Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  The discussion with Simeon yesterday over lunch has been playing on my mind. I feel awkward and vulnerable, but I don’t want it to affect our working relationship or our friendship so with a racing heart and sweating palms, I ventured down to the Centro Medico where he works on Sunday afternoons.

  The medical center is a decrepit concrete building surrounded by red dirt and a lengthy strip of knee-high garbage. Suburban garbage tips are everywhere and it makes a mockery of the medical center. I was hit by a blast of antiseptic when I entered and was not sure if it was a good sign or if it disguised something more sinister. The latter, I would suggest.

  I could see Simeon’s smooth, black head in the distance and I watched him for a while, admiring him. There was a shadow following his every move—whenever Simeon’s hand dropped to his side a little black hand would slide into it. I watched how Simeon looked at the child, the way he smiled at him, and it was clear for all to see that Simeon Baptista was a good man.

  When Simeon finally turned around and saw me, he seemed happy, surprised, and flustered. I hoped he wasn’t feeling as I was, and that he would be able to smooth things over like he always did.

  Simeon introduced me to John Paul, who looked like a three-year-old, but was probably much older. Simeon said he turned up every Sunday afternoon and would not leave his side, but would then disappear at the end of the day.

  We were uncomfortable together and I regretted going down there. I think I made matters worse. It seems to have affected our friendship, revealing aspects of our personal lives to each other. I don’t understand what goes on between us, but it turns me into a moron. I’ll resort to a tried and tested Baden strategy and do my best to avoid him until this blows over. I hope that things between us will settle like the red dust of Luanda.

  Journal Entry: 23 July 2004

  It is Friday night and we are off tomorrow for an excursion to the place where the Congo River meets the sea. There are nine of us going, captivated as we were by Simeon’s tales of Sir Henry Morton Stanley. He tells the tale as if he is a distant relative of Stanley, who, by the way, is American and white. The Point is where Stanley began his historic trip into the heart of Africa in search of Dr. Livingstone who had not been heard from for several years having previously been a prolific reporter of his every move.

  When Stanley finally found the pale, wearied Dr. Livingstone living with an African tribe, he wanted to run toward him and embrace him, but driven instead by cowardice and false pride he walked deliberately, took off his hat, and said, of course, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” It is a relief to have that famous question put into context. According to Simeon, Livingstone replied with a simple “Yes,” a kind smile and doff of his hat. Dr. Livingstone was surprised that Stanley was sent to find him because he did not consider himself lost—just temporarily weakened by disease and short of supplies. Perhaps that is me also—not lost, but temporarily weakened.

  While we are up that way, we are also going to the Maiombe Rainforest in the Cabinda Province. It is famous for its butterflies that are prized by collectors.

  Simeon and I seem to have moved past the awkwardness we were experiencing, no thanks to me though. I had successfully invoked the Baden avoidance tactic for a week, feeling like an eight-year-old in the process then Simeon turned up unexpectedly Sunday morning to take us to the markets. He seemed determined to interact with me whether I wanted to or not.

  After the markets, we went to Mussulo, one of the palm-fringed islets on Luanda Bay. We usually avoid touristy places believing ourselves to be above them, but it was worth the exception. We had a chance to talk, and he asked me why I had been avoiding him. I wanted to say I wasn’t, but I knew he was too perceptive to believe it, and I’m not a convincing liar due to my neurotic hair twisting, which gives me away every time. We talked about work and life generally, keeping away from anything personal, and managed to reinstate our friendship on terms similar to how it was, but not the same. I don’t know why I am not able to let anyone get close to me, or why I react this way when I share pieces of my life. Maybe I need to keep my memories of Ethan sacred, for me only, maybe I don’t want people to see how vulnerable it makes me, maybe my heart is full of rain and I like it that way, maybe it is broken and I don’t want it repaired. I don’t know. I just know I’m afraid, whatever it is.

  Journal Entry: 16 August 2004

  Tomorrow, it will be three years since Ethan died, since he was lost in the darkness of the Atlantic Ocean. It is an image I cannot erase, a pain I cannot relieve. If only I’d been more selfish. If only I had scorned his dream and forbidden the great escape. If only—the worst two words in the English language. They are killer words.

  For the first two years I lived in my pajamas, I drank to numb the pain, and I slept to escape it. At the monastery, I prayed. What do I do here? It has been three years, and I still do not know how to handle it. I have been miserable for days now, and it has not gone unnoticed, but no one knows why. I wish mum was here, or Matthew.

  I don’t want to wake up tomorrow.

  Journal Entry: 17 August 2004

  I went down to the beach to stare at the Atlantic Ocean—somewhere out there was my love, my Ethan. Maybe the current had brought his body to rest here, and maybe his soul is the wind that blew against my face. I felt an affinity with the ocean, as if I was as close to him as I could be, but I also felt something else—as if he wanted me to let him go. I cried at the thought—I did not want to say good-bye. How do you say good-bye to the meaning of your life?

