17   When I woke up, the only corner of my mind that felt good was the one that had produced my decision to go to Hawaii for a week. The rest of my mind was dominated by prickly memories of the way I had botched my date, and probably any hopes for a relationship, with Chris. A hike would do me good, I decided. The forecast was for pleasantly warm weather in Marin. And it would be fun to get more details from Rose, perhaps even details of her extra night in Vancouver. Rose, of all people, was not one to withhold such details. I was coming out of the shower, a little before eight o’clock, when the phone rang. “Hello,” I said in an uncertain voice, strangely thinking that it might be Chris while knowing full well that it was not. “Hi, Gary, it’s Andy. I’m in Lafayette, at the airport, all checked in, so I thought I’d call you.” “Hi, Andy. Libby told me that you might call.” “I guess you know that I’ll be seeing her in… uh… about seven hours.” “Yes, I know. I’m glad for you. And I’m glad you called. I’ve got something important to tell you.” “What is it?” “Andy, I know about Vicky.” There was a long silence. “You do? How do you know?” “I’ve got a very smart investigator working for me. She found out about her from a friend of yours.” “Who? I never told anybody.” “With this friend you didn’t have to.” “Who is it?” “Thomas Muphongo.” Another long silence. “Thomas? Did your investigator go to Windhoek?” “She didn’t have to. Thomas is in Vancouver. He’s been there for two years, and he’s been trying to locate you.” “That’s incredible. But… but what do you know about Vicky?” “That she died last December, and that you learned about it last January. Which meant that, assuming that you were married to her, you would have been free to register as domestic partners with Peter. But you chose the marriage route.” “It wasn’t really a choice, Gary. Peter was a leader of the community, and he had to set an example. He may have been dying, but he knew what he was doing.” “Did he know about Vicky?” “Yes. He was the only one. And he thought that I’d done the right thing.” “What do you mean?” “That I married Vicky at the mission. They wouldn’t have protected her otherwise. The native people there, even the priests and nuns, may be Catholics, but they’re still Ovambo, and they abide by the tribal law. They would have given her back to her family, and she would have been killed. That girl was a saint, Gary. She did everything to help the poor sick people. In the end she did sacrifice her life for them, but at least she wasn’t murdered. That’s why I married her. To protect her.” “She wasn’t your girlfriend?” “Gary! We were like brother and sister! From the moment we met, I was her white brother, and she was my black sister. The nuns at the mission knew that. When they wrote me that she died, they said your sister Victoria.” I decided to postpone correcting him. “Did Thomas know that?” I asked. “Thomas had mixed feelings about Vicky. I think he was still in love with her. So I don’t know what he knew or didn’t know.” “You two have plenty to talk about.” “Do we ever… So what’s he doing in Vancouver?” “A residency.” “My God! Thomas has been in North America for two years!” “He’s been very, very busy. If you want to see him you’ll probably have to go up there.” “Sure, sure, but I’m just getting back to San Francisco, and I’ve got lots of catching up to do. I’m going to see Libby! I’m feeling nervous like a kid on a first date. She must be thirty-two. Is she still spectacular-looking? Stupid question. Of course she is. I’ve been around too many people with AIDS.” “Speaking of people with AIDS, let’s get back to Vicky. Did you notice that I said assuming that you were married to her?” “I guess you did, but I didn’t make anything of it. Why?” “Well, first of all, when the nuns wrote you about sister Victoria, they didn’t mean your sister Victoria, but Sister Victoria, as in a nun.” “What? She was a nun? What about our marriage?” “It was annulled.” Andy was silent for a long time. “You’re kidding,” he finally said in a low voice. “You’ve been a single man all these years, Andy.” Another silence. “Do you know on what grounds they annulled it?” “Because they thought that you weren’t really Catholic.” “What?” “Are you?” “I think so. My mother’s Catholic.” “I don’t think it’s something you inherit from your mother, the way being Jewish is. Were you baptized?” “I don’t know. Probably. I always wrote I was Catholic on the census.” “The census doesn’t ask about religion.” “Well, whenever they do ask about religion, I always write Catholic.” “Then the good people at the mission must have thought it convenient to decide that you had lied, or that you weren’t Catholic enough. Your marriage was of no use to them, and Vicky’s nunnage, or whatever you call it, was. Maybe that’s why they never informed you, just in case you might shoot back with a baptismal certificate or