A Change in Altitude (27 page)

“The Women’s Collective,” James said.

“And she is offering to sell everything I make.”

“The Collective is taking thirty percent,” James said, “but they are making good prices for Adhiambo’s work.”

Margaret could hardly believe she’d inadvertently done something that had helped another person—though the credit had to go to Rafiq, who’d asked to do the story.

“You will tell Mr. Rafiq,” James said.

“Yes,” Margaret said without missing a beat. “I will tell him. I’m so happy for you.”

Margaret guessed that the Germans had decided that one woman in James’s small house was better than a woman with four children. James might sometimes have access to extra food, she thought, and he could go home each night to a companion. Margaret wondered about the wife in Kitale but remembered she and the children visited once a year, so perhaps that would not be a problem. In any event, it wasn’t Margaret’s problem. As for Adhiambo and her children, maybe her visits home would be more frequent now that she was making money again. Margaret hoped that she was earning more than Arthur and Diana had paid her. Most of all, she was thrilled to see her so happy and out of that dreadful slum in which she had been imprisoned. Margaret had a strong urge to call Rafiq immediately and tell him the good news, an urge she ignored.

She told James and Adhiambo that she would show the cloth to Patrick that night, and he would take it back to the flat for safekeeping. By the time she returned home, it would be on the wall in their living room.

Margaret sat alone in a chair by the window. Patrick had come and gone. By hospital time, it was late, well past visiting hours; in real life, it was just before nine o’clock. The air smelled slightly different than it had the previous night. She couldn’t identify the scent, and after a few moments, it went away. She climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up and was reaching for one of the books Solomon had brought her when she saw a shape in the doorway.

He walked to the bed and stood over Margaret. He had on a jacket and tie and held a bouquet of long, straight yellow roses.

“I stole them from Parklands,” he said.

Rafiq handed the flowers to her, and she realized he’d dethorned them as well. Eight stems of perfect roses.

“You got another knife,” she said.

Rafiq emptied a vase of drooping lilies and filled it again with fresh water from the sink. He set the bouquet on the nightstand and took the chair beside the bed.

“I am sorry for the loss of your baby,” he said. “I had to say this to you in person.”

She put her hand over her eyes and tried to gain control of herself. “It’s hard to comprehend,” she said. “Not there before I even knew it.”

He nodded. The echo.

Rafiq would have waited for Patrick to leave the parking lot in the Peugeot. She wondered how he’d managed to slip past the nuns. She didn’t know what, if anything, his visit meant.

“I need some water,” she said.

Rafiq rose and found a glass and filled it to the brim from the pitcher. Margaret drank it.

“The whole country is thirsty,” he said.

“I thought I smelled something different in the air,” she said, nodding toward the window.

“They say the rains will come tonight.”

“I’ve never felt this before,” she said. “The yearning for rain.”

“No one can escape it. For many people, it is already too late.”

“Farmers.”

He nodded.

The lights in the corridor went dim, signaling
lights out
. Rafiq got up and closed the door. The nuns had been by earlier to check Margaret’s vitals, and she prayed they wouldn’t feel the need to drop in again.

“I have to dim my own light,” she said, “or they’ll come in to see what I want.” She turned on the reading light close to the bed and had Rafiq flip the switch for the overhead.

He took off his jacket and slid it over the back of his chair. He rolled his sleeves and sat down.

“I have some news,” Margaret said in a whisper. “James and Adhiambo were here earlier. They were holding hands.”

Rafiq tilted his head.

“They’re living together in James’s house. Adhiambo has had the best luck, and she asked me to tell you because she thinks you and I made it happen. A woman read your article and saw the picture of the wall hanging. She located Adhiambo and asked her to become part of the Women’s Collective.”

“I know that organization.”

“She makes as many wall hangings as she can and gives them to the Collective to sell. The Collective takes thirty percent. I’m dying to go in and see what they’re asking for Adhiambo’s work. The best part is that she’s out of that hellhole.” Margaret paused. “We did good, Rafiq.”

“Sometimes it happens when you least expect it.”

