“Even as a snack.”
A man named Raffles came by to freshen their drinks.
“We came out to Africa to meet my father,” Fletch said to Sheila. “At our wedding a man showed up with a letter from him.”
“A letter written in disappearing ink,” Barbara added.
“Yes,” Sheila said. “Peter told me there’d been some trouble at the Thorn Tree Cafe. It doesn’t sound too serious.”
Fletch looked at Juma. “It sounds to me that any trouble with the law in Kenya is very serious.”
“A wonderfully attractive man, your father,” Sheila said.
“He is?” Carr asked.
“Don’t you think so?”
“No.”
“A little immature, perhaps. But some societies prize immaturity in a man.”
“Irresponsible,” said Carr. “When he was flying for me, I never knew where the hell he was.”
“Well,” Sheila admitted, “he is a bit of a will-o’-the-wisp.”
Barbara said, “I’ll say.”
“Enormously popular,” Sheila said.
“Maybe with the ladies,” Carr said.
“Oh, come on, Peter. You men like him, too.”
Carr shook his head. “Too much the iconoclast.”
Sheila said, “He does have his own way of doing things. But, after all, most of the people who have settled in Africa have done so because they’re a bit too individualistic for other places. Take you, for example, Peter.”
“Right,” said Carr. “I have my own way of doing things. But usually I stay out of the beds of other chaps’ wives, and keep my fists out of other chaps’ faces.”
Fletch winced. “How come you’re friends?”
There was a moment before Carr answered. “What are friends? The international fraternity of fliers. Roughly the same age. We find ourselves in the same place at the same time.”
Sheila said, “Walter Fletcher is a man of great personal energy.”
“Mostly misspent,” Carr muttered.
“Why do you say that?” Sheila asked. “He has his own plane, plenty of work-”
“There’s a reverse spin to everything he does,” Carr said. “He flies in our faces, is what he does. Last year, as a group, we decided to stop flying in and out of Uganda. Too much paperwork. Too dangerous for our equipment and passengers. Your Walter Fletcher takes to flying in and out of Uganda like a hawk. Makes three years’ pay in one year, at least.” Looking at the moon, Carr asked, “And where is he now?”
“But you came with him to the hotel,” Fletch said, “to meet us.”
“Exactly,” Carr said. “I was there, and he wasn’t.”
“You said you were there to be his moral support.”
“Right.” Carr put down his glass. “Walter’s morals need propping up. Care to eat with us, Juma?”
Juma glanced at Sheila. “No, thank you. I’ve eaten.”
In the candlelight, Carr was looking into Fletch’s eyes. “All this has nothing to do with you, you know.”
Fletch said, “Oh. I see.”
“Will you be able to spend a few days with us, Peter?” Sheila asked.
“A few days. Then I have to fly some French
“The Masai Mara,” Fletch said. “I hear it’s nice there.”
“Welcome to join me,” Carr said. “There’ll be room in the plane.”
“If we don’t hear from Walter first,” Sheila said.
“Yeah. I told his lawyer where we’d all be.”
“Who flies your other plane?” Fletch asked.
“A young Kenyan. He’s flying hard for us these days, while I’m down here wasting time and money. The perks of age and ownership. He can’t make the Masai Mara trip, though. He’s chartered to fly to Madagascar.”
“I’m afraid we’re imposing,” said Fletch.
“Why? Good company is worth anything in the bush. Tomorrow well all get some hard work in.”
“Would you rather be sitting in a hotel room in Nairobi?” Sheila asked.
For the fifth time, Barbara waved flies away from her rice.
“Went to see the witch doctor of Thika, old dear,” Carr said to Sheila. “Barbara and young Irwin here came with me. Actually, that’s where Juma attached himself to us, too.”
“Was she encouraging?” Sheila’s gold bracelets jangled as she ate.
“Right on. Straightaway, she said I was looking for something I hadn’t lost. When I said it was a place, she said I must go south where there are hills and a river.”
“That’s where we are,” Sheila said.
“She said the people who used to live here want us to find their place, so they’ll be remembered.”
“Did she say we will find it?”
“Definitely yes.”
Sheila said, “At this point, encouragement from any source is welcome.”
In the cook tent, a tape of a contemporary Italian love song was playing. Juma and Winston and Raffles and the five or six other young men behind the tent were lustily and perfectly singing the lyrics, in Italian.
Fletch couldn’t be sure if some of the bird noises he was hearing were from the tape or from the jungle around them. They, too, matched or followed the music perfectly.
“Barbara? Stand up, please?”
After dinner they had returned to their camp chairs in front of the dining awning. Carr had poured them each a Three Barrels brandy.
Juma appeared dressed now with just a cloth wrapped high around his waist. He was carrying an unfolded cotton cloth about four feet by five and a half feet.
Even in the candlelight, the reds, greens, yellows of both cloths were bright.
“Ah, Juma, the perfect solution!” Sheila said. “A
Juma ignored her.
When Barbara stood up, Juma wrapped the cloth around her, under her armpits, over her breasts, and tied it to itself, simply.
It was a full, free-hanging dress.
Barbara looked down at herself. “Far out!”
“Beats jodhpurs,” Fletch said.
Juma slipped it off her and folded it lengthwise. He put it around her hips like a sling. Holding the two ends together with one hand, he ran his finger against both sides of the cloth up against her waist. He used that point as the fold. He tucked the top end of the cloth into the cloth itself against her other hip.
It was a skirt.
“That’s all you need wear around here.”
“Nothing on top?” Barbara asked.
“I can get you some necklaces, too, if you like.”
Again he slipped the cloth off her. This time he folded it lengthwise in quarters and tucked it around her waist again, finding the fold with his fingers.
It was a short skirt.
“Very cool,” Juma said.
Looking below the skirt to her thighs, knees in ski pants, Barbara said, “I’ll say.”
“It goes well with your ski boots,” Fletch said.
“Also,” Juma said, “as you see, a man can wear a
