A Dancer's Guide to Africa

by Terez Mertes Rose

  The waves grew more aggressive and I shouted for help, but no one heard me. The next wave pulled me away. I cried for Christophe before squeezing my eyes shut. When I opened them, I was in the dark, alone and scared. No one could come because they were having too much fun on the beach in the next room.

  Just when I was ready to give in to the relentless seduction of the water that had followed me into the bedroom, someone did appear, calling out my name before slipping an arm around my shoulders. It was Christophe; it had to be Christophe, because no one else knew how to comfort me like this, drawing my shaking body to his and tightening his arms around me so that the waves subsided with a grumble. And even though the water had retreated, he still held me close until I stopped trembling. His hand stroked my hair. I felt his warmth, his heart thumping somewhere close to my ear. When I whispered that I was so afraid he’d left me for good, his response was to hold me even closer, tucking my sweaty body next to his through the tangled sheets, before he tenderly kissed my forehead. “I would never leave you, Fiona,” he said.

  Even though it had only been a dream, it had brought such comfort, leaving me with the feeling that everything would be all right. I rearranged the pillows under my head, gave a little hiccupping sigh and settled back to rest.

  When I heard Christophe’s voice an hour later, I knew I couldn’t possibly have imagined it this time as well. “You mean she’s here?” I heard him ask Rachel. Before I could gather my wits about me, he came into the room, stopping short when he saw me. The shock on his face reminded me how bad I looked.

  I was not prepared for battle—it was enough of a struggle just to sit up straight. “Oh, baby,” he said, coming closer, “you look awful.” I tried to laugh, but it came out as a tortured hiss. He pulled over a stool and sat beside me, taking my un-bandaged hand. He looked impeccable in a white button-down shirt and pin-striped trousers. Beside him, I felt like a vagrant.

  There was an awkward pause. “So,” he said finally, “here we are again.” I nodded, unsure of how to best address the situation. “I was worried when I heard about your med-evac.” He saw my confusion. “William called me this morning before he left.”

  The news stunned me. William had seen how Christophe’s presence had upset me the last time—why had he thrown me right back into the lion’s den? “I had no idea you and William had become such good friends,” I ground out.

  Christophe stiffened. “He assumed, rightly so, that I might be concerned to learn you were injured.”

  “You found her,” Rachel called out, appearing in the door with an exquisitely beautiful Gabonese woman in a beige linen suit. The two of them smiled at me.

  When Christophe heard the women approach from behind, his expression changed. Several emotions seemed to flit across his face—unease, chagrin, regret—replaced a moment later by diplomatic politesse.

  “Fiona,” he said, “I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Mireille.”

  His expression had warned me; I had to give him that. I commanded myself to focus on breathing normally. Everything else seemed like too much of a challenge. The stranger took a few steps forward, extending an elegant, tapered hand. “Enchantée,” she said, her eyes calm, her voice like silk. I pulled my hand from Christophe’s to shake hers, dredging up what dignity I could muster.

  “Un plaisir,” I replied, wincing when my performance smile produced a sharp pain.

  “Poor Fiona,” Rachel said in English, chuckling. “I don’t think you’re going to enjoy talking for a few days.”

  “Then I won’t make it more difficult for you,” Mireille said in flawless English, her manners as refined as her appearance.

  She and Rachel headed back to Rachel’s office. I didn’t look up, not even to accept the apology I knew was on Christophe’s expression. Instead I closed my eyes. He took my hand again, which I kept limp, passive. After a moment he gave it a squeeze and stood up. “I’ll let you rest. I’ll come by Rachel’s house tomorrow to see how you’re doing. That is,” he added, his tone cooler, “if you don’t plan on going anywhere.”

  This made me open my eyes. I met his chilly, expectant gaze. I opened my mouth to defend myself and pain shot through my jaw again. The anger left his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I told myself I wasn’t going to bring it up. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I nodded and he slipped out.