“I’ve been wondering about James’s marriage.”

“James said he sees his wife only once a year. A marriage of convenience in the city is not so uncommon.”

Margaret nodded.

“He’s a smart guy. He’ll figure it out.”

Margaret looked away, through the open window. The leaves fluttered as if a wind had picked up.

“You are wondering why I have come,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t stay away once I heard the news,” he said. “I kept telling myself it wasn’t any of my business. And it isn’t. But I wanted to tell you in person how sad I am for you.”

Rafiq wouldn’t tell Margaret it was just all right. He wouldn’t gloss over the pain and skip immediately to the future where she would still be young and could have many children. Even James and Adhiambo, no matter how welcome, had tried to be a distraction. Rafiq would always tell the truth.

He stroked Margaret’s arm with the backs of his fingers. Everything inside her that had been tense began to loosen. She wondered what his touch meant. And then she thought that it might mean nothing. She was learning to live like the Masai. When something was there, it was there. When it left, it was gone.

The loosening became a yearning, deeper than the desire for rain.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.

“Don’t say anything.”

He ran his fingers up the inside of her arm and then let them drift down to her hand, which he held.

“Don’t go,” she said.

“No.”

Despite Margaret’s desire to stay awake and talk to Rafiq, she could feel herself drifting off. The nuns had given her a sleeping pill. “Stay here until I fall asleep,” Margaret said. “I don’t think I could stand having to watch you walk out that door.”

“I’m going to turn out your reading light now.”

After he did, he bent over and kissed Margaret lightly on the lips.

Margaret lay in darkness. The dim light in the corridor had been switched off as well. In Africa, there was seldom any ambient light, particularly when there were clouds, as there were that night. She tried to make out the features of Rafiq’s face, but she could see only his shirt, a ghost settling itself. He still held her hand. She knew that if they were caught, the nuns would tell Patrick. She didn’t care. She just wanted Rafiq not to leave.

Sometime during the night, while Margaret was sleeping, the rains started. She woke early, flooded with a sense of tremendous relief. She sat up and looked around. There was no Rafiq and no note.

He had been there, and now he was gone.

The rains soaked the earth, and the country celebrated. Everywhere, there were smiles, even on the faces of the nuns. Though the heavy rains created impassable roads and caused filthy footprints everywhere, the earth now had its long-awaited drink. The change in the landscape was almost instantaneous. When Margaret walked out of the hospital, a panorama of green buds greeted her. The world had been rinsed and felt clean again.

Patrick was solicitous, cutting back on his workload for two weeks. He stayed home on weekends. She was allowed to be—just be—for which she was grateful. She was trying to swim her way up from the bottom of a pool. On many days, she was successful; on other days, the lost days, she couldn’t get out of bed.

Later, when the lost days became fewer and fewer, Margaret began to mark out her life in milestones. First good walk. Check. First drive into the city. Check. First day back at the office. Check. First visit to the tennis club. Check. When she dared to hit a ball around a court and then swiftly wanted a match, she knew her body was physically healed. Patrick had been waiting for that moment. Not only did he return to his routines but, a few nights later, he asked to make love. Margaret didn’t feel ready, but she had no good excuse. Her doctor had given her the all clear, and Patrick knew that. All of which might have been fine had Patrick not said, as he was unbuttoning Margaret’s blouse, “You’re sure you took your pill today?”

For a moment, Margaret was confused. What pill did he mean? She was taking a lot of them.

“You know, those little pink pills in the case?”

She pulled away so that she could see his face. “You think I neglected my pills, and that’s why we conceived?”

“Well, I can’t think of any other way it could have happened.”

“You think I deliberately didn’t take them?”

“No, no,” Patrick, up on one elbow, said. “Though you’d been mentioning children here and there.”

“Once, if I recall.”

“Well, yeah. Maybe once.”

“Are you going to feel the need to remind me to take my pill every time we make love?”

“No, I’m not,” he said. She saw a slight roll of the eyes before he caught himself.

“Can we do this tomorrow?” Margaret asked.

“So we’re making appointments now?”

