A Dual Inheritance (52 page)

A young African man with round wire eyeglasses carried her bag and showed her to her room. He was tall and slender, and she could just
as easily picture him walking a runway in Paris or nursing an espresso in a Brooklyn café, busy on a laptop.

“Now,” he said, pointing toward where a mosquito net was tied up but ready to envelop whomever lay down on the immaculate-looking white sheets. “Let me show you this,” he said. “This is the bed.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“This is your first time to Tanganyika?”

“It’s my first time to Africa.”

“Ah.” He nodded. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but he took his time, embodying the rhythms of a much older person. “And how do you like our country?”

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, “of course.”

“Traffic very bad in Dar, very bad in Moshi. Very bad. This is better. This is very nice, very tranquil.”

She nodded. “It is.”

“Now, this,” he continued. “This is the bath.” The small room looked out over a vegetable garden. She recognized Swiss chard sprouting from soil-filled tires. “Now, this—let me show you—this is the soap for the body. This,” he said, “is a cup.”

“Thank you,” she managed, so grateful for it all that she wasn’t even tempted to giggle at his tender and absurd attention to detail. “Thank you so much,” she said.

After she’d showered (warmish water! decent pressure!), she changed into gauzy pants and a worn T-shirt, both of which were innocuous enough to give off the impression that she hadn’t given a thought to what she’d packed for this trip. This particular T-shirt and pants said:
I am of the belief that there are far more important things to think about than clothes
. They said this while still being mysteriously flattering to her figure. These garments were time-tested and had been peeled off her in East Hampton, Key West, and Fire Island over the last several summers.

Do I really think this way?
she asked herself, half self-loathing, half amused.

Yes
, seemed to be the answer,
yes, it seems that you do
.

She managed to resist lip gloss; she made her way to the bar.

There were candles and salads and wine and the stars. There were no other guests. The serious young man who’d showed Rebecca her room was also the waiter and bartender. The Dutch owners came out for a chat and then they disappeared. And then here was Hugh. Hugh Shipley, looking a shade more dapper after bathing or maybe even just dousing his hair with water. Here was Hugh, who made Robert Redford look like a total wuss. It was ridiculous, but she felt no urge to laugh.

They were looking out at a landscape so pure and at a sky so clear that to remark upon the beauty would be to taint it. She was sure—positive—that he thought this way, too.

Nobody was talking.

“How did you end up coming here?” she finally blurted.

He squinted, as if trying to recall. “I had an adventurer friend.”

“As one does.”

He grinned. “Oh, yes? And who’s your adventurer friend?”

“Vivi,” she said. “Of course.”

“Right,” he said warmly. “Of course.”

“So your friend?”

“His boat got stuck in a typhoon and he was stranded on the lake for days. This was before—you know—this place existed.” He gestured to the bar, and when he realized it had looked as if he was signaling for more wine, he didn’t bother to correct the young man’s assumption. “When he finally made it back to Dar, he said that while he was stuck, he realized that there were all these people living on the lake so completely cut off from the world, how there was no health care, absolutely none. There were a couple of clinics that were theoretically supposed to refer people to the national hospitals, but those clinics didn’t even have water or electricity—never mind that any access to the interior is severely limited because of the terrible roads. At any rate, he’d known most of this before, but it had taken his getting stuck to understand what it really meant. So he got stuck and then came to me.”

“Does that happen a lot? People coming to you and asking for help?”

“What—” He smiled. “You mean like you?”

“Ha. Well, yes, I guess. But I was talking about your field, your experience running clinics. The need is so great. And you’ve been here for such a long time.”

“That’s certainly relative.” He watched as the young man poured more wine. “Thank you, Omar.”

She smiled at the young man—Omar—who nodded and left. If Omar and the Dutch owners considered them at all, what did they think? Father and daughter? Doubtful.

“But,” she persisted, “people must come and go with all kinds of plans.”

“Oh yes. Lots of plans,” Hugh said tightly. “We all have lots of plans.”

“True,” she said, waiting for him to explain his sarcasm. “And?” Hugh visibly grimaced. She tried and failed not to take his expression personally. She waited for him to speak.

