After she shook my hand, she sized me up with luminous dark-brown eyes and asked William—apparently everyone here called him Guillaume, the French equivalent of William—a question. She’d switched over to Fang, the local tribal language here in the Woleu Ntem province. He laughed and his cheeks reddened. He shook his head and replied in Fang before turning to me.
“She thought maybe you were my, um, girlfriend.” His cheeks burned redder. “Come to join me after our reunion.”
“Oh. Whoops.” I could feel my own face growing hot.
Soeur Beatrice explained in French that I was there to replace Daniel. Célèste pushed her two boys forward. “My boys, they are now your students,” she said. “If they do not behave, you have my permission to beat them.”
From their cowed expressions, I knew it wouldn’t be necessary, but decided it couldn’t hurt to establish myself. I rose to my full height, peered down at them and offered them a polite, professorial nod. This time I understood it had to start off formal. There would be plenty of time for smiles and fun later.
William excused himself to check up on his truck, which he’d stored at the mission while he was in Paris. Célèste collected her money from the eggs, then stayed to chat while the two boys gobbled down a piece of cake. Suddenly I heard a thud, followed by a blur of white. A bird had flown into the room, a snowy creature with huge wings that flapped about. Everyone shrieked and dodged the panicked bird, which couldn’t find its way back out. It flew onto the table where it scrabbled around, planting a foot in the coconut cake. Soeur Nathalie, the cook, shrieked louder and covered her eyes.
It was like no bird I’d ever seen in Omaha. It looked a marsh bird, but stocky and short, closer to the size of a big chicken than a heron. When it spread its wings, however, they stretched out in an arc of dazzling white. The creature tried to fly across the room. Some of the sisters shrank back, while others, screeching with laughter, made ineffectual waving motions with their arms. Soeur Nathalie marched out and returned with a broom, which the bird kept eluding.
“Stop,” Soeur Beatrice said. “We’re only frightening him more. If we quiet down, maybe he will too.” Célèste and her two sons huddled in the corner with wide, fearful eyes; they needed no further encouragement.
It worked. As the rest of us grew quiet, the bird stopped thrashing. He fluttered back over to the table. With deliberate steps on greenish-yellow legs, he approached the side where I stood. When he could get no closer to me, he stretched his wings out to their full span, as if to remind me he was no chicken. He tucked his wings back in and regarded me gravely for several moments with his odd yellow eyes. The silence in the room was electric. Finally he turned and with regal dignity, hopped off the table, onto the grey concrete floor and stalked out of the room. Once outside, he took off with a great flapping of wings.
Everyone began talking at once.
“Did you see that? My heavens!”
“I’ve never seen one so close before.”
“My cake! He stepped on my cake.”
“Did you see how he studied Fiona?”
“He calmed right down then, didn’t he?”
“With those wings, we’re lucky he didn’t break anything.”
“He ruined my cake!”
“What was it?” I asked faintly.
“Un pique-boeuf,” Soeur Beatrice said. “A cattle egret,” she added in accented English, observing my confusion.
“Are they common here?” I asked.
“They appear when the lawn gets mown each week.” Soeur Beatrice leaned over to straighten a lamp shade the bird had knocked askew. “They forage for insects that the mower stirs up. But the lawn won’t be mown until tomorrow.”
“He must have come early to welcome Fiona to her new home,” one of the other sisters said, and everyone laughed. All except Célèste, who gazed at me with the same wide, fearful look she’d given the egret.
Soeur Beatrice gave me a tour of the grounds. The school was a collège, similar to a lycée, but minus the final two academic grades. Like the lycée in Makokou, the buildings were grouped around a courtyard, but the resemblance stopped there. The courtyard here was green lawn instead of dirt. These schoolrooms were freshly painted, both inside and out. Pictures hung on the walls. Each room contained three long rows of two-seater desks, a blackboard and a teacher’s desk. The rooms were smaller, consequently fewer students would be in each class. An air of optimism prevailed throughout the compound. A footpath led to an enormous sports field, where soccer was played and P.E. classes were held. Beyond that, the path continued on to Célèste’s neighborhood a quarter mile away. I made a mental note to use the sports field to jog and stretch, the best ballet replacement I was likely to find in Gabon.
