SS Glasgow Castle 30 Chapter Thirty

When we reached the car, I leaned against it in an insouciant manner and instantly jerked upright, waving my hands to cool them off. Kross watched my antics without a smile, and said:

"You stupid f.u.c.k."

He had the stomach-punching look in his eye, so I decided to exercise caution. I said:

"Maybe you should've gotten someone with African experience."

"I'm not talking about that. You can go and sit on a stove if that's what gets you off. You agreed to follow what I say. So what the h.e.l.l did you think you're doing, telling her we came to visit?"

"But it was the natural thing to say," I protested. "She'd have known something was up otherwise. She's suspicious already."

"I can handle that. I can handle her. I will handle her from now onward. Is that clear?"

"It's clear," I said. "What's not clear is how I'm supposed to act when she addresses me directly. What do I do, point a finger at you and tell her to ask the guy in charge?"

"If you can't think of anything better, that's exactly what you should do."

"Okay," I said. "Okay. I'll just keep quiet from now on."

"Good."

I kept resolutely quiet all the way to Mireille's house. She lived in what she called a camp adjoining the hospital; she informed us we could have a good meal in the hospital canteen. She and Kross conducted a lively conversation throughout the journey, talking in English for my benefit.

I listened hungrily for anything that might be revealing, but even though I reveled in such salacious details as her preferred hand cream and favorite insecticide (Nivea and Sh.e.l.ltox), most of what she told Kross wasn't very interesting. They discussed topics such as inflation and the availability of selected goods and services, and the impact this availability had on the quality of life: for example, she said the hospital and the adjoining camp had their own generators, which made her immune to the consequences of frequent power cuts; Kross remarked it was nice to know there was always a cold beer in the fridge. I noticed she had a tiny mole on the back of her neck, half-hidden by the hairline, and spent most of the journey basking in the warmth of that bit of private knowledge.

The 'camp' turned out to be a compound of maybe twenty small square bungalows arranged in a scattered circle around what had once been a football field; the crossbeams of the peeling white goal posts sagged sadly over alternating patches of short yellowish gra.s.s and dark red earth. I counted numerous trees, way more than the national average as viewed previously through the Toyota's window, and many of the houses were surrounded by well-watered decorative hibiscus bushes. The whole scene would have been downright cozy had it not been for the merciless sun and the immense, equally merciless sky, tinged red by the desert dust: the kind of sky that makes you feel you're a long way from home.

Mireille proposed that we wash up at her place before going to eat; I was silent, Kross agreed; after that we listened to the gravel crunching under the wheels of her car until she pulled up in front of her bungalow. It was fairly isolated from the other houses, its back pushing into a grove of banana palms filling out the far corner of the compound.

I entered her home with radar on, and sonar pinging away. Both the exterior and interior were white. A couple of steps led up to small, semi-enclosed verandah; a tough-looking French window opened into the living room. The dark wood furniture - sofa set, dining set, a couple of bookcases - looked locally made; the green vinyl tile floor gave off a faint antiseptic smell. Everything was very clean.

Mireille went to wash first, then Kross in accordance with his leader status. I was alone for quite a while; I hovered by the bookcase but all the t.i.tles were in complicated French. I took out a book at random and opened it and stared at the print. It was set in Boldoni, a favorite font of mine; but the words meant nothing to me.

I had a look into the adjoining kitchen next. I knew that a woman's kitchen often offered reliable hints as to her personality; that wasn't the case this time. It was, somehow, a very African kitchen. It was cool and dark, the broad ribbed leaves of the banana palms blocking most of the light that came through the netted window. The kitchen counter was a slab of concrete painted a glossy white. A huge refrigerator hummed expensively in one corner; in the other, a cla.s.sroom-style chair stood next to a big rough-looking table which featured a short row of three empty bottles lined up neatly against the wall: one Flag, and two Fantas. There was nothing else, not even a plate or cup in the wire dryer next to the sink.

