A Dancer's Guide to Africa

by Terez Mertes Rose

  “You’re back,” she said, stating the obvious.

  “Yes.” I opened my door wider and she stepped in.

  “Something to drink?” I asked, feeling awkward, unsure of how to proceed.

  “Do you still have some of that Earl Grey tea your sister sent you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be nice.”

  Like most Africans, Lisette was unafraid of long stretches of silence, and didn’t jump to fill them with inane chatter. She was content to sit at my kitchen table without speaking, as I stood at the stove, focusing on the tea kettle. “Did he go back to Oyem?” I asked her finally.

  “Of course. Hours ago.”

  “How was he?”

  “If you know him as well as you both have alluded, I think you know how he was.”

  “Angry?” I turned to face her. “But very controlled about it? Almost calm?”

  She nodded.

  I had to ask the question. I had to know. “Did you sleep with him?”

  The look Lisette gave me, chilly and disapproving, was the most effective silencer I had ever received. Alison could have learned a lesson or two from her.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, feeling the heat rush to my face. “That’s not my business.”

  “Indeed it’s not.”

  The rules were so different here. Just when I thought I’d figured them out, something like this would hit me.

  I didn’t truly know Lisette. I knew as much of her as she’d allowed me to know. Right then, the gulf between us, two women from two different cultures, felt enormous. She drove in this point even deeper, once we were both seated, sipping our teas.

  “Did you know Christophe has two brothers?”

  She’d spoken so casually, with words so unexpected and shocking, I was sure I’d heard wrong. I asked her to repeat herself.

  She complied.

  “But that’s impossible,” I stammered, after her words confirmed I hadn’t misheard.

  She looked amused. “Oh? How?”

  “I would have known. The other volunteers would have told me. He would have told me.”

  In response, she only shrugged and took another sip of tea.

  I saw this wasn’t a point I could argue away. Lisette knew more than I. She was Gabonese, after all. It galled me to think that she might automatically know Christophe better.

  “I’ve seen photos of his parents together,” I argued. “His father is a man who loves his wife deeply.”

  She regarded me curiously. “Of course he does. This is why Christophe won’t mention his father’s second family, away in the village.”

  “Does Christophe’s mother know of them?”

  Another incredulous look, as if I’d asked her whether animal over rice was a vegan dish.

  “It is a man’s legal right to have up to four wives, here in Gabon. When a wife can’t produce children, or can only produce one, no one sees it as a crime if the man chooses to take a second wife or discreetly have a second family in the village. Children are wealth. Sons are wealth.” She paused to sip her tea. “But out of respect to his wife, particularly in this situation, where Christophe’s father is an important man and she comes from a good, highly placed family, it remains tucked out of view. Out of polite conversation.”

  “How old are they?” I asked faintly. “These brothers.”

  “They are young men. Nineteen and twenty-one. They are studying abroad. England, though, and not France.”

  “I didn’t know,” I whispered, almost to myself. “Why didn’t Christophe tell me any of this?”

  “Most likely because you don’t know how to discuss African affairs. You barge in, ask questions that are too personal, not the kind another African would ask.”

  When I tried to protest, she held one hand up.

  “I have noticed this about you. I love you, Fiona. I’m so happy you’re here, at this post, as my friend. You’ve enriched my life and expanded my world and my worldview. When you say the wrong thing or ask the wrong question, I remind myself it is because you don’t fully know our culture.”

  I sputtered, but no intelligible words of defense came out.

  “You baffle me, Fiona,” she continued. “You have before, a little, but now I’m truly stunned. To throw away such a friendship as the one Christophe has offered you? Was any sense of indignation or jealousy on your part worth that? He clearly cares for you. He loves you, even. Do you know how fortunate that makes you? And look what you did.”

  I rose in agitation, opened the fridge, studied its contents without seeing them, and shut the door. “Well, we are similar here.” I turned and faced her. “Just as I’m discovering how l really don’t know the full workings behind the Gabonese culture, you really don’t know American women. Or at least ones like me, who would rather have no relationship over one that left me feeling emotionally unsettled and crappy all the time.”

