An Obvious Enchantment

by Tucker Malarkey

  “Is it?”

  “Because of the wanting. Because I don’t know you.”

  His hand was on her hair, stroking automatically, moving more clumsily as sleep approached. “Shhh. Wanting is good. Knowing is not so important.” He fingered the fabric of her blouse. Consciousness slipped a bit and then a bit more. They fell together, as if sinking simultaneously into the unknown was something they had done before. A slow, vague idea brought her back to the surface. “What happens next?” she whispered.

  His voice was as faint as his breath. “You will have to imagine it.”

  “I may never see you again.”

  “Have you seen me?”

  “I would know you if I saw you.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I am good at finding people.”

  “Are you, now?” In the dark, she thought she could hear him smile.

  Ingrid waited to move until his breath slowed into sleep. To separate her curve from his when they held each other so neatly seemed a violation. She waited in his arms, the darkness surrounding them like thick, sweet cream.

  Then, in the isolation of sleep, he released her. She rolled away from him, reaching for the floor with one arm and then standing on all fours like a cat, searching for her shoes, arching with the memory of his body imprinted on hers.

  Back in her own bed, she touched herself. He was here, and here. This part of him was hard, this part soft. His shape is in my skin, she thought. I will know him.

  The next morning, the man in room number eight was gone. Colin and his jeep were also gone. Ingrid asked Kipo at the front desk. Kipo, who was small, fastidious, and, it seemed to Ingrid, mildly disapproving, had no answers. “Away,” he said, as if this were enough. “He has gone away.”

  “What do you mean, ‘away’?”

  “Off somewhere, wherever he goes when he goes. I don’t know.”

  “Has he gone to look at the army worms in Makindu?”

  Kipo squinted slightly. “The army what?”

  “The worms he’s studying, for his dissertation.”

  “I don’t know about research. He likes bugs. This I do know.”

  Ingrid was at a loss. “Well, how long does he go for?”

  Kipo shrugged. “A few weeks. A month.”

  “He told me he would help me get to the coast. We were going to leave today.”

  “Maybe you should speak to Henry. Possibly he knows more.”

  Ingrid found Henry, Christa’s husband, in the bar, a small dark room of varnished wood. He had finished his lunch at a small table and was folding the daily newspaper in half, creasing it precisely with his index finger. He smiled up at her and, when she continued to stand there, stopped smiling and motioned for her to sit down. “Kipo told me you might know where Colin has gone,” she said.

  Henry blinked. “Colin, is it?”

  Ingrid nodded, taking a seat. “It seems he’s gone. We had plans to drive to the coast.”

  Henry drank from his pint glass of beer and seemed for the first time to consider its color. “Yes. Yes, you should probably make other arrangements.” He broke his gaze and focused on Ingrid long enough to politely dismiss her.

  “Why?” she asked, ignoring the dismissal.

  “Why. Why anything in this country?”

  “Please. We’re friends, Colin and I.”

  “Are you?” Henry raised his glass and then put it down. “He’s been with us two years now.”

  “Two years?”

  Henry took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “Colin’s got the bug. Does unexpected things to a person.”

  “The bug,” Ingrid repeated.

  “Thin. Skinny. They call it all sorts of things. The AIDS, I think you call it in the States.” Ingrid’s eyes fell to the table.

  Henry lit his pipe. “Had a girl in town, I think.”

  She closed her eyes to the smoke. “Is he getting treatment?”

  “Treatment?”

  “There are medicines.”

  “No, no.” Henry shook his match out. “He’s not getting any treatment.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “For starters, he doesn’t want any. Second, he couldn’t if he wanted to. Hasn’t got a farthing.” He tilted his glass to the ceiling and neatly placed the empty glass back on the table where his fingers encircled it, sliding its moisure-slick base a fraction to the right and then a fraction to the left. “No. We take care of him. For the time being.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  Henry looked Ingrid in the eye for a brief moment before he waved his empty glass in front of the bartender and stared obdurately at the table until his refill was delivered. “I’m not Christa’s first husband, you know. She’s not my first wife.” Ingrid said nothing as he tucked into his new beer. “Danny’s not my natural son. He’s never had much use for me.”

