A Change in Altitude (22 page)

Manda Airport was smaller than Wilson. A thick forest of mangrove surrounded them on all four sides. She followed the others to a narrow path. Gary offered to carry her suitcase. Normally, she’d have said no, but she let him. When they emerged on the other side of the thick forest, they found dozens of other people clamoring to get on one of the dhows that were approaching shore. The South African couple turned out to be valuable, announcing they had diplomatic credentials and needed to make their way to the landing at once. Margaret had no choice but to follow, since Gary had her bag. They pushed forward to the front of the throng.

“We’ll get on now,” he said, handing Margaret her suitcase.

“Thank you,” she said.

They were among the first to board the small dhow. Margaret thought she should feel guilty, but she didn’t. She just wanted to get to Lamu. She grew somewhat alarmed, however, when she saw how many people the dhow’s captain, a sinewy man in a loincloth, was letting on. Even the South African couple sighed heavily as yet another family climbed aboard.

She felt the push-off and then the gentle glide. All around her was chatter.

“Jesus Christ, Gary,” Kathleen said to her husband. “We’ve only got an inch of freeboard.”

“At least nobody’s shooting at us,” Gary replied.

Patrick waved and blew a kiss, and Margaret would have done so back if it weren’t for having to keep her balance on the rocking dhow with her suitcase in her hand. First one on meant last one off.

When she finally reached the pier, Patrick swept her up in his arms. His spirits were high, and Margaret felt her spirits rise as well. “I’m so happy to see you,” she said, burying her face in his shoulder.

The trip had broken the ice jam. They would be all right together.

Patrick took Margaret’s suitcase, and they walked the length of the dock.

*   *   *

What was it that Margaret noticed first? That there was a person going the wrong way along the dock? That, oddly, that person seemed to be stopping directly in front of Patrick? That before the woman spoke, in her appealing Italian accent, Margaret couldn’t help but notice that she was beautiful in a way that Margaret would never be? How fast that thought was formed. The slim body, the long, flowing skirt that fell from narrow hips, the sunglasses pushed up over the mass of long, dark curls caught up in pins, the wide, dark eyes, the prominent jaw, the mouth, the self-confidence that was evident in every gesture.

“Elena, this is my wife, Margaret,” Patrick said by way of introduction. “Margaret, this is Elena, an ophthalmologist who is working with our team.”

Elena, her wrist covered in gold bangles, held out her hands. In them she held a thin black shawl. “You’ll be needing this,” she said.

Behind Elena, Margaret could see an ancient city of small white buildings dotted with several mosques and their round domes. There were no roads to speak of, only narrow cobblestoned streets better suited to pedestrians than to vehicles. All paths led upward to the heart of the city. Patrick carried her bag while she held the translucent shawl over her shoulders for modesty.

“How was your flight?” Elena asked.

“Fine.”

“I hate to fly. I try to put myself to sleep.”

“What work are you and Patrick doing together?”

“We’re part of a team that was sent out as a kind of medical think tank. We treat patients, we talk about them and their lives, the conditions in which they live, and then we have roundtable discussions among ourselves to try to find solutions. Theoretically, the idea is to direct charitable organizations to the places that need the most help.”

“Where are the others? How many are on your team?”

“Much of the collaborative work was done in Malindi. Two others are joining us tomorrow.”

“And you got to Lamu when?”

“Yesterday afternoon. There was no other way to do it and still be here in time to collect you.”

Margaret followed her husband up a steep set of steps. The men passing them wore kaffiyehs on their heads and white kanzus. They glanced at Elena and Margaret but didn’t speak and weren’t in the least rude.

“We’re all at Petley’s,” Elena said. “You and Patrick have a rooftop room with wonderful views. I am just off the lobby.”

Margaret continued to move forward, but it was as though she’d been pricked by thorns. Why the deliberate mention of how far apart the rooms were? How did Elena know that Patrick’s room had a wonderful view? Was that a feature he’d have mentioned to a colleague who hadn’t been lucky enough to get such a view? Or had he invited Elena up just to see the Indian Ocean, as one might do for a friend? Would they have had a quick drink together, watching that magnificent low skyline against an indigo blue? And what happened after that?