She shook her head, more dazed than anything else.

“Fine,” Patrick said. “Tomorrow.”

In the morning, he woke Margaret from a sound sleep. It was still dark out.

“It’s tomorrow,” he whispered into her ear.

Margaret took the assignments Solomon gave her, but photography no longer felt like her passion. She was back on the “grip-and-grin” beat, which, for once, she didn’t mind. Each time she entered the
Tribune
offices, she felt anxious. She would know, within seconds, if Rafiq was nearby or expected soon. When thoughts of him rose to the surface, Margaret pushed them away. As for the loss of that small beginning on the bathroom floor, that seemed not to leave her but rather to burrow deeper into her belly. She felt helpless to stop it.

If Margaret couldn’t venture full bore into the Kenya she had begun to know, she could at least play tennis. The club was mixed race, and she made a number of new acquaintances. One could get a decent lunch there, and in the early evening, after the last matches, whoever was left could be found at the bar, a modest setup that nevertheless sold bia baridi, ice-cold Tuskers.

The tennis club, with its formal rules and dress on the court, became a kind of second home for Margaret. It held no memories, and she was getting better at a game she hadn’t played since high school. She entered a tournament and placed well. Because the event had been an all-day affair, a buffet was served after the last match as a kind of celebration. Margaret was in a personal-best kind of mood and enjoying herself. Each time Patrick looked at her, he smiled. In those moments, Margaret thought he believed her completely healed, both inside and out.

One night, as she and Patrick were sitting down to dinner, the telephone rang. Patrick had to answer the phone each time it rang, no matter how inconvenient. Margaret could tell from the tone of his voice that he was speaking not to a friend or a colleague but to someone with whom he had a more formal relationship.

“It’s Lily,” he said, covering the mouthpiece. “Shall I tell her to call back later?”

“No,” Margaret said, getting up. “I’ll take it.”

Patrick handed the phone to her and went back to his meal.

“Lily,” Margaret said.

“Margaret, there is much chaos here. Mr. Obok has been detained. Rafiq is being deported.”

“What?”

“We need you to come in as early as possible tomorrow.”

Margaret was aware of having to keep her voice businesslike and neutral, though she could hardly breathe.

“Why?” she asked.

“Mr. Obok and Mr. Rafiq are accused of attempting to libel certain government officials. They were working on a story about a mass grave where students who were shot were buried.”

It wasn’t a rumor after all, Margaret thought.

“Of course I’ll help out,” she said to Lily. “Did you say the airport?”

There was a slight pause at the other end while Lily dealt with the non sequitur.

“Yes, that is where they are taking Mr. Rafiq just now. He is not allowed to go home to get his suitcase.”

“Oh, Lily.”

“So will you come in?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Margaret said.

She settled the receiver into its cradle. She had to invent a credible reason for leaving the house.

When she turned to Patrick, she felt completely calm. “Obok has an assignment for me. It has to be done now,” Margaret said.

“Now?” Patrick asked, incredulous. Margaret hardly ever worked at night.

“Yes. He’s been trying to catch a Pakistani diplomat for a shot all day, but the man was always on the move and too busy. Just now an aide called Solomon and said that if he could get a photographer to the airport, I could get the head shot.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No, no,” Margaret said. “I’m perfectly fine. One of us has to eat this wonderful chicken you’ve made.” Margaret picked up her camera from its place on the sideboard. “Save me some. I’ll be right back. I can’t waste a minute.”

Patrick, looking as though he were trying to translate a foreign language into English, said nothing, and Margaret was out the door.

The necessity to get to the airport was all-consuming. In the elevator, Margaret pictured the route in her head. She gave George, the watchman, a quick wave, ran to her car, and sped off. She realized she’d never heard of a police car stopping a speeding motorist in Kenya. Besides, she knew she wouldn’t stop even if they made an effort. More than likely, it would be a ruse to steal the car or worse. As she merged onto the motorway toward the airport, she tried to imagine what she would do in that circumstance.

Do exactly what she was intending to do, she thought, and hope for the best.