We strolled across a different lawn and down an incline toward the mission church. Here sat my new home, a snug, lemon-colored cottage with a porch and blue awnings. It was smaller than the house in Makokou, but more inviting inside, with cheery wicker furniture and fat, colorful pillows. The rooms were simply furnished.
“I hope this will all be sufficient,” Soeur Beatrice said. “We live simply here.”
“It’s perfect.”
Soeur Beatrice returned to her quarters once I’d assured her I’d come to them if I needed anything. Silence settled in the room and I gave a hiccupping sigh. The grief, the memory of my time with Christophe, was still there, hovering in the periphery, but under control in this new place that already felt like home. I pushed open curtains and windows throughout the house. Light flooded the rooms. I stepped out onto the porch overlooking the grounds and took a deep, cleansing breath.
I watched William approach from the direction of the church and a spasm of shyness came over me. He was more Carmen’s friend than mine, after all. As he drew closer, he held up a dead bird.
“I brought you your dinner,” he called out, and for a terrible moment, I thought it was the egret. William laughed when he saw my expression. “Chicken. It just needs to be plucked and have its head and feet cut off.”
“I don’t have a clue how to do any of that.”
“I’ll show you.”
The dead chicken proved an excellent icebreaker. As we plucked, we talked about his trip to Paris, tactfully skirting around the break-up issue, and Peace Corps goings-on in Libreville. Once we’d finished prepping and cleaning the chicken, William reached into a bag and pulled out a few items, setting them on the counter. It was Americana galore: Dream Whip powdered whipping cream, something called pumpkin pie spice, oregano, mustard packets, dehydrated cheese sauce and chili powder. “My mom sent it all, six weeks ago,” he said. “It was supposed to go to Daniel. He was a great cook. The rule was, if I procured the hard-to-find ingredients, he’d do the rest.”
We regarded the items and William grew quiet, almost bewildered. “It never crossed my mind Daniel wouldn’t be here this year. And when I left my village, I was thinking I might come back engaged to be married. Funny, isn’t it? These plans and assumptions you make.”
I imagined we were thinking the same thing: And now it’s difficult Fiona and an aching heart. “I know,” I mumbled, “I’m a pretty lousy trade.”
“No, it’s great that he was replaced with someone I know. This place is my closest contact with the outside world. My village is less than an hour away. I come into town every so often to pick up supplies—the sisters let me use a guest room here for overnight trips. That won’t cramp your style, will it? Having another American around?”
“Not at all.”
“Great.” He smiled at me, finished unpacking the goods and folded up the bag.
“I remember Daniel’s green papaya pie from last Christmas,” I said. “If you want, I can try my hand at making it.”
“Think you can do it?”
“I imagine I can get some sort of recipe from Carmen. All of his recipes. But I’ll warn you, I’m not much of a cook. We’ll probably end up with a Fiona special.”
“It’s a deal. These p
roducts are all yours.”
He needed to get back to his village before sunset. I walked him outside to his truck. “Thanks for the chicken,” I said. “And thanks for… being here for me this afternoon.”
“No problem,” William said. “See you soon.” He got into the truck, which coughed and sputtered before roaring to life. And with a wave, he was off.
Classes didn’t start for another week. I used the time to familiarize myself with the mission, explore Bitam’s town center and get to know my colleagues. Oyem was less than two hours away so I was able to easily visit Carmen. She’d have changes this year too. Daniel’s med-evac aside, she would be getting a new roommate, a newly sworn-in community health volunteer, within the month. She told me she didn’t mind. It would take her mind off Daniel’s absence.
“So how’s everything going between you two?” I asked.