Margaret’s mind wouldn’t go there; it had never been necessary to do so. All of the above could be explained away. She was being too suspicious. Unfair to Elena, whose only crime was that she was beautiful. Had Elena been a dumpy woman with dull hair and pimples, would any of this have occurred to Margaret at all?

Margaret wanted and yet didn’t want to have a discussion about this with Patrick. Either way, she thought, she would lose. Patrick might be genuinely shocked, and then angry she’d even thought to ask such a question. Margaret would lose. Or he might use that moment to tell her that, yes, he and Elena had been having an affair and had planned the coastal trip with that in mind. Margaret would lose. Or he might employ the former tactic simply to blow smoke in her face, so that she wouldn’t ask another question on the subject. She would lose. For a moment, she was furious with Patrick for having put her in that position. Why ask her to join him in Lamu (risking her life, she might add) for what was supposed to be a private weekend only to introduce another woman into the mix? And, come to think of it, why hadn’t he prepared Margaret on the telephone for Elena? He wasn’t a stupid man.

Halfway up a narrow street, they stopped at a small coffeehouse with elaborate metal chairs outside. Inside, Margaret could see low wood furniture with many white cushions. She was glad to be able to sit in the shadow of the building across the street. In that building, she saw a vendor standing in his doorway, chatting with a second man. In the window was a display of handcrafted jewelry, most in silver: long cuffs, necklaces that looked more like art than jewelry, and earrings that would fall to the chin line.

“Have you been in that store?” Margaret asked Elena.

“I haven’t had time. When we got here, we walked around, but all the shops were closed. They reopen later in the day, but I gather that it’s hard to know the schedule until you’ve been here a couple of days. Why? Are you admiring the jewelry in that window?”

“Do you know how to bargain?” Margaret asked her. Americans were notoriously bad at bargaining. They lacked either the subtlety or the patience for the way the game was played. Some “negotiations” could take as long as a half hour, with both sides smiling at the end. The elaborate games were always entertaining to watch.

“Sometimes,” Elena said.

Coffee arrived and, with it, cubes of sugar.

“I suspect you’re dehydrated,” Elena said. “Patrick, can you get her a bottle of water?”

There was something wrong with the request. How could Elena so easily order Patrick around?

“He is nice, your husband,” Elena said when Patrick had gone. “Highly competent but kind as well.”

The muezzin began the call to prayers. Margaret sat back and closed her eyes and let the minor notes, which she’d always loved, wash over her. She opened her eyes when Patrick returned with the water.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Margaret could see the feet and ankles of the two men who had been talking earlier outside the shop. Now they were inside on prayer rugs laid upon the stone.

At Petley’s, they split up to go to their separate rooms, with plans to meet for dinner at the rooftop restaurant. Once inside, Margaret went to wash her hands. When she came out, Patrick was sitting on the bed, waiting for her.

“I thought this was going to be a weekend for just the two of us,” Margaret said.

“You mean Elena?” he asked. “She wanted to come ahead early to set up meetings with the people who run the clinic here. But the way I see things, our weekend begins here,” he said as he patted the bedspread.

Margaret had to go to her husband, who was already unbuttoning his shirt. She had no choice. But the walk from the bathroom to the bed felt among the most arduous of her life.

It’s impossible to have sex with a man you love, Margaret thought, and not relax into his arms. From the bed, she heard the sounds of commerce and men talking. Through the window, a sharp blue hurt her eyes. From Patrick’s genuine passion, it was difficult to conclude that he and Elena were anything more than colleagues. Margaret would not ask questions about Elena. She was not a jealous woman.

Margaret wore her best dress, an off-the-shoulder, slim-fitting black. With it, she chose an ivory necklace with brass and black beads that she’d bought on Kimathi Street. She remembered Elena’s admonition and slipped the thin shawl over her shoulders.

Elena sat alone at the table when they entered the restaurant. Her curly black hair had been released from whatever had been holding it back. She had on a black strapless dress with matching shawl and no jewelry apart from the diamonds at her ears. The Italian woman was nothing if not elegant.

