The offertory procession was spectacular. Sixteen women, accompanied by the music of a dozen drums and several balafons—wooden xylophone instruments—danced and sang their way down the aisle, gifts in their hands, their hips sashaying to the beat. The women, in their attire of identical dresses of scarlet, green and gold with matching headdresses, looked like tribal princesses. The drums were deafening, intoxicating. At the foot of the altar, the women lay down their treasures—a wicker basket full of collected monetary offerings, an earthen jug of wine, a giant bowl filled with bread. The offerings got creative from there: a regime of bananas, the cluster of thirty still clinging together upside-down; six spiny pineapples; a dozen batons de manioc; ceramic dishes filled with rice, with stew; an enormous bolt of colorful fabric. There was even a basket of Regab bottles.
Célèste from the market finished up the procession. Watching her, a surge of admiration rose in me. Like most Gabonese, she was a born dancer. She carried herself like a queen, moving with broad, sweeping, theatrical steps. As she danced, she lifted a doll over her head. It was handmade, with baton de manioc arms, a five-pound rice bag for the body, topped by a hairy coconut head. A string of colorful beads cinched the lumpy waist. Célèste whirled and swayed with it before setting it down gently atop the bananas. The whole offertory was so whimsical, so infused with joy and exhilaration that my heart contracted. Surely this was how the offertory of gifts to the newborn Jesus must have been, with the palms and animals and the locals heralding his arrival with what they could: their music and organic pageantry, their hearts and the fruits of their labors. Every member of the congregation was swept up in the moment, singing and swaying with the music. The thunderous drumbeats echoed off the walls and filled the building, resonating in my head, jarring loose something deep inside me.
Tears were running down my cheeks as I glanced out of the corner of my eye at William. He looked as calm and composed as ever. But when he furtively brushed at his cheek, I realized that he’d gotten choked up too. A rush of affection and camaraderie came over me. If he’d been sitting next to me, I would have taken his hand. Clutched it, and not let go.
After the crowds had dispersed and we’d wished the sisters a Merry Christmas, William returned with me to my house. In spite of the late hour, I was wide awake. I pulled a bottle of Courvoisier off a shelf and angled it at him. “I know you have to leave early tomorrow, but do you want to come in for a nightcap?”
He smiled. “A wee dram, perhaps.”
We sat and I poured. We talked about the Mass, the offertory procession. “Watching Célèste really blew me away,” I said. “I’d never before seen her as a dancer.”
“She is. She leads a group of women who dance alongside a drumming circle in her neighborhood.”
Something that had long puzzled me became clear. “I hear drums, most Saturday nights, around the time I go to bed. Is that the group you’re talking about?”
“It is.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “That explains things. How, even though tonight’s Mass was a Catholic ceremony, there was so much more to it. It was so very African.”
“I agree. I think most of the locals harbor a parallel spirituality, both Western and African.”
“Do you ever wonder what’s going on in their minds, versus your own?” I asked. “I mean, there we all were, side by side in the church, having the exact same physical experience, hearing the same words from the priest, the lectors. But, come on, who are we kidding? I have no idea what they’re thinking. My perception of it all gets filtered through my own experience. The American, the Midwesterner, who grew up so differently, with different beliefs, values, superstitions. How could I pretend to know what the whole service meant to the woman sitting next to me?”
There were more words, more startling thoughts, wanting to come out, but they got jammed up in my mind, so I stopped talking.
William hadn’t replied. I looked up to see him studying me in the same startled way my brother or Lane Chatham always had when I spouted off like this. A wave of embarrassment came over me. I was about to apologize when William spoke.
“That’s it. That’s exactly it.”
“Really?” I stammered.
“Our thoughts, our mindsets. They create and define our world. Five different people tonight—you, me, the sisters, Célèste, Mohammed—had independent experiences.”
The door to my brain’s hidden room of insight creaked open a little further. “But don’t you suppose it’s both?” I began, unaware of what words would follow, which usually got me into trouble. “All of us, separate, at the same time all of us were united. Two hundred individuals and, paradoxically, no individuals at all.”
He stared at me. “That’s quantum physics.”
Which made me back off fast. “Oh. Sorry. Quantum physics isn’t my department. Couldn’t be further from it, in fact. That would be my brother Russell. He’s an MIT graduate.”
“But you nailed it, in layman’s terms. Opposing ideas can both be correct. Ram Dass has a quote about that. ‘Across planes of consciousness, we have to live with the paradox that opposite things can be simultaneously true.’ Or something like that.”
The brain door burst open.
“Oh, wow,” I breathed. “That can apply to everything.”
“I know. Crazy thought, huh?”
We both pondered this in silence.
I glanced over at him. “Hey,” I said softly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For getting it. For engaging in a discussion over my ramblings. My ex, he would have rolled his eyes after my first words. Or even mocked me for my efforts.”
“What an asshole.”
“It was just who he was.” I could see that about Lane now. “At the core, he was all Southern male. Rigid expectations of how things should be, how people should behave. Ballet dancers shouldn’t be philosophers, ugly women could be doctors or lawyers, because there was no conflict of interest, no decision on whether to marry, have kids.”