something.” “I wouldn’t have, not that I even have one. I would have accepted the annulment gladly.” “Your life would’ve been different.” “Probably. Or maybe not. Who knows? I’m going to see Libby this afternoon! And it’s my boarding time. Bye!” “Bon voyage!” “Merci. Au revoir!” His French had a Cajun accent. I wondered, after hanging up, if his Catholic mother, the former Margaret Anderson of Lake Charles, was of Cajun origin, despite her non-French family name. I also wondered if Andy’s excitement over seeing Libby was at least in part due to her being a millionaire. Probably not, I thought. Andy, contrary to my image of him before these events, seemed altogether guileless. It was now five past eight. I sat down to eat my breakfast and turned on the kitchen radio in time to hear the music that introduces the Week in Review segment, followed by the oddly feminine voice of Michael Chertoff describing the measures that he, as Secretary of Homeland Security, was taking with respect to Hurricane Katrina. After a summary by Scott Simon, Daniel Schorr talked about the failures of Michael Brown as FEMA director, the partisan divisions in Congress, and the racial and economic divisions in society. “The impoverished,” Schorr said, “were not able to get out of harm’s way as easily as those who were not impoverished.” Except those under Andy Stone’s tutelage, I thought. There was talk about the next Supreme Court justice to be nominated and about the oil-for-food scandal. There were a few scattered references to the President, but the name of George W. Bush was never uttered. Thank heaven, or NPR, for small favors, I thought. I brushed, flossed, trimmed my beard and got into my car. I did not want to hear any more news, and put Afro-Latin Party into the stereo. I never got around to playing it for Chris. At the parking lot Rose seemed to be lying in wait for me, and ran up to meet me while I was still parking. “Nice music,” she commented to me through the open window. “It’s called Afro-Latin Party,” I said. Rose laughed. “That’s great! Like Thomas Muphongo and me!” I kept the music going after I cut the engine. “I’ve got something for you,” she said, waving an envelope at me. “Your bill!” I said. “Not yet. You’ll get that in the mail, twentieth-century style. Open it.” Inside was a color photograph printed on ordinary copy paper, a headshot of a young black woman with a nunnish headdress of some sort and rosary beads over a white tunic, with lush foliage in the background. “A picture of Venus Williams!” I said, for the resemblance was extraordinary. “It’s Sister Victoria Mawakena, OSB. But you’re right, she does look like Venus dressed up as a nun.” “It’s uncanny. When I imagined Vicky, I pictured her looking like Venus Williams.” “The other sisters whose pictures are online are more plump-looking. Maybe Vicky was too, before she got sick.” “Thank you, Rose,” I said after I finally turned off the stereo and got out of the car. I gave Rose a big hug. “You should give me more fun jobs like this,” she said as we started walking toward the hiking group. “Absolutely. The next time I get a mysterious heiress with an adventurous ex-boyfriend, the job is yours.” When we started on the trail, I asked the whole group whether anyone had done any hiking on the Big Island of Hawaii. Four people answered affirmatively, each one shouting out a different location. “Ainapo!” “Ala Kahakai!” “Muliwai!” “Humuula!” “Stop with all that Hawaiian cursing!” someone else finally said, and the group broke into laughter. As we walked along the trail the group split into twosomes, threesomes and foursomes that would dissolve and reform like globs in a liquid suspension. After an hour or so I found myself in a renewed twosome with Rose. “So,” I began, “did you and Thomas have an Afro-Latin party?” Rose smiled and said nothing, but her eyes shone in the affirmative. At length she spoke. “He’s gorgeous. I’ve never met Andy Stone but I’ve seen his pictures, so imagine a black version of him. The two of them together must have made quite a pair.” An odd thought suddenly struck me. “Do you think that the two of them…” I didn’t need to finish the question, which was answered once more by Rose’s expression. “It’s only right,” she said, “that gorgeous guys like them shouldn’t limit themselves to just one side of the street. