Fletch, Too

by Gregory Mcdonald

  In the deepening dusk at the table in the yard of the Shade Hotel, Carr said, “You must be aware of what time it is, too. You’re on the equator. The sun rises at roughly seven each morning and sets at roughly seven each night, year-round. Sunrise is the beginning of the day, naturally, and sunset the beginning of the night. So if someone says he’ll see you at three tomorrow, he might mean ten o’clock in the morning. Ten might be five o’clock in the afternoon. Five tomorrow night is midnight.”

  Fletch said, “Oh, I see.”

  “It is through such simple misunderstandings,” Carr said, “that cultures clash.”

  The waitress brought them a large plate of cooked meat and a bowl of rice. She placed three paper plates on the table.

  Carr took a piece of the meat in his fingers. With it he lifted rice from the bowl into his mouth.

  “Shouldn’t we ask Juma if he wants something to eat?” Barbara asked.

  Carr said, “He doesn’t want to eat now.”

  Barbara raised her eyebrows. “Say what, bwana?”

  “Traditionally, people here eat only one meal a day, at nine or ten o’clock at night, after it cools down. A very high-protein meal, if they can get it. They believe eating during the heat of the day makes you sick, fat, and lazy.” Carr looked around him at the few other people at that early hour. “Some come to the city, of course, put on polyester clothes, take to eating three meals a day, and in no time they took just as chubby and pasty as your average New Yorker.”

  Watching him dancing, Barbara said, “Juma is not chubby and pasty.”

  “So,” Carr said. “He doesn’t want to eat now.”

  Eating the meat and rice with his fingers, Fletch asked Carr, “What are you looking for?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “For what are you looking? Or shouldn’t I ask? At Thika, Juma was translating for us. He said you told the witch doctor you are looking for a place. You asked her where it is.”

  “Oh, that,” Carr said.

  “Private business,” warned Barbara.

  Fletch shrugged. “No one ever has to answer a question.”

  “No one ever has to ask a question, either,” Barbara said.”

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “You’re not working now.”

  “May the searchlight of the free press never darken,” said Fletch.

  In the glow of the kerosene lamp on the table, Carr’s face looked more red than usual.

  “The witch doctor was fascinating,” Barbara said. “Thank you for taking us. You said people working in holistic medicine now are taking an interest in the witch doctor generally …”

  Suddenly, Carr said, “I’m looking for a Roman city.”

  “Huh?” Fletch asked.

  “Good!” exclaimed Barbara. “Finally an answer to one of your impertinent questions made you almost swallow your teeth!”

  “Here?”

  Carr nodded. “In East Africa.”

  Barbara sighed.

  “Hell of a long walk from home,” Fletch said. “Through Egypt, the Sudan, Ethiopia …? How could they supply themselves through thousands of miles of desert?”

  “The Arabians did,” Barbara said. “It can’t be all desert.”

  “Down the Red Sea,” Carr said. “Into the Somali Basin.”

  “By boat.”

  “The reason people have always doubted it,” Carr said, “is because once you get into the Somali Basin the southwest winds and currents are strongly against one.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Carr said. “They rowed.”

  “Hello of a long row.”

  “Difficult, I admit. But the Romans did difficult things.”

  “What would they want here?” Barbara asked.

  “Spices. Minerals. Gems.”

  “The Romans conquered the known world,” Fletch said. “This world was unknown.”

  “Right,” said Carr. “Kenya would be farther than anyone has ever believed the Romans traveled.”

  “A Roman city in Kenya,” Barbara said.

  “Kenya is as far from Rome as is New York,” Fletch said.

  “The Romans came to America,” Barbara said.

  “They didn’t build cities.”

  “No,” said Barbara. “They ate lobsters and either died or went home. Typical tourists.”

  “I don’t think the Romans ever went to America on purpose,” Carr said. “They got blown there by mistake. No one from Europe ever got blown to East Africa by mistake. I think the Romans came here, settled here, and were here for a very long time.”