  The next day I felt slightly better, which wasn’t saying much. Rachel’s house was quiet. The volunteers who’d returned to Libreville with her had moved to the livelier case de passage. Once Rachel had left for work, only the ticking clock and the rumble of traffic outside broke the silence. I curled up on the sofa, content to read and glance periodically around the living room with its mix of American and African: batiks and Georgia O’Keefe prints on the wall and lacy curtains at the windows. I couldn’t help but compare everything to Bitam. Libreville, while more cosmopolitan and wealthy, now seemed too civilized. In the homes of Rachel’s neighborhood, one of the city’s well-tended French expatriate enclaves, I sensed an attempt to keep Africa out and the West in.

  The sisters at the Bitam mission, on the other hand, seemed to let Africa permeate their Western-ness. They still wore the white uniforms and headdresses that demarked them as European nuns, but the loose, relaxed way they strolled down the corridors in their frayed sandals attested to time spent in Africa—over twenty years for most of them. While they focused on their tasks when inside, they’d grow dreamier outside, pausing on their morning walks to angle their heads and smile in the direction of something they alone seemed to hear. Their roast chicken Sunday dinners featured Gabonese side dishes. Drums, not church bells, pounded from the mission belfry on Sunday mornings, calling them and other worshippers to service.

  The serenity and odd familiarity of the Catholic environment allowed Africa to slip in the back door of my own mind as well. It coiled around my thoughts, my body, even as I slept, giving me vivid, spectacular dreams. Each morning upon waking, I’d feel subtly altered, in a way that both pleased and disconcerted me. I’d take my tea outside, acutely conscious of the colors around me, the sweet-smelling earth, the way the nubs of grass would tickle my feet. Nights were cooler in the northern part of the country, making the morning air fresh and tinged with magic.

  The students picked up on the otherworldly calm too. It subdued them in the classroom, helping to maintain the discipline, which, in itself was rarely a problem. Soeur Hélène, the surveillant, would come into the classroom, bringing with her a pall of sadness that hung in the air. Her mournful blue eyes would focus on the troublemaker, her tiny frame bent under the weight of her grief that we couldn’t all get along. “Richard?” she’d say in a sad voice. “Was this a good idea?” Richard would cower in a manner the Makokou surveillant could never have produced. All the bravado would fizzle out as if he were a pierced inflatable. “Let’s go talk about this,” Soeur Hélène would propose and they’d walk out, her hand on his shoulder, his head hanging. From behind, it looked as if they were heading off for her to console the student. On the rare occasion a student resisted this method, a gentle suggestion that they pay a visit to Mohammed, the mission mechanic, did the trick. They were clever, these sisters.

  I missed them. I missed the market, Célèste’s bean sandwiches, my friends. I missed everything in Bitam.

  The sound of a car braking to a stop in front of Rachel’s house brought me back to the present. I peeked out the window and saw Christophe getting out of his car. The contents of my stomach flip-flopped. I commanded myself to play it cool as I fumbled with the front door, finally wresting it open to let him in. He was wearing a tailored navy suit and silk tie that made him appear both professional and intimidating. This, I sensed, was part of his strategy. He greeted me with a kiss on the forehead, the only part of my face that didn’t look battered, and followed me into the living room.

  “I guess I’ll go make us some tea,” I mumbled, gesturing to the kitchen.

  “You sit. I’ll do it.
”

  “I’m not an invalid.” I drew myself up taller. “I don’t need my jaw to make tea.” But, as it turned out, I needed two strong, un-sprained wrists to carry the tray. He came into the kitchen five minutes later and took the tray as I stood there, swaying with indecision. Wordless, I followed him into the living room.

  “So,” I said, once we were both seated, “I guess congratulations are in order.” I focused on my tea bag, watching it bob in my hot water. When Christophe didn’t respond, I looked up at his puzzled face. “You and Mireille,” I prompted.

