“Hello,” he says, “what are you doing there? I almost walked into you.”
“I have a letter of introduction.” She extends the envelope.
“Why? I already know who you are.”
“Ha, ha,” says Sarita. “It’s from a Mister Ward. Joseph Hatton wrote it for him.”
“Hatton? Where’s this Ward from?”
“He’s from the Congo. He’s been working with Stanley.”
“The explorer?”
“No. Stanley the cheese monger.”
“Ha, ha,” says Sanford. He takes the letter and holds it up to the light, as if looking for a watermark. “What do you think?”
Sarita shrugs. “He’s pleasant, has a gift for languages. I brought him for coffee yesterday so you could look him over, but there was no one around. Mother had a headache.”
“Is he looking for work?”
“He must be.” She keeps Ward’s artistic ambition to herself.
“Does he know anything about railways?”
“They’re building one in the Congo. He’s done some surveying.” Actually, it’s Ward’s friend who’s done that. Why is she lying for him?
“Well, you like him. That’s clear. What job do you think he’s suited for?”
“You don’t want to know.” Sarita delivers a charming smile.
“Sarita, don’t play with me. And what happened with Brock-Innes?”
“The truth is nothing happened with Charles Brock-Innes, at least not with Charles Brock-Innes and me.”
“Doesn’t mean it won’t. We’ll send you back in a month or so. That should give Brock-Innes time to miss you.”
And to mull over the benefits of Sarita’s fortune. Sanford waits for Sarita to excuse herself. He looks at the envelope and tucks it into the pocket of his bathrobe, which he is wearing for warmth, over a pair of wool suiting trousers. “You should meet this Mister Ward,” says Sarita.
“Why?”
“I think he’ll remind you of someone you like very much.”
“And who is that?”
“You.”
Glave is also working on a manuscript. Glave was one of the early Congo pioneers, appointed by Stanley back in 1883. And he is still held in high esteem by Stanley. Glave was given the task of setting up the station in Lukolela, when there was no post between Stanley Pool and the coast. The way he tells it, it would make one think that he’d been assigned to be a small-town postmaster in a place like Devon. But Ward knows that Glave was just abandoned in the jungle with some weapons, a linguister who had the local dialects and few words of English, some tinned meat and hardtack, and the charge to make the spot—chosen for its hospitality to boats rather than people—civilized. Most of the others assigned to opening new stations were dead, carried off by disease or the natives, but Lukolela and the Congo in general seemed to have agreed with Glave, until he made it safe and acceptable for the others—his job—and the place became overrun with Belgians, who had the authority and money but no good men. The occasional capable Belgian is usually French.
Glave’s writing style is fluid and his vocabulary is broad. His work is nuanced. “You sound like a writer,” Ward says.
“Generally a good idea when putting a book together.”
“Your book’s better than mine,” says Ward.
“No, it’s just different. Yours is colloquial and faster-paced. Mine is a little more contemplative.”
“Better.”
“People will like yours more. And you can draw.” As evidence of this, Glave sorts through and pulls out his drawing of some Kroo boys: flattened figures with limbs akimbo, roughly sketched to illustrate their colorful mish-mash of European clothing and native flair. Glave’s drawing is the equivalent of Ward’s writing, capable of communication but not justified by some larger aesthetic truth. “I’ve a long way to go,” Glave says. “The whole book seems to be about hunting. Currently, the book should be called Some Things I Shot in Africa.”
“You have pages on the natives.”
“I shot some of them too.”
From the cabin, Ward and Glave make their way to the saloon, which is crowded. Ward likes the saloon to be crowded because the noise of others is shared by all. He and Glave have spent so much time together as of late that often silences spring between them, silences that they don’t find uncomfortable but must appear less congenial. He was never silent with Casement. Glave has taken to bringing a short piece of rope with him, with which he practices increasingly quicker and more elegant knots.
“What are we drinking?” asks Glave. “Beer, wine, or whiskey?”
“I think whiskey,” says Ward.