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise,” she concluded with a laugh. “What about gorgeous women like Libby?” “I haven’t met her either, but I don’t feel the same way about women. They don’t interest me. If I were gay, maybe I would.” “I thought you were talking about the principle, the fairness of it all.” Rose laughed again. “You know how kids say that isn’t fair? All they say is they’re not getting what they want. That’s me. Like I told you, third grade.” “That’s interesting. I taught my son that only an objective third party can say whether or not something is fair.” “Well, if I’d had a dad like you, I might be a better person.” “You’re a good person, Rose. I appreciate you.” I put my arm around her, she reciprocated, and we hiked for a good stretch with our arms around each other, until the subgroups reformed again. As the hike was ending I was next to Rose again. Out of nowhere another idea came into my head. “Rose, would you like to see a movie with me?” “Which one?” “It’s called The Constant Gardener. It takes place in Africa, and it has to do with testing an AIDS drug. Relevant, isn’t it?” “Yes. I’ve noticed it. Yeah, sure. When?” “Tonight?” “Tonight I’m busy. Tomorrow?” “Sure. I’ll call you later to confirm.” “Okay.”   I got home with the pleasant feeling of having no commitments for the next twenty-four hours or so. The hike had done much to dissipate the dejection I had felt in the morning after realizing what an idiot I had been with Chris. Live and learn, I said to myself. All my life I have been a book-learner. I learn best when the material to be learned is written or printed on paper. And if I was to learn any lessons from what I was now going through, what I had been going through since the moment that Libby Schlemmer walked into my office, then it behooved me to have it in written form. I resolved to make summary notes of everything, of any import, that had happened to me in the three and a half weeks, soon to be a month, since Peter Hart’s death. And I needed to start soon, while the memory was fresh. “If not now, when?” an ancient rabbi has been quoted as saying. And so I got a yellow pad from my study, put a CD of Vivaldi concertos on the stereo and sat down on the sofa with the pad on my lap and a felt-tip pen my hand. I made the first entry: Tue. Aug. 16 Peter Hart dies. At that moment my phone rang. “Gary? It’s Libby.” She sounded breathless. “I’m calling you from Andy’s cell, because I never got your home phone number!” I heard mingled male and female laughter. “As you might guess, I’m with Andy. Thanks so much for everything you’ve done for me, but especially for helping Andy and me get back together.” “Thank you for putting your trust in me,” I said. She did not reply directly. “Listen, would you like to have dinner with us tomorrow?” “That would be great,” I said. “Okay. We’ll call you later with the details. Is vegetarian okay with you?” “Sure.” “Bye!” I immediately called Rose. She picked up. “Hi, Gary,” she said. “Hi, Rose. About that movie tomorrow: would a matinee be okay?” “Perfect. In fact I was going to suggest it. I have something to do later.” “So do I, it turns out.” “Okay, I’ll pick you up at…” She paused briefly while, in all likelihood, scanning the online movie listings. “… At two. The show is at two-thirty.” “Fine. ¡Hasta mañana!” I had never spoken Spanish to Rose before. Did it have anything to do with Chris? “¡Hasta mañana!” she said, laughed and hung up. I now felt even more relaxed. I wrote, or scribbled as the case may be, all evening, breaking only for a dinner of pizza from the freezer. By the time I was too sleepy to write I had made it to the end of August, summarizing Libby’s account of her relationship with Andy and Rose’s first report on him. It was the eve of the fourth anniversary of 9/11, and I dreaded what the television news might bring. I turned off the music and went to bed. In the morning I did more of the same, and managed to finish the account of the press conference. I appended the copy of Libby’s statement that she had given me, and reconstructed the questions and answers as best I could. What was still left to summarize was Rose’s first report on Vicky. The painful memory of my exchanges with Chris was too vivid to need writing down.   The most immediate impression that The Constant Gardener struck me with was the connection between Tessa, the female protagonist, and Libby Schlemmer and Andy Stone. On the one hand the work that she did, helping poor sick Africans and uncovering the unethical practices of drug companies, resembled Andy’s. On the other hand the actress who portrayed her, Rachel Weisz, looked remarkably – at least in the scenes where she was not pregnant – like Libby, perhaps not in feature-by-feature detail – they were not likely to be mistaken for each other – but in overall type: the tall, classically beautiful brunette with a classically perfect, somewhat athletic body, long wavy dark-brown hair and incongruously light-colored eyes – Rachel Weisz’s hazel, Libby Schlemmer’s blue. I was mulling this over while waiting in the theater lobby for Rose to come back from the restroom. When we began to walk to her car – she had insisted on picking me up, since she had to go somewhere else afterwards – I said to her, “Do you remember how yesterday, when I said something to you about gorgeous women like Libby, you said you hadn’t met her? Well, she looks like Rachel Weisz, so now I can ask