  My tea bag seemed to fascinate him as well. He exhaled heavily and looked up. “Please believe me when I say I never intended that meeting to happen yesterday. I had no idea we’d find you there. We happened to be in the neighborhood over our lunch break and Mireille, knowing my concern, suggested we stop by to get more information from Rachel.”

  “She’s very beautiful. And considerate.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  I knew if the conversation continued along this vein, I was going to make an idiot of myself and start crying. Fortunately, he seemed equally reluctant to discuss his fiancée. Instead, he talked about the goings-on in Libreville, sharing what he’d learned from visits to the Peace Corps office. Henry’s home had been the site of an enormous ant war that had raged for two days. The ants had rampaged through the house, covering one wall with solid black, as they forged onward, eating anything in their way. Henry hadn’t been able to return for five days.

  “And last week,” Christophe said, “your fellow English teacher Sharon left.”

  “You mean permanently? Like she quit?”

  He nodded. “It sounds like she was hoping the second year would get easier, but in her case, it didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I guess not everyone gets a Bitam their second year.”

  “Ah, yes. Bitam.”

  There it was. I set down my tea. He waited for an apology as the silence lengthened.

  In the end, he spoke first. “I have to say, I think what you did that next day was childish, rude and completely inappropriate.” He studied me, his lips a tight, compressed line. “I thought we were seeing eye to eye the night before. I gave you the choice. I respected your decision and still you threw it back in my face.”

  “Do you honestly believe that was easy for me?” I protested, in spite of the pain to my jaw. “And you taunted me after I’d made my decision—don’t you go denying that.”

  “Regardless, it doesn’t change the fact that you reacted like a child, more concerned about yourself than the fact you had us all worried that Sunday.” He shook his head. “You are the most difficult person I’ve ever met. Really, I don’t know why I tried so hard to be friends with you.”

  His use of the past tense, as well as the way he now regarded me, eyes narrowed in contempt, frightened me into silence.

  “I could have continued to help you, you know. Made your time here in Gabon a bit easier. But, forget it. Did you really think I’d let someone treat me like that and get away with it?” He let his words settle in, in all their chilling finality. I pressed my shaking legs together and told myself I wasn’t going to cry.

  “I’d decided, upon my return from Bitam, that was it,” he continued. “I saw no merit in continuing our relationship. Only now…” He let the words trail off.

  “What?” I was afraid to breathe.

  “Just look at you.”

  I didn’t need to look at myself to know what he was implying. The disdainful yet pitying expression on his face said it all.

  “So I must confess, I don’t know what to do.” He raised and dropped his shoulders in a theatrical gesture.

  Christophe may have been a player, but he wasn’t an actor. If he’d stopped his performance a few lines earlier, he might have hooked me, made me cry, implore him to remain my friend. But he hadn’t stopped. And now, observing his pompous demeanor as he dangled his carrot of salvation over me, I saw everything. He’d just played his trump card: his friendship, the one thing he was convinced no one could do without. But Christophe had forgotten something. I had no problem being left the hell alone. Going solo had always been easier for me than making relationships work out. Christophe was the one who stood to lose here. He needed people. He needed people to need him. I didn’t anymore.

  And like that, the power balance between us shifted. I could almost feel it in the air, a little rustle that eased the heaviness I’d felt ever since I first fell for him in Lambaréné.

  He’d grown uneasy by my lack of response. I rose calmly, ignoring the adrenaline that surged through my bloodstream. “Let me ease the pain of your conundrum,” I said.

  I strolled over to the front door and opened it. “Get out.”

  He stood, mouth agape. “You want me to leave? You want me to leave? Fine, I’ll leave. And I won’t come back.”

  The dam holding back my hurt and resentment burst. “Get out then,” I shrieked, and instantly regretted it. I clamped my hand against my throbbing jaw. “Get the fuck out of here,” I said through clenched teeth.

  He didn’t move.

  I stamped my foot like a toddler. “I mean it—leave! Get out of my life. You’ve caused me nothing but grief, anyway.”

