Everfair (26 page)

“Yes.” The Poet bent over Lisette's other ear. “Where can we meet? Ch
é
rie—how soon?”

*   *   *

Cool and blue, the night fell swiftly. A smudge of a moon hung low over the Ulindi River. Lisette set the lamp carefully atop her trunk and turned it low.

Europeans told their secrets inside locked rooms. Lisette had learned other ways, here and in her journeying. She saw their merits: if one had a clear view of the surroundings and an evident absence of spies, it would seem one might say anything.

But the lips could be read. Lisette was content to meet Daisy inside, in her own quarters, privately. As of old. As she had often dreamt of doing again.

A steady, even knock on her door. “Enter,” she called.

Daisy had changed out of her work costume into a slightly more conventional garment: a gown like a loose duster that covered her knees but ended well above her ankles. Which were still trim and neat.

The room's one chair was empty. Daisy took it, and Lisette sat on her bed. The windows were opened, but their shades down, their curtains closed.

In the lamp's honeyed light Daisy regarded her expectantly.

How to start? Not, Lisette felt sure, with personal matters: not the too-insistent memories evoked by Everfair's sights and sounds and scents; not the reasons Daisy had stipulated originally for keeping Lisette away from the country they had helped to found—which of course the Poet would immediately have regretted stipulating, but never mind that now … In letters shared with her, one hoped, by Jackie, Lisette had chronicled the labors her travels as actress and author had disguised: the training at the hands of anonymous operatives around the globe; the clandestine calls on Russian and Italian diplomats; the cipher she and Fwendi had devised, based on the girl's half-forgotten native tongue.

Now she described how she'd been able to continue gleaning intelligence since Jackie's death last year, thanks to the practice afforded by his many illnesses. He had never been really well after the assassination attempt in Alexandria, though they'd only guessed as to the cause of those illnesses, that death.

“So. He often mentioned having seen you when we were together. He would always say you were well.” Daisy's keen eyes were turned away. Lisette couldn't tell whether they sorrowed. Would that have helped, though? She'd only want to know who they sorrowed for.

The rest of her obligations, she reminded herself. Take care of those, and she would be at liberty … “The French, British, and Russians offer us the lands between Kigoma, Kakonko, and Uvira, an approximate triangle.”

“German territory, isn't it? Urundi?” As Lisette had expected, Daisy took her position as the Mote's Poet seriously. In that capacity, she must hold in her awareness all Everfair's concerns, then present the Mote with her peculiar view of them.

“It is German,” Lisette affirmed. “And they would establish embassies, accord us more complete diplomatic recognition.”

Daisy nodded. “But what do they ask for all that?”

Lisette heaved a sigh. “Much.” She enumerated each item on her fingers. “They would like access to our minerals, and especially the Bah-Sangah earths, which they correctly believe are the pitchblends needed for their manufacture of luminescent paints. They want to call upon our expertise with aircanoes, and the manufacture of shonguns. They ask also for our rubber.”

“But we have no rubber! Or hardly any we can spare. All right. What else?”

“A staging area for the campaign against the Cameroons. A blind eye turned toward breaching the neutrality principles of the Berlin Conference in any and all African colonies.” She switched hands. “Our medicines—”

A snort of disbelief. “They'll have difficulty abiding by the proper administration protocols.” Daisy assumed an expression of annoyed superiority like that to be found on the faces of most Europeans confronted by traditional African practices. “‘A load of superstitious nonsense!' they will call our instructions. I know the attitude they'll take; I doubt they'll get any good out of
that
proviso. You haven't mentioned—”

“Soldiers. Yes. And mechanics. And bearers.”

Daisy gasped. “No! We
could
not.”

“As you say.”

“The blacks—these politicians want to make slaves of them, to repeat Leopold's cruelties anew, to— No.”

Slaves of “them,”
thought Lisette.
Not of “us.” Yet, not of “you,” either. “Them.”
But she said nothing.

Daisy was silent too, though only for a bit. Then: “You met also with the Germans?”