  When I returned to the house, Simeon was there waiting for me. Jan had cooked dinner and lit some candles. I was grateful no one asked questions or tried to make me laugh. They knew something of my state of mind, and respected it, and I was happy to be here this day, with these people, my friends. I feel like something has changed in me. I don’t know what. Maybe the acorn has finally fallen from the tree.

  Journal Entry: 17 September 2004

  It is National Hero’s Day today, the day Angolans celebrate the birth of António Agostinho Neto, their first President. The government statement says he was “an acclaimed doctor, humanist, intellectual and poet, who always fought against all forms of obscurantism and prejudice.” I had to revert to the Oxford for ‘obscurantism’—it means the opposite of free speech. Jan was way off target when he suggested ‘absence of light’, but we think it was another futile attempt at humor, which we all laughed at.

  You can see Neto’s Mausoleum from just about anywhere in Luanda. It is not in the same league as the Washington Monument although similar in shape. It was funded by Russia and was never completed due to the collapse of the Soviet Union. I guess that is the story of Luanda—full of promises that never realize.

  I won’t be joining today’s celebrations as I am recovering from yet another stomach virus. Getting sick is par for the course here, despite our best efforts.

  I received a letter from Matthew. He is still in the Congo, but planning to visit me soon. I am not sure if he is coming specifically to see me or if the primary purpose has something to do with Angola’s World Cup qualifier against Zimbabwe next month. Simeon is organizing tickets. It will be stinking hot in the Citadel in October, like a cauldron.

  I need to talk to Matthew about mum. Her letters are confusing—she uses words that do not make any sense. I can’t help but worry that he is back there and the duress is causing her thoughts to fragment. She has not mentioned him in her letters so maybe it is something else. Matthew might have a clue.

  Journal Entry: 18 October 2004

  Matthew has been and gone—his visit has disturbed my equilibrium, and I’ve found it hard to settle again. He is going back to Maine early December to check on mum. I’ll wait until then to decide what I’m going to do next year. I would like to stay here for another twelve months although the permanently gridlocked traffic is testing my patience. There is no traffic in Maine to speak of, so I’m not used to sitting for three hours in a heated car locked into posi
tion by thousands of other rattling exhaust pipes. It’s a wonder we don’t gas ourselves to death with the air-conditioning being what it is.

  Simeon took me out for dinner to cheer me up, and I needed it. He told me about his family and the sacrifices they had made to send him to the UK for an education. He had earned good money while he was working in London and was relieved, more than anything that he could help his parents and brothers and sisters—all eight of them, toward a better life.

  I asked him if he was planning to get married, and he said that there is a woman in his life and he wants to marry her, but it was “complicated”. He did not elaborate. I have to admit I was a little green at hearing this, to know that when he wasn’t with us, when he wasn’t working, he actually had someone in his life and in his heart.

  He asked me about Matthew—if he was my only sibling and I hesitated for a while before telling him about Brian and William. I left out the details, just as he had. While we were on the topic of families, I asked him about mum’s strange letters, if there was a medical explanation for it. He was reluctant to answer—it would barely amount to supposition he said, without examining her. His reluctance made me nervous and I pressed him to give me his best guess.

  It could be dementia he said, or normal changes from aging. There’s no clear-cut line between normal and the warning signs for Alzheimer’s, but he did say, with caution, that people with Alzheimer’s often forget simple words or substitute unusual words. He then quickly retraced saying that it is perfectly normal to have trouble finding the right words from time to time, and that depression can cause similar symptoms. He would make a good lawyer.

  It was easy tonight, talking about our families, albeit there was not full disclosure—maybe that is the secret, to hold something back always.

  Journal Entry: 24 December 2004

  It has been almost three months since my last entry—I do not know where the time went, work, play, and rain, lots of it, turning the roads to mush.

  It’s Christmas in Luanda tomorrow, promising a new experience. In Luanda, on Christmas Day and New Year’s Day, friends take turns giving gifts to each other. One offers a gift on Christmas Day and the other returns the gesture on New Year’s Day. I think it is an excellent system and saves those embarrassing moments when gifts are completely inequitable, for example if one friend buys a box of soap and receives a diamond-encrusted bracelet, or one receives lingerie and gives a toaster. With the Luanda system, the Christmas giver establishes the gift parameters viz-a-viz cost and personal versus practical, so the New Year giver has some guidelines for the reciprocation. It really is pure genius. My gift buddy is Simeon, and I am relieved he has assumed responsibility for the Christmas gift. I can follow his lead.

  I am really missing Ala since she returned to Kraków last month. Jan is missing her even more, but he will be leaving in March so not much longer for him to pine before they meet up again in Copenhagen for Easter. He has invited me to join them, but I would feel like an intruder. Apart from which, I may have to return to Maine when my twelve-month stint ends in April. Matthew is at home for Christmas on a reconnaissance mission to check on mum. Until I wrote that last sentence, I was feeling fine about Christmas away from home, but suddenly, I’m not.

  There has been an outbreak of Marburg, which is causing concern and putting pressure on resources. We’re hoping it can be contained speedily.

  The sky outside is black—these are the blackest clouds I have ever seen and I have stared fervently at every black cloud that has ever crossed my path. It casts an eerie hue that seems to demarcate the colors of Luanda, the white looks whiter, the Portuguese pink looks rosier. I will miss these beautiful skies.

