When we arrived at Martin and Galina’s house, first Martin had to get out and remove a padlock from a gate, which swung open onto their small neighbourhood. He pulled the car past the gate and into their laneway and then got out and ran back to close and lock the gate. I got out and unpacked the luggage from the hatchback and proceeded to follow Galina, carrying the bags into her house in a few trips.
‘I need to lie down,’ said Boris. ‘I’m sure John does, too.’
‘I’m okay,’ I said, not wanting to impose, though I could hardly imagine staying awake.
Boris laughed. ‘Man, we’ve been travelling for two days basically. You’re tired. Lie down till supper.’
‘There’s a room upstairs,’ said Galina. ‘Alexi’s room. You can lie down there for now.’
‘Who’s Alexi?’ I asked, impulsively, immediately worrying that I’d asked something I shouldn’t have.
‘My grandson,’ said Galina. ‘Tanya’s cousin.’
‘He’s Svetlana’s son,’ said Boris. ‘Sveta’s my sister-in-law.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Sveta lives here now, too,’ said Galina. ‘She’s been having problems with her boyfriend. Tyson.’
‘Tyson’s all right,’ said Martin, waving off his wife’s worries. ‘Just a man.’
I didn’t say anything but Galina and I shared a look, a mother conveying her worry, me conveying my understanding that relationships are complicated and difficult and hopefully everything would be okay, or at least that’s what I was trying to convey with my bleary jetlagged expression.
I said, ‘Do you mind if I take a quick shower before I lie down?’
There was no way I could lie on a bed that wasn’t mine in the state I was in. The clothes I’d been travelling in were beyond ripe, having been sweated in for far too long, and I really wasn’t feeling well.
‘Yes,’ said Galina. ‘I’ll get you a towel.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I really appreciate it.’
I dug out fresh clothes and my toiletry kit from my suitcase and took them to the bathroom. I took off my clothes and looked at my livid left arm; the inoculations I’d gotten at the Tropical Disease Centre at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Montreal had left my arm black and blue and purple and brown and yellow and it was tender to the touch. I showered quickly, cleaned any trace of me from the bathroom save the lingering steam and consequent humidity, then went upstairs and lay down in the boy’s bedroom. Although I often find falling asleep very difficult, I was out within five minutes. Dead to the world.
I was woken up by Alexi, a shirtless three-year-old boy, who walked into the room and poked me several times. I woke with a start and at first had no idea where I was. The boy didn’t seem startled by my being startled, and he simply stared at me as I wiped my eyes and said, ‘Hi there, little man.’
I heard Galina yell, ‘John! We’ve put tea out! Come join us!’
‘Coming,’ I said, my voice raspy. ‘Thank you, Galina,’ I added.
There was nothing in the world I wanted to do more than keep sleeping; in fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever slept so deeply as I did for the forty-odd minutes I slept before being awoken by Alexi and beckoned by Galina.
My head was heavy as I walked down the stairs, following the small child. Boris was sitting with his father-in-law discussing politics — Kenyan politics, Russian politics, U.S. politics — while drinking tea and eating sugar cookies. I sat down with them at the circular dining room table and Galina quickly put a cup and saucer before me, dropped a teabag in the cup and poured in boiling water from a kettle.
‘Sugar?’ she said. ‘Moloko? I mean, milk?’
I said no thank you but she put in a teaspoonful of sugar anyway, so I said spasiba and smiled at her. ‘Pozhalujsta,’ she said.
We munched on sugar cookies and I listened while Boris and Martin talked — about next year’s elections in Kenya, about Vladimir Putin, about the presidential elections on the horizon in the United States, even though they were two years away — but then eventually, when Galina sat down, after serving us all, she started asking questions about me. Where are you from? she asked. And I answered Canada: originally I’m from outside a medium-sized city called London, in Ontario, but now I live in Montreal, in Quebec, I said, where Boris and Nina live with Tanya. Are you married?she asked. I said no but I have a girlfriend. Galina smiled. What’s her name, the girlfriend?Galina asked. Stacey, I said. Do you live together? she asked. Not yet, I said, but we’ve been together for almost five years.
I didn’t express any of my insecurities with respect to my relationship with Stacey; it didn’t feel appropriate, obviously, but my misgivings dominated my mind.
We talked briefly about how Boris ended up with Nina, their daughter, who’d travelled to the U.S. to go to Union College in Schenectady, in upstate New York, on a scholarship, where Boris was a visiting lecturer, originally from Leningrad, but he’d lived stateside for many years, and there met Nina.
‘How did you meet Boris and Nina?’ asked Galina.
‘I met Boris at a birthday party for a common friend, a Croatian-American writer, Marko, and we hit it off and decided we’d try and work together one day,’ I said. ‘I was aware of Boris as a photographer before we’d met at Marko’s party.’
‘He’s very good,’ said Martin, with pride.
‘One of the best!’
‘We even have a setup here, a little darkroom out back for Boris in the addition,’ said Martin, ‘for when he visits. There’s a steel cot and a toilet in there, too. We call it Boris’s Place. No one else ever goes in there. When you’re not here, Boris, it’s totally empty. I won’t let anyone touch anything.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Boris. ‘You can use the space.’
‘No,’ said Martin. ‘I don’t want anyone damaging your equipment or the kids messing with the chemicals or your computer equipment, either.’
‘Spasiba,’ said Boris.
‘Pozhalujsta,’ Martin said. ‘I need some more hot water, Galina.’
And Galina went to the kitchen for the kettle.
After another cup of tea, Martin suggested that we move the party outside for a drink.
Martin, Boris and I sat at a table in the backyard, where Martin had produced a large bottle of Stolichnaya from an old Coca-Cola cooler and three small green glass bottles of lime soda. We drank the vodka from shot glasses, Russian style, and we sipped the lime soda on the side. Martin said, holding up his shot glass, ‘John, to your first trip to Kenya!’
‘Cheers! Thank you for your hospitality,’ I said and we all clinked glasses and took back the viscous vodka.
Tanya returned with a plate of barbecued chicken and a bottle of hot sauce, a large bowl of brown rice and peas, vegetable samosas, salad and bread. We stopped drinking vodka while we ate. I wasn’t hungry, though the food was very good and I ate a little of everything so as not to insult my generous hosts. The sun was setting and it was beautiful in the backyard. The large sky was turning dark at the edges but colourful still in the centre — purple and pink and blue and pale yellow. There was a cool breeze fluttering the leaves on the bushes and trees.
Boris said, ‘Man, it’s like being in a Italian film. Look at the sky! Look at the colours!’
And it was true. There’s nothing like the magic hour in a backyard in Nairobi, sitting with great company, drinking vodka and eating barbecue.
Still, I didn’t feel right. Even though the temperature had dropped — due to its high altitude, Nairobi’s cool in the evenings — I was sweating heavily and asked to be excused to use the washroom.