A Change in Altitude (20 page)

“I will be here in the morning,” she said.

“And I am always here,” Juma said.

In the morning, Margaret spoke with Isaac, who told her that James was doing well and that he liked his new job, mainly because it came with a small house. James was thinking of bringing his family with him from Kitale, but the German couple, whose names Isaac didn’t know, weren’t certain they liked the idea. Isaac also knew James’s address—not by a street or a number but by the markers he had used to walk there himself from the bus stop. After giving Margaret the location of the stop, he explained that further directions involved a light that was broken, a garden of white roses, a Z in the road, and six houses beyond that. She wondered how she would find a broken light while in the car, but Isaac said she couldn’t miss it. The light was a tall lantern in which the glass had been shattered.

Margaret drove to Lavington, a suburb not dissimilar to Langata in that many expatriates had settled there, both in the past and more recently. Because Lavington was closer to Nairobi, the gates around the houses were more ubiquitous; taller and thicker as well. Margaret noted that in some cases, outer gates opened onto inner gates. Platoons of askaris manned these fortresses. The people inside could come and go with ease, but it felt as though an entire population was under siege. Did they lie awake listening for strange noises in the night?

Margaret found the tall streetlight Isaac spoke of with the shattered glass. She drove until she came upon the garden of white roses, after which the Z began. When she finished the sharp curves, she counted six houses. She arrived at the front gate and waited for the askari to question her.

“You are here to see the memsahib?”

“No,” she said. “I just wanted to say a few words to James, their cook. Do you know James? Does he work here?”

The askari’s demeanor changed. Asking for a servant was a different matter from asking for the mistress of the house. He stood, pondering the circumstances. It might have been the first time a white woman in a car had come calling for James.

“You must visit the memsahib first,” the askari decided. “To ask permission. James is her boy.”

For a moment, Margaret was confused. But in the next instant, she understood. In the askari’s eyes, James was the woman’s property.

Margaret took out a ten-shilling note. “I just need to speak to James,” she said. “There’s no need to bother the memsahib.”

Every askari understood the language of the ten-shilling note.

“I must wait for my replacement,” he said.

“I’ll guard the gates while you are gone. Simply lock them, and I’ll tell anyone who comes that you will be right back.”

The askari nodded, and Margaret hoped the mistress of the house would not be one of those looking for entry to her own home.

She was watching two dogs playing in the street and wondering if they were the
Mbwa Kali
of the warning signs at all of the gates—they looked pretty harmless to her—when there was a sudden knock at her window.

“James,” she said, getting out of the car.

“How are you, Miss Margaret?”

His face lit up with a broad smile. She wanted to hug the man, but the gesture would only have embarrassed him.

“I am fine,” she said. “We miss you, Patrick and I. How are you doing with your new employers?”

“They have a great many parties,” he said, miming the expression of
ooooff
. “Much work. But I have a small house, which makes me very glad.”

“And you are well?”

“Oh yes,” he said, dismissing the question. “Always well.”

“And how is Adhiambo?”

“Better,” he said. “Better.”

According to African manners, this pleasant banter could have gone on for fifteen minutes or even a half hour. But Margaret knew that James had been called from work and might be needed at any moment. Perhaps he, too, was afraid of seeing the mistress’s car.

“Well, it’s Adhiambo I’ve come to talk to you about.”

James misunderstood. “She is finding temporary jobs, but not a job with a family, which she must have. I go there every week to check on her door.”

Margaret smiled. “You’re a good friend.”

“Her brothers in Kericho, they are not so good. They come to her house that night, but not to find the men who did Adhiambo harm and punish them. Instead, they find her little cloth of coins under her bed and steal them.”

“Oh my God,” Margaret said.

“It is very bad luck to have such brothers,” James said, shaking his head.

“James, listen. That’s sort of why I’ve come. I know someone who wants to write a story for a newspaper about how hard it is for women—and men—to live in a place like she does.”

“A slum,” James said.

“Well, yes. The newspaper will pay five hundred shillings just to talk to her.”

James tilted his head, the money registering. “She is using her own name?” he asked, already thinking of reprisals.