  “Ah.”

  “And Colin,” Henry smiled sadly. “Colin’s different. Colin was married back in England. Decided he couldn’t go back.”

  “He’s lucky to have you,” Ingrid said.

  “And I him.” Henry looked back at the newspaper. “Nothing lasts for long, you know. You can see that more here.”

  At breakfast the next morning, Ingrid brought the material Templeton had sent her over the past months and spread it out on the table. The dining room, a warm wood room with garden-facing windows and rough tables, was full at breakfast, the quickest, most reliable meal. Sunlight fell through the windows onto the tables and steam rose from the coffee and pitchers of warmed milk. Henry Chisham came to her table in his flannel robe. “Kipo tells me you’re off to Pelat today,” he said.

  “Hopefully.” Ingrid smiled. She had slept poorly, imagining insects in her bed. Twice she had thrown off the sheets, switched on the light and inspected the bed down to the corners. The morning sun was too bright for Henry’s eyes. He blinked uncomfortably.

  “It’s been nice having you here. I hope you’ll visit us again.”

  “On the way out. In a few weeks.”

  “Pelat’s quite beautiful. Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll call and book you a room at Abdul’s guesthouse. The rates are decent.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Look out for our Danny. He’s been living there for a while now. Nice chap. Spends too much time at the bar, I suspect.” Henry looked at the pages Ingrid had spread out on the table. “Ah, you have a little preview here.” He put on his glasses and leaned toward the photo of the blond man standing with Templeton and a large fish. “Well, well”—he smiled—“Finn got a nice fish.”

  “This is Finn Bergmann, isn’t it?”

  “You know him?”

  “I think I met him last night.”

  “Quite possible, as he was just here, picking something up for his boat. Left this morning. Finn’s father built the hotel on the island.” Henry picked up the photo. “I met him once, way back. Anyway, you’ll see the place when you get there. Salama. Hard to miss. Man named Wicks is putting up another one on the other end of the island. All sorts of hoopla about that. Seems one hotel on Pelat is enough for some.” Henry returned the photo of Finn and winked. “Watch out for this one. He and Danny are mates from way back. Up to no good with the ladies.” Henry cleared his throat. “If you come upon Danny, tell him we’re expecting him for Christmas.”

  “Christmas,” Ingrid repeated.

  “Last year it slipped his mind. Hurt his mum’s feelings.”

  Ingrid wrote down the names in her notebook: Danny, Wicks. After a cup of coffee, she added Finn.

  Part Two

  CHAPTER

  8

  An Unexpected Guide

  The first man Ingrid saw on Pelat Island she saw from the sea. Her body knew him even from a distance. His hair was bright with the sun as he moved along the stone wall above the water.

  Two elderly British women stood in the dhow in front of her, straw hats clasped to their hea
ds. The three of them had flown together in a four-seat Cessna from Mombasa, the two ladies chatting like sparrows, their knees touching in the small plane. (The landing strip was on a neighboring island, where a dhow met the passengers and took them across the narrow channel.) They were silent now as they watched the island come nearer. Palm trees bent like lashes above the white beach. The sun was like a glorious warm liquid that touched the pale skin between the leather straps of their sandals, the soft protected backs of their necks.

  The green water of the bay splashed below the turquoise eye painted on the prow, giving the ancient boat a steep profile, a stern mouth gulping warm salt water. The thick handmade sails were full, the billow of their downwind tack obscuring the view of the quay. Ingrid leaned to keep the man in sight. There were details now: a rust-red kikoi, wrapped around his waist, hung below his knees; his back was broad and brown. It seemed, at the speed they were traveling, that they would intercept him perfectly, that the two paths of motion would connect.

  A crowd had gathered on the stone wall along the quay. Children were waving. The man wove his way through the throng of bodies, and by the time the dhow bumped against the stone steps, he was gone. Ingrid eased her disappointment into relief by telling herself it was too soon to see him, that it was better first to see his island, have a shower and change her clothes.

