“Good,” Rocky said.
***
The mail was late, as always. The afternoon sun through the window of the dining room warmed her arms, crossed in impatience. Why is he always late, she wondered. He drinks, at least he looks as if he drinks, she thought. A typical, low-level French bureaucrat.
Movement brought her eyes to the wall surrounding her house, a hat, the top of which appeared and then disappeared, as the head it covered bobbed and wobbled, the mailman, owner of the head, finally on the street bordering her home. Stopping before the iron gate, he fumbled with the latch, his lips moving in back and forth motions, pink waves rolling across his fat red face. She could see from a distance he was sweating profusely. He paused to wipe his neck with a bare hand, scratched a spot behind his ear, squinting, even though the sun was behind him. Appearing to talk to himself, he marched up the brick walk to the front door. He is hungover, she thought. Yes, a French mail carrier would be drunk in the afternoon.
April in Saint-Nazaire was never hot. This week was an exception. Sophie Campbell noticed her mailman’s sack was nearly full as he approached her front door. Hoping he would not fall and hurt himself, she turned from the window, walking to the main hallway of her house.
Struggling to push the letters and thick brochures through the weathered brass mail slot, the mailman belched, then pushed the last letter through. The pile of mail, slid a short distance and stopped, alone in the middle of the hall.
When she picked it up, Sophie recognized the battered condition of the letter, a sign it was from her uncle in Sudan. He would tell her again, as he did in almost every letter, that the trip through the Sudanese postal system was haphazard and a dangerous one for a poor letter and she should give these letters much care, for they have met with great disrespect along the way.
Sophie would need a cup of coffee while reading her uncle’s letter. Hanley Martin would have been there for over four months when this letter was written. There was information in this letter she wanted to know, but feared; what an odd combination was fear and want, she thought as she spooned coffee into the glass press. It was only a few months, she thought; what could happen in so short a time? Then there was the why. Why was she worried about a man she hardly knew; a friend of her husband, a man who left his family behind to live in a place that was not kind to its own, much less a stranger? Why did she care? She would not think about it now. Perhaps she was not meant to know why. Sadly, she now had two people in Africa to worry about. She would pray for a million others, but worry about only two.
A smudge covered part of the envelope’s flap. The flap itself had a wavy look to it, as though it had been wet. Steamed, she thought. She hoped that opening this letter had been difficult for them and that they were disappointed with what they read. It opened easily. The letter was handwritten on white notebook paper, torn from a spiral binder, her uncle’s usual stationary. It was not smooth, but had the look of having been handled frequently during the writing, probably over several days’ time. As she unfolded the letter, she noticed a stain that appeared to be in the shape of a winged bug of sorts near the top edge of the first page. Mostly brown with a slight edge of yellow on the right side, the mark was as if her uncle had chosen an odd and ugly stamp with which to personalize this letter. She was sure the bug had not volunteered its services. This priest uncle of hers was a hunter and would not have hesitated to swat the bug when it landed on the page. Did he kill the bug before he started or after? She began to read.
(Translation from French)
April 27th
My Dearest Sophie:
First, I hope you and Michael are well and happy. Second, I must apologize for the stain at the top of this page. It has been hot (always) for the past two weeks, more so than is usual. The bugs are horrible, worse than I have seen since I have been here. A beetle crawled onto the paper and I hit it even before I could think of what I was doing. I apologize for the stain, but I did not want to waste paper. This country teaches one not to waste anything (as if your grandmother had not taught me that many, many years ago).
Tell Michael that Mr Martin, the American pilot, arrived over eleven weeks ago and has been very busy since he arrived. After his first flight to Ethiopia, he has been flying several times a week, moving patients and doctors back and forth between our mission and elsewhere, mostly Kenya, then bringing supplies from Nairobi. Sometimes, he flies to Khartoum and Port Sudan. He said that the customs people in Port Sudan are especially fond of him. When he mentions this, he smiles an odd smile. He is a quiet man and at first, he seemed overwhelmed, but once he started flying, he changed. Then there is Sister Marie Claire; she and Mr Martin have become the talk of the mission. They are an odd pair. Antagonistic is the word I’m looking for, but that is not right either. There is a tension, yes, but it is not a bad tension; perhaps more a teasing. I do not know how to describe it. I think they are good for each other, even though they seem not to be when I watch them.