He didn’t.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked.

“Don’t pay attention to me right now,” he said. “It’s not productive.”

“I didn’t know we were being productive right this minute. I thought we were finishing dinner.”

“Vivi thinks I’m a depressive. Did you know that?”

She didn’t. But she wasn’t surprised to hear it. She neither nodded nor shook her head. She didn’t, she suddenly realized, want to talk about Vivi.

Hugh motioned toward the bar, and this time there was no mistaking his intent. Omar brought Hugh a different bottle, without a label, and two small glasses. “What was I saying?”

“Depression?”

“No, not that.”

“Then …” She hesitated; did she really want to have a conversation about Hugh’s mental health? “Then why did you mention it?” Evidently she did.

“I’m not depressed,” he said. And he smiled. “I’m not depressed right now.”

“What does Helen think?” she asked, both without planning to do so and instantly regretting it. “She’s always seemed—I don’t know—intuitive.”
What was she doing?
“I’ve always had the feeling she could somehow—this sounds strange—that if I were in trouble or something”—
Stop talking
, she told herself, to absolutely no avail—“or if I needed someone, she’s always seemed understanding. Not that I know her all that well, in a way. Not that I really have any idea, actually.” She finished her wine and waited for Hugh to put an end to this embarrassing ramble.

He did no such thing.

“She just seems like a really good person. And she’s so beautiful,” she said. “I mean, obviously.”

He nodded.

“Your friend,” said Rebecca. She wanted to leave the table and dive into the water. She wanted to go to her nice clean bed and read the copy of
Vogue
that she’d bought at JFK and already read cover to cover. “You were talking about your friend. How he was stuck.”

“Right,” said Hugh. He poured her the liquor from the mysterious bottle, and though she thought she might very well pass out if she had more than a sip, she didn’t stop him. “Let’s just say this fellow knew me well.”

She took a sip and nearly retched from the poisonous chalk-acid taste. “Don’t laugh,” she sputtered at his bemused expression. “I’m not much of a drinker,” she lied. “Besides, anyone’s a lightweight compared to you.”

“True,” he said. “Bottoms up.”

She took another sip. It tasted marginally better this time, like the way she imagined moonshine would taste. And with only two sips, she felt her body simultaneously spring to life and revolt, much like how she felt when she dreamed about sex but woke with an intense need to pee. “Who coined the phrase
moonshine
?” she heard herself ask.

“No idea. How about white lightning?” He shrugged. “Or kill me quick.”

“Sorry?”

“Kill me quick.
Kumi Kumi
. That’s what they call it in Kenya.”

“Oh,” she said, “I like that. Cuts right to the chase.” She sipped some more. “So how,” she asked, “how did he—the adventurer friend—how did he know you well?”

“Oh, I guess he knew I’m always up for going farther and farther away.”

“Farther away from …”

He took a slow swallow. “There’s always another level of isolation.” He wasn’t smiling.

“Isolation.”

“Another spot.” His eyes were solid, not glittery, not dull. “Another place.”

“In the world? Or in your mind?”

Hugh shook his head. “I’m not talking about my goddamn psyche.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Four million people live directly on the lake. Eleven million live farther inland. And this is one of the only towns even accessible to the interior at all. If anyone needs to get out of here for real medical care—if anyone has the wherewithal to do so—there’s one ship.”

“A ship?”

“She was built in Germany and used here to control the lake during the First World War, before being scuttled by the Germans. Years later, the British Royal Navy salvaged her. And
now …
she’s a ferry,” he said, shaking his head with a certain incredulity that made her suspect his mind had ventured further than this history lesson.

“Does she have a name?” Rebecca asked.

“Who?” he asked, looking oddly defensive.

“The ship,” she said. “The one you were just telling me about.”

“I’m sorry,” he acknowledged. “I’m distracted.”

Here was the same man who’d looked at her madly while he was in
pain and who, during a brief private moment in an Anguillan doctor’s clinic, told her that she was an angel. She felt the alcohol rush through her now with so much sensation she thought she might get up from her chair and just sit in his lap. Just fold around him. As if, in doing so, she might flood him with the same feeling. To rid herself of it. Get it out. Get it done.

