Ellen said, “Why does it shine like that?”
“The ties aren’t wood. They’re steel.”
“Steel?”
“Seventy pounds apiece, two thousand per mile, seven hundred miles from the coast of Kampala.” He reeled this off with apparent satisfaction, as though he’d personally carried and placed every steel tie himself.
Ellen said, “But why steel?”
“They tried wooden ties,” Frank told her. “The British, when they built the line around the turn of the century. But the ants ate them, and the natives stole them for firewood. So they used steel. Indian coolies did the work, and sometimes in the sun the steel ties burned the skin off their hands.”
The glittering chain had fallen behind them, and now the tower permitted Ellen to steer southwestward to her intended route over the Kedong Valley. She said, “You seem to know a lot about it.”
“I learn things,” he said. “I don’t just sit around pulling my pecker all day.”
Lew said quietly, “Frank, talk to Ellen the way you talk to me.”
Frank gave him a surprised look, as though he hadn’t expected a challenge from this quarter. Ellen considered the situation and decided the assistance fell within the range of the acceptable, so she said nothing but merely concentrated on her flying.
After a moment, Frank nodded at Ellen and said to Lew less aggressively, “We’ll get used to each other.”
“Sure you will,” Lew said.
“I’m a reader,” Frank explained, talking now directly to Ellen. “I like history.”
The tone of voice meant he was trying to make amends. Ellen cooperated. “African history?”
“Mostly. I like to read about the fuckups of those who came before me. It’s nice to know I’m not the first damn fool to run around this continent.”
Ellen smiled, surprising herself. “I can see how it might help.”
“Every day in every way.” He shifted, making himself more comfortable, then went on in a more casual, storytelling style. “Those coolies worked their asses off,” he said. “Lions ate them, mosquitoes gave them malaria, drought robbed them of food and water, floods tore out the tracks they’d just put down, they caught dysentery and yaws and diseases they never heard of before, native tribes hit them with clubs and spears and poison darts, their British overseers objected to their sex lives, and every once in a while when conditions were really muddy a locomotive would fall on them. But they kept going, for almost ten years, and they built the fucking railroad. And do you know what it was all for?”
“No, I don’t,” Ellen said.
“To keep Uganda in the British imperial sphere of influence.” Frank grinned. “How’s that for a joke?”
On the ground at Kisumu, a ragamuffin black man whom Frank called Charlie tied the plane down while Frank went away to make a phone call. Ellen and Lew stood near the plane, watching Charlie, who appeared to be drunk or stoned but who in his slow and distracted manner was nevertheless doing the job right, and Ellen said, “Do you want to turn around?”
Lew frowned at her, about to become irritable. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t like this.”
“I don’t even know what it is yet.”
“You know it isn’t what you expected.”
“Let’s wait and see. Frank’s a good man.” But he couldn’t keep the doubt out of his voice.
Frank came rolling back toward them, with a strong but loose-jointed gait, as though all the screws and dowels in his body needed tightening. “We’ll just drop in and see Mr. Balim,” he said, “then I’ll take you to your house.”
“Fine,” Lew said.
Frank turned and shouted, “Aren’t you finished, you stupid bastard?”
“Slow,” Charlie said, slurring the word.
“I know you’re slow. Pick up these bags and come along.”
Frank led the way, followed by Ellen and Lew, with Charlie bringing up the rear, carrying both bags. Ellen looked back at him, and Charlie smiled at her, drooling down his chin. Ellen faced front again.
Their immediate destination was a tall and filthy Land-Rover with a patched canvas top. The yellow license plate with black numbers was dented in three or four places, as though somebody had been using it for target practice, like signs on country roads in the States. While Charlie heaved the luggage into the storage well in the rear, Frank said, “You two ride in back. Charlie’s turned this front seat into an outhouse.”
Lew and Ellen clambered into the vehicle, and the instant she touched the hard and uncomfortable seat a wave of exhaustion poured over her so severe that she thought for a second she might be sick. Instead, her eyes watered and she yawned hugely, bending forward, her brow touching the top of the front seat.
Lew said, “Ellen? You okay?”
“Just tired.” The heaviness of the humid air pressed in on her.
“Won’t be much longer.”
“Good.”
Adrenaline and curiosity had kept her alert and active this long, through the endless traveling from Alaska, and then the three-hour piloting job from Nairobi, but all at once it was catching up with her. She yawned again, behind her cupped hands, so hugely her jaw hinges ached.
Charlie and Frank took their places in front. As Frank started the rackety engine, Lew said, “Frank, we’re both kind of tired.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Frank promised. “We’ll stop in for one word with Mr. Balim—he just wants to say hello, shake your hand—then I’ll drive you right to the house.”
The Land-Rover jounced forward. Ellen watched Frank’s shoulders and back moving in great effortful bunched thrusts, the way the man in the carnival wrestles with the alligator. They bounced and skidded away from the airport and out onto a narrow blacktop road cluttered with huge slow-moving trucks. Frank slalomed among them.
Lew said, “Frank, tell me about Balim.”
“Asian. Born and raised in Uganda, thrown out. Merchant. Probably rich, I don’t know. I work for him.”
“Doing what?”
“Twist arms, break heads, kick asses.”
Charlie giggled.
Lew said, “Balim isn’t political?”
Frank laughed. “Balim thinks politics is a dirty word.”
“Do you?”
Frank grinned over his shoulder, then looked out at the road again. “I think it’s a funny word, Lew. Since when did you get political?”
Lew jounced around in the backseat, gnawing his thumb knuckle, looking worried. “I’ve always been on somebody’s side,” he muttered, but not loudly enough for Frank to hear.
Charlie turned, smiled beatifically at them both, and said, “Can you tell me why it is that politics makes strange bedfellows? Can you tell me what it is, ‘strange bedfellows’?”
Surprised, Ellen said, “You speak very good English!”
He beamed at her. “So do you,” he said.
Mr. Balim said, “Did you like my plane?”
“Very much.” Ellen was surprised at how quickly she was warming to this little round man.
He had been waiting for them in front of what was apparently his place of business, a low long scruffy building of an oddly washed out blue, as though it had been here for a thousand years. Seeing him, Frank had yelled, “There he is right there!” and made a violent U-turn in the teeth of oncoming buses and motorcycles. Charlie had chittered something happy-sounding, like a toucan, but when Frank skewed to a halt, Charlie had at once slithered out of sight, as though he were a stowaway.
And the little round man with the round head, the large soft brown eyes, the hesitant smile, the delicate plump, hands, had introduced himself, bowing from the waist. “Mazar Balim. So happy to make your acquaintance.”