And West Is West (10 page)

LEAVE-TAKING

December 2012 – September 2013

CHAPTER 18

Washington, DC

A freeze harassed the city last week, but the bench they sit on is warm under a crisp December sun. Zoe and Mariatu Nowrojee are enjoying lunch on an unseasonably warm day that in a former age might have been called Indian. But use the term
Indian summer
in this town and you will get your hand slapped. At the same time you can root loudly for the Redskins.

Zoe's annoyance at such hypocrisies makes her impatient especially when there are more important things in her life. She is overwhelmed by her work at her NGO. Her organization, WIDO, Women's International Development Organization, assists impoverished women overseas—women at risk of being stoned for adultery or burned alive on their husbands' funeral pyres.

“Zoe, stop thinking so hard. Look at the blue sky,” her friend Mariatu says.

Zoe looks up and feels ashamed. Certainly her personal woes are minor compared to Mariatu's, who once had been attacked by soldiers in the classroom where she taught, her cheek crushed by a blow. Her students were taken away to be drugged and instructed on how to fire AK-47s at their neighbors. Mariatu has lived through a hell that makes Dante's seem naive, because Dante only punished the guilty.

“I think he was just teasing you, Zoe,” Mariatu says.

Zoe's cheeks warm. It was so irrelevant—her “Indian summer” comment and Porter, Dr. Coombs, scolding her for it.

“Oh, it was very, very funny when you then yelled at him for being a Redskins fan,” Mariatu says. “Go, Zoe!”

Mariatu's laugh lightens the air and the knots inside Zoe relax. Her laughter comes and soon the two of them are laughing toward the blue sky. They make a small spectacle for passersby. Then Zoe's eyes fall again to the scar on Mariatu's cheek.

AT THE CENTRAL
office of WIDO, Zoe is trying to micromanage a microloan situation. A contract they made with a collective of women farmers in Burundi has inspired the men of the village to imprison their wives in their huts. The village is to be the first stop on a tour of WIDO's Central Africa projects by one of their major donors—a technology entrepreneur turned philanthropist. Zoe's task is to settle the situation before WIDO's hired photographer heads into the Burundi countryside to take preliminary site shots. She phones her contact in Bujumbura, Jean-Pierre.

“You must give money to the husbands,” Jean-Pierre says.

“But that's not okay,” Zoe replies.

“Still, you must give money to the husbands. Five million francs.”

Zoe relays this information to Dr. Coombs, her boss, and he calls it extortion. “They live in grass huts for God's sake. Can't the women escape?”

The solution is simple but not anything Dr. Coombs can discuss. So Zoe does. She has already calculated the exchange rate. “Five million Burundi francs are only a few hundred dollars,” she says.

Coombs knits his graying eyebrows.

“Look,” Zoe says. “I know that you can't”—and she raises her fingers to form air quotes—“
know
anything about this, but—”

“No,” Coombs cuts her off. “If word leaked that we paid a bribe as official policy, our donations would dry up.”

“But it wouldn't be official policy, not if
I
arranged the payment behind your back,” Zoe answers. “If something goes wrong, the burden of blame is on me.”

Coombs considers this. “You would make that sacrifice?” Respect glints in her boss's eyes. This is what Zoe is living for now, that glint. “Well, we
are
backed into a corner.”

Zoe nods. She is not afraid of losing her job for the cause. Although at this point she is vague on what, exactly, their cause is. Are they trying to help the women in the village? Or are they trying to make sure WIDO's donors keep donating?

Zoe calls Jean-Pierre, but he does not pick up. Twenty minutes later, when Jean-Pierre finally answers, he tells her that now the village men want ten million francs to let the women go back to work. As there are no cell towers near the village Zoe knows that Jean-Pierre cannot have spoken directly with the husbands about the new demand. And if this much is a lie, what about the rest of Jean-Pierre's story? Perhaps everything is fine in the village. But even if Zoe were sure of this, she cannot refuse Jean-Pierre. If she did, he might go to the village and create the problem.

“Jean-Pierre,” Zoe says, “We only have five hundred dollars in our African account,” she lies. “Won't the men accept that? It's twice what we loaned their wives.”

