After he paid, Hock wrote an address on a piece of paper, saying, “Here is where I want you to deliver this. The U.S. consulate, Mr. Gilroy.” And he scribbled a note to go with it, saying that he would be in touch on his return from Malabo.
The coffee shop that Gilroy had indicated, where Norman Fogwill might be, was closed when Hock passed by in the late afternoon. He drank a beer in the garden of the hotel, and as darkness fell he heard music from the nightclub adjacent to the hotel, its name picked out in lights, the Starlight.
Telling himself that he was merely taking a walk, he wandered over to the club and was at once greeted by taxi drivers, by touts, by shyly beckoning girls at the doorway. He went nearer to the entrance and looked inside — a crowd, a band, shadows, a few lights piercing webs of smoke — and a man in sunglasses said, “You’re welcome. Don’t be a stranger. Come inside, boss.”
Hock eased himself past the loitering men and boys, and once inside the dimly lit club, he made his way to an empty table by the wall. Colored lights flickered on the gleaming dance floor. The music was so loud he could scarcely hear the waitress ask what he wanted. He ordered a beer. Before it was brought, a girl asked with finger gestures if she could join him. Hock patted the chair seat next to him.
She was small, with a mass of tight shiny curls, a pretty, somewhat impish face, and wore a dark jacket over a white blouse. Her knees bumped his as she sat, squirming, smiling, being a coquette. When his bottle of beer arrived, Hock signaled — gestures again, the music was deafening — for the waitress to bring her a drink.
The girl leaned closer and shouted into his ear, “What country?”
“United States.”
“Big country,” she said, still shouting.
“Dzina lanu ndani?” Hock asked.
“Merry,” she said — at least that was how it sounded. Then, “You are knowing my language.”
“Kwambiri!”
She touched his leg. She leaned again, her mouth against his ear. “You want jig-jig?”
Hock was startled. The girl saw his reaction and looked gratified, even strengthened, taking her drink from the waitress’s tray and twirling her tongue on the straw. Hock took a breath and inclined his body toward hers and found himself shouting, “Not now!”
“Why not? We get taxi. My home is just near.”
Hock said, “I’m worried about kudwala.”
“I not sick.” She looked indignant, sitting back and staring at him with widened eyes.
“But maybe I’m sick,” Hock said.
“Okay.” That seemed to pacify her. “I give you — what? Massage, what you want.” And when Hock frowned she said, “Let we go.”
The music was so loud, Hock wondered whether he was hearing correctly. Was she really saying these things with such composure? At that moment, dizzy from the music and the cigarette smoke, Hock became aware of another girl pressing toward him from his other side.
The first girl, Merry, spoke harshly, and the girls quarreled for a moment, screeching at each other, until Hock, to quiet them, gestured to the waitress to serve the second one a beer.
“What country?” the new girl asked.
She was big, in a tight-fitting dress, with a fat face and spiky hair, and when she smiled, which she was doing now, she showed a gap in her front teeth that was as wide as a keyhole.
“Alessi,” she said, extending her hand.
Merry leaned toward Hock and said, “Let we go. Please. I need money. I got a little kid.”
“I have to make a phone call,” Hock said. “Here, take this, for the beer.” He gave each girl some money. “I’ll be right back.” They squawked as he left, and he realized that all he had given them was the Malawi equivalent of a dollar apiece.
He fled, feeling hot and desperate, hurrying to the safety of his hotel, where he locked himself in his room, sitting in the dark, breathing hard, hearing the music pulsing at the window, fearful of going out and perhaps meeting the girls.
6
HE WAS REMINDED on his third day of how time passed in Africa with no event to mark its passing — a meaningless slipping away of days. Once again, he woke in harsh early-morning light, thinking, I must leave. But he wondered at the urgency. After breakfast, he introduced himself to the clerk at the travel desk in the lobby and asked about a car and driver.
“You want to book now, Mr. Ellis?” the clerk asked.
“I want to know how much notice you need.”
“We have cars. We have drivers. We are ready to serve you, sir.”
“Good. I just have to run an errand first.”
“I will be waiting you just here, Mr. Ellis.”
Hock walked quickly down the hill toward Kandodo Supermarket, and approaching it he saw that the small coffee shop was open, a propped-up sign on the sidewalk lettered Coffee Cakes Sweets.
Inside, two old men faced each other across a chessboard. One was heavyset, with thick eyebrows, wide shoulders, his elbows on the table, hovering over the board, perhaps contemplating a move. The other man was thin, white-haired, with sunken cheeks, sitting sideways, his legs crossed, his hands in his lap. When the thin man smiled at the consternation of his opponent, Hock saw that he had one front tooth. This had to be Norman Fogwill. His narrow trousers emphasized his thin legs.
Hock entered the coffee shop. The man he took to be Norman Fogwill said to his chess opponent, “You got a customer, mate,” and to Hock, “He’s stumped. He has nowhere to go.”
“I have an answer,” the heavy man said, his accent like a morsel of unchewed food in his mouth. But he didn’t move a chess piece. “You want coffee?”
“Take your time,” Hock said.
The man roared and stood up, kicking his chair back, and stamped his feet.
“See?” Fogwill said, and laughed, showing his single tooth. He worked his tongue around the tooth, then coughed, shaking a cigarette out of a pack and lighting it.
“I used to smoke those,” Hock said. “Springboks. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was here in the sixties. Are you Norman Fogwill?”
“What’s left of him,” Fogwill said. “Have a seat. Make that two coffees, Mario.”
The other man was now behind the counter, locking a chrome handle into the underside of an espresso machine.
“I’m Ellis Hock. I was in the Lower River.”
“I know who you are,” Fogwill said in an awakening tone. He looked pleased, but his tight smile only made his face more skeletal. “You had snakes. Big ones in baskets. I used to hump copybooks and biros down from the office. And ink for your Gestetner. Lord, there’s a relic. A duplicator!”
“You remember?”
“How could I forget? It took me two days to get there in that motor, the Willys Jeep on that bloody awful road. Shaketty-boom, shaketty-shaketty boom.” He sucked at the cigarette and made his mouth square and shushed out blue smoke. “I had to stay overnight and leave the next day. One night was enough for me! How did you stand it for two years?”
“Almost four years,” Hock said.
“Good God. What was the name of that benighted village?”
“Malabo.”
“Right. Smack in the bush. They had teachers and health workers in Nsanje, but no one replaced you in Malabo. That’s a fact.”
“Because I phased myself out. I taught them how to run the show.”
“And a dog’s breakfast they made of it, I reckon.”
Hock said, “It was the best school in the district.”