Lisette nodded. “Yes. They also would like Everfair to commit to fight upon their side. We could declare ourselves neutral, outwardly, and in return for supplies and aid in transportation we would receive”—she breathed a soft huff of laughter—“the same territory as we would from the Entente.”

Daisy laughed too. “Well, neither has a legitimate claim, though I suppose theirs is more generally accepted.”

“And in exchange the Germans require the same materials and expertise as do the French and their Entente.”

Lisette leaned forward to impart the information Daisy would desire most. “Interestingly, the governor of Zanzibar is for real peace. At least upon this continent—he has no influence on European events. What his Fatherland proposes he agrees to, for his domain and ours as well. Sans treaty violations and soldiers.”

Daisy rose to her feet. “Well, then, do we truly need to discuss how I ought to present these offers? Peace or war? Freedom or bondage? Promises broken or promises kept? Our answer is obvious.” She lifted a hand to rake her curls; catching her fingers on the ribbon restraining them, she tugged at it impatiently.

Almost against her will Lisette rose also and reached to help her. The knot persisted. “Sit,” she told Daisy, as if the other woman were a child or a dog, and found herself dragged back down onto the bed in arms irresistible, smelling as before of lime and sweet herbs.

“Ch
é
rie, ch
é
rie, do you want me again—still—”

Why else had she come so far? With her teeth Lisette renewed her attack upon the stupid ribbon and at last it loosened and dropped to the counterpane. The sandals were off in a trice, and Daisy's gown was just as easy to remove. Underneath it, time had treated Daisy's body kindly—kindlier even than the drying sun and wind had treated her tender face.

Lisette's turn. All her faults would be visible—how well she knew them, and how professionally she took them into account. But what use caution here and now? She stripped—tossed her blouse at the abandoned chair, snaked out of her skirt where she lay, shoving it aside to the floor. Lifting her chemise—

“No. Stop. Let me—please?”

She felt her arms drift to her sides. With a mother's solicitude Daisy divested Lisette of the last of her defenses: stockings and slippers, silk and leather and lace. And then skin touched skin: no hindrance. Only unsparing pleasure and unremitting happiness.

*   *   *

Rattling metal woke her. The bed was crowded—ah, but with Daisy, not Rima. Lisette settled closer to Daisy's back—but that noise—again! Louder—she turned her head toward the source.

The door of her room's handle shook. “Lisette?” Rima's urgent voice. “Lisette! You oughta open this—”

Behind her the bed dipped and rustled as Daisy shifted. Rolling to lie flat, she met Lisette's eyes with a frown barely discernible in the room's dimness.

Bam! The door shook in its frame. “Lisette! Lemme in! Fwendi ain't been to our room at all last night and I—”

Furious, Lisette jumped to the floor, but Daisy sat up, reaching to restrain her. “Wait—” She donned her gown and Lisette saw her wisdom. She called to Rima, who was still haranguing her from outside, and assumed her own peignoir before turning the suddenly subdued door's handle.

“Awww…” Rima hovered in the entranceway. “I apologize—I didn't know y'all was sleepin together.”

Of course she had. “Nonsense. But what's this about Fwendi? What time is it?” Lisette spared a glance for the shades, which showed light around their edges. Morning.

“It's around six-thirty, seven.”

Up again so early. Mother of god. “And you saw her when? Have you informed the Lincolns?” She gestured for Rima to come in. The passageway was empty. She closed the door and once more locked it.

They had all supped together—Lisette could not recall on what, but that made no difference. At the appointed hour she had excused herself from the verandah and gone to her room, to be joined by Daisy after a suitable interval.

“It was my night for a bath,” said Rima. “So I left em together down here and didn't think nothin of havin a couple hours to myself up there, since she woulda waited for me to be finished fore she went to wash herself. And then I come over all relaxed and I lain down on the blankets and next you know, here I am.”

Blessedly, the Lincolns had not yet been told. There was a simple answer to the mystery.

But at Matty's door Lisette's discreet scratching elicited no response. She opened it. The room was empty, the bed undisturbed. She entered, and Rima followed her unsolicited. “So they's finally together?”