Jean-Pierre is silent and Zoe worries that she has insulted him. She worries that she has just ruined a photo op for WIDO's most important donor. But finally, Jean-Pierre speaks. “I will give you an account number for the wire transfer,” he says in his cheery French accent.

THAT EVENING THE
Burundi situation is causing Zoe's temples to pound. At lunch with Mariatu she had been five thousand miles distant. Now, here, ordering Ethiopian with Mariatu and her friends on Ninth Street, Zoe lags hours behind. Again and again she is reliving how Jean-Pierre cheated her until the menu she is studying displays not dinner choices but transcriptions of Jean-Pierre's persistent, “You
must
pay the husbands. You
must
pay the husbands.” Their waiter is waiting on her.

“Per-plexed?” Johannes, Mariatu's friend, asks. Immaculate in his gray suit and yellow tie, perpetually smiling, he musically punctuates each of his syllables as if showing off his deep voice. “I would try the
kitfo
tartare
.”

“But you can't go wrong with the
shiro fit-fit
,” interrupts Johannes' friend, Hajhi. He is slighter, less sure of himself, and habitually touches his sparse goatee as if to make sure it's there. “They serve it vegan here.”

So far Zoe likes Hajhi better than the blustery Johannes.
“Shiro fit-fit,”
Zoe says to the waiter, who nods and departs.

“I think you made the right choice,” Johannes says and reaches across the table to pat Zoe's hand. He is not referring to Zoe's selection of a meal but to her bribe to Jean-Pierre.
She ought to have kept quiet about it.
Now Johannes turns to Mariatu. “Do you remember Professor Kamara?” he asks.

“Oh yes,” Mariatu says sadly.

Johannes, speaking well over the conversations of neighboring tables, explains to Zoe, “The professor was failing a student whose papa worked for De Beers. One day a small pouch of uncut diamonds appears on our teacher's desk.” Johannes lifts his eyebrows as if the conclusion of the story is apparent.

“Well, what happened?” asks Hajhi.

“Oh, Dr. Kamara,” Mariatu sighs.

Johannes turns to Mariatu. “Sorry for bringing up the old days.”

Mariatu's eyes glisten. “It is fine. Go ahead, Jo.”

Johannes begins. “During our civil war it was common for citizens to barter in rough diamonds, though this was very illegal. Dr. Kamara, of course, turned in the mysterious pouch. But this was not enough for him. He failed his failing student and made a stir about corruption at the university. He became the Socrates of Fourah Bay. It was inevitable that he would be arrested.” Johannes stops talking, perhaps out of consideration for Mariatu. The story, though, must be finished.

Mariatu inhales and speaks. “Dr. Kamara was charged with possession of the contraband he
himself
turned in. Then he was accused of supporting the rebels. Even before the trial he lost his professorship. I started a petition.”

“A dangerous thing,” Johannes interrupts.

“Not so,” says Mariatu.

“Yes,” says Johannes. “And what good did it do for you to risk your future.” This last statement hangs in the air.

Zoe cannot stop herself from asking. “What happened to your professor?”

“After receiving a sentence of fifteen years . . . Dr. Kamara hanged himself,” Mariatu says.

There is silence until Hajhi snaps at Johannes. “But this has nothing to do with Zoe's problem.”

Johannes slowly wipes his face with his napkin. “My good friend, it has everything to do.” He turns to Zoe. “America operates differently from the world. Here you are not as desperate. You have the luxury of playing fair and you expect others will. So it is a shock when you go into another world and there are different rules. You think you are being cheated. But in some places a bribe is simple business. Not to ask for a bribe is a mark of stupidity. And not to offer one is bad form. When you are more experienced you will understand that a bribe is just a commission. As they say, ‘The monkey works, the baboon eats.' ”

“Johannes, you are not only corrupt but a complete idealist about America,” says Hajhi. “Here bribery is called a political donation.”

After Johannes finishes laughing, Mariatu asks him, “What is Freetown like now?”

Johannes considers the question. “Same-same.”

Mariatu nods.

“When was the last time you were home?” Hajhi asks, and this makes Mariatu smile.

“Five years ago. And I'm afraid my country was still not ready to deal with this.” Mariatu touches the dent in her cheek. To Zoe, her friend's injury seems more pronounced now, perhaps because of the restaurant's lighting.

