Fletch, Too

Carr gave Fletch a long look. Then he said to the waiter, “Beeri mbili, tafahadhali.” He felt his glass. “Baridi.”

Very carefully, Fletch said, “Baridi.”

Laughing, Carr said, “You’re a dazzler!” The waiter went away. “Americans never used to make an effort at languages.”

Fletch looked across Harry Thuku Road to Nairobi University. “Does my father speak Swahili?”

“Oh, yes. Plus God knows what else. Has to, you see, flying small planes around the world. Here, ninety percent of the people speak English, ninety percent Swahili, and ninety percent speak at least one other, tribal language.”

“What are you?” Fletch asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You could be English, American, South African, I suppose, Australian, from the way you sound.”

“Not Australian,” Carr said. “Not Australian. That takes too much bloomin’ work. I’m Kenyan. Turned in a British passport for a Kenyan passport, and never regretted it. Live here awhile, and you’re apt to sound like anything, I suppose. A cosmopolitan wee place.”

“You’re a pilot?”

“Still flying, as they say.”

“The man who appeared at my wedding, last Saturday, said nothing, but handed me the package with the tickets in it to come here was probably a pilot, yes?” Fletch was hot. The red sweater was prickling his skin. “He was a little guy, dressed in khaki, a blue tie.”

“The international brotherhood of bush pilots.”

“Where else have you flown?”

“Latin America, India. Some in the States. Other places in Africa.”

“Smuggle?”

“That’s not my business.”

“Does my father?”

“That’s not his business, either.”

The waiter brought the beer.

Fletch said, “Thanks, bwana.”

Carr smiled. He put his half-empty glass of beer onto the waiter’s tray.

“How is my father?” Fletch asked.

Carr looked across the road. “We’ve all seen better days.”

“He must be rich.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Tickets here, for two, plus a thousand bucks, this hotel. That’s a lot.”

“Not over a lifetime. Have you ever had anything else from him?”

“No.”

“Did you come here only because you thought he might be rich?”

“No. I was ‘mildly curious.’”

“He’s not rich.”

“How do you suppose he knew I was getting married? Exact time, odd place … I barely made it myself.”

Carr seemed to be studying his rough hands. “I suspect your father’s been hearing from you all your life.”

“Not from me.”

“Hearing of you. I’ve seen pictures of you.”

“Of me?”

“In a school yard. Walking along a street. In a football jersey. On a beach.”

“All those dirty old men taking pictures of me.”

“Pilot friends, I expect.”

Fletch grinned. “And all these years I thought it was because I was so pretty.”

“I take it you’ve never seen a picture of him?”

“No.”

“What were you told?”

“I was allowed to think he was dead. He was declared dead, legally, when I was in the second year of school. I didn’t know until last Saturday that my mother has always allowed for the possibility that he is alive. I guess she didn’t want me to go off on some half-baked father search, you know, only to be disappointed.”

Carr’s eyes opened wider. He shook his head. “Absolutely,” he said, “this has to be Mrs. Fletcher.”

Fletch looked around.

Outside the door of the hotel stood Barbara, in ski boots, powder-blue ski pants, and a red sweater, sleeves rolled up.

“Three rabbits.” Carr said to the waiter, “and I guess a beer for the lady.”

“Rabbit,” Barbara said softly. “Americans don’t eat rabbits.”

Carr had said they might as well have lunch.

After he ordered, Carr was interrupted by a man who came by the table. There was a brief introduction. The man and Carr talked about flying some glass specimen boxes to Kitale.

“This isn’t your father?” Barbara whispered.

“A friend of his. Another pilot. Name of Carr. First name unknown.”

“Where’s your father?”

“He doesn’t know. I think he’s rather embarrassed. He’s here as moral support, and the old man isn’t here at all. He’s trying to be very nice.”

The conversation about glass specimen boxes was ending.

“Peter Rabbit,” Barbara said. “Peter Cottontail. The Easter Bunny. ‘What’s up, Doc?’”

Carr said to Fletch, “My first name is Peter. People call me Carr.”

“Peter.”

“I can’t eat Peter Cottontail,” Barbara said.

Carr said, “What?” as does a man who suffers some permanent hearing disability.

“Where’s Fletch’s father?” Barbara said.

Carr looked at the entrance in obvious pain. “I wish I knew.”

“Isn’t there someplace you can call him?”

“This isn’t Europe,” Carr said. “The States. When a person goes missing here, it’s not likely he’s standing next to a phone.”

“I called my mother,” Barbara said to Fletch.

“What did you tell her?”

“I said, ‘I’m in Nairobi, Kenya, East Africa, on my honeymoon with Fletch darling, I am very well, and sorry if you were worried when I didn’t call you from Colorado.’”

“That’s the thing,” Carr said. “You can make a trans-world call from here easier than you can call across the street.”

“What did she say?”

“She thought I was joking. Then she said, ‘Is that boy you married ever where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be?’ Then she said, ‘There’s some trick to everything he does. You can’t live your life that way, Barbara.’”

Carr was trying to watch Fletch’s eyes through Fletch’s sunglasses.

Fletch put his sunglasses on the table.

“She said I should come home instantly and divorce you.”

“Are you going to?”