“I’m not sure about that,” Margaret said. “But I will ask if she can have another name, just for the purpose of the story. But she has to tell the truth. You would have to impress that upon her.”

“Oh yes. Adhiambo is always telling the truth.”

“And the reporter is Asian,” Margaret said. “I would take the photographs. The reporter is a very nice man. I can vouch for him.”

James pursed his lips. He was silent for a long time. Margaret wondered if either “Asian” or “photographs” would be a deal breaker.

“So will you talk to her?” she asked finally.

“I will talk to her tonight.” He paused. “How will I give you the answer?”

“I have a telephone,” she began, but James shook his head. She thought a minute. “I’ll be right here, tomorrow,” Margaret said. “At this same time. You can just run out and tell me. I’ll need a date and time for the interview and some directions.” Margaret knew she wouldn’t be able to find Adhiambo’s shack on her own.

“No, is not good you wait here.” James pointed back down the street where the Z had ended. “You are seeing that tall house?”

Margaret nodded.

“Wait there. The people, they are away now. Do not be early.”

Margaret laughed. “I doubt anyone has ever said that to me before.”

“I must go,” he said. “I am hoping for the luck.”

“James,” Margaret said as he began to run up the long driveway, “what is your last name?”

He broke into a broad smile. “Ogollo,” he called.

Margaret got into the Peugeot and turned the car around. She would have to persuade Rafiq not to use Adhiambo’s real name and to get the full five hundred shillings.

The next day, Margaret pulled up to the tall house at the appointed time. James must have been watching from his gates because he walked briskly in her direction. She rolled down the window. James had on a hand-knit sweater with short sleeves and a pair of cotton pants. His shoes were burnished to a high gloss.

“I am free in the morning,” he said. “I will take you there. You must be here at nine o’clock.”

“Thank you, James.” Margaret shook his hand through the window.

“I must be telling you. If she is using her real name or if you do not have the shillings, she will not speak to you.”

“Everything you ask will be taken care of,” Margaret said, promising herself that she would supply the shillings if Rafiq couldn’t wrest them from the
Tribune
. She had set up expectations, and she would have to fulfill them.

At the very least, she was looking forward to seeing Adhiambo again.

“Do you know where Rafiq is?” she asked Lily at the front desk of the
Tribune
. Lily missed nothing and narrowed her eyes at Margaret. “I need to find him for a story,” Margaret explained.

“Sure, sure,” Lily said. She consulted a log-in sheet. “He was here, but he has left to interview the old mzee Mr. Kamante, the man who was once a servant to Karen Blixen. They are meeting… at the café next to the theater.”

“Kamante, the man who cooked for Karen Blixen? The boy with the wound in his leg?”

Lily chuckled. “Yes, the little boy.”

“How long ago did Rafiq leave?”

Lily consulted her watch. “I am thinking… mmmm… twelve minutes.”

Margaret knew where the theater was because Patrick, she, and their friends had gone there to see
Sleuth.
She ran down the stairs and sprinted to her car. Who knew where Rafiq might go after the interview?

Margaret could have run to the theater from the
Tribune,
but the car had the advantage of perhaps three minutes. She entered the small Indian café. As she did, Rafiq looked up at Margaret with surprise. On the table between him and the mzee was a tea tray and its accoutrements. She walked directly to the table.

“Hello, Rafiq,” she said. “I’m very sorry to bother you.”

He stood. The old man did not. “Margaret, this is Kamante, a respected and famous fellow.”

Margaret and the old man shook hands. “I have read about you,” she said. “I am honored to meet you.” Margaret could hardly believe she was with the man who was once the slight, limping Kikuyu boy of
Out of Africa.
He was now heavier and white-haired. He wore an orange V-neck and a short-sleeved cotton shirt.

She turned to Rafiq. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you. I’m sorry. I can wait and come back.”

