A Change in Altitude

  When the interview was over, Margaret asked Adhiambo if she could take a couple of pictures of her.

  “You must not show my face,” she said.

  Margaret thought.

  “I can shoot you doing an activity that shows you but not your face.”

  Adhiambo smiled. Her bottom teeth were crooked, and there was a gap between the two front teeth, but when she smiled, she was beautiful.

  Outside, a group of children, all about five or six years old, had gathered around James, who had squatted to tell them a story. Three of the children held babies. Margaret called to James and asked if she could take his picture with the children. He said yes and told the kids, and Margaret adjusted the lens to get them all in the shot. Though they had been laughing and giggling a second earlier, they immediately turned somber when Margaret aimed the camera at them. She noted, as she continued to shoot, that Rafiq was scribbling on his pad. Careful, Rafiq, she was thinking. When an adult passed by, Margaret lowered the camera and pretended to be in conversation with James. She asked Adhiambo to bring out her wall hangings so that she could see them better, which Adhiambo did. Adhiambo laid them on the top of a bush in front of her hut. In the light, they were something entirely different. “You put the beads on this cloth?” Margaret asked her.

  She nodded.

  “And you bought the cloth?”

  “No, no,” she said, waving her hands. “I am making the cloth.”

  Margaret was impressed. The cloth was not a batik, she discovered, but rather hand-painted. With broad but strategically placed lines, Adhiambo had painted scenes of women cooking and of children tending other children. At first the eye thought the lines abstract. The positioning of the brass and black beads further confused the viewer. All of which made the surprise of the figures more exciting. “You learned this where?” Margaret asked.

  “I think I am inventing it,” she said.

  “These are terrific.”

  Margaret took several shots of each, and two with Adhiambo holding the larger of the wall hangings in front of her. In the pictures, her face was turned away, but one could still make out her profile.

  Margaret was reluctant to have Adhiambo take the cloths back inside the hut.

  “Hang on a second,” Margaret called.

  Adhiambo stopped.

  “I’d like to buy one if I could.”

  Adhiambo seemed bewildered and looked to James for guidance.

  James grinned. “She is selling them for one hundred shillings each,” he said.

  Twelve dollars. A bargain. Margaret reached into her basket and retrieved the notes. She had brought five hundred shillings with her in case Rafiq had been unable to get the money from the Tribune. If only there were a place outside the hut for Adhiambo to display her work for all to see. James leaned closer and said, “We must go now.”

  “Have you told Rafiq?” Margaret asked.

  “Yes.”

  They said elaborate good-byes to Adhiambo. Margaret wished she had had Moses cook some meat to bring to her. They all bowed and turned back on the path.

  “The askaris who live here are coming home soon,” James said. “They will not like our presence here.”

  Once again, they walked on the path, this time Rafiq ahead of Margaret, with James behind. Rafiq had removed his suit jacket; his shirt was soaked to the skin in the back. They had stood in the noonday sun for at least an hour while James told stories and Margaret took pictures. Rafiq, during that time, had interviewed a neighbor who had walked him to the pump from which Adhiambo got her water and then had given Rafiq directions to the latrine. It was almost three o’clock, and James reminded them that three was the time when the day shift of askaris returned home and the evening shift went out.

  “Those hours aren’t so bad,” Margaret said. “What? Seven to three? Eight-hour shifts?”

  “No, no,” James explained. “There are only the two shifts. The askaris are working twelve hours.”

  Margaret drove James home first, because he said he had to prepare the evening meal. Then Rafiq and she headed to the Tribune, where Rafiq had left his car.

  “That was wretched,” Rafiq said when they were alone. “Ghastly.”

  Until that moment, Margaret hadn’t seen him express intense emotion of any kind. Even when he’d been chronicling his ouster from Uganda, he’d been calm.

  “You’ve never seen conditions like those before?” she asked.

  “I have, but from a distance. Never this… intimate.”

  “Your piece should be good,” she said, “if you feel this way.”

  “Yes, I’m eager to get at it. It will take some work, though, to make that place as real to the reader as it is to me.”

  “Some of the people who live in such conditions will read your piece,” Margaret said. “James, before he ever got hooked up with a family as a cook, had eight years of school and spoke English very well. I often saw him with a newspaper when I was living on the same grounds as he.”

  “And where was that?”

  “Langata.”

  “Really?” Rafiq seemed surprised.

  “Long story,” she said. “We lived in a small one-bedroom cottage on the property of a larger house. We used to get invited to dinner a lot at what we called the Big House. There was an incident during which James and I got to know each other better.”

  “What incident?”

  Margaret was sorry she’d brought up James. “It’s something you can’t write about, even though you’re going to want to.”

  “Now I’m completely intrigued.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Adhiambo was raped by two men. She was brought to our cottage to spend the night. In the morning, James came to collect her, and we all walked back to the place you saw today. She’d been beaten, too, and was deeply ashamed.”

  Rafiq nodded his head slowly. “I wondered about that. Her reference to men trying to get through her door…”

  “Even if you’d pursued it, she never would have told you.”