“Not bad, in truth.” She handed me a cold Orangina. “I can make international phone calls from the big hotels in Oyem. We agreed to talk once a month. Aside from that, lots of letters. Maybe meet in Paris over Christmas break.” She threw up her hands in mock protest. “I know, I know, basically the same thing I was giving William trouble about last year. Sheer lunacy.” She grinned. “Won’t be the first time anyone’s accused me of that.”
I told her about my getaway with Christophe.
“And now?” she asked. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” I kept my voice firm. “It hurts, of course. But I think I got it all out of my system.”
“Oh, right.”
I scowled at her. “I am not going to spend my second year in a state of silly infatuation with a guy I can’t have. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
“Fine with me. We can be the celibacy sisters. How about a couple romantic dinners by candlelight?”
“Remember how eating by candlelight used to be the epitome of romantic? Now it just means it’s another power outage or you’re visiting au village.”
We both laughed, good humor restored.
The next day, while Carmen took care of business at her school, I made a trip to Oyem’s town center with its staggering abundance of stores and commerce. It was like a mini Libreville, I decided happily, looking around at the shops, the variety of items to buy. Furniture, glassware, French pharmaceuticals, a bookstore. The city catered to its many Europeans. Being white in Oyem wasn’t the shocker it was in the provinces.
The anonymity made me relax my guard. When I saw a vaguely familiar figure, an African man, my first thought was, hey, it’s one of my new colleagues from Bitam.
The man turned around.
Ondo Calixte. Not far away in Makokou, but here.
I froze. I could feel the blood drain from my face, all the triggers of fear and instability and everything bad about the previous year.
He was speaking harshly to a small, middle-aged woman who wore a faded tee shirt, a pagne around her waist and a matching head-wrap. She nodded meekly over his words and bent to pick up her bags. He turned, as if sensing my presence.
His gaze met mine. I watched as the momentary fog of non-recognition cleared, replaced by shock, and finally calculation.
“Alors, hello, Miss Fiona,” he called out as he made his way to me, eyes never leaving my face. “Is the beautiful day, no? The… sky is… shines very yes.”
Having exhausted his ability to speak in English, he switched to French. “I am surprised to see you here in Oyem.”
I hid my unease. “Yes, I sometimes visit Oyem. I have friends here.” Self-preservation told me not to mention my new post.
He crossed his arms and relaxed against a signpost. He still had that way of forcing an unwanted intimacy into his body language. He knew what he was doing and that it bothered me.
“Why are you here?” I asked him.
“I have family living here, and in this province, as well as the Ogooué Ivindo.” Little of the adolescent remained in him, I noted. It made him all the more ominous.
Yet he was still just a student, I reminded myself.
“You are returning to the lycée in Makokou?” I asked him, everything in me clenching in anticipation of hearing that he planned to attend school here. To my relief, he only nodded.
He didn’t ask me the same question, and I didn’t offer. Let him figure it out on his own, in a week’s time. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks for the fact that he would no longer be my problem, and that this second year of mine showed every sign of being a good one.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said. “Someone is expecting me.”
“A man?” he asked. “One who eagerly awaits you?”
He sized me up and down, in the creepy, suggestive way he had, back in Makokou.
“That does not concern you,” I spat, belatedly remembering my second-year vow to maintain a teacher’s distance at all times. I drew myself an inch higher and injected frost into my tone. “It is discourse for adults and my fellow teachers alone. Goodbye, now.” I switched to English. “I suspect you’ll fuck up just as much this year as last, but happily, it will not be my problem.”
He stood there, uncomprehending.
I turned and strode back toward the grocery store, bastion of products and clientele European and beyond. He would not follow me in there.
Good riddance to him and all he stood for, I thought as I selected a half-dozen chocolate bars to take with me back to Bitam. That was so last year.
I had a more positive experience to move on to.