you: what about gorgeous women like Rachel Weisz?” “What about them?” “Well, you said something about gorgeous guys, that it wouldn’t be fair for them to…” “Oh, that. Well, like I said, I don’t have feelings like that about women.” I thought that the lady did, perhaps, protest too much, trumpeting her heterosexuality in the face of people’s assumptions to the contrary. But I said nothing about it. “You know, Gary,” Rose suddenly said, “you have a strange way of talking to women. And it’s not just with me. I’ve overheard you talking to other women on hikes.” “How is it strange?” “Well, as an example, women don’t like to hear about other women being called gorgeous. If she’s your wife or girlfriend and she already knows that you find her attractive then it may be okay, though you can never be too sure. All women are insecure about their looks.” “But you talked to me about gorgeous guys!” We got to Rose’s car, and she let me in. Once she was in the driver’s seat, she continued. “With guys it’s different.” She turned on the engine and began to move out of the parking space. “Guys compete with one another over their masculinity in various ways, but not their looks. On the contrary: they usually try to prove how masculine they are without being good-looking. Pretty boy is an insult, but pretty girl is a compliment, no matter who says it. Don’t you know that?” “I suppose.” “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Gary. I like you, and I like being buddies with you. But on the basis of what I’ve observed, you don’t know how to talk to women. You talk to them the same way as to men.” “I don’t talk down to women, if that’s what you mean.” “That’s nice, but it’s not what I mean. It just needs to be… different.” “Should I ask Jerry for pointers?” “It wouldn’t be a bad place to start,” Rose said with a laugh, “though that question is an example of what I’m talking about.” I now felt thoroughly confused, embarrassed and defensive. Memories of Friday evening’s fiasco with Chris began to bubble up, and I did my best to keep them down. “You should hear how Jerry talks about women,” I said. “I can imagine. It’s got nothing to do with it. I mean, how he talks about women to other guys has nothing to do with how he talks to women.” “I see.” I was silent for a while. “Thank you, Rose. I appreciate what you’ve just told me. You’re a good friend.” “I told you only because I know we’re friends. I hope it helps you.” “More than you can imagine,” I said, thinking about Chris once more. “Don’t ever underestimate my imagination,” Rose said with a laugh. Did Rose, with her uncanny detective’s skill, deduce that I had just been a victim of my verbal ineptitude? Were I to reconstruct my dialogue with Chris, would she help me analyze what went wrong? Perhaps, I thought as we were nearing my house, silently for the moment. But, Rose or no Rose, I now felt it important to piece together, utterance by utterance, what had gone on between Chris and me, going back to Wednesday’s phone call confirming the date. I would do it that very afternoon. Perhaps the mere act of writing it down would help me understand my failure. “By the way,” I said as she parked in my driveway, “I won’t be at next Saturday’s hike.” “I figured,” she said. “I heard you asking about hiking in Hawaii.” “You’re a genius, as someone may have told you.” I was opening the passenger door and beginning to get out of the car. “I know.” “And you’re beautiful.” I leaned inside to give her a friendly kiss. “Now you’re talking,” she said. On my answering machine at home there was a message from Andy. “Listen, Gary, there’s this restaurant at Judah and Forty-Sixth called Joubert’s. It’s South African, which is the closest thing to Namibian. We’re expecting you there at seven. Call me or Libby if there’s a problem.” It was now five-fifteen. I had an hour and a half until I would go out again. I put on some more baroque music and began to put on paper, using a private shorthand, what I remembered of my call to Chris on Wednesday and the first phase of Friday’s date. Around six o’clock I started feeling stomach cramps, slight at first, but soon severe enough for me to know that it I was about to experience a bout of diarrhea. I know my body well enough that I could be sure that it was self-limiting, and in all likelihood psychosomatic, but going out for dinner was out of the question. I called Andy. “Hi, Gary. Is there a problem?” “I’m afraid so.” And I told him. “I’m sorry, Gary. To an old Africa hand like me it doesn’t sound like much, but I know very well how it feels. Another time, then!” “Yes. Soon!” I ate some rice, washed down by weak tea, and by nine o’clock I was feeling fine. I had a little more food and by ten-thirty I had written down everything I remembered of my date with Chris and, for good measure, of that afternoon’s conversation with Rose. I went to bed feeling like a new man.