  “If Barbara will forgive another impertinent question,” Fletch said, “what makes you think so?”

  “To be honest,” Carr said, “there is currently a small rumor circulating that some documentary evidence of there having been a Roman city on the East African coast south of the equator has turned up in London. That’s all I know about it: there’s a rumor. But long before I heard this rumor, I have believed it. Always.”

  “Why?”

  “The Masai.” Carr sat back in his chair. “How can you observe the Masai and possibly believe the Romans weren’t here?”

  Fletch shook his head as if to clear it.

  “Right,” Carr said. “There is a tribe called the Masai. Bantu origins, cousins of the Samburu. The Masai roam the south, the Kenyan- Tanzanian border; the Samburu the north. The Masai are a warrior tribe. They carry spears. Traditionally, they carry shields. They wear togas. Historically, Masai young men go through intensive training in the arts of war, to attain the rank of moran, warrior, including elaborate tests of courage. From what is known, the Masai were perfectly disciplined to use complicated, sophisticated military formations and tactics. So perfect were they as a military force that they succeeded in keeping the Western world, the white people, with their bows, arrows, crossbows, and gunpowder, out of inland East Africa until very nearly the beginning of the twentieth century. What finally made them retreat was the automatic rifle and the English railroad. The coast had been opened, Lamu, Malindi, Mombasa, fought over by the Arabians, Portuguese, whoever. But no one ever went inland, so terrified were they of the Masai.”

  Barbara picked gristle off her meat. “Why couldn’t they have developed these military tactics on their own?”

  “They could have,” said Carr. “But some of their military tactics were appropriate only for urban areas. There weren’t any urban areas for them to develop such tactics. And why, if they did develop these disciplines and tactics themselves, are these techniques, even their mode of dress, so similiar to the Romans?”

  “Come on,” Fletch said. “Why would an African tribe maintain a military discipline imposed on them by a foreign culture for over two thousands years?”

  “Because,” Carr answered, “the Masai are a very fragile people. Extremely tall. Extremely thin. Traditionally, they eat only meat, milk, and blood.”

  “Good God,” said Barbara.

  Carr smiled at her. “They produce the best-smelling sweat in the world.”

  “What?”

  “Their perspiration smells beautiful. It’s a heavy, dense, clean odor you could bottle and sell in your boutique.”

  “Masai Perspiration parfum.” Barbara shook her head. “I don’t think it would be a hit.”

  “The Masai are so brittle,” Carr said, “they can never win in hand-to-hand combat. As soon as their ancient enemies, the Kikuyu, would penetrate the Masai’s disciplined formations and go at them with their hands and feet, the Masai would lose. Maintaining this Roman militarism was their only way of surviving as a people for two thousand years.”

  Electronic music was blaring from the stage.

  “In fact,” added Carr, “the Masai are so brittle they have trouble bearing children. Over the centuries they have needed the women of other tribes. The Masai were not just militarily defensive, but these enormously tall, skinny people had to be militarily aggressive to survive.”

  “Whew.” Fletch shook his h
ead. “Witch doctors. A lost Roman city. Carr, you are a surprising fellow.”

  Carr shrugged. “It’s just a hobbyhorse of mine. If anything works out, I might make a bit of a name for myself. It’s so crazy anyway, I didn’t mind going to a witch doctor about it. You never know what little thing might come out of traditional wisdom.”

  “Are you actually spending time and money looking for this place?” Barbara asked.

  “Time and money. I have a camp set up. Sheila’s there now.”

  “Is Sheila your wife?”

  “Might as well be. Dear old thing’s been with me years now.”

  Barbara looked shyly at him. “Has either of you a degree in anthropology, archaeology, anything?”

  “Good heavens, no. Barely finished school. But to paraphrase the ignoramous regarding art, I’ll know when I see something out of the ordinary.”

  Fletch smiled. “And is your camp in the south, in the hills, near a river?”