  Rafiq sat back in his seat for the rest of the way to town. Margaret wondered if he was composing sentences or thinking of Adhiambo and the rape.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” he said, putting his hand on hers for just a moment. Even his palm was hot.

  “Someone in my debt,” Margaret said. “A novel sensation.”

  The following Friday, Margaret flew to Lamu. She’d been given precise instructions. Drive herself to Wilson Airport, collect her tickets from the agent, and then she’d be told which aircraft to board. When she arrived on Manda, she’d be led to a dhow that would ferry her to Lamu, a brief journey. Patrick would be waiting for her at the town landing.

  Margaret had seen small planes at air shows and on television, but never had she seen one with the intention of actually flying in it. There were three passenger seats—two behind the pilot and one beside him. She didn’t know the make of the aircraft, but she did note the propellers. She sat behind the pilot, who had on a mod suit—gray, slim-fitting, short-sleeved, Nehru collar. The two other passengers were a South African couple with thick accents. The man was deeply tanned and had stiff blond hair, as if he’d done a lot of swimming in a chlorinated pool. The woman was a petite brunette. “Hi. I’m Kathleen Krueger. This is my husband, Gary.”

  They asked Margaret why she was headed to Lamu, and she told them she was meeting her husband, who’d gone ahead of her. Margaret asked them the reason for their journey. They were in the start-up phase of a jewelry business and wanted to meet with a pair of brothers who made extraordinary silver bracelets. “You’ll love Lamu,” Kathleen said with assurance. “Everybody does. Where are you staying?”

  Margaret answered Petley’s.

  “Good hotel,” Kathleen said. “Don’t drink the water—even the ice cubes in the drinks.”

  “Oh God,” her husband said, obviously remembering an unpleasant event.

  The pilot turned on the engine. Se
veral instruments lit up. He spoke to a pilot in another plane that they could see. Apparently they were to follow the first plane to Lamu. Margaret wondered if Kenyan aircraft routinely flew in pairs. To be able to instantly call in the site of a crash?

  Margaret had always been a white-knuckle flier until she got bored enough to relax. On the flight to Lamu, however, she never relaxed.

  Had she not been so frightened, she might have said the liftoff was thrilling. The South African couple kept up a steady chatter and pointed out what seemed to be important moments of their personal history.

  “Remember, darling, when we were returning from Mombasa in Drew’s truck during the rains, and the road had washed out?”

  “We almost died that night. I don’t know how Drew managed to come to a stop where he did.”

  “We spent the entire night there, didn’t we? Until it got light enough to figure out how to avoid falling to our death?”

  “I’ll never forget it.”

  “No, me neither.”

  Immediately, the city fell away to endless plains. Hadn’t Finch Hatton crashed his plane over Tsavo, a town they would soon fly over? Margaret tried then to just think of Patrick, of his arms around her and the feel of her face against his chest. Before the trip to Mount Kenya, that would have done the trick, but now it only made Margaret anxious. She had no idea what she would find when she arrived. Would they be as they once were, or would they fall again into that murky no-man’s-land, the aftermath of a disastrous expedition?

  Manda Airport was smaller than Wilson. A thick forest of mangrove surrounded them on all four sides. She followed the others to a narrow path. Gary offered to carry her suitcase. Normally, she’d have said no, but she let him. When they emerged on the other side of the thick forest, they found dozens of other people clamoring to get on one of the dhows that were approaching shore. The South African couple turned out to be valuable, announcing they had diplomatic credentials and needed to make their way to the landing at once. Margaret had no choice but to follow, since Gary had her bag. They pushed forward to the front of the throng.

  “We’ll get on now,” he said, handing Margaret her suitcase.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They were among the first to board the small dhow. Margaret thought she should feel guilty, but she didn’t. She just wanted to get to Lamu. She grew somewhat alarmed, however, when she saw how many people the dhow’s captain, a sinewy man in a loincloth, was letting on. Even the South African couple sighed heavily as yet another family climbed aboard.

  She felt the push-off and then the gentle glide. All around her was chatter.

  “Jesus Christ, Gary,” Kathleen said to her husband. “We’ve only got an inch of freeboard.”

  “At least nobody’s shooting at us,” Gary replied.

  Patrick waved and blew a kiss, and Margaret would have done so back if it weren’t for having to keep her balance on the rocking dhow with her suitcase in her hand. First one on meant last one off.

  When she finally reached the pier, Patrick swept her up in his arms. His spirits were high, and Margaret felt her spirits rise as well. “I’m so happy to see you,” she said, burying her face in his shoulder.

  The trip had broken the ice jam. They would be all right together.

  Patrick took Margaret’s suitcase, and they walked the length of the dock.

  * * *

  What was it that Margaret noticed first? That there was a person going the wrong way along the dock? That, oddly, that person seemed to be stopping directly in front of Patrick? That before the woman spoke, in her appealing Italian accent, Margaret couldn’t help but notice that she was beautiful in a way that Margaret would never be? How fast that thought was formed. The slim body, the long, flowing skirt that fell from narrow hips, the sunglasses pushed up over the mass of long, dark curls caught up in pins, the wide, dark eyes, the prominent jaw, the mouth, the self-confidence that was evident in every gesture.