William began to laugh. “He said this? Seriously?”
“Dead serious. Want to know what he thought of gays?”
“I’m thinking not.”
“Good call.”
“This ex—what is his name?”
I hesitated. “Lane.”
“How long were you and Lane a couple?”
Why had I brought this up? What about my vow to never mention Lane’s name, much less go on about him?
“Less than four months,” I admitted. “Nothing long-term in the least.” I saw my chance to reroute the conversation. “Which was what you had, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. “Four years. Although I’m not sure last year really counts, since we spent the twelve months apart.”
“What was her name?” I challenged.
“Candace.”
I visualized a Jenny look-alike. Attractive, confident, laughing in the California sun as she strode through the Berkeley campus, long shiny brown hair swinging, off to study something lofty. I disliked her already.
“What does she do?”
“She’s finishing her last year of law school.”
“Berkeley?”
“Yeah.”
Great. Add high achiever and brilliant to attractive and confident.
“Are you sorry you two broke up?” I asked.
“Nope.”
His decisiveness made me feel better. “Four years is a long time,” I offered.
“It is. It was.”
“Can I ask what happened? Or do you not want to talk about it?”
“I’m fine talking about it.” William studied his empty glass.
“More?” I tipped the Courvoisier bottle.
“Sure.”
I poured us both more, watching as his face creased in thought.
“We met and started dating when we were sophomores. We were both focused on our studies, so it was, in truth, a pretty uncomplicated relationship. We respected each other, made room for
each other’s academic obligations. Which were dense—I had my dual degree program and she’d set her sights on law school, international and comparative law. We formed a plan: I’d join the Peace Corps for two years, get field experience for my degree, while she buried herself in law school studies. After which, we’d reunite and go do heroic things to make the world a better place.
“It was The Plan. Which made everything seem uncomplicated and run like clockwork. But life isn’t uncomplicated and smooth-running, is it? Pretty much the opposite in Africa. You can’t live here without it changing you inside. Candace, meanwhile, still clung to The Plan, in a very objective, academic sense. Meeting in Paris felt more like a midterm check-in than a romantic rendezvous. She’d pre-scheduled everything. Every day, every hour. Even sex.”
He grimaced as he took a sip of his Courvoisier.
“You’re kidding,” I exclaimed.
“Nope. Two hours, upon our arrival at the hotel. This included intercourse and an ensuing nap. Not to exceed two hours because there was an exhibit at the Louvre that garnered its own two-hour time slot. And if the sex only lasted ten minutes, well, that allowed more time for the nap. To be honest, I think she was more excited about the nap than the sex.”
“Oh, William,” I said, and began to laugh. Which might have been the wrong response—did guys see the humor associated with sex and the act, or was the discussion of sex all tied up with their pride, a thing you had to tiptoe around? But I couldn’t help it. The thought of William, there in a Paris hotel, wide awake because Gabon was the same time zone as Paris, whereas Berkeley was nine hours later, pacing because Candace had fallen asleep after those first ten minutes, made me laugh with increasing hysteria.
William looked at me, shocked, as if only now registering how much he’d divulged. You could almost see that male-pride thing in him trying to decide which way to go. When he began to laugh, really laugh, head thrown back, chair tipping back, I knew he’d ditched any internal reserve over how he should speak or behave around me.
I still hadn’t stopped laughing. “Hey!” he said. He lifted his foot and gave my chair a kick, which hardly did anything since I was already making the chair shake with my laughing. “All right, you had your fun with me. And I cannot believe I just told you that.”
Finally our laughter subsided. “I don’t mean to make fun of Candace,” he said. “Really, she’s an amazing person. She’ll go far in life. But being together in Paris, I just got this sense of how our future might be together.”
His expression grew thoughtful. “Not to say it wasn’t a great itinerary she’d made. It was. Interesting exhibits, check. Great restaurants, check. Everything went to plan. She was so pleased. But, you know, in all that time, she never seemed delighted. Or overwhelmed. Or moved to tears over something beautiful. She… she’s so neat and careful and organized, and doesn’t seem to realize that being that way leaches out the good stuff as well as the bad.”
He looked over at me. “That night of Lisette’s party, I watched you run across the lawn in the moonlight, doing those leaps and those twirls, even though I knew you’d been so upset minutes earlier. Something in me went, ‘There. That’s someone who knows how to embrace life.’ Both its ups and downs. Whatever is happening right in that moment. You seized that moment, wholeheartedly.”
His gaze had become so intense, I couldn't look away.
“That’s how life should be lived,” he said.
Two Courvoisiers became three. A different energy began to fill the room, causing my face to grow warmer, my heartbeat erratic. We talked, about anything and everything. Ram Dass and the human condition. Burger King’s distribution of those paper crowns and whether it perpetuated a colonialist attitude or just made you feel like a kid inside. What happened the moment you died. Whether Indiana Jones ever slept or ate in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Nothing was too sacred or banal. Anything to keep sharing his company.
