“Take what off?”
“I can’t stand being in these clothes. I can’t stand seeing you in those clothes. We can’t go around on the equator dressed like this.”
“My wife is attacking me with a scissors! We haven’t been married a week!”
“Take your pants off or I’ll cut them where you stand!”
“Help! Dan Dawes! Save me! There’s a villain in my room!”
In the bright, midday sunlight, the shamba was country quiet.
Fletch and Barbara stood aside, along the stick fence inside the enclosure.
Carr, his big, rough hands looking useless hanging at his sides, stood in front of the witch doctor.
She sat on the ground in the doorway of her dung and thatch house. Her legs, wrapped in a black, thigh- length skirt, were straight and flat on the ground before her. Her feet were bare. There was a red Turkish cap on her head.
Her husband, in threadbare shorts, threadbare suit coat, no shirt, barefooted, sat on a low stool to her side, facing her, utterly attentive to her.
Together, the ancient couple did not weigh as much as one hundred pounds.
Across the enclosure there were three young men, late teenagers, dressed only in tawdry shorts, distantly present. Two were swaying drunk. The eyes of the third shone across the courtyard, attentive, alert.
The old lady witch doctor had drawn in white chalk a rectangle around her in the dirt, even over the dark little rug at her side. She had put white chalk dabs on each of her temples.
Then she had sung a nonmelodic song, prayer, incantation.
Her husband handed her a narrow-necked vase. Again and again, she would shake a few beads out of the vase into her hand, study them, flip them onto the dark rug, scatter them and regroup them with her fingers, watching how they came together. She would murmur a bit, sing a bit, gather the beads up, put them back in her vase, shake it, start over again.
The husband watched everything she was doing with reverent attention.
A clucking chicken crossed the enclosure.
Carr hadn’t said much on the ride to Thika.
He had been waiting for them outside the hotel in his Land-Rover. He smiled when he saw Barbara and Fletch now in shiny powder-blue shorts, Fletch in thick ski socks and white new sneakers, his sweater cut from armpits to waist, sleeves cut off. Barbara was in one of Fletch’s T-shirts and her rubber sandals. “That looks better,” Carr said.
They stopped at an inn outside Nairobi called the Blue Post and had a cup of soup in a garden overlooking a short waterfall. “This soup cures all.” Carr said. “Upset stomach. Broken heart. Although not traditional, probably even jet-lag. Very special here. Made of bones.” He waved at the hills behind him. “Various animals. Boiled bones. Herbs. God knows what.” It was a soup that puckered the throat. Fletch did feel better after drinking it.
Bouncing along the hard-top road, Carr missed the turning. He had to back up, half off the road, half on. Everywhere, along every road they had been on, besides the cars and trucks, there was a heavy traffic of people walking, both sides, going both ways, mostly people dressed in dark, cheap pants and shirts, dresses, many barefooted; always a few schoolchildren in uniform shorts and shoes, socks, shirts, and incongruous sweaters. Many times, Fletch noticed, there would be a man walking with a child or children. Carr turned onto a dirt track that wound through a field of standing corn.
Completely invisible from the road, thirty meters inside this cornfield was a little village, a half-dozen well- spaced dung and conically thatch-roofed houses, each separated by its own thick stick fencing.
The witch doctor appeared and took her position sitting in the doorway as they arrived. This was a genuine appointment. Carr gave Barbara and Fletch a look indicating they should stand aside in silence. He stood in front of the old lady.
Suddenly, the third young man, the one with the lively eyes, strode across the enclosure in a full-blown gait that could carry him across the world. He stood between Barbara and Fletch. They made room for him. He faced Carr and the witch doctor. Then he sat down on his heels.
In a moment, he tugged Fletch’s ski sock.
Fletch looked down.
“I’m James,” the young man said. “Get down.”
Fletch bent his knees but could not sit on his heels. Not for long. He sat cross-legged on the ground.
Barbara sat cross-legged, too.
Seeing this, James changed his position so that he, too, was sitting cross-legged. One of his knees was on Barbara’s leg, the other on Fletch’s.
Fletch jerked his thumb at his wife. “Barbara.” He pointed his thumb at himself. “Fletch.”
James’s eyes widened. He stared into Fletch’s eyes and then looked away. He gave Fletch the whole song, all five notes: “Oh, I see. Sorry.”
“Say what?”
“I know of your father.” James rushed on. “The reason I told you to sit down, you see,” James said softly, “is because these things take a long time.” He said to Barbara, “You must be careful not to get sunbite.”
Barbara looked confused. She was against the fence. There was no place for her to move.
Whispering, James said, “Do you know what the man asked her?”
Carr had said something to the witch doctor after she had put the chalk around her and on her temples.
Fletch said, “I heard, but I didn’t understand.”
“He said he is trying to find something. He wants her to tell him where it is.”
“Why did she put the white marks on her temples?” Barbara asked.
James looked at her as if she had asked if the sun rises in the east everywhere. “So she can communicate through the gods on Mount Kenya with your ancestors.”
Fletch said, “Oh, I see.”
“The white is the snow.”
“
Sitting against the stick fence in the dirt under an equatorial sun, Fletch asked, “Has she ever seen real snow?”
“I doubt it. She’s reading the beads. Five beads is for man, three for woman, two for house. Something like that. I don’t know. Each bead means something different. It’s all very complicated.”
“It must take a long time to learn,” Barbara said.
“Learn,” James said. “Yes. But, you see, she is a witch doctor.”
“You mean, she doesn’t have to learn?”
“Yes, much,” James said. “But you can’t learn, if you haven’t the ability.”
James pulled a sun-bleached hair out of Fletch’s leg. He looked at it closely between his fingers in the sunlight. Still holding it, he looked at Barbara’s legs. Examining the hair again, he said, “It must be funny to be not black.”
Fletch heard Barbara saying, “You are a blackness I’ve never seen before. You’re so very black the way some people are so very white.”
“I have no white blood,” James said. “Probably in England or America or wherever you come from all the black people you see aren’t black at all. They have white blood. Do you like being white?”
“Well enough,” Fletch said.
James blew the hair off his fingers. “I haven’t decided whether it’s better being black or white.”
“Is James your real name?” Fletch asked.
“Why isn’t it?”
“It’s not an African name, is it?”
“Would you rather call me …” James seemed to be making up a name. “… Juma?”
“Sure. I don’t care.”