  Carr nodded. “Exactly. Figured the Romans needed a certain altitude, a supply of fresh water, and a river big enough to give them access to, yet protection from, the sea.”

  Fletch pushed his chair back. “We won’t tell anyone.”

  He couldn’t imagine Frank Jaffe’s reaction to such a story anyway. Avalanches, mud slides, major earthquakes, airplane crashes, train wrecks, mass murders, acts of terrorism, airport bombings … Be sure and phone in, if you get any good stuff…

  Hello, Frank? I’m onto a search for a lost Roman city on the East African coast. One of my sources is the witch doctor of Thika…

  Uh, Frank …?

  “Tell anybody you like,” Carr said. “Harambee. All in good clean fun. Better than poaching elephant tusks.”

  “Go for it.”

  Carr smiled at Barbara. “I thought you’d prefer the goat to the beef.”

  Barbara said, “What goat?”

  “Anytime you have a choice around here between goat and beef,” Carr said, standing up, “choose the goat.”

  Barbara was looking at the empty plates. “I’ve been eating goat?”

  “It’s much more tender,” Carr said, “than beef. Tastier, too.”

  “I’ve been eating goat? I ate Billy the Goat?”

  Suddenly, Barbara looked ill.

  On the dark sidewalk outside the Norfolk Hotel, Juma crossed his arms over his chest. His feet were planted far apart.

  Carr had just driven away in the Land-Rover.

  Juma said to Fletch: “At the shamba in Thika you said my friends were drunk.”

  “Sorry,” Fletch said. “Didn’t mean to insult your friends. They looked pretty drunk to me.”

  “How do you decide friends?”

  Fletch said, “I don’t care about drunkenness.”

  “How do you decide who is your friend? Is that something you decide about?”

  “What?” Barbara asked.

  “How can you decide someone is your friend without deciding everyone else is not your friend?”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Fletch said.

  “Do you decide who is your enemy? That’s not the way things happen,” Juma said.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Things just happen,” Juma said. “When you first saw me, I was with those boys. They were drunk. I don’t decide if they are my friends or not my friends. Maybe they are my enemies. How could you decide?”

  Barbara shook her head. “I am very, very tired. I don’t have to decide that.”

  Juma grabbed her arm. “That’s right!”

  “Barbara said something right?”

  Juma looked all around. “Deciding everything like that, all the time, north, east, south, west, is very hard.”

  Barbara asked, “Do you mean difficult…?”

  “… or harsh?” Fletch finished.

  Juma turned and began walking away from them down the street. He waved. “Nice time!”

  Watching him, Barbara asked, “Does he mean, Have a nice time …?”

  “… or We had a nice time?” Fletch finished.

  “I don’t know.” Barbara took Fletch’s arm as they started into the hotel. “But he understands Fletch is your father … ”

  “… and he’s sorry.”

  Fletch had a funny line ready but, although he had used it before, he couldn’t remember it. Instead, he said, “Hello?”

  “Did you both sleep well?”

  “So far.” Fletch remembered the line. “Is this Fletch, too?”

  “‘Fraid not. Carr here again.”

  “Oh.” Fletch finally got his head off the pillow and rolled over. “There was a message waiting for us at the hotel when we got back last night. My father had been here during the afternoon.”

  “I’m sure he was, old chap.”

  “And that he’d call us in the morning.”

  “I’m sure he meant to.”

  “This is morning?” The window was filled with gray daylight. In the bed beside him, Barbara had not noticed.

  “Shortly before eight of the clock, Nairobi time. To my surprise, I’m downstairs about to have breakfast. I only have an hour or so this morning.”

  “That’s very nice …”

  “Hate to awaken you this way, your first real day here, and all that. Your father called me a couple of hours ago. Something’s come up, you see. If you could pull yourself together and join me for a cup of coffee, I could fly away with a sense of duty done.”

  “Something’s happened to my father?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “The Kenyan coffee is quite pleasant but you might want to cut it with milk or hot water.”