  Merry Christmas, Ethan.

  Journal Entry: 28 December 2004

  Christmas was a day I will never forget. Our celebrations started mid-morning at the first stop on our progressive party: there were six hosts and a crowd of twenty-three. By the penultimate course, numbers had dropped to fourteen. It was not your traditional Christmas fare, but we did well with what we had, and it was loads of fun and very distracting.

  I had a couple of hours sleep after Christmas lunch before Simeon picked me up for dinner. I was looking forward to seeing what sort of gift he would select for me, knowing as he does, that I am inherently practical and have no interest in curios or adornments. I hoped he would not embarrass me with anything personal, like clothing.

  He took me to a Portuguese restaurant on the Marginal. It is ritzy and expensive, and not a place any of us would ordinarily frequent, but it was Christmas and it was a nice gesture. The food was excellent, and the wine fabulous, like finding a nugget of gold in a coalmine, and it no doubt played a leading role in what followed.

  First, there was the gift—a diamond-embedded cross on a gold chain. I was struck mute. I was stunned by the beauty of it, amazed that he would think to buy me something of Christian significance, and overcome that he would buy me something so personal. I was not surprised so much by the diamonds, after all, this is the Land of Diamonds—they practically grow on trees, but anywhere else, that would certainly have added to my shock. I have no idea how long we sat there with nothing said while I stared into my gift. Eventually, I opened the card, which read, “With all my love, Simeon.”

  That is pretty much how the evening ended. I don’t know if I said thank you. I don’t even remember the drive home or if he spoke. I guess he would have.

  The next day I felt terrible, ungrateful, and confused. I may well have read too much into the words on the card, and the sentiment behind the gift. I really wanted to apologize, but it took me the entire day to work up the courage amidst frequent mind changes. Each time I said I should go to see Simeon, Jan agreed with me. Each time I said I shouldn’t go, Jan agreed with me. He is no help at all during a personal crisis. In the end, Lucas drove me to Simeon’s apartment, and waited patiently for me to leave his vehicle after more procrastinating.

  There have been awkward moments between us before, but this was the peak—they don’t get any more inept. I really felt sorry for Simeon—he looked hurt and not so happy to see me. When he sat down on the sofa to talk to me, he had obviously decided that he was going to say whatever was on his mind unconcerned for the consequences. However, he did not say a word—he kissed me, and I did not pull away.

  The next morning Simeon made me a traditional Angolan breakfast of sweet rice (arroz doce). I tried to enjoy the incidental touches like when he handed me a coffee, and when he stroked my face. I have been without the sensation for so long. I craved and resented it. The last man to touch me, to love me, was Ethan and I felt I had betrayed him, but it is so nice to be loved by someone like Simeon Baptista. Simeon was happy and I didn’t want to devastate everything with my ruminations. In many ways, he is much like Ethan.

  Journal Entry: 2 January 2005

  We spent New Year’s Eve with Simeon’s parents until midnight. I felt like a fraud being introduced to his family—there seemed to be an expectation regarding the nature of our relationship. After the family gathering, we headed into disco territory on the Ilha de Luanda to meet up with the rest of our crowd.

  For the past week, Simeon and I have been a couple in all respects. From the outside looking in, an objective observer would definitely say that we were a couple, and we were treated as such—worse still, everyone seemed genuinely happy with the union and told us so. That made it so much harder.

  At 4AM, we went down and sat on the beach. We kissed and it made me cry. I told him I wasn’t ready for where we were going. I was glad it was dark and I could not see the way he looked at me, but I could feel his hurt. I asked him about the woman he loved—the one he said he wanted to marry, but that it was complicated. He looked at me, disbelieving, and said, “The woman is you. I love you, but you do not love me.” The words pierced my heart. He was hoping for something back, but I said nothing. He stood up and walked away.

  I looked out at the ocean wondering where Ethan might be
. I guess some acorns don’t grow when they fall from the tree.

  Journal Entry: 20 January 2005

  Matthew managed to get mum to a doctor and the news was not good—she has “probable Alzheimer’s” which, 80% of the time, means it is in fact Alzheimer’s. There is no single test to diagnose the disease conclusively, hence the use of “probable”—necessary also, I expect, to protect medical practitioners from lawsuits from a misdiagnosis.

  Matthew is staying with her until the end of the month when he has to go to Washington to receive a journalism award, and to finish production of another documentary. Then, he has promised, he will enter the realms of semi-retirement in Maine until admission to the asylum, bored into insanity. He plans to start work on his book to keep the ennui at bay. Life seems to have gone full circle for him—I picture him writing his book, sitting at the desk where he used to pretend to do his homework while drawing pictures of deathly beings.

  I can’t stop crying thinking about mum—a lifetime of torment and now this is how it will end for her. Why must some people endure so much and others so little? Matthew said there was no point me rushing home because there is nothing I can do. She is doing fine, he said. All the same, I’ll be leaving here a month earlier than expected—only a matter of weeks now. I hope she’ll be OK in the meantime. I will worry for every minute until I see her again.