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 oclock, 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, its Andy. Im in Lafayette, at the airport, all checked in, so I thought
Id call you.
Hi,
Andy. Libby told me that you might call.
I
guess you know that Ill be seeing her in
uh
about seven hours.
Yes,
I know. Im glad for you. And Im glad you called. Ive 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?
Ive
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 didnt have to.
Who
is it?
Thomas
Muphongo. Another long silence.
Thomas?
Did your investigator go to Windhoek?
She
didnt have to. Thomas is in Vancouver. Hes been there for two years, and hes
been trying to locate you.
Thats
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
wasnt 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 Id done the right thing.
What
do you mean?
That
I married Vicky at the mission. They wouldnt have protected her otherwise. The
native people there, even the priests and nuns, may be Catholics, but theyre
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 wasnt murdered. Thats why I married her. To
protect her.
She
wasnt 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
dont know what he knew or didnt know.
You
two have plenty to talk about.
Do
we ever
So whats he doing in Vancouver?
A
residency.
My
God! Thomas has been in North America for two years!
Hes
been very, very busy. If you want to see him youll probably have to go up
there.
Sure,
sure, but Im just getting back to San Francisco, and Ive got lots of catching
up to do. Im going to see Libby! Im 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. Ive been around too many people with AIDS.
Speaking
of people with AIDS, lets get back to Vicky. Did you notice that I said assuming
that you were married to her?
I
guess you did, but I didnt make anything of it. Why?
Well,
first of all, when the nuns wrote you about sister Victoria, they didnt 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. Youre kidding, he finally said in a low voice.
Youve
been a single man all these years, Andy.
Another
silence. Do you know on what grounds they annulled it?
Because
they thought that you werent really Catholic.
What?
Are
you?
I
think so. My mothers Catholic.
I
dont think its something you inherit from your mother, the way being Jewish
is. Were you baptized?
I
dont know. Probably. I always wrote I was Catholic on the census.
The
census doesnt 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 werent Catholic enough. Your marriage was of no use
to them, and Vickys nunnage, or whatever you call it, was. Maybe thats why
they never informed you, just in case you might shoot back with a baptismal
certificate or something.
I
wouldnt have, not that I even have one. I would have accepted the annulment
gladly.
Your
life wouldve been different.
Probably.
Or maybe not. Who knows? Im going to see Libby this afternoon! And its 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 Andys 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 harms way as easily
as those who were not impoverished. Except those under Andy Stones 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.
Its
called Afro-Latin Party, I said.
Rose
laughed. Thats great! Like Thomas Muphongo and me! I kept the music going
after I cut the engine. Ive got something for you, she said, waving an
envelope at me.
Your
bill! I said.
Not
yet. Youll 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.
Its
Sister Victoria Mawakena, OSB. But youre right, she does look like Venus
dressed up as a nun.
Its
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. Hes gorgeous. Ive never met Andy Stone but Ive 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 didnt
need to finish the question, which was answered once more by Roses expression.
Its
only right, she said, that gorgeous guys like them shouldnt limit themselves
to just one side of the street. It wouldnt be fair otherwise, she concluded
with a laugh.
What
about gorgeous women like Libby?
I
havent met her either, but I dont feel the same way about women. They dont
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 isnt fair? All they say is
theyre not getting what they want. Thats me. Like I told you, third grade.
Thats
interesting. I taught my son that only an objective third party can say whether
or not something is fair.
Well,
if Id had a dad like you, I might be a better person.
Youre
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?
Its
called The Constant Gardener. It takes place in Africa, and it has to do
with testing an AIDS drug. Relevant, isnt it?
Yes.
Ive noticed it. Yeah, sure. When?
Tonight?
Tonight
Im busy. Tomorrow?
Sure.
Ill 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 Harts
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?
Its Libby. She sounded breathless. Im calling you from Andys cell, because
I never got your home phone number! I heard mingled male and female laughter.
As you might guess, Im with Andy. Thanks so much for everything youve 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.
Well 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,
Ill 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 Libbys
account of her relationship with Andy and Roses 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 Libbys statement that she had given
me, and reconstructed the questions and answers as best I could. What was still
left to summarize was Roses 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 Andys. 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
Weiszs hazel, Libby Schlemmers 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 hadnt 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 wouldnt be fair for them to
Oh,
that. Well, like I said, I dont have feelings like that about women.
I
thought that the lady did, perhaps, protest too much, trumpeting her
heterosexuality in the face of peoples 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 its not just with me. Ive overheard you talking to other women on hikes.
How
is it strange?
Well,
as an example, women dont like to hear about other women being called
gorgeous. If shes 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 Roses car, and she let me in.
Once she was in the drivers seat, she continued.
With
guys its 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. Dont you know
that?
I
suppose.
I
hope you dont take this the wrong way, Gary. I like you, and I like being
buddies with you. But on the basis of what Ive observed, you dont know how to
talk to women. You talk to them the same way as to men.
I
dont talk down to women, if thats what you mean.
Thats
nice, but its not what I mean. It just needs to be
different.
Should
I ask Jerry for pointers?
It
wouldnt be a bad place to start, Rose said with a laugh, though that
question is an example of what Im talking about.
I
now felt thoroughly confused, embarrassed and defensive. Memories of Friday
evenings 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. Its 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 youve just
told me. Youre a good friend.
I
told you only because I know were friends. I hope it helps you.
More
than you can imagine, I said, thinking about Chris once more.
Dont
ever underestimate my imagination, Rose said with a laugh.
Did
Rose, with her uncanny detectives 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 Wednesdays 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 wont be at next Saturdays
hike.
I
figured, she said. I heard you asking about hiking in Hawaii.
Youre
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
youre beautiful. I leaned inside to give her a friendly kiss.
Now
youre talking, she said.
On
my answering machine at home there was a message from Andy. Listen, Gary,
theres this restaurant at Judah and Forty-Sixth called Jouberts. Its South
African, which is the closest thing to Namibian. Were expecting you there at
seven. Call me or Libby if theres 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 Fridays date.
Around
six oclock 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?
Im
afraid so. And I told him.
Im
sorry, Gary. To an old Africa hand like me it doesnt 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 oclock 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 afternoons
conversation with Rose. I went to bed feeling like a new man.