Instead, she took another sip. “You’re distracted by …”

“Listen,” he said. His wild brows were furrowed. His elbows were on the table.

“Hugh?”

“Helen left me.”

“What?” She thought, for one crazed moment, that he must be lying, that he would mine her sympathies at any cost. And then she thought,
No, she’s actually left him
. She could see it in his eyes. But how was that even possible? It was possible. And he was telling her this why? Why? Because he wanted her to know that he was free.

Shut it down
, she thought.
Get ahold of yourself and—Forget about your father, but for Vivi. For Vivi, just shut it down
.

“I—it’s been coming.”

“What do you mean,
it’s been coming
? Vivi didn’t even say anything.”

“That’s because—” He shook his head. “That’s because Vivi doesn’t know.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She was reeling—both with shock and a sheepish streak of utter, selfish delight.

He shook his head. “We’re going to tell her. We’ll find the right time. I’m afraid I just had to tell you. I’m … I’m not doing all that well.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Well, that makes sense. That you wouldn’t be, I mean.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” she said, relaxing somewhat. She had the first stirrings of sadness for Vivi, for whom—maybe now especially—this news would be devastating. She might have known more than she ever let on about her
parents’ discontentment, but there was no way she’d be prepared for this. “No, I’m glad you did.”

She was suddenly desperate to find out if he was telling her this news—at least in part—as a way to ignite what had been lying dormant between them for all these years. She wanted to search his face for clues, but she was too cowardly for that. And so, for lack of a better alternative, she looked up at the stars. She imagined all the humans throughout time in socially uncomfortable situations who’d done the same thing with those same constellations. She could imagine the stars whispering: some disdainful, some amused.
Mortals
, they’d say, pointedly throwing off a bit more light.

“Let’s not talk about it further,” he was saying.

“Okay,” she agreed.

“And, look,” he said, brightening, “this is a valuable trip you’ve taken.” She couldn’t help but notice that his upbeat turn was entirely unconvincing. “I’m glad you’ve come,” he continued. “When I was young, it was considered shocking that I went off to Africa in the first place, forget about not coming back. But I was a dilettante—I can say that now—and I didn’t start with any real ambition. And it’s not like my absence was any sacrifice for the American workforce, that’s for certain. Not like your father—he always knew what he was doing, and he always knew how to get what he wanted.”

“Yes, well, we both know how that turned out. I would imagine that even you saw the
Times
article.”

In the absence of Hugh’s response, there was only the slightest breeze.

She continued: “He’s in jail, you know. Jail. For corruption—years of it. You do know he’s in jail, right?”

Hugh looked out at the water and drank. She noticed that his eyes closed slightly as he did so.

“Rebecca?” He leaned forward at last. “Do me a favor and don’t knock your dad.”

“Okay,” she said, taken by surprise.

“And don’t count him out. Not yet.”

“Fine,” she said. Her face was burning; her head was spinning. How could Hugh Shipley be the one to suggest that she was being too harsh?

“Rebecca?”

“I said fine. I hear you.”

Omar arrived once again, set down two small plates. “Ginger cake,” he announced.

“Delightful.” Hugh smiled.

“Thank you,” said Rebecca.

They each took a bite.

“This is delicious, isn’t it?” asked Hugh.

“Completely,” said Rebecca.

She looked up at the thatched roof, out at the still black water. For that moment it was hard not to feel as if she and Hugh were simply away on vacation together a couple of years from now. She let herself imagine that, after the Shipleys’ quick and painless divorce, Helen was elsewhere, ecstatic with a second husband. She let herself envision that Vivi, who had it all now—baby, career, Brian—stood behind all of her years of insistence on romance and gracefully accepted the fact that her best friend and her father were in love. In this fantasy, Rebecca realized, her father had to be dead. He was dead and she was guilty and grieving. That was why, she realized—as if any part of this fantasy had any foothold in reality—she and Hugh were on a lakeside vacation: He was helping her through her grief.