Patrick and Margaret crossed the restaurant holding hands. When they reached Elena, Patrick bent over and gave her a kiss on each cheek. Because everyone in the restaurant appeared to be a tourist or a visitor, Margaret allowed her shawl to slip a bit when she sat down. A moist, warm air moved along her bare back. The foreign voices at the other tables and the particular smell of Lamu—a scent of sea and incense, of smoke from cooking fires and even a faint whiff of drains—was unique, one she was certain she would never forget. Patrick put his arm around her, and Elena stared. Margaret thought the stare odd. Wouldn’t a normal person politely look away or take a sip of wine? Maybe Elena was lonely.

“Are you married?” Margaret asked.

“No, but I have a boyfriend who is growing very angry with me. I have stayed too long here, and he wants me to come home.”

“Your boyfriend should be angry at Todd, who convinced you to stay on for this project, ” Patrick said. “And good for him, or we’d have gotten nowhere.”

“He’s a man who will go far,” Elena pointed out. “His own research, I thought, was weak, but he is very good at putting people together and making work happen.”

“I gather you’re talking of a colleague,” Margaret said.

“Sorry, hon,” Patrick said, and Margaret’s skin pricked as it had done earlier. Her husband had never called her “hon” before. And why was it, Margaret wondered, that Patrick hadn’t chosen to come to the landing alone? Why had it been necessary to bring Elena along? Wouldn’t he have known how much that might rattle Margaret?

She took a sip of chilled white wine.

Elena gave Margaret a quick glance. “How is your own work going?” she asked. “I have heard so much about you from Patrick.”

“My work is going very well,” Margaret said. “I’m being assigned to more and more complex stories. And I’ve partnered up with a far more appealing reporter than I began with.”

“And who is that?” Patrick asked, accepting a menu from the waiter.

“His name is Rafiq Hameed. He was kicked out of Uganda in seventy-two with all the other Asians. He’s quite educated—schooled in London, continued with his studies at Makerere. Then the purge. He’s in his late twenties, I’d say. Drives a Citroën that makes his knees bump up against the dashboard. He’s tall.”

She was about to add “and handsome,” but she thought that might be taking it too far.

Two could play at this game.

After the meal, Elena said good night. Patrick walked Margaret to a quiet corner of the roof deck. From Petley’s Inn, the other buildings of Lamu village appeared to be topless boxes, two to three stories tall, with large courtyards inside. Every rooftop in the village was visible, and Margaret was surprised to see how many of them had gardens. Some even had beds surrounded by mosquito netting.

“The coolest place in many of these buildings is the rooftop,” Patrick said. “From there, you can catch the sea breezes.”

“What if it rains?” Margaret asked.

“It hardly ever rains.”

“It’s so lovely. So exotic.”

“I don’t have to worry about you, do I?” Patrick whispered.

“About what?”

“This tall, educated reporter by your side daily?”

“You must be joking,” she said. “And from you, of all people?”

“What do you mean?”

“You and Elena? Can you tell me what that’s about?”

“We’re colleagues.”

“Who spent the night together in the same hotel, who both found it necessary to greet me at the landing?”

“Elena and I had a working breakfast, and it seemed rude not to invite her along to meet you.”

“We need a chaperone now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Margaret’s words made her ill, even as she continued to utter them. “And you can’t possibly deny that she’s incredibly beautiful.”

“Margaret, listen to yourself.”

“I’d rather listen to you.”

“I have nothing to say.”

His body stiffened.

“Are we together?” she asked. “Together as we were before the climb? Or did that cause us irreparable harm?”

Patrick closed his eyes. “I’m not going to talk about this. Your obsession with the climb is eating away at you. I’ve been watching it for months. Until you deal with that, I guess we’re not as together as we once were. No. How could we be?”

“I’m not obsessed with the climb,” Margaret protested. “I’m obsessed with our marriage.”

“I think we should go in,” he said.

Margaret had a sudden change of heart. She felt a fierce desire to physically hold on to her husband. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Margaret said as she snatched his sleeve. “Patrick, don’t go. I didn’t come all the way to Lamu for this. I just wanted to have a nice weekend with you that would brush away all the cobwebs. Please stay.”