  “You’d prefer solitude?”

  “Most decidedly.”

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  This wasn’t going well. Antagonism had filled the room like the cloying stink of cigar smoke. Painfully aware that one destroyed friendship in a twenty-four-hour period was all my psyche could manage, I returned to the table and touched her hand.

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m bumbling all over the place here. It’s always been my downfall, since I was a kid.” I forced the difficult words out. “You’re right. I say the wrong thing, ask the wrong questions. I can’t help it. There’s such a need in me to know. To understand. To solve the mystery, once and for all.”

  Her expression softened. “Not everything is to be figured out, my friend. We do not question mystery so much here. Can you explain death, after all? Can you explain how one continent suffers as another prospers, and the fairness of that? Are we not all, in the end, on the same journey of life, trying to do right, and love our children, our families? Family, supporting them, is everything.”

  I thought of the contention I’d left back home. “Sometimes supporting family is hard.”

  “I can appreciate that,” she said. “As we speak, I am angry at my sister who is raising my son in the village. But she is helping me, and in turn I am helping them by providing income.”

  “You have a son?” I stuttered.

  “I do. He is six years old. I will spend two weeks with him and family at Christmas.”

  “You never told me!”

  She only shrugged.

  It all felt as disorienting as a funhouse. You’d have thought I’d gotten used to it by now.

  Welcome to Africa. Again.

  Chapter 19

  As if in karmic retribution for my irresponsible adventures, I fell sick with a bout of stomach flu that made me miss classes on Tuesday and teach like a zombie on Wednesday. But calm soon returned to my world at the mission. The students never took advantage of the situation, and Lisette once again became her smiling, easygoing self. Neither of us mentioned Christophe. I pushed aside my hurt, jealousy and increasing remorse at what I’d done, painfully aware that I’d destroyed my relationship with Christophe, maybe irrevocably. But his life was with Mireille in Libreville anyway, and mine was here. By Saturday afternoon, when I went into town to run errands, I felt grounded and cheerful once again.

  William had sent a message—this time delivered directly to the mission—that he’d be late coming to Bitam on Saturday, probably past sunset. Beers with Lance and his teaching colleagues in the market seemed a fun way for me to spend the extra time. Lance bought a plate of beef brochettes to snack on, topped with fiery piment oil. I watched in amusement as Lance took a dare, pouring even more piment oil on his last bite, afterward waving his hand frantically over his mouth, nose running, eyes leaking over its overpowering heat. As nightfall approached, I bade the group farewell, hopped on my bike and cycled through town. Only when I was outside the town center did I notice my bicycle light wasn’t working. For a moment, I debated going back to borrow Lance’s flashlight. I decided
no. It was late enough as it was, and after riding on the road for two and a half months, I knew every rut and pothole.

  At first I was cautious about riding without a headlight, but the trip passed without incident. My concern evaporated as the mission lights appeared in the distance. When I began my descent on the final hill, I let the bike gather speed, greater and greater, until the night air blasted against my face and legs. It was so dark, I couldn’t even see the road. The edgy thrill of it all made me burst into cackles of glee. How fast could I go? Why had I been so nervous about this? It was exhilarating, like flying past all I’d been afraid of. Lance and Lisette were bold and fearless like this all the time. Leap first, look later. Why shouldn’t I be this way as well?

  I flew down the hill and screeched with laughter, following it with an animal-like howl of triumph that seemed to reverberate through the forest.

  Too late, I heard a truck, even though I couldn’t see its lights. When it appeared from around the sharp bend, near the mission driveway, I discovered why: the truck had no headlights. In its place were wobbling flashlights, tied into place. I seemed to have endless time to consider my options. Stay on target and get hit. Brake and wipe out. Veer off the road at thirty miles an hour, negotiate the unfamiliar and get hurt.

  I swerved. It was either that or die. As the truck rumbled past, the driver most likely never seeing me, I bumped and careened down the invisible periphery of the road until I hit something. The jolt threw me from my bike. For an instant I was airborne. Then I crashed, and everything good ended.