The spell broke when I caught sight of the time. “Oh, William,” I exclaimed, “it’s after three o’clock. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you so late.”
“Whoops, time to go.”
We both rose. My heart, already thudding, began to hammer against my chest as I walked him to the door. Once there, he paused and turned to look at me. “Your scars are healing,” he said.
I nodded, no longer trusting myself to speak.
He reached over and gently traced the question mark scar on my cheekbone. As his fingers skimmed over my skin, his thumb grazed my lips, producing an electric charge that tore through me and left my knees weak. He took a step closer.
He was the perfect height for me—a few inches taller, with my face, my lips, inches from a pulsing spot on his neck. His hands fell to my hips. My hands landed on his forearms. We hovered there, in that space where you realize that although this person is your friend, this is no friendly overture.
My hands moved first, as they slid up to his shoulders. My fingers, even more daring, touched the pulsing spot on his neck before coming to rest at the nape of his neck. His lips brushed mine and everything between us seemed to instantly realign to this shocking new configuration. Pleasure shot through me. But his next kiss, more assertive, sent a bolt of pain, not pleasure, through my still-healing jaw. I stiffened and pulled back involuntarily. He stepped back as well, dropping his hands as if my hips had burned them.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s my jaw.”
“Of course,” William said, but I caught a flash of something else in his eyes.
And like that, the mood changed. When I stepped closer again, he took a tandem step back.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Fi.”
He was rejecting me. I couldn’t believe it.
“You’re right,” I said quickly so he’d think it was my idea too. I continued talking, a flow of bright chitchat to cover up the terrible awkwardness that hung in the air. I thanked him for coming by, apologized again for keeping him so late and heartily wished him a Merry Christmas.
I went to the door to open it. He’d remained frozen in the same position.
“Look,” he said. “It’s just that I think things are a little complicated right now.”
“Complicated,” I repeated, a bubble of anger rising in me. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Right after they told me they were confused.”
William shook his head. “I’m referring to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Complicated for you.”
I was slow to catch on to his implication.
“You’re not referring to Christophe, are you?”
He nodded.
I waved my hands in protest. “No, no, that was a last-year thing, a stupid infatuation. There was a summer fling, but it all ended when I came to this post.”
“I don’t think so.” The only other sound was the cicadas and crickets screeching outside. “You called for him that night at Rachel’s house in Libreville. You cried for him. You thought I was him.”
It all came back—my dream, the feverish delirium. I was so afraid you’d left me for good, I’d said. And then the comforting arms that had tightened around me, with the response, I would never leave you, Fiona. The gentle kiss on the forehead—it had been William.
I felt like I’d run into an unseen glass door. “I thought it was a dream,” I whispered.
“No.”
His clinical calm ruffled me. “So you’re the one who kissed my forehead and told me you’d never leave me?”
Now he was the one reduced to silence, mouth working without any sound coming out. “You were awake,” he said finally.
“I guess I was.”
I hated where the evening had gone. We now resembled polite strangers, struggling to escape a difficult situation. I forced a hostess smile. “Anyway,” I said, opening the door, “I apologize for keeping you up. I know you have a long drive today, so I’ll let you get back to your room.”
He still hadn’t moved. “No. I don’t want to l
eave on this bad note. Not on Christmas Eve.”
I glanced at the clock. “Christmas morning, actually,” I admitted.
A glimmer of a smile appeared in his eyes.
He reached out, right past me, and pushed the door. It slammed shut with a decisive whump, producing a thrilling, jittery moment of unknowability, where I realized I didn’t have William figured out. He took a step closer to me and his hands slid around me, one over my shoulders, the other encircling my waist. He drew me in, tightly, so that we were wedged together.
I went boneless with relief, with gratitude. It felt so very good to be held close. It also gave me the chance to experience once again the way our body parts fit just right, with legs, pelvis and ribs neatly aligned. Christophe and I had never fit that way; our heights were too similar and he wasn’t the hugging, stay-close-together type. How could I have mistaken the two of them?
“Merry Christmas, Fiona,” William said softly, and kissed my temple with such tenderness, I almost cried.
“Thank you,” I managed, without sounding too weepy or helpless (I hoped).
We disentangled. “All right,” he said. “I really need to go. I’m driving away in three hours.” He stepped past me, moving much faster than I, still dazed from the hug, from all I’d just learned. He reopened the door, slipped out, and only when he was safely in the yard did he pause and meet my eyes.
“Have a good Christmas break,” he said.
“Thank you. Tell Henry hi for me.”
“Will do.”
I watched him walk away before I shut the door. I leaned against it and sagged.
What a shock, his words. What comfort, his hug.
What a mess I’d just made of our easy friendship.
Part Four
New Year
Chapter 23
“Okay, here’s one for you,” I told Lance. I picked up the pen pal letter from my kitchen table and read it over the screech of night insects outside my window. “‘I respectly come before you today to expressing my high words of adoration to you. I wish to tell you that I love you and I am much happy to serve as your pen lover.’” We laughed and I shook my head. “I kept telling them it was pen pal, not lover.”
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