As she drives, she lets Cawrala tell her where to turn while memory leads her by the hand. The second time they’d met, it was by chance, in Edinburgh. Bella had gone to Scotland to spend a romantic weekend with Humboldt. But Ngulu, who was there for a seminar on the causes of famine, spotted her walking in the rain holding hands with the sculptor. He followed them into a restaurant and sat at the bar in the corner, keeping an eye on them until they’d ordered their drinks. At which point he presented himself in a here-I-am sort of way. Bella was startled, but she felt relieved when it became clear he wasn’t going to make a scene. Speaking in Portuguese, she introduced him to Humboldt. He picked up the basics of what she said about him: that he was a Kenyan, working in Nairobi for Norwegian People’s Aid. He made as if to sit and almost pulled up a chair to join them at the table, but when they resumed their conversation in Portuguese and he couldn’t make sense of what either one of them was saying, and with Humboldt staring at him like an undertaker deciding the size of the coffin to put him in, Ngulu withdrew. Bella flew back to Rome that night and Humboldt went to London, where he was having an exhibition of his works.
Amazingly enough, she met Ngulu by chance again the following year in New York. This time she was with Cisse Drahme, her Malian lover, who was doing some research on African astronomical systems at the New York Public Library. They had just checked out of their hotel on a side street near the UN when Ngulu appeared before her and said, “Hi, fancy meeting you here.” On this occasion, Bella walked past him without a look. And when he caught up with her and said, “It is me, Ngulu,” she pretended she didn’t know him and asked him to repeat his name. If he was stalking her, she was determined to put an end to it.
Cisse took possession of Bella’s arm and the two of them walked away from Ngulu with their arms linked. He stood where he was, staring at them pulling away and wondering if he had mistaken another woman for Bella, for a time a woman of his heart.
But the next time she went to Nairobi, she was in a low mood, a big EU-funded project of hers having fallen through. She was again staying at the Meridian. Restless and in need of temporary entertainment, the kind tourists from the moneyed parts of the world enjoy when they are visiting Africa, Bella discovered she still had the landline telephone number Ngulu had given her when they first met, and on a whim, she tried it. A woman answered — his wife, his mother? She left a message with the woman, giving her name and the name of her hotel.
To her surprise and delight, he rang her from the lobby at six. When she came down, he was all spruced up. He was flaunting a well-maintained moustache, had a sports jacket on, a pair of jeans too tight in the crotch, and a silky shirt unbuttoned to display the tuft of hair on his chest. The handsome smile she remembered played around his eyes, his mouth forever parted in a grin. She knew right away that he would not mention either of their two previous encounters, as though he had wised up to the fact that reminding her of them would piss her off. And he didn’t. They talked briefly about what each had done since their last meeting, and in giving an account of his activities, he didn’t refer to either of her two prior putdowns.
At seven, she noticed he was looking ravenous. She took him to the Carnivore, where he ordered a plateful of meats — beef, ostrich, and hippo — which, according to him, had been cooked to perfection; in fact, he suggested she try it. Since she found the idea of a restaurant making an offer of some sixty types of meat revolting, and she had only a salad, there was a moment when she felt ambivalent toward a man who could bear to consume so much meat — and she thought maybe she should terminate her interest in him. But there was a strong feeling toward him and she stayed with him, paid the bill, and he took the rest of the food in a doggy bag, maybe because he could live on it for a few days, given that his salary as an NGO employee wasn’t high.
They jumped into a taxi and she took him back to her hotel, still uncertain whether she wanted anything more than a nightcap with him. But he was still handsome and young, and she was lonely, and when they got to the lobby, she took him up to her room and they made love.
The sex this time was scarcely better than the first. As a lover, Ngulu clearly was no Humboldt. Unhandsome as the sculptor was, rough in manner and uncouth in his comments, Humboldt lived for sex and art. Ngulu has no strong ambition of any sort. Moreover, he fell asleep soon after the evening’s one and only round of lovemaking, stirring only to spread his legs, raise his pelvis, and release a silent malodorous fart then yawning and stretching his limbs one at a time, all the while remaining asleep. And his penis is small. Still, Bella longs to see him. For the first time, she admits to herself that she admires him for what he is: a youthful angel of extraordinary beauty. And with Salif and Dahaba away, what is the harm? If she plays her cards right, she will get what she wants and still have a delicious evening to herself.
And yet she can’t help thinking about the questions Fatima asked about Aar and his attraction to Valerie. What would make an intelligent, loyal, loving, and attractive man link himself to such a woman? “What does he/she find in him/her?” is a question asked the world over. And the answer is “Nobody knows.” Still, she would not marry a man like Ngulu or have children by him. But knowing what she knows about the pull he nevertheless exerts on her, she is more generous toward Aar for having chosen Valerie and by extension toward Valerie, despite all her failings.
Stalled in traffic, she glances in the mirror, unable to decide whether she is any the worse for wear. But what about Ngulu? She wonders if experience has made him any better as a lover. Although the pay for NGO workers like him is modest, the demand for a handsome companion like him is high among the many unattached British, European, and North American female employees, for whom there are few good marriageable men. She is familiar with some of these women, including a former classmate from university she sometimes stays with when she is traveling. In fact, it is that classmate who told her that Ngulu had been taken up by a Canadian woman old enough to be his grandmother, a sugar mummy of exceptional stature, quite literally — a redhead more than six feet tall, with a voice as many-tempered as Paul Robeson’s. How does he address this elderly Amazon, she wonders—“Sweetness”?
Thinking of the unhappiness in his voice just now, she wonders again whether she should have canceled. The idea of being taken for granted makes her uncomfortable. And truly, it is time the man figures out what he wants in life and moves on. She will impress this upon him, she thinks. And at any rate, it is too late to cancel; a few minutes later, she is at the hotel.
—
He is waiting for her in the back of the café bar, just as he said he would be. And if Bella needed confirmation of her feelings, she gets it as she approaches him — his exquisite features no longer stir things up in her, which is how she used to describe his particular appeal to herself. He is like the favorite toy a child holds close to him for years as he falls asleep, touching, kissing, and holding it, drawing physical comfort from it. And now, it seems, the toy is broken or she has tired of it.
But as she comes closer, she sees that he seems eager indeed. He is up on his feet and waving enthusiastically to her. He takes a few steps toward her, meeting her before she reaches the table. They embrace awkwardly, and when their lips meet, his mouth is open and wet, in a more intimate kiss than she is prepared for. She frees herself quickly, saying, “Okay, okay, okay.” She allows him to lead her by the hand back to his table. He’s been drinking. There is an almost empty whiskey glass — not his first, she guesses — and a couple of empty beer bottles and a can of Coke.