The windows around the room looked out over the rolling hills of the golf course so that, while lunching, ladies might spot their husbands on the ninth tee, taking one swing and then another, and might thus anticipate whether they were likely to finish the round in a foul temper. Today, though, the curtains were drawn (thankfully so, thought Mrs. Albert Steege, who shuddered to imagine what someone might think were they to see the shocking image projected onto the screen beside Mr. Winchester as he spoke).
Randolph projected a new image onto the screen — a line of young men and women caught by the camera in a fleeting moment of their dance, feet hovering above the dusty earth as though levitating. How like the images from The Secret Museum, Meena thought.
“Here we find a group of revelers in their comely festival attire of paint and feathers,” Randolph continued.
One member of the audience raised her hand timidly.
“Yes?” Randolph invited, favoring her with a broad, charming smile.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the woman said. “But that man in the background. Is he wearing…a White Sox T-shirt?”
Randolph turned toward the screen. “Yes. It would appear that he is,” he said, sounding, for a moment, surprised by the revelation. “These items of our modern society,” he explained, “do occasionally make their way into these parts of the world, much as I would prefer to allow these cultures to continue on in their virgin state.”
Meena thought for a moment — but wasn’t Mr. Winchester himself, his articles and photos in Popular Explorer, part of exposing these cultures to the modern world? She looked around, wondering if anyone else was thinking the same thing. Beside her, though, Lily had not taken her eyes off her father, and Meena chose to hold her tongue on this matter.
Randolph returned to his presentation, projecting a new image onto the screen: a group of women standing before a dwelling of dried-mud walls, its roof thatched with wide leaves. “The people of this tribe are rather shockingly dependent upon superstition — magic, witchcraft, secret societies — decorating themselves and their homes with protective charms and amulets.”
Sarala thought of her own home on Patriot Place. She wondered what Randolph would make of the framed blessing that hung in their foyer, of her mother’s box of recipes—for when you wish to call a child into this world, for when one must remember to be joyful.
On the screen two men appeared carrying canvas-wrapped bundles on their backs. “Here are two of my porters,” Randolph continued. “I engaged these gentlemen on the advice of a fellow traveler and found them to be fine, loyal, honest young men willing to bear a heavy load for long, challenging days of walking.”
A tall, thin man in a long, loose-fitting robe looked out into the room from the screen, his wild hair held down by a headband he wore like a crown around the top of his head.
“Now, this fellow is a camel breeder, and it was from him that we acquired our means of locomotion through the desert. Here, I adopted Arab dress, finding it far superior to the clothing with which I had arrived.”
Behind the camel breeder, in the background of the image, Sarala could see the animals processing in single file over the sand dunes toward the horizon line, the sky rising up above them.
“We started out across the desert at midnight,” Randolph went on, “darkness all around us, caravan bells ringing as we went, the moon watching our slow progress, and the stars brighter than I have seen in all my travels. Aside from the sound of the camels’ hooves and the tinkle of our caravan bells, it was the most silent night I have spent on this great earth. Along an age-old and well-worn road, there I went into an ancient land, full of mystery.”
On that trek across the Sahara, he had learned to wrap a proper turban. He had trekked slowly up mountains of shifting sand by moonlight, learned to train hooded falcons, with their bells and hoods of kangaroo leather.
The screen showed a street filled with shoppers leaning over blankets lined with pots and market wares, inspecting the offerings, and overhead, balconies from which hung brightly colored, hand-woven carpets.
“Here you will find picturesque streets and bright, vibrant markets where the local tea merchants brewed for me a strong, dark tea one drinks in clay cups fashioned by hand from the earth that runs beside the river.”
For Rose, watching from her place at the table, the pictures conjured up memories of her own travels with Randolph — the ornate, latticed windows through which the women watched the world passing by, the bustling markets and bazaars, rugs and vegetables and butchered animals all lying side by side, streets shaded with panels of fabric hung between buildings, slivers of sunlight peeking through gaps, making a pattern on the ground. There, the shops opened up onto the street, proprietors sitting among their wares, luring pedestrians with a compliment or a promise of an excellent bargain for all manner of things near priceless according to them, their goods hung out into the street — cloth, clothing, dishes, and tea. She remembered how the small Arab boys in their long flowing robes had looked to her so much like miniature men.
“Here, I lived for months in a houseboat,” Randolph continued, his voice bringing Rose back to the room, to the members of the Nicolet Ladies’ Auxiliary and the drawn curtains, beyond them the long green fairway, and beyond that their home — her home with Lily. Randolph continued “Up the river we traveled in our little steamer. Along the shores, children waved to us from their huts and dwellings near the water. So completely had I fallen in love with this land, with its people and their customs, that I could scarcely imagine returning home again.”
For a moment, Rose’s breath caught in her throat. She took a sip of water.
“In desert country,” Randolph continued, “the eye grows hungry for trees. In the heat, for cool. In the cold, for warmth. But in all these hungers, these desires, one finds adventure.”
And with that, Randolph turned toward the audience, the lights coming up to indicate the end of his lecture.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Winchester,” said Mrs. Albert Steege, rising to take his place at the podium. There was, again, the polite applause of the Nicolet Ladies’ Auxiliary. The ladies in the audience began to collect their handbags, and, as Randolph had come to expect, a number of them approached with questions at the ready.
“How very brave of you to venture out among those savages.” Mrs. Reginald Larson held her hand to her throat as she spoke, the skin along her forearm thin, seeming to only barely cover her bones and the network of blue veins beneath it. “Why, at any moment, I suppose, you must be in danger of being assaulted by headhunters or wild animals or goodness knows what.”
“Oh, I assure you it’s not as dangerous as all that,” Randolph insisted.
How, wondered Mrs. Ronald Carlson out loud, did the natives respond to his arrival? Why, he must so often be their first emissary from civilization, the first white man they had encountered save, she imagined, for a few intrepid missionaries.
“And what about you, dear?” Mrs. Norman Amundson asked, turning to Rose. “Might you join your husband on his next expedition?”
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” Rose protested. “My exploring days are long over.”
“You must be very proud of your husband,” Sarala said.
“Yes, of course,” Rose said absently, and Sarala thought she caught a shadow of unhappiness passing over her face. But in an instant it was gone. “We are so glad you and Meena could join us today,” Rose added.
“We are honored to be your guests,” Sarala said.