“This interview may last awhile. Excuse us,” he said to Kamante. “This won’t take a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Rafiq and Margaret walked as far as the door. “I have someone who has gotten in touch with the woman we mentioned,” Margaret began. “In fact, we have an appointment to speak to her. Tomorrow morning at nine we’ll meet my friend in Lavington, and he’ll take us to her. Rafiq, I went ahead and promised the woman friend that she could use a false name. She is, quite understandably, afraid of reprisals. And you must have five hundred shillings with you.”

Rafiq whistled. “That’s a tall order. The paper doesn’t like using pseudonyms. But sometimes it’s necessary. It’s just a question as to what Solomon will say, but I’ll do my best. Let me phone you when I have the answer.” He took a notebook and a pen from his pocket. Margaret gave him her number in Karen.

“I don’t want to keep you from your interview. Just let me know.”

“I will,” he said. “Thank you. This is a big thing you have done for me.”

“For me, too,” she replied.

When she slid into the passenger seat of the Peugeot, she realized she hadn’t thought about Patrick the entire morning.

That evening, when the phone rang, Margaret thought it would be Patrick. He called every other day. The domestic routine had changed a bit since Patrick had left. When Margaret ate alone, she never asked Moses for a three-course meal. At best, she would have a salad, or salad and soup, or just guacamole with celery sticks. Moses, who believed a woman should keep a few extra pounds on her, worried over her diet and tried to tempt her (successfully) with pastries he’d made for breakfast and for tea.

But it wasn’t Patrick on the other end of the line.

“I’ve got the anonymity and the five hundred,” Rafiq said. “It wasn’t easy. I am to try to continue on with the interviews and use accurate names with those. So you are not to make that offer to anyone else.”

Margaret felt vaguely chastised, but before she could work up a head of steam, Rafiq said immediately, “We were both amazed at how quickly you managed to arrange this. Solomon said I should hire you as an assistant, until I pointed out he would lose you as a photographer. So I am set for tomorrow.”

There was nothing more to be said, but Margaret could sense that Rafiq didn’t want to hang up. Nor did she.

“How is your piece on education going?” she asked.

“It’s coming along. I was hoping to be able to add a slightly different angle after tomorrow. I want to see if those children get any kind of education at all.”

“This might be kind of rough. When I went to Adhiambo’s house, if you can call it that, I was pretty shaken.”

“That’s her name?”

“Yes.”

“Believe me, I’ve seen plenty of rough.”

The telephone had been placed on a high pedestal table in the hallway with no seating within the wire’s radius. Margaret thought the reason must have been to keep conversations short and therefore less expensive. She was longing to sit down.

“And your husband?” Rafiq asked. “He is well?”

“He’s traveling.”

“Yes, you said.”

“I thought it might be he when I answered the phone.”

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”

“You’re not disappointing me at all. If it had been Patrick, he would have told me about the doctors he’d met or the patients in the clinics, all the while trying not to mention the glorious beach outside his window and the tiki bar at the pool beneath his room.”

“You are jealous,” Rafiq said.

“A little. Maybe. Not really. To be jealous would mean that I didn’t like my job, and that wouldn’t be accurate. I could use a vacation, though.”

“So soon?”

“I’ve been in the country nine months. And some of those months have been a strain.” Margaret didn’t elaborate.

At the other end of the line, Rafiq was quiet.

“So I should go,” she said.

“Yes, absolutely. Who is driving?”

“I think I should,” she said. “James will feel more familiar in my car, and I’m pretty sure your Citroën wouldn’t be that comfortable.”

He laughed. “So you will collect me? No, I will meet you in front of the
Tribune
office.”

“Okay,” she said.

Rafiq and Margaret discussed the time she should pick him up if they were to make it to James’s street by nine.

“Well, good night,” Rafiq said.

“See you tomorrow,” Margaret said.

After Margaret hung up, she hadn’t walked a dozen steps before the phone rang again.

“Who were you talking to?” Patrick asked at once.

James walked in front of Margaret, Rafiq behind. Margaret had noticed, when she picked Rafiq up, that he had on a suit. Though he had been deep in conversation with James as they drove, he grew silent as they stepped out of the car. He took notes as they walked.

Margaret had put the camera in a straw basket such as a woman might take to market. She didn’t want to advertise her intent.