The bottle soon arrives with glasses and Glave knocks out some good portions, giving Ward a little more to start. The whiskey now poured, the rope comes out.
“One would think you were going to sea rather than the Yukon,” says Ward.
“What, this?” says Glave, raising the half-executed knot.
“Knots and sailors,” says Ward.
“Actually, stops me from wanting my pipe, and I don’t want to be dependent on anything in the Yukon, so I’m cutting back.”
So even the mystery of the knots has been dispensed with. Ward takes a mouthful of whiskey. The first belt tastes awful but feels sublime. The rest will taste good enough, and feel all right, as the effect on the senses evens out. Glave completes his knot, holds it up for inspection, and unties it. Lately, Ward has been thinking about Miss Sanford, which is a reprieve from thinking about Stanley and his slander. Although even Miss Sanford leads back to Stanley, as all lines of thought do, as all roads lead to Rome. A certain chunk of time passes with Ward going over the particulars of his conversation with Miss Sanford, their consumption of coffee, the maid’s smirking around the corners as if she knew something, which she did: She knew that Ward didn’t measure up for the family and, in the gleeful schadenfreude that makes the life of a servant almost tolerable, felt entitled to remind him—and Miss Sanford—of it whenever possible. Every cup of coffee poured, every cake offered, every polite inquiry was an opportunity for Ward to improvise manners and with a woman unaccustomed to improvisation. Of course, Miss Sanford had been careful to keep things easy, but the maid—she read his mind. Cake on plate, coffee in hand . . . How did one eat the cake? Bite it directly off the plate? Of course, the coffee would be set down, but in this moment of hesitation—coffee or cake?—a gulf had sprung up between him and Miss Sanford, between his world and hers. And all this witnessed by the nostril-flaring, soft-hipped Paz. Another glass of whiskey and Glave is teaching Ward knots. Another glass and Ward, fumbling with the rope, seems to have unlearned everything he just mastered. Another glass and the saloon is shutting down. Glave is going to allow himself a pipe and then head for bed. And Ward is going to take in some fresh air, but he has a vague notion of passing by the first-class lounge—at least by the doors—not in pursuit of Miss Sanford but rather Paz, the pretty maid, who, in her subtle smirking and heavy-lidded, full-lipped condescension, has successfully convinced him that he is not only unworthy of Miss Sanford but uninterested. He sees Miss Sanford’s trim figure, her repartee, her lively hands, her perfectly executed loaf of hair. But Paz is all direct gazes, heavy bosom, escaping tendrils. Should her hands be rough, even better.
The deck is quiet and Ward wonders how late it is. He allows himself to think of Bidi, his woman back in Yambuya—her glowing skin, her bottomless eyes, her rich scent. He allows himself to conjure that name—Bidi, Bidi—that he had never used in her presence, as if that small action allowed her to somehow not be present in his tent. She was soulful beauty. In his current state of mind, it’s difficult to manage the regret and remorse that he normally performs with himself as his only audience. Still, remorse enacted leaves Ward some residue of genuine regret. Where is Bidi now? Where is he? The ship’s engine sounds like the engine of time
, as if he is waiting for this episode of his life to run out, this action that will take all of his Congo life—Bidi, Msa, Mbatchi, Jameson, Barttelot—the living and the dead, and bring them to history. The prow of the ship is cold metal and the surface of the water appears like beaten tin, like the hull of the ocean rather than a liquid surface. He feels this life to be a false life with no consequences even though reason tells him that the opposite is true—that Africa is that which is not real. He cannot fully articulate what he feels—a fathomless absence, a sorrow, an embarrassment at this current role of acting an Englishman. To bed, Herbert, he tells himself.
