Fletch, Too

The official’s hand went layer through layer down the bag. “They’re like moon clothes.”

“We’re not from the moon,” Barbara said.

“They’re ski clothes,” Fletch said.

The official said, “This bag is full of ski clothes.”

Fletch said, “I suppose it is.”

“Usually when people come to Kenya for pleasure,” the official said, “they bring shorts. Safari jackets. Sun hats. Swimsuits. Hiking boots.”

Fletch said, “Oh, I see.”

The official waved his hand at the bag, indicating it could now be closed. “I’m afraid you won’t have a very good time in Kenya, if you insist on going snow-skiing.”

Fletch dropped How to Screw Around back into the knapsack. “We’ll try our best.”

Fletch handed Barbara a one-hundred-dollar bill. “Would you please go to the exchange booth and get some local currency?”

Immediately when they came out of the controlled area five small boys had grabbed the skis and carried them on their shoulders out to the sidewalk. A man had grabbed the rest of the luggage. Others had just shouted Taxi! at them.

“Where are you going?”

“Men’s room. We need taxi fare.”

“What’s the exchange rate?”

“Tit for tat. Roughly.”

“Thanks.”

There was only one other man in the men’s room. Slim, he wore a full-length safari suit. Thinning hair was stretched across his pate. He had a pencil-thin moustache. He was washing at a basin.

Sitting in the cabinet, Fletch watched the man’s brown boots make the little movements on the floor a person makes while thinking he is standing still. The water was splashing into the basin.

The main door to the men’s room opened. Heavy black shoes beneath dark trousers came into view beneath the cabinet door. The brown boots turned. The two men spoke a language Fletch didn’t understand. He could barely hear it over the sound of the running water. Then one man shouted. The other man shouted. They both were shouting. The feet began moving, agitated. Forward, back, sideways, some sort of crazy dance. The brown boots became nearer the men’s room door. One of the black shoes landed on the floor on its side, on the man’s ankle. The black shoes pulled backward to the right. The brown boots turned and sprinted for the door. The water was still running.

Fletch came out of the cabinet, pulling up his jeans. He pressed the flat of his hand against his stomach. His other hand covered his mouth.

Blood was on the mirror, the white washbasins, the floor.

A man’s body was in the corner, his neck twisted against the wall. His white shirt was soaked with blood, from just below the chest down. Some blood was on his dark trousers, as far down as his knees. His jaw was slack. His eyes, glassy as a stuffed animal’s, stared toward the men’s room door. On the side of the sink above his head was his bloody, streaked hand print.

Water was still running in the basin. A knife had been dropped into it. Water swirling around the knife was still bloody.

Fletch’s two hands could not stop what was about to happen. He went to a basin nearer the door. He vomited. He rinsed out the basin. He vomited again.

After rinsing the sink a second time he stood against the basin a moment to steady himself. Then he rubbed cold water on his face, the back of his neck.

Using the bottom of his shirt around his hand, he opened the men’s room door.

Eyes stinging, temples throbbing, knees shaking, Fletch tried to walk straight across the airport terminal while he tucked in his shirt.

The sunlight on the sidewalk outside the Nairobi airport was brilliant. Barbara was showing the taxi driver how to weight down one end of the skis with a knapsack so they could stick out of the trunk without falling. Many people stood around very interested in this problem of transporting skis by taxi.

Trembling, Fletch crossed the sidewalk directly to the taxi. He sat on the backseat. He rolled down the window. He sucked warm, dry air into his lungs.

Bending, Barbara looked through the back door of the taxi at him. “Fare to the Norfolk Hotel should be about one hundred and seventy shillings. I exchanged a hundred-dollar bill for local currency, inside, at the bank window.” Adjusting to the light inside the taxi, her eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter with you? What happened?”

“Get in, please.”

She sat on the backseat. “Can’t take a little jet lag?”

“Close the door, please.”

“Do I look as badly as you do? Fletch, what’s the matter?”

Speaking softly, he said, “I just saw someone get murdered. Stabbed to death. Blood.” He tried to rub the brilliant sunlight out of his eyes. “Blood everywhere.”

“My God! You’re serious!” She sat closer to him on the seat. “Everywhere where?”

“Men’s room.”

She, too, spoke softly. “What do you mean, you saw a murder? My God, this is terrible.”

At the back of the car, the driver was trying to arrange the trunk lid so it would not fly up and bounce as they went along the road.

Eyes closed, facedown, Fletch pressed his fingers against his forehead and cheekbones. “When I went into the men’s room, a guy was standing at the basin washing his hands. I went into a cabinet. While I was sitting there, another guy came in. They began shouting at each other. Below the cabinet door I saw their feet get excited, do this crazy dance. There was a loud shout from one of them, agony, distress.” Barbara put her arm over Fletch’s shoulder. “I came out as quickly as I could. The second man, the man I hadn’t seen before, was slumped in a corner, dead. There was blood everywhere, coming from just below his ribs. There was a bloody hand streak on the wall. His eyes were open, staring at the door. The water was still running in the basin. In the basin was a knife. The water in the basin was red.”

“You’re sure he was dead?”

“He wasn’t blinking.”

“My God, Fletch. What are we going to do?” She looked through her closed window to the airport terminal.

“I don’t know. What can we do?”

“What have you done so far?”

“I’ve thrown up.”

“You look it.”

“Into one of the other basins. I cleaned up after myself.”

“Nice boy.” She took one of his hands in hers. “Do you think anyone else knows about this yet?”

Fletch looked through the window at the people standing on the sidewalk. “No one seems very excited.”

“We must tell someone.” Her hand went for the door handle.

“Wait a minute.” He took her hand. “Let’s think a minute.”

“What good is thinking going to do? Something terrible has happened. Somebody got murdered. You saw it.