I heard footsteps approaching from inside the house and quickly withdrew to the centre of the living room. When Mireille entered, I was busy standing there and pretending to do nothing.

She'd changed into the familiar grey canvas dress. She had been wearing a pair of khaki shorts with the T-shirt which, in my state of mind, seemed incredibly s.e.xy. But I could see why she donned the grey sack - a woman living alone, a woman as beautiful as her could double her troubles by wearing anything becoming. As she'd said earlier, it was good to have reservations.

I smiled and nodded at her as she came in.

"Nice place," I said.

She didn't thank me. She walked up to me, coming to a stop just half an arm's length away. I could feel her breath on my face when she spoke (she'd brushed her teeth). She said:

"You and Kross. You're good friends?" I couldn't very well drag Kross out of the bathroom to answer that, could I? So I said:

"Good enough to take a trip together. He really knows the way around here."

"You don't look like someone who gets lost easily," she said.

"You'd be surprised." She acknowledged that with a little curl of the lip, and asked:

"Are you in the same line of work?"

"As him? No." I uttered a silly self-conscious giggle and added:

"I'm an art director. I work in advertising. I wanted to be a painter, but –" I shrugged. She pondered this for a little while. She said:

"A frustrated artist. Yes, that would make you crazy enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Be careful," she said. "Be very careful."

And that was when Kross came in.

We walked to the canteen in silence. I was acutely self-conscious because of my half-stiff d.i.c.k. I'd washed hastily, sluicing water over my arms and face and leaving rusty smudges on the yellow towel. When I'd returned to the living room, Kross and Mireille were already standing on the little verandah. They seemed peculiarly eager to get going. This, and the silence between us, made the atmosphere a little tense by the time we reached the canteen. It was located right on the boundary between the hospital grounds and the residential compound. From what I could see, the hospital resembled the residential area - it consisted of single story buildings linked by graveled drives.

Our meal - slightly bitter beef and rice with hot red sauce and green beans - quickly turned into a social event. I had the feeling this kind of thing happened whenever anyone had visitors. The big tables could easily seat a dozen people, and ours was full before five minutes were up. I was engaged in a lengthy conversation by an ophthalmologist from Pakistan. He had very sad eyes. I was on my guard, but he didn't ask me any tricky questions. He wasn't that interested in me - he told me about himself instead. He said his contract was almost up and that he was due to return home in a few months. Did I know anything about the current requirements for immigrating to Canada? I didn't, and he was truly disappointed.

Towards the end of the meal, Mireille suggested we spend the night there, in a bungalow recently vacated by another expired contract - she was sure the administrator would be agreeable if presented with a carton of Flag. Her suggestion met with approval from the company a.s.sembled at our table. My ophthalmologist even floated the idea of an informal get together later on in the evening. I glanced at Kross and noticed he was a little tense when he explained that we had reservations, we had arrangements, we had a car to collect - we would be back, he said.

Mireille offered to drive us to the service station and left; Kross and I followed to wait for her by the compound entrance. When we'd walked out of earshot - the eye doctor actually escorted us to the door, and stood in the doorway waving fondly for a little while - I turned to Kross and said:

"Well, so much for not being seen by anyone."

"Exactly," he said. "If you hadn't opened your big mouth in the first place none of this would have happened. We'll have to move really fast now."

"How fast?"

"We'll be spending the next twenty four hours in the car."

"f.u.c.k," I said with feeling. After a pause, I asked:
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"How long have you known Mireille?"

"Six years. Haven't seen her for five."

"I'm not sure she likes you."

"She likes me. She doesn't like what I remind her of, that's all."

"Torrid love affair? She begged him to stay, but away he went?"

Kross gave me a hard glance. He said:

"Nothing like that. We were just friends. But she met me around the time her husband died."

In the silence that followed I heard Mireille's car approaching, and said, a little too quickly:

"What happened?"

"I'll leave it to her to tell you about that," said Kross.