“You could have it fixed,” suggests Johannes.

“No,” Mariatu says simply.

“Then I still do not think you could find a job in Freetown.” Johannes turns his eyes to Zoe. “It has been more than ten years and everyone is still traumatized by the war. They want to pretend it had not been so terrible. But if you have a wound like Mariatu's, you remind them.”

“You're drunk,” Hajhi says to Johannes. “He had three beers before you arrived,” he explains to Mariatu.

Johannes pours the contents of his current beer down his throat and sighs “ahh” as if to antagonize Hajhi. Zoe cannot tell if the two men are spatting lovers or simply friends irritated with each other. “I am celebrating my reunion with Mariatu,” Johannes says. “And I will drink.”

“Drink. Drink,” says Mariatu. “So I can always count on you to tell me the truth.”

“JOHANNES IS MY
time machine,” Mariatu tells Zoe. They have said goodnight to Mariatu's friends and are walking west on U Street. “That is why I enjoy seeing him. He reminds me of what I must try to be.” Mariatu crosses her arms against the night's chill.

“Arrogant?” Zoe says.

Mariatu laughs. “
Honest
. In Freetown, Johannes was beaten up many times. He was brazen in presenting himself as a man who loves men. In Sierra Leone a man cannot be as apparent as one is here. There, for men to have sex together is a serious crime.”

It is a Thursday night and on U Street's narrow sidewalks the privileged young mill about. Zoe and Mariatu pass through crowds of them outside nineteenth-century townhomes that have been converted into cafes and bistros, funky clothing stores and shops filled with trendy furnishings.

“Johannes inspired me to go into the countryside to teach,” Mariatu says. “I was warned that it would be risky. My family forbade me to go. But if Johannes stood up for what he believed in, how could I not do what my conscience asked?”

They pass a check-cashing store that seems out of place.

“The rebels came to my school more than once,” Mariatu says. “At first they were afraid of me because I showed them no fear. They did not know what this rich
uman
was doing in the village. They probably thought I knew Charles Taylor. They were ignorant men that you can sometimes stand up to. But, yes, it
was
arrogance to imagine I could send them away time and again. When you are young you believe that your ideals can save you and the world.”

On an island in the intersection where they are about to part, Mariatu asks if Zoe has read Simone de Beauvoir. Guiltily Zoe shakes her head. Mariatu continues. “When she was young Simone was a ferocious hiker and traveled everywhere alone, hitching rides through the countryside whenever she grew exhausted. A colleague at the school where she taught warned her that this was dangerous. Simone, however, believed that the warning only reflected her colleague's spinsterish fantasy. Then one day Simone accepted a ride from two young men. Only after they made a wrong turn in the direction of a desolate valley did she understand their intention.”

Zoe begins to imagine that this story has a lot to do with Mariatu's life—with how Mariatu turned around what would be for most people an insurmountable trauma. “Is it because of what the men did to her that she wrote
The Second Sex
?” Zoe asks. Though Zoe has not read Beauvoir she does know the title of her most famous book.

“No. No,” Mariatu corrects. “As the men were driving her away Simone threatened to jump from their moving car. She intimidated them and they let her go.
Then
she went on to write
The Second Sex
.”

“Because she was not raped?”

“Exactly,” Mariatu says. “Simone said that her escape strengthened her delusion that she could always get herself out of any fix. It helped to make her audacious. If she had been abused by those men, perhaps she would not have become the writer we know. Perhaps she would have been broken. Our lives turn on such fortunes.”

The walk light has now come and gone several times. Mariatu and Zoe hug goodbye. But after Zoe steps into the street she looks back at Mariatu. “Do you ever wonder? . . .” Zoe stops speaking.

But Mariatu is quick. “Do I wonder what the alternate me, the me who was not attacked, is doing now? I do not wonder this. I know,” Mariatu says as if announcing a cosmic joke. “If she had been able to stop those soldiers, today she would be the president of her country and also satisfying the hunger of multitudes with a single loaf of bread. That is how arrogant and impossible I was then. That I might still be that way. The Mariatu you see before you, I am afraid, is not her.”