  The ringing in my ears was terrible. I struggled up to sitting, gasping at the pain shooting from my wrist. My jaw felt much worse, as if it had been torn from its socket and was now on fire. I’d landed in a ditch. My face and arms felt wet and sticky, and the rest of my body seemed caked in dust and grime. I needed a towel. It occurred to me the mission was nearby. William would be there. He was waiting for me. I had to get to the house. I had to get to the house. It became my mantra. I groped around in the dark and struggled out of the ditch. Fighting waves of dizziness and nausea, I limped, one shaky step at a time, toward the light.

  William was indeed there, standing on my porch. I heard him telling me he was glad I hadn’t locked the door because this way he could have a beer while he waited. I stepped out of the shadows into the glare of the compound spotlight. The brightness of it sent knife stabs of pain ripping through my head.

  William’s words trailed off. I felt blackness creeping up behind me. Everything tilted at a funny angle, but instead of pitching forward like I’d expected, I felt an arm clamp around my waist. Walking became easier, almost effortless. I didn’t even have to open my door. Inside, I squeezed my eyes shut against the light as William eased me onto a chair.

  “Fiona? Fiona? Talk to me, sweetie. Can you hear me?”

  Pain shot through my jaw when I tried to respond. Only a muted whimper came out.

  “Nod if you can hear me, Fiona.”

  This was easier. I nodded. I felt his hands on me, touching my face. He made little tsks of disapproval and disappeared. I opened my eyes again, but now, in addition to the too-bright light, something else was bothering my vision. I put a shaking hand to my face to brush it away. I looked at my hand—it was crimson, wet with blood. Lots of blood. My blood. I began to pant, little animal sounds of terror. William, returning from the kitchen with a wet towel, hurried over.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” His voice sounded both soothing and stern. “Fiona, look at me.” His command cut through my panic. I looked up. “You’ll be all right. I think it’s just a scalp wound that’s making you bleed so much.” His eyes locked onto mine, his so beautiful with those thick lashes, almost double-fringed. Nothing like Christophe’s green eyes except in the way they drew me in, little anchors that kept me from drifting away. And William’s voice, gentle and singsong—it was worth staying alert just to hear it. He continued to talk to me as he wiped my face, probed at my swelling wrist, my throbbing jaw. He told me to follow his finger with my eye, and tell him where I was. I did. I would have done anything that voice asked. I trusted its owner implicitly. Even when he reached down, slipped his hands beneath my shirt and pulled it off. He set it on the counter; it was saturated with blood and grime down the entire front. He disappeared into my bedroom and a moment later reappeared.

  “Is this shirt okay?” he asked, holding up a red tee shirt with puppies on it, a gift Mom had sent that was so patently childish, I’d never once worn it. William stood there, holding it up, looking so serious. It dawned on me that I was nearly topless in front of him, wearing only a skimpy bra. This struck me as terribly funny and I began to laugh, only it hurt my jaw so bad, it became crying, which hurt just as bad. He came over and with a deft tug, pulled the shirt over me. I slid my arms through the holes, my body now trembling uncontrollably.

  He squatted and gently rubbed my arms. “Can you walk to my truck? We need to get you to the hospital. You’re going to need stitches, for starters.”

  “Adventure’s not over?” I mumbled.

  “Hate to say it, but I think it’s just begun.”

  He was right. The next few hours were a haze of pain-wracked misery—the bumpy ride to the hospital; the hour wait among others far worse off than I; the horrifying examining table with bloodstains still on it from the last patient. The medic on duty, an enormous, hard-faced Gabonese woman, terrified me. She was unapologetic about the clinic’s lack of anesthesia for the stitches, or painkillers for when she yanked my dislocated jaw back into place. My howls of pain, in the end, probably helped the jaw pop back quicker.

  Back home, I hobbled to the bathroom and spied myself in the mirror. The whole left side of my face was swollen and scraped, my cheek and chin a bulging mess with black string poking out from the sutures. I had the beginning of a black eye. William saw my stricken expression as I turned away.