And then he sees her, down the railing. He’d thought it impossible that Paz would be there. The odds of fifty/fifty that he’d determined in the saloon, and with conviction, have evaporated in the sobering night air, although he still feels emboldened with whiskey. But there she is, so he’s glad the liquor hasn’t deserted him all together. Paz, he thinks, approaching. What will he say? I hoped you’d be about, but thought the odds slim. Does she speak English? It won’t matter. Paz will want him because it will give her something over her mistress. Paz will know that all the lacquers and corsetry imposed on these society women—the sugary coating—rob them of their warmth. Paz will know how to hold his gaze, will know where to place her hands, when to push him away, when to laugh. Ward can almost feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the smell of sweat and powder along the nape of her neck. He imagines the tickle of her hair against his jaw as he unpins the braids. Ward draws closer and the woman, startled by his steps, turns. It is not Paz. Of course it isn’t.
“Mister Ward,” she says. He can tell she’s been crying, but her voice is bright and composed, as always. “I see you also needed some fresh air.”
“More than fresh air,” he says. “I’d hoped you’d be about but thought the odds slim.” That was his line, now delivered.
“It is very late.”
“I thought all the young ladies were in bed.”
He sees her reach for a comeback, but she doesn’t find one. He takes a step closer and reaches for her wrist. The tiny wrist fits in his palm neatly. He closes his fingers around it and can feel the gentle thrum of her pulse, as if he is strangling a bird. He can pretend desire for this chilly dish, but he finds himself warming to her. She holds his gaze as if uncomprehending. He waits for the rebuff. She also seems to be waiting for the rebuff, as if unaware that she is supposed to produce it. He pulls her gently to him and she goes with little steps, as if she’s learning a dance—willing, but unsure.
“You look as if you’re worried that you’ll make a mistake,” says Ward.
“That’s a good observation,” she says.
“You shouldn’t be concerned. You don’t have to do anything at all.”
And, she thinks, how many mistakes are presented to her? Is going to Ward a mistake? Would retiring to her room be correct or the wasting of an opportunity? Each little step she makes into Ward’s arms produces its own forking paths, a different fistful of fates. She was crying bitter tears up on the deck, angry that her choices were so limited, angry that she had been calculating and recalculating her options that she hoped had expanded with Ward’s deus ex machina appearance the day before and had decided that all was lost. But now he’s kissing her arm. Do men do that? Her experience is so limited. Once, in Argentina—she must have been about eighteen—she was visiting in the provinces, when she found herself abandoned in a church. What actually had happened was that her father had gone off with the surveyor to see about laying track, and she had been left with the maid, who was from that town and had a few quick errands to run. This maid had deposited her in the church, which was pretty, but Sarita wasn’t Catholic, and as such wasn’t sure if praying there helped to aid or compromise the future of her soul. After about an hour of tentative prayer, candle lighting, and perusal of statues—the feet of which had all been rubbed free of paint—she had wandered outside. There, beside the church, under the shade of an enormous tree, she had seen a young man in a cassock retrieving water from the well. When he saw her, his face brightened, and he began to make quick steps towards her. Sarita had stood there, holding the handle of her parasol, and wondering whether or not she should open it, or walk back inside, or say something and what something—should she say it—would be. She knew that action was called for, but this young man was suddenly before her—handsome, and with eyes the color of honey—and he had taken her in his arms and begun to kiss her, there, at the side of the church, where there seemed to be no one around. And then he had released her, smiled, and wandered off. Maybe the Catholic god had called him back. And then all the waiting for Brock-Innes to stop laughing at her jokes and admiring her clothes and to at least sustain the holding of her hand. And now Mr. Ward, who seems to think her innocence—more ignorance—is what might cause her to make a mistake. He has no manners at all, she thinks, although he is kind and gentle and she’s never put much stock in manners. He’s moved from kissing her arm to kissing her neck. Now she smells the whiskey on his breath. She wants to tell him that she’s been drinking too. Sherry. Five glasses, with no one to notice except for Paz. She feels his hands moving up and down her sides, which, she thinks, probably feel like upholstered furniture through all that stiff canvas and whalebone, as if, should he get the whole contraption off, he’d find her dress stuffed with horsehair. She feels his fingers at the back of her dress and—steeling herself with a deep breath—manages,
“Please don’t do that.”