  The quay was alive with fingers pointing and hands reaching for the luggage stowed in the bow of the boat. From above, a hand appeared in front of her. With the sun in her eyes, she could not see the face. The British women were laughing. The dhow rocked as they disembarked and she grabbed the hand so she wouldn’t fall and was pulled up to the stone wall to face a brown man with tea-colored eyes and the face of a cherub, an odd combination of bleached curls and dark skin. “You are staying at Abdul’s guesthouse, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Point to me your bag,” he said. He swung it onto his shoulder and beckoned to her. “Come.” Then the British ladies were gone and the crowd was gone and she was following him on a narrow path of sand that led to other paths of sand, weaving through the village. Ingrid kept her eyes on the cherub’s back. He was singing, leading her along through the warm island air. His kikoi was worn thin, his back barely covered by an ill-fitting tank top. His curls still dripped water, which snaked down his neck in dark rivulets. “I am Ali. Anything you want to see, I will show you. I will collect you in an hour for a drink at Salama where you can get food. Signal me and I will take you home. I am to be trusted.”

  “How much?”

  “No. The pleasure is mine.”

  “I don’t think I can afford you, really. I’m not a tourist.”

  “No?” Ali smiled.

  They stopped in front of a windowless white house with a large wooden door. “An hour to freshen.” Ali pulled a rope that rang a bell inside the house and disappeared around the corner.

  The door opened slowly, and a flesh-bare, wizened man squinted and gestured her through a shaded stone courtyard with chickens and children. Laundry hung on a line. In the motionless air was the faint odor of fish. Pliant from the heat, Ingrid followed him, relinquishing any expectation of control.

  The roof of the guesthouse had been transformed into a comfortable lounging porch. Hammocks hung in the corners and colorful, sun-faded pillows were piled under a sunken thatch shelter. The old man spoke to her over his shoulder as they ascended a flight of narrow stairs. “It is coolest up here,” he said. On the back third of the sizable roof was an addition to the main house, with two rooms. The roof looked over the tops of palm trees and the thatch of village houses to an expansive white structure that must have been Salama Hotel. Beyond it, the Indian Ocean stretched to where on the horizon it was reflected back by the late-afternoon sun. The old man gestured to a door and stood by as Ingrid looked in.

  “Are you Abdul?”

  “I am.”

  “My name is Ingrid.”

  “Yes,” the old man said indifferently.

  The room was simple: three paneless windows covered by sun-faded fabric that blew in the cross breeze. In the middle was a rough wooden bed with a tented mosquito net. A single sheet was pulled tight across the narrow mattress. The floor was bare and a wooden chair stood in the corner, on three of its four uneven legs. There was nowhere to put her things. “Thank you,” she said. Abdul nodded and retreated.

  Ingrid pulled the mosquito net aside and lay down on the bed, sheltering herself with the mesh net. Templeton had laughed the first time she had returned from Africa with malaria. “Don’t run from mosquitoes, malaria jogs the brain,” he had told her. “Some of my best thinking has been done with a fever.” She closed her eyes. The cloth curtains flapped softly.

  Later, from below, she heard the sounds of children laughing and a goat. Later still, a prayer call from a nearby mosque, sudden and deafening from a loudspeaker. Then, as the light began to fade, a knock at the door. Three soft knocks. Ingrid watched the door open through the mesh of the mosquito net. A man in white appeared as if in a vision: Ali had changed his clothes. He was elegant now, in a white kikoi and button-down shirt. He took in his breath when he saw her lying there. “So sorry,” he said. “I will wait.”

  Ingrid knelt to unzip her duffel and stared blankly at its neatly folded contents. The laundry boys at the Chichester had pressed even her jeans. She pulled on a floral skirt and a white cotton shirt. Fishing in her purse for a lipstick, she called out to Ali. “Has someone asked you to look after me?”

  “You are Miss Holes, the American.”

  “Holtz.” Ingrid closed the door to her room. “How do you know that?”

  “This is an island. Come.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the hotel for a drink. You will meet other foreigners there. There is a telephone. They serve dinner. You will be wanting dinner, yes?”