  “If you think that’s scary,” he joked, “you should’ve seen what you looked like when I first saw you, blood streaming down your face.” He assessed me and his smile faded. “It’s late. Why don’t you head off to bed, see if you can sleep?”

  I nodded and shuffled off. William followed, with a bottle of aspirin and a cup of water that he set down on the nightstand. “I’ll sleep on your living room floor tonight,” he said. “Just call out if you need anything else.”

  If I needed anything else. Yes, I did. I needed to turn back the clock to a minute before I’d decided I was ready to start flying. For some of us, it simply didn’t work.

  My failure taunted me, all that sleepless night and the next day, after William left, and all I could do was sit in misery while my jaw throbbed and burned and my body rejected the stitches. I’d blown it, and I would pay dearly. When infection flared up the following day, rendering me feverish and Soeur Beatrice concerned, the inevitability of it all made me want to cry. Because there was only one place for me to go.

  Med-evac to Libreville, where Christophe was.

  Chapter 20

  “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” a voice said. I cracked open an eye and Rachel, the Peace Corps medical officer, was standing there, her curly brown hair a halo against the bright light of late morning. The room had flowered wallpaper, a chintz armchair in the corner and a lace-covered end table next to it. I had no idea where I was.

  “Mmph.”

  Rachel laughed. “I see my assistant gave you the painkillers last night. They’re dynamite, aren’t they? Bet you slept well. All right, let’s see the damage.” As she looked over me, the events of yesterday slipped back into place. The afternoon flight to Libreville with William, the way he’d steered me through the airport, into the back seat of a taxi and finally to the comforting coolness of Rachel’s living room. She’d been out, but her assistant had injected me with antibiotics and painkillers. Afterwards everything had grown softer and more unfocused. The sound of William chatting with another volunteer was the last thing I remembered.

  My reverie was i
nterrupted when Rachel prodded at my stitches. “Ow, ow,” I yelped, arms flailing.

  “Sorry. But to be honest, it’s going to hurt even more when I rip them out. Which I’m going to have to do.” She stood back, hands on her hips, and frowned at me. “God, you’re a mess. Your jaw still looks funny too. Think I’ll call in Dr. Gauthier to take a look at it—you can come with me to my office.”

  “Where’s William?” I asked.

  “He grabbed the morning flight back north. Don’t worry,” she added, misinterpreting my dismay, “there are a few more folks in town if you want company. They came back with me last night.”

  Wisps of a dream from the previous night floated through my head. Christophe had been in it. I’d been drowning in the ocean, crying out for him. I remembered waking, panicked, hearing the ocean behind me and the buzz of conversation beyond the bedroom door, in the living room. It had all felt so real. I could have sworn Christophe had been there, pulling me to safety, making the ocean recede. Never mind that there was no ocean in Rachel’s house. “Were a group of you talking in the living room?” I asked.

  “Were we too loud?”

  “No, it’s just that… Was Christophe there?”

  “Essono Christophe? No, why?” She looked at me, puzzled.

  “Never mind. I guess I was just having a weird dream.”

  At Rachel’s office, Dr. Gauthier, a jovial French physician, pronounced the jaw traumatized but on the road to recovery. He administered some anesthesia to help the muscles relax and suggested I not yawn, sneeze, chew or open my mouth too widely for the next month. Rachel ripped out my stitches, impervious to my cries of pain, rinsed and disinfected the angry red wounds, doped me up and sent me to the back room to rest. As I huddled on a cot in the antiseptic-smelling room, more of last night’s dream came back to me, in all its vivid intensity.

  It had been some sort of beach party. I’d been wading in the ocean, well aware that the pointe shoes I was wearing were getting ruined by the salt water. I was alone; everyone else had congregated further up on the beach. They were laughing and talking, petting some sort of tuxedo-clad leopards that were circling the group, serving appetizers from trays balanced on their backs. At first, the ocean gently lapped at my thighs. Soon, however, bigger waves came and tugged at me, slapping my chest and face. The undertow sucked at my legs and made me stumble. I saw Christophe and decided he was very rude to let his ocean assault me like this, but he was too busy visiting with what appeared to be members of my family.