Ward steps back, suddenly full of reserve, worried.
“It’s not that, Mister Ward,” she says. “Unless you can fix it yourself, you better leave it as is.”
“All right,” he says. He steps closer and puts his hands on her shoulders. “Am I offending you?”
“Not at all,” she says.
“Then call me Herbert.”
“I really can’t do that,” she says. “And don’t call me Sarita, but think it. Think it all the time.”
“She’s invited you for dinner,” says Glave. “I’m impressed.” Glave is digging through his trunk looking for his jacket because Ward’s has a split seam. “How did you manage that?”
“How I managed that is unimportant. How I will manage the dinner, however, is.”
“Well,” says Glave, “I can’t help you there. I’m just relieved they didn’t invite me.”
“They did. I said you couldn’t come.”
“Really.”
“I needed your jacket and I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“You know,” says Glave, “you might end up marrying her.”
“That’s ridiculous,” says Ward. “It’s just dinner. And we are friends.”
“Heiresses don’t have friends. Ward, if you don’t want to marry her, you have to leave while you still can.”
Ward shakes his head. “She couldn’t marry a man like me anyway.”
“So it would seem, but if she sets her eyes in your direction, what will you do? People like the Sanfords are used to getting what they want, Ward. And you, you’ve been compromised in the wake of the Emin Pasha scandal, so you are not seeing clearly. I am just reminding you, as your good friend, that you have a lot to give up.”
Ward knots his tie, the kind of knot that never fails him. “Ridiculous, Glave. My mind is as clear as crystal.”
“That’s a meaningless phrase,” says Glave. “And I don’t believe it. You’ve had nothing but freedom and adventure for the last ten years. I’m not sure the transition into drawing rooms and continental holidays is going to make you happy.”
Of course Glave is overreacting, but Ward remembers that Glave is always right, that even Casement—who is often right—thinks to himself “What would Glave do?” in times of difficulty. There has to be an element of truth in this little drama. “But what if I like drawing rooms?” He shrugs. “I like women. I like beds and horses and t
hings like that—shaving with hot water. Maybe I’m not like you and Casement and Parminter and all the Congo crew.”
“You’re a country squire at heart, are you?”
“Who knows?” says Ward. “How do you find these things out?”
If she were ten years younger, Sarita would know that she wanted to marry Mr. Ward. She would know it. She would picture their lives, the kicked bed sheets, the pretty children, the laughter—ha, ha, ha—over the morning paper, the hand holding, the attentive listening for every minor concern one’s spouse might have. But she’s not nineteen and she knows she would like to spend time with Mr. Ward. She is sure of time, but not of life. All right. She cannot get him out of her mind. She thinks of his heat. She is pleased that being on deck alone (which she’d always heard invited scandal, but never quite believed) has caused her to indulge in some scandalous activity. Her advanced age of twenty-nine years has made her privy to all sorts of conversations from her friends—well-trained girls who occasionally manage to find themselves behind a hedge with an interesting young man and were kissed, or, if his looks or standing were deemed unsatisfactory, “violated.” Clearheaded, still unmarried (and maybe never married), Sarita would sit and listen as these young ladies—Emily, Hazel, Garnet—would wonder out loud if it was love, as if love and these passing infatuations were mutually exclusive. Passing infatuations, one would think, masqueraded as love—love being the real thing—tricking girls away from their true destiny: the gallant young man who would give them passion and respectability. Sarita isn’t buying it. She never did. Her father—for all his steamrolling over her desires and maneuvering her like a Hapsburg—has always been up-front with her. Father has no sons and because of his parental desire to impart wisdom somewhere, has taught Sarita a lot. She does have one living sister, Ettie, who married early—before she could marry well—and is now producing grandchildren in the Midwest, but other than that, she’s it for Father. And he has told her so much that she knows that infatuation is love, that this greater patient, solid love doesn’t exist, although—and this is important—patience and solidity do. Marry a rock. Don’t expect love. Above all, do not be stupid.
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