  He stood there, a murderous rage staining his face. Neither of us spoke or moved. Finally, with great deliberation, never losing eye contact, he sat. After another moment of silence between us, he looked down at his hands and buried his head in them. I watched his shoulders begin to shake. When he looked back up, I saw that he was laughing, and yet his eyes were anguished. “Oh, Fiona,” he said, sounding choked, “what am I going to do once you’ve gone?”

  I could feel the tension drain out of my shaking body. At the same time, I wasn’t about to get all soft and sentimental on him. “Beats the hell out of me,” I muttered, still cupping my jaw. “Maybe go buy a dog to kick?”

  “If it were anything like you, it would bite me in the leg before I had the chance.”

  “Before you could properly train it to heel?”

  He studied me. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “I wouldn’t presume to try.”

  So began one of the strangest periods of my relationship with Christophe. He stopped by to visit each day during the three-hour lunch break, and returned each evening with Mireille. Rachel was home by then and the four of us ate dinner together (soup for me, to my frustration) followed by a game of cards. Mireille didn’t seek explanations for Christophe’s attentiveness toward me, nor offer apologies for her own presence. I couldn’t help but notice how well suited she and Christophe were. She seemed to temper his personality—I found I almost liked him more when she was around to absorb some of his intensity. He didn’t change his intimate behavior toward me; he still caressed my cheek and regarded me with a loving smile before sitting next to Mireille. She seemed to hold him with a loose hand, perhaps recognizing if possessiveness and jealousy crept into their relationship, it would poison her.

  I knew when I was outclassed. I grudgingly warmed to her, finding I enjoyed her refined elegance, her amusing stories of years spent in boarding school and travels around the world. I watched her swivel her head to converse with everyone, her motions fluid and graceful. Her expensively coiffed tresses perfectly framed her face as her beautiful light-brown eyes lit up with animation. Her every movement was a dance.

  On Friday night, Rachel announced I’d healed well enough to return to Bitam. “I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to eat Thanksgiving turkey in two weeks,” she said, “but you’ll at least have graduated to stuffing.”

  “Are you looking forward to returning to your post?” Mireille asked.

  I thought about the sisters, my pretty house, my new friends, the lively market, the mission grounds and my late afternoon jogs. “I can’t wait to get back.” The wistful tone of my voice seemed to amuse everyone.

  “You mean to say there’s nothing in Libreville that can compete with Bitam?” Christophe asked.

  “There is
n’t,” I said, and the two women laughed. Christophe, however, didn’t, and I had the oddest sense that I owed him another apology.

  Or not.

  Chapter 21

  I didn’t know bread could catch on fire. But there it was, flaming away in Carmen’s oven. “Help,” I squeaked, hands flapping, as she joined me in the kitchen. She grabbed the potholders that had been hiding from me and pulled out the two flaming baguettes, plunging them into the water, where they extinguished with a hiss. Afterwards we surveyed the charred, soggy results.

  “Wow,” she said, “I had no idea baguettes could do that.”

  I sagged against the counter. “Crap. So that’s it for the baguettes, the manioc casserole and that disastrous corned beef stuffing. I’m running out of side dish ideas.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing.” She laughed when I scowled at her. “Oh, cheer up. We can send William into town for more baguettes. Jenny cut up a half-dozen mangoes for a side dish and made something pretty tasty with chopped taro root, onion, oil and vinegar. That’ll be plenty. And hey, your green papaya pie turned out nicely.”

  The pie really did look good. As per Daniel’s recipe, I’d mixed boiled, mashed green papayas with condensed milk, egg and sugar. I’d added the spices sent by William’s mom, tossed everything into a pie crust and baked. Now the pie was cooling, its crust and nubbed papaya surface browned to perfection. William came in and sniffed appreciatively at the buttery, cinnamon fragrance. “Wow, great job,” he said when he spied the pie.