Jumma asked, “Sister, why is it that Hanley’s kindness makes you angry?”
“I’m not angry, Jumma. I just wish Monsieur Martin had talked to me about this first. We have a good arrangement with the hospital in Nairobi. I don’t want that to change,” she said. “I am going to the office to call the hospital, then I’ll come back so we can work. We have much to do this morning.”
***
Playing with his two-way hand-held radio to pass the time, Hanley’s face was covered with a fine layer of sweat. He sighed, smacked the radio against his leg, looked at it again, moved the dial again, heard nothing but static and then put it in a pocket of his cargo pants. “Forget it,” he said to no one as he was alone. Looking up from the front seat of the Land Cruiser, he saw Sister Marie Claire striding across the grounds toward him. She looks constipated, he thought. As she drew near, he slid from the seat to stand by the truck. “Good morning,” he said.
“Monsieur Martin, I have a question.”
‘Okay, shoot.”
“Pardon?”
“Please, ask the question.” Hanley smiled, but it was apparent the nun was in no mood for smiles. She stood before him, arms at her side, fists clenched, feet apart. Hanley thought she looked ready for a fight.
“The doctors believe you may be buying supplies from the hospital in Nairobi. The hospital has been generous and understanding of our needs. I’m afraid you may have caused us a problem.”
“Why do you think that?”
“If they believe you are willing to pay for the supplies we require, if they think we now have a rich American, willing to spend his own money, then they may not be willing to donate these supplies. You may have harmed all the work we have done to gain a commitment from them, a commitment to our mission. You should have talked to me first. It was irresponsible of you. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You don’t know how it is here. This is not America–”
“Really; I hadn’t noticed.”
“–and things are done differently. Please don’t hurt our efforts. I know, at least I think you want to help, but we have been nurturing these relationships for many years.” While the nun complained to Hanley, he smiled at her, which made her even angrier than she had been when she started her explanation. Her eyes narrowed, her voice rising, her irritation clearly apparent to the American.
“Monsieur, you must believe I am very concerned. What we do here has many limitations imposed upon it. Relationships are fragile. Don’t bring us problems; we have enough.”
Hanley said, “I understand, I really do. I’m just trying to help. I have resources that have value here and I just thought that maybe I could, you know, make a difference.”
“You are making a difference. Bringing us medicine and doctors, taking patients to hospitals for care, that makes a difference, a great deal of difference. I thought you would understand that.”
“Sister, I understand, maybe better than you think. When I first picked up supplies in Kenya and saw how little they were sending, I thought of suggesting I could perhaps buy some extra, you know, a hundred extra tongue depressors here and there.”
The nun shot back, “You didn’t just buy some additional tongue depressors. There is much more than normal at the clinic. I contacted the hospital in Nairobi and was told I should speak to you about the arrangement. What arrangement?”
“I had the opportunity to meet the hospital’s administrator at the airport in Nairobi. I was picking up the doctor from Sweden who had been at the Nairobi Hospital before coming here. The administrator had driven him to the airport. The administrator asked me if I was interested in flying their doctors to southern Kenya on occasion. They offered money, but I bargained for something else. They agreed to increase the monthly supplies for an occasional flight. Simple. They’ll also buy the fuel. It was an easy decision, I thought?”
She stared at Hanley for a moment, her eyes wide and blinking rapidly. The tip of her tongue appeared between her lips, moving from one side of her mouth to the other. She looked down at her feet and said, “Thank you,” then turned and walked away.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
17
African maize covered half of the garden plot, which was maybe half an acre, the corn now a foot high, the leaves small, covered in a fine dust, making them gray in the afternoon sun. The fruit, the ears were also small and would not be large he thought, not like the roasting ears found in Indiana and all over the mid-west of America. Maize was what his grandfather called rough corn. He knew enough history to know what he saw growing here came here from somewhere else, from somewhere in the Americas, an invention of the Mayans or Native Americans.
Hanley tried to think of the size of the garden in hectares, but couldn’t get it right in his head. Sister Marie Claire was hoeing, digging out weeds between the rows at the other end. The American walked around, looking at the vegetables planted by the mission staff, tended by everyone but him. He recognized some beans, several types if squash, including pumpkins, if they were a squash. He thought he