Ignoring her, Lisette looked for a note of explanation. The washstand bore only toiletry items. On a spindly-legged table was a stack of three books. Pegs supported a nightshirt and dressing gown, and a coat she couldn't remember Matty wearing. Not his favorite. A Gladstone bag sat behind the bed's head. Lisette didn't examine its contents; its presence alone argued that Matty had not departed. The other belongings supported the bag's assertion.

The top book purported to be sermons on the virtues of national pride. The second related to chivalrous legends of the British Isles. The third had seemingly been bound blank. Drawings and sketches filled its pages.

“You would have appeared rather fetching in that little number,” said Daisy, peering over Lisette's shoulder. She had entered the room also. The “little number” in question was an abbreviated grass skirt wisping away mid-thigh, worn in this fanciful representation with a brief bodice—really, no more than a brassiere—made of orchids.

“It needed modification to render it practical for the stage,” she replied, shutting the covers. Matty's head was ever in the clouds … “What do you look at so intently, Rima?”

“Nothin but another a them aircanoes comin here every day.” The actress turned from the window, letting go of the curtain. Could Matty, that dreamer, could he possibly have schemed to depart undetected? Thus the display of a brush set, a razor—

Lisette paused only to clothe herself presentably before dashing across town once again to the mooring platform, Rima and Daisy in her train. To think that she had half-suspected Rima, the Lincolns even, of spying upon her—and not Matty.

Scrambling up the steps, she groaned at her idiocy. Matty need not even travel far to collapse the negotiations' secrecy. There was a wireless in Bukavu, only a hundred kilometers east. Though why hadn't he sent a message when they passed through on their way here?

The platform was deserted. All activity concentrated itself in the field's far end, on the warehouse's loading dock. Lisette hesitated, unsure what next to do. Daisy continued toward the workers—comrades of hers, perhaps.

The newly arrived aircanoe loomed overhead, a dark eminence. Not
Okondo,
but its sister vessel, she believed: the older and bulkier
Mbuza
. It hadn't yet been fitted with one of the new closed gondolas, but could still carry passengers and provide the possibility of escape.

“You wanna tell me what you think is goin on?” asked Rima.

Lisette had treated the girl unfairly—though was this sufficient reason to trust her now? “I'm sorry, but to do that is impossible. Affairs of state.”

She scanned the people carrying parcels into the warehouse and saw no sign of Matty from where she stood. She walked closer. Daisy spoke Zan-Dee with a man of lesser height than the others. Both gestured to several points around the warehouse, after which Daisy brought him to her, introducing him as Ekibondo. When Lisette questioned the man concerning the likelihood that the Scotchman had booked a flight with them, he kept smiling while managing to look worried. “We don't expect passengers, no,” he said, seeming to misunderstand her. “But it wouldn't be too much trouble to accommodate them—if they are ready immediately?”

“Thank you. We'll see—it may not be necessary.” Could this man be a foreign agent also? Would Lisette need an excuse to search the gondola for herself? But that would mean the whole crew was in on the deception.

The warehouse was built of bricks, tall to retain coolness, and painted in intricate designs. Lisette passed its open iron gates and entered a dark interior three times her height. Five-meter arches pierced its walls, admitting the morning's every breeze.

“Look for Matty here. And Fwendi,” she added, remembering Rima's original concern. Could he have made the girl his hostage? She sent Daisy to search above the loose-planked ceiling and split the ground floor with the American.

Grey bundles rested in numbered racks, redolent of chocolate. She passed baskets pungent with the odors of spices, of dagga and other herbs clamoring at one another over thinner, subtler aromas: tea and milled ores. She gazed up and down the branching aisles and saw no one, till she returned to where the women and men of
Mbuza
were unloading their cargo. They paused momentarily in their work, but she waved off their help.

In the opposite corner, she found Rima peering doubtfully into a cask of palm oil. “If either of them is in there, they are dead,” said Lisette, settling the cask's lid firmly in place.