  “Has a man named Templeton sent you?”

  “The professor?” Ali smiled. “No.”

  “You know him?”

  “Of course,” Ali motioned beyond a few rooftops. “He stays over there.”

  Ingrid almost tripped following him down the stairs. Ali turned to catch her. She could see his smile gleaming in the darkness. “Is he there now?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t seen him.” Ali paused to open the front door for her. “You are what, his daughter?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “I am his student.”

  “His student.” Two women draped in bui-buis turned the corner and cast their eyes downward at the sight of Ingrid. Their black robes covered all but a swatch for the eyes. As they approached, their quiet talk ceased. Ingrid turned to watch the sway of the dark cloth and caught one of them staring at her, her eyes thickly outlined with kohl. “Two weeks ago I tried to call him at the hotel,” she resumed. “I was told he wasn’t here.”

  “I remember. I took the message—I was working in the hotel office that night.”

  “So you knew I was coming.” Ali chose not to answer and they lapsed into silence. “You say the professor lives on that side of town,” Ingrid tried. “Do you know where?”

  “He must stay somewhere else now. I haven’t seen him lately.”

  “You might have told me that on the phone.”

  “I had not seen him. I told you as much, Miss Holes.”

  “Just Ingrid, please.” She had stopped to empty the sand from her shoes. “Did he go to the hotel?”

  “No, not much.” The path had emerged onto a neatly swept patio. “Here we are,” Ali said. He motioned ahead to a bar under a makute roof lit with small candles. “There is the outside bar. But we will go to the indoor bar. Danny must see you. Then, whenever you want to go, I will take you.” He paused, running his eyes over her. “You are lucky to have me,” he said. “You could have ended up with any number of scoundrels.”

  “And you’re not a scoundrel?” she asked.

  “No, I am an angel,” he said, o
pening the door for her. “You have been a queen, yes? It’s in your face. You are proud.”

  “I can’t give you money, Ali.”

  He shrugged. “Do not get upset. I’m only naming what I see.”

  The bar was elegant: panels of dark wood set against pale yellow walls. The room was small but the high ceiling made it feel spacious. Candles flickered from the breeze of a languorous wooden ceiling fan. On two adjoining sides, French doors opened to the night. Ingrid followed Ali to a table where a man sat, drinking. “Hello, Danny. This is Miss Ingrid Holes. From America.”

  Danny at first did not respond. His long limbs were bent over, crisscrossed against a slender frame. His head was large, with disconcertingly pronounced features: enormous blue eyes, a generous mouth, a thick mop of hair falling over his forehead. Ingrid was struck by the incongruence of the substantial head and the vanquished spine curved miserably against the wall, the shoulders collapsed forward, protecting an invisible sphere of space in front of the sunken chest cavity. Danny’s blue eyes were on her now and his lips had turned in a kind of smile. His hand reached for hers.

  “I have this boat.” His voice was soft. Ingrid watched his thumb stroke the veins of her hand. “If tomorrow’s nice we could sail it to Kisu Island. I’ve never been there but I’ve always wanted to go. I’ll have Hamilton pack a lunch. It’s a little boat, but seaworthy. Will you come? Please don’t say no. I can’t tolerate no.”

  Ali’s voice was in her ear. “Say yes, he won’t remember.”

  “Your parents want you to come to Nairobi for Christmas,” Ingrid said. Danny’s head crumpled over her hand. His lips, soft and slack, pressed hard against her hand. A few moments later, the weight of his head followed. He seemed to be asleep. Ingrid signaled Ali with her eyes.

  “Good night, Danny,” Ali said.

  Danny’s head rose like a balloon. His eyes were shot with red. “Yes, yes, good night.” Ali offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet. He was well over six feet, his starched kikoi bunched above his swaying knees like a diaper. “Until tomorrow.” He bent to kiss Ingrid’s head and then staggered off into the night. She watched him through the windows as he was joined by another shorter, darker man whom he propped himself up against, as if the man were a crutch, and left the stone terrace for the sand; “That’s Hamilton,” Ali said. “Danny’s houseboy.”