something more, a mysterious energy I could feel, if not name, carried in the wind like a distant whisper. It made the place comforting, yet unsettling. This was not th
e Catholic Church environment of my youth.

  I followed William and the sisters down a cool, whitewashed corridor to their main room and dining area. Religious statuettes and books cluttered lace-covered end tables. A breeze puffed at diaphanous yellow curtains and stirred the warm air. In the center of the room stood an enormous Okoumé wood dining table surrounded by benches.

  The sisters, les soeurs, were warm and friendly, speaking in slow, easy-to-understand French. They’d baked a coconut cake in honor of my arrival. It was like being in a roomful of aunts. On the wall, I noticed a portrait of Jesus, crouched in a mournful genuflection, hand on his bleeding heart, the very same picture that had hung in the foyer of my Catholic grade school. I explained this to the others. “You are Catholic?” asked Soeur Beatrice, the school directress, an engaging woman with rogue tendrils of red hair poking out from beneath her white linen headdress. When I nodded, all the sisters looked pleased.

  “You and Guillaume both,” Soeur Beatrice said, gesturing to William.

  “Really?” I eyed William with interest.

  “Yup. Big family and all.”

  “We’re five,” I told him. “Two girls and a boy.”

  “We’re six. Three girls and me.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  He grinned. “You said it.”

  “Sit, sit.” Soeur Beatrice gestured to the cake on the table. “Let’s try Soeur Nathalie’s creation, shall we?”

  A Gabonese woman came to the door as we were eating our cake. William rose and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks, French-style, before introducing her to me. Her name was Célèste and she owned a popular food stall in the heart of the town’s marketplace. She had adolescent boys, who hung behind, clutching shallow boxes of brown eggs. They lived in an isolated neighborhood a quarter-mile past the mission, the last community before the dense rainforest took over. Célèste sold eggs weekly to the sisters.