  “Elena, this is my wife, Margaret,” Patrick said by way of introduction. “Margaret, this is Elena, an ophthalmologist who is working with our team.”

  Elena, her wrist covered in gold bangles, held out her hands. In them she held a thin black shawl. “You’ll be needing this,” she said.

  Behind Elena, Margaret could see an ancient city of small white buildings dotted with several mosques and their round domes. There were no roads to speak of, only narrow cobblestoned streets better suited to pedestrians than to vehicles. All paths led upward to the heart of the city. Patrick carried her bag while she held the translucent shawl over her shoulders for modesty.

  “How was your flight?” Elena asked.

  “Fine.”

  “I hate to fly. I try to put myself to sleep.”

  “What work are you and Patrick doing together?”

  “We’re part of a team that was sent out as a kind of medical think tank. We treat patients, we talk about them and their lives, the conditions in which they live, and then we have roundtable discussions among ourselves to try to find solutions. Theoretically, the idea is to direct charitable organizations to the places that need the most help.”

  “Where are the others? How many are on your team?”

  “Much of the collaborative work was done in Malindi. Two others are joining us tomorrow.”

  “And you got to Lamu when?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. There was no other way to do it and still be here in time to collect you.”

  Margaret followed her husband up a steep set of steps. The men passing them wore kaffiyehs on their heads and white kanzus. They glanced at Elena and Margaret but didn’t speak and weren’t in the least rude.

  “We’re all at Petley’s,” Elena said. “You and Patrick have a rooftop room with wonderful views. I am just off the lobby.”

  Margaret continued to move forward, but it was as though she’d been pricked by thorns. Why the deliberate mention of how far apart the rooms were? How did Elena know that Patrick’s room had a wonderful view? Was that a feature he’d have mentioned to a colleague who hadn’t been lucky enough to get such a view? Or had he invited Elena up just to see the Indian Ocean, as one might do for a friend? Would they have had a quick drink together, watching that magnificent low skyline against an indigo blue? And what happened after that?

  Margaret’s mind wouldn’t go there; it had never been necessary to do so. All of the above could be explained away. She was being too suspicious. Unfair to Elena, whose only crime was that she was beautiful. Had Elena been a dumpy woman with dull hair and pimples, would any of this have occurred to Margaret at all?

  Margaret wanted and yet didn’t want to have a discussion about this with Patrick. Either way, she thought, she would lose. Patrick might be genuinely shocked, and then angry she’d even thought to ask such a question. Margaret would lose. Or he might use that moment to tell her that, yes, he and Elena had been having an affair and had planned the coastal trip with that in mind. Margaret would lose. Or he might employ the former tactic simply to blow smoke in her face, so that she wouldn’t ask another question on the subject. She would lose. For a moment, she was furious with Patrick for having put her in that position. Why ask her to join him in Lamu (risking her life, she might add) for what was supposed to be a private weekend only to introduce another woman into the mix? And, come to think of it, why hadn’t he prepared Margaret on the telephone for Elena? He wasn’t a stupid man.

  Halfway up a narrow street, they stopped at a small coffeehouse with elaborate metal chairs outside. Inside, Margaret could see low wood furniture with many white cushions. She was glad to be able to sit in the shadow of the building across the street. In that building, she saw a vendor standing in his doorway, chatting with a second man. In the window was a display of handcrafted jewelry, most in silver: long cuffs, necklaces that looked more like art than jewelry, and earrings that would fall to the chin line.

  “Have you been in that store?” Margaret asked Elena.

  “I haven’t had
time. When we got here, we walked around, but all the shops were closed. They reopen later in the day, but I gather that it’s hard to know the schedule until you’ve been here a couple of days. Why? Are you admiring the jewelry in that window?”

  “Do you know how to bargain?” Margaret asked her. Americans were notoriously bad at bargaining. They lacked either the subtlety or the patience for the way the game was played. Some “negotiations” could take as long as a half hour, with both sides smiling at the end. The elaborate games were always entertaining to watch.

  “Sometimes,” Elena said.

  Coffee arrived and, with it, cubes of sugar.

  “I suspect you’re dehydrated,” Elena said. “Patrick, can you get her a bottle of water?”

  There was something wrong with the request. How could Elena so easily order Patrick around?

  “He is nice, your husband,” Elena said when Patrick had gone. “Highly competent but kind as well.”

  The muezzin began the call to prayers. Margaret sat back and closed her eyes and let the minor notes, which she’d always loved, wash over her. She opened her eyes when Patrick returned with the water.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Margaret could see the feet and ankles of the two men who had been talking earlier outside the shop. Now they were inside on prayer rugs laid upon the stone.

  At Petley’s, they split up to go to their separate rooms, with plans to meet for dinner at the rooftop restaurant. Once inside, Margaret went to wash her hands. When she came out, Patrick was sitting on the bed, waiting for her.

  “I thought this was going to be a weekend for just the two of us,” Margaret said.

  “You mean Elena?” he asked. “She wanted to come ahead early to set up meetings with the people who run the clinic here. But the way I see things, our weekend begins here,” he said as he patted the bedspread.