Fletch, Too

Fletch continued looking at Barbara.

“I’m trying to say something here,” she said.

“I know. What?”

“I don’t think it’s good for you to be more than ‘mildly curious.’ You know what I mean?”

“So I won’t be more than mildly disappointed?”

“Yeah,” Barbara said. “Something like that.”

“Jambo,” the customs official in Nairobi airport said. He eyed the two pairs of covered skis Fletch held upright.

Very carefully, Fletch said, “Jambo.”

“Harbari?” He was a short, pudgy, balding man in well-pressed shirt and trousers.

Fletch said, “Habari.”

“So you have been to Kenya before,”

“Never,” Fletch said. “Never been in Africa before.”

“That’s the way it is.” The man chuckled softly. “Everyone in the world speaks Swahili.”

Barbara said, “I’ve got to take off this sweater.”

The two pairs of skis in their soft plastic covers had drawn the particular attention of the customs official to Barbara and Fletch. In fact, the two pairs of wrapped skis were drawing the attention of many people in Nairobi airport. These people stood in a loose circle around Fletch, Barbara, and the skis. Two of these people were in uniforms.

Nightsticks and handguns dangled from their belts. One carried a machine gun.

The customs official took his eyes off the wrapped skis long enough to look at the passports Fletch handed him. “Are you visiting Kenya for business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” Barbara answered. “We were just married. Days ago. A million years ago.”

Fletch then heard, for the first time, the sound he was to hear many times in Kenya, the little song exhaled on three notes: “Oh, I see.”

The customs official made a note on his clipboard. “And what sort of shooting equipment is that, in the rifle covers, you are bringing into Kenya? Very long rifles, I think.” He pointed the back of his pen at them as if they really needed pointing out.

“Oh, these.” Fletch looked up and down the skis he held beside him. “These are for shooting down mountains.”

The official looked alarmed. “Shooting down mountains? Is that possible?”

“Skis.”

“Skis … Mombasa?”

Very carefully, Fletch said: “Mombasa.”

“I have skied off Mombasa. Behind a speedboat.” The official took the position of one skiing behind a speedboat, knees bent, hands forward to hold a towline. “The skis I used were short. Perhaps in proportion to the feet?” He looked down at Barbara’s and Fletch’s feet. “I don’t think so.”

“Snow skis.”

“Oh, I see. I have seen those in films. This large, are they? You are in Kenya en route to someplace else.”

Fletch was hoping that soon he could get to a men’s room. “Not really.”

“Where do you go after Kenya?”

“Home. Back to the States.”

“You return to the United States? With the skis?”

Fletch craned his neck to look through the door of the controlled area to see if possibly anyone was waiting, looking for them. “Yes.”

The official thought a long moment. “You always travel with snow skis, even to the equator?”

“No.”

“There was some confusion,” Barbara said.

“Oh, I see.”

“At the airport. We ended up bringing the skis with us.”

“At the airport, did you not know you were coming to Africa? Did you get on the wrong plane?”

“We knew,” Fletch said. “We got on the right plane.”

“So you knew what you were doing when you brought your snow skis to Kenya, just to bring them home again?”

“Well, that’s the fact.” Barbara looked at Fletch. “We did bring our skis to Africa.”

“There is snow on Mount Kenya,” the official conceded, “but it’s at the top, you see. There are no skiing safaris. Perhaps you brought these snow skis to Africa to sell them. They are a curiosity.”

“We can’t sell them,” Barbara said. “They’re borrowed.”

“Oh, I see. You borrowed skis to bring to Africa and home again.”

“Fletch,” Barbara said, “quite reasonably, this gentleman wants to know why we brought snow skis to equatorial Africa.”

“Wait till I take off my sweater.” Fletch leaned the skis against Barbara and wriggled out of his London- bought sweater. “Hot.”

“Perhaps someone here could use snow skis for a wall decoration,” mused the official. “Someone who has a very large wall.”

“Originally we were going to Colorado,” Fletch said. “Skiing.”

“And you failed to get off the plane when it stopped in Colorado?”

“It didn’t stop in Colorado,” Barbara said. “If it had, I would have called my mother.”

The official smiled at her.

Fletch said, “It’s a little difficult explaining just why we have landed in Kenya carrying snow skis. I admit that.”

The official wagged his head. “I love my job.”

“We’ll definitely take the skis with us when we leave,” Fletch said.

“We have to return them,” Barbara said. “They’re borrowed.”

“I would love to see them,” the official said, “while they’re here.”

“Of course.” Fletch opened the zipper on one of the ski covers. The man carrying the machine gun stepped back a pace. “There,” Fletch said. “Skis.”

The official seemed surprised. “And those …” He bent his knees again and now used his hands as paddles. “… those are ski walking sticks?”

“Ski poles.”

The official concerned himself with his clipboard. “Snow skis are very large items to carry with you when you can’t use them.”

“Cumbersome, too,” Barbara said.

Fletch said, “I’m very fond of them.” He zippered the cover closed again.

“May I see what is in your luggage, please?” the official asked.

“Of course.” Fletch handed the skis to Barbara and unzipped his large knapsnack. As he folded back the cover he saw on top of the clothes a book entitled How to Screw Around. “Oh, my,” he said. He remembered Alston had packed for him. Quickly, he picked up the book and held it by his side.

The official stroked the palm of his hand over the nylon surface of Fletch’s ski pants. “That feels beautiful,” he said. “Like the skin of a woman. Do you wear these?”

Fletch swallowed. “When I go skiing.”

“Oh, I see. These are skiing trousers.”

“Yes.”