  The waiter was pouring black coffee into Fletch’s cup. Carr was finishing a large bowl of fruit.

  He said, “The pineapple here is probably better than anywhere.”

  “Barbara will be right down.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a huge, round, beautiful breakfast buffet in the middle of the Lord Delamere dining room.

  “What’s up?” Fletch asked.

  “The senior Fletcher called me about five-thirty this morning. It seems there’s been a spot of trouble.”

  Carr was right. The coffee did need cutting. “What kind of trouble?”

  “It seems that yesterday, the senior Fletch, doubtlessly nervous about your imminent arrival, began quaffing the local brew a bit early on.”

  “He got drunk.”

  “With the resultant loss of sense of time and place.”

  “Which is why he didn’t show up.”

  “Sometime during the day, he’s not sure just when, he found himself in an altercation at the Thorn Tree Cafe. Someone, he says, insulted the Queen.”

  “What Queen?”

  “The Queen of England. Elizabeth Regina Twice.”

  “What does he care about the Queen of England? He’s born and bred Montana,”

  “We all care about the Queen of England out here, old chap. She’s very fond of Kenya. Been here twice.”

  Carr drew his knife across the surfaces of the two fried eggs the waiter had brought him. “What came tip was his fist. He’s aware of having done damage to two or three people, seems to remember the sounds of glass smashing, seeing one of those little tables in matchsticks on the ground, and of being very angry at a placating askari, although whether he actually hit him is something the senior Fletcher is trying to reason through this morning. Why don’t you go get your fruit?”

  “What’s an askari?”

  “A guard. Possibly a cop. It will make a difference when this matter comes to trial.”

  “He got into a bar fight.”

  “So he testifies.”

  “He was doing that sort of thing at age fifteen, or so my mother testifies.”

  “I’d give you a rhyming couplet about the boy in every man, but I never was that strong on Wordsworth.”

  “So where is he now, in jail?”

  “Not yet. He’s gone to ground to reconstr
uct his head and think things through. I had the discretion not to ask from where he was calling. He’ll have to face the tune sooner or later, of course. Nairobi isn’t like London or New York, you know. Everyone here knows who Fletcher is. On the other hand, people here didn’t used to take this sort of bash-up all that seriously.”

  “Mother warned me he was apt to evade emotional moments.”

  “Did she? Is that what she said? How very kind of her. Understanding, I’d say.”

  “So why did he invite me here if it was going to be so upsetting for him?”

  “Sometimes you don’t know your kanga has a loose thread.”

  “Is that from Wordsworth?”

  “Maybe. It makes a great deal of difference whether the askari he hit was a private watchman or a real policeman.”

  “You indicated yesterday the law is very strict here.”

  “Very. It has lost its sense of humor.”

  “Listen, Carr …”

  “Why don’t you get some breakfast? Fried eggs you have to order from the waiter.”

  “You probably know where my father is.”

  “Probably.”

  “Why don’t I go to him now, get this confrontation over? Maybe I can even be a help to him.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you fly up to Lake Turkana with me today? I’ve got to deliver a scientist up there. I’ll be coming right back. You can have a swim. We can have lunch. Nile perch. Nice time.”

  “My father—”

  “Put yourself in his shoes, Fletch. He’s got a hell of a hangover. Probably a bloody nose. He’s liable for arrest. Last thing anyone would want under such circumstances is for a dazzling kid who looks like he’s never farted to come walking in offering aid and assistance, calling him Daddy.”

  “I’ve farted.”

  “Glad you heard it.”

  Fletch looked at the buffet. “Guess I’ll get some breakfast.”

  “Breakfast,” said Carr, “is the only fortification left to modern man.”

  While Fletch circumnavigated the breakfast buffet, he saw Barbara enter the room, kiss Carr on the cheek, and sit down.

  On his plate Fletch placed pineapple, scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast. He also took a glass of orange juice.