Chapter 17
Friday was bean sandwich day. It had become a ritual for my Gabonese colleague Lisette and me to meet Lance, the new English-teaching volunteer posted at the town’s lycée, at the Bitam market after school. We’d wander past rows of Gabonese women who squatted over their wares—little piles of piment, avocados and mangoes, dried fish, coarse-looking manioc tubers—to Célèste’s stall in the heart of the market. For the cost of roughly a dollar, Célèste would take a fresh, crusty baguette, split it and fill it with savory, freshly cooked pinto beans, topping it with a searing hot piment-oil blend. It was, inexplicably, the best sandwich I’d ever tasted.
September had flown and now it was October. Bitam and my new post suited me well. Although not a provincial capital like Makokou, Bitam felt livelier, with a market that buzzed with activity and commerce at all hours. The stimulus that had jarred me in my first weeks in Gabon energized me here. Honking taxis and trucks weaving through the crowds meant there was transportation available to go anywhere I wanted. The market odors, smoke from countless small fires mingled with cooking oil, the sour-sweet smell of baton de manioc and fermenting palm wine, and even the trash, told me food was available and plentiful. This felt like an Africa I could more easily embrace. Not impersonal and excessive like the big city, not stark and mystery-tinted like the villages.
Lance, Lisette and I took our sandwiches over to our favorite hangout bar. Over African pop music blasting from the bar’s cassette player, Lance showed us his most recent acquisitions.
This, too, had become a weekly ritual. He had a habit of buying things he might or might not use, purchasing whatever suited his whimsy: a flowing African caftan; twin plastic ladles; a box of cigarette lighters; a crate of liquor bottles filled with peanuts. Today he’d bought a dozen rolls of chocolate-flavored digestive biscuits, the kind that sometimes got passed off as dessert and that no one would eat unless they were British or starving or had been subsisting on animal over manioc for too long.
“Why did you buy so many of those horrible biscuit cookie things?” I protested.
“I was haggling,” he said proudly. “He gave me the twelfth pack free.”
“Maybe because he just loaded twelve times the usual inventory off to you.”
“I know a bargain when I see one, Fiona.”
“What on earth are you going to do with so many?”
Lance grinned. “I don’t know. Throw a party and serve them with the five kilos of guavas I bought on Tuesday?�
�
Lisette laughed; I sighed.
Mr. “Sure, whatever!” at his finest. Back during the recent Lambaréné training, that had been Carmen’s and my nickname for him. With his easy, outgoing nature, bucktoothed grin and naïve curiosity, combined with admittedly sexy brown eyes, he was like a mix between Gomer Pyle and Tom Cruise. I couldn’t decide if he was adorable or unbearable. Sometimes he managed to be both concurrently.
Lisette began to debate the merits of Coke versus Pepsi with Lance in her musical, French-accented English. I watched her round, animated face, the way her plum lips pursed in disagreement or amusement, the exotic tilt of her flashing dark-brown eyes. I adored her. Three years my senior, she was my closest neighbor at the mission and the Gabonese friend I’d never found last year. She claimed that her three years of university study in France had made her more bold and less traditional-minded, but I sensed she would have been a strong, spirited woman no matter what she’d done. Lance clearly entertained her. “You young American men,” she said in English, “you are such the funny ones.”
“I’ll bet you I’m right,” he told her.
Lisette’s eyes sparkled. “A bet? Oh, my friend, you are on!”
Lance reached into his pocket for a CFA bill, but instead pulled out a wadded note. He stared at it, puzzled, until his eyes widened and his mouth formed an O. He looked up at me pleadingly.
“Forget your money again?” I asked him. “Don’t worry, I can lend you some.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just, this is a message for you.” He thrust the wadded note at me.
I held it but didn’t open it. “What’s wrong with this note that I should know about?”
“Nothing! I was just supposed to have given it to you already.”
“Like when?”
“Like, Monday afternoon when you and I met up. Except I forgot, so I told myself Wednesday. But then I wasn’t wearing these jeans when you stopped by.”
A Dancer's Guide to Africa Page 16
