Meals of sweet overripe melons, mahogany on the outside, salmon pink within. Plump water birds that bobbed in a muddy stream and held the pose trustingly while one shied a stone at them. Roasted over a wood fire they tasted rather like duck, which I suppose they were.
The warmth, the space, the silence. There were lions about, and hostile tribes, and things that went bump in the night, and yet from the onset I felt completely at ease in that open country. It was unpeopled and unpaved, and it let me remember that I was alive. If we never found Sheena, if the jungle had swallowed Sam Bowman, if the Retriever was lost and his treasure irretrievable, that was fine. And if I never got back to civilization, that wasn’t so bad either.
The weather had something to do with this. And the good food, and the open spaces, and the friendship of the natives we met. Each gave rise to a very real pleasure. But let’s be honest, huh? None of these pleasures quite compared to that of lying naked in the tall grass with Miss Pelham Jenkins and making, uh, love.
Look, it wasn’t my idea.
It really wasn’t, and left to my own devices I don’t think it would have happened. I am not saying it never would have occurred to me. All manner of things occur to a person, whether or not he has any intentions of doing anything about them. And Plum was a particularly lovely thing, and I had noticed this. It had come to mind that Plum would one day make someone or other very happy in some bed or other, but my own appreciation of this fact was quite impersonal. She was this kid who had helped me get out of a coffin and who was now keeping me company on a Cook’s Tour of Modonoland. But mainly she was a kid.
Right?
I thought so, but she wouldn’t buy it.
“You think I am a child,” she said, that first morning in the wild. “But I am fifteen years old. I am going to be sixteen years old.”
“God willing.”
“Pardon?”
“Everybody who is fifteen years old is well on the way to being sixteen,” I said. “It’s the natural order of things.”
“You are mocking me, Evan.”
“Not exactly.”
“Perhaps in your country a girl my age would be a child, but in Modonoland I am a woman. Girls younger than I are married.”
“But not to me.”
“Have you never made love to a girl of fifteen?”
“Yes.”
“You have? Then it is me you despise, and you pretend it is my age, and-”
“Twenty years ago, I slept with a girl who was fifteen.”
“Oh.”
“But not since then, Plum.”
“Perhaps you will be able to remember how it is done, Evan.”
And another time-
“Evan? I have been thinking about this matter between us. I do not think you have been honest with me at all.”
“Oh?”
“I think you have been saying one thing and meaning another.”
“What do you mean, Plum?”
“It is certainly a common attitude here. It is universal in Modonoland. And I understand that the situation is very much the same in America. But I thought you were different, Evan, and it saddens me to find out that you are not.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That you do not want to make love to me because of my color,” she said. “That is obvious. You pretend that it is my age, but I cannot believe that. You say it to spare me pain. That is all.”
“Plum, that’s ridiculous.”
“It is a problem I will always face in this country. Black men wish to have nothing to do with a girl who is partly white. White men wish to have nothing to do with a girl who is partly black. Perhaps in another country I will find a place for myself. Or perhaps I will find a man who does not let color bother him.”
“Damn it, Plum-”
“Please do not talk of it, Evan. Not now. Do you see that tree? I wonder if the fruit can be eaten.”
And another time, late at night:
“Evan?”
“Can’t you sleep, Plum?”
“I am all tense. My muscles are in knots.”
“Try to relax.”
“I cannot. It is sexual tension, you understand.”
“Oh, are we back on that topic again?”
“When a woman is accustomed to sex, it is a hardship to do without it. You must know this. And have I not told you that I ceased long ago to be a virgin?”
“You told me.”
“Which makes your scruples so foolish, but I will not discuss that now. But I am so tense. If you could give me a massage to relax me…”
I squatted next to her and rubbed her little back. Her skin was warm velvet. I rubbed her back and found that I was grinding my teeth. I stopped grinding my teeth.
“I took off all my clothes,” she said. “I hope you do not mind.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” I said.
“So I thought. Since I do not exist for you as a sex object, you are untouched by my nudity. So I thought.”
“Well, you were right.”
“Yes. I enjoy the feeling of your hands on me.”
“I’m glad.”
“It is very pleasant,” she said. She rolled over suddenly and my hands were on her breasts. “Oh, Evan,” she said. “Oh, Evan, I love you.”
Her mouth was warm and urgent and greedy. Her fingers hurried with buttons and zipper. I slipped out of my clothes and lay down beside her. My hands returned to her breasts. She thrust her hips forward, urged the warmth of her loins against me. A lot of little voices inside my head started talking at once, arguing with one another. The loudest of them all said, “Look, dummy, this is certainly a dumb time to start being a saint.”
I kissed her mouth. I kissed her throat. I kissed her little brown breasts. She made purring sounds and I kissed her and stroked her. Her legs opened and her thighs beat at me like moths at a lighted window. Another little voice, a last little voice, asked me petulantly what I thought I was getting into, and what I was getting into was Plum, and it was very nice, very nice indeed.
Afterward I put some more sticks on the fire and we shared the melon we had put aside for breakfast. Her flesh glowed pornographically in the firelight. She bit into the melon and the juice trickled down her face and onto her body.
She looked marvelous.
“Well,” she said, between mouthfuls. “That wasn’t so bad at all, was it?”
“You lied.”
“Did I?”
“A woman of the world. A woman who ceased long ago to be a virgin.”
“It seems long ago,” she said, thoughtfully.
“It seems like twenty minutes or so.”
“Perhaps.”
“A woman strangled by sexual frustration. ‘When a woman is accustomed to sex, it is a hardship to do without it.’ Teller of untruths.”
“It was a pre-truth.” She giggled suddenly and melon juice cascaded onto her breasts. “You would not have done it otherwise, would you?”
“I don’t know.”
I reached for her. She squirmed loose, giggling. I caught her and she threw her arms around my neck. Melon juice got all over us, but we didn’t notice this until quite a while later.
When she said, “You wouldn’t have done it if you knew. Or not right away, it would have taken more provocation, and it was hard enough to provoke you as it was. And I wanted us to do this. It is silly not to, don’t you think? We are all alone in the middle of the country and we should be close together, and are we not close now?”
“We are,” I agreed.
“And you love me, don’t you, Evan?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it does not disturb you that I am of color?”
“Of course not.”
“Or that I am fourteen?”
“Fourteen?”
She put her hand on my arm. “You are angry with me.”
“I-”
“It too was a pre-truth. Fourteen going on fifteen. Everyone who is fourteen years old is well on the way to being fifteen. It is the natural order of things.”
I didn’t say anything. She curled up against me and her head nestled in the crook of my arm. She smelled wonderfully of damp earth and matted grass and leftover love. She said sleepily, “Fourteen, fifteen, just numbers. The number of times the sun goes around the earth.”