If it hadn’t been for the rain—
She herself would have been more occupied, more content. She would have been flying three or four times a week rather than three or four times a month. She would have spent time and thought and care on that awful little house they’d been lent, and by now she would have made it into something like a home. And she wouldn’t have had all this empty time in which to brood and grow touchy and miserable, in which to plot shabby revenges.
If it hadn’t been for the rain—
Frank too wouldn’t have grown bored and tired. His camping-out adventure on Lake Victoria, just perfect for his twelve-year-old-boy’s mind, would have contented and amused him. He would not have come back to Kisumu dull and restless and angry. He would have permitted their relationship to remain at that level of nonsexual friendship which had been with such difficulty attained, and which was the only possible long-lasting relationship they could have. He would not, on his return from Port Victoria, have thrown just one more pass, out of general irritation and ennui.
And she would not have accepted.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. They had gone to bed together, they had enjoyed it, and from now on, the whole situation was going to be that much worse. And all because of the rain.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Frank said, and then, as though as a result of his having spoken, he hugely yawned.
“I was thinking how much I hate this rain.”
He chuckled, very comfortable, and said, “You’ve got a beautiful ass.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll tell you what I was thinking, and this isn’t bullshit. You know I don’t do this kind of bullshit.”
“Mm?”
“You’re the best I’ve ever had,” he said. “It’s God’s truth, may He strike me dead, I thought I was gonna fall out of my skin a couple times there. I thought I was dead and fucking an angel.”
She laughed, rising partway out of her funk, saying, “What a hand you are with a compliment.”
“Lew doesn’t deserve you.”
Oh, no, none of that. Suddenly decisive, Ellen turned away from the mirror, crossed the bedroom in two strides, knelt on the bed and straddled him, her pubic hair brushing his belly. Her fingers, not gentle, counted their way up the ribs on his left side. He winced away but wouldn’t move his hands from behind his head to defend himself. He watched her, surprised, amused, interested, not alarmed.
She pressed her fingernail into his flesh between the third and fourth ribs, just under the nipple. “If Lew ever hears about this,” she said, bearing down, meaning every word of it, “if Lew so much as ever suspects, I’ll put the knife in right there. I will, Frank.”
Frank chuckled, trying to pretend the fingernail didn’t hurt. “Lew would do it first, honey,” he said. “Don’t you worry, old Frank has no death wish.”
She relaxed the pressure but didn’t yet move her hand. “Just so you understand.”
“I read you, loud and clear.”
She started then to climb off him, but he put his hands on her waist, pulling her down to sit on his stomach. She could feel him rising again against her buttocks. He said, “Don’t go, I like you there.”
So did she, goddammit. She was angry, she was bad-tempered, she was rain-obsessed, she was driven mad by inactivity, but at the same time she did like those hammy hands on her waist, she liked the nudge of that hard cock against her cheek.
He was something different from Lew, he was blunter and more stupid and less sensitive, but there were moments when crudity had its own charm. Almost against her will, she could feel herself softening to complement his hardness, she could feel the juices begin to flow. Knowing what he wanted, she lifted herself slightly on her knees, inching backward toward him—
And stopped. Frowning, she lifted her head like a herbivore in the forest who’s heard a distant sound. His hands on her waist pressed her farther back toward his waiting member, but she didn’t move. “What’s that?” she said.
“What’s what? Goddammit—”
Pushing his hands away, she climbed off the bed and went over to the nearest window. She pulled the curtain aside and looked out, listening to the splashes of individual water drops falling from branches and eaves.
It was true. And something in the quality of the light, the altitude of the clouds, told her this was no mere respite, this was the real thing. She looked back at Frank, bewildered on the bed. Her eyes were shining. She didn’t need him at all. “The rain has stopped,” she said.
PART THREE
25
Lew walked into the room carrying a two-by-four and a battered black attaché case. He put the case down, hefted the two-by-four, and faced his student body.
They reminded him somewhat of his truckers’ class back in Valdez, except that he doubted he’d have as much trouble getting this mob to fight back. There were forty-eight of them here, in this large littered storage room in Balim’s second building. They were Balim’s employees, or the friends or relatives or fellow tribesmen of Balim’s employees, and it was his job over the next few days to turn them into something approaching an invading army. At the moment, what they most looked like was the Saturday-night overflow from a tough-neighborhood bar.
Charlie had been assigned to Lew as an interpreter, and stood beside him now, chewing a piece of sugarcane and looking extremely relaxed. Lew gazed over his troops, most of whom looked no more than mildly curious at what was about to happen, and said to Charlie, “Tell them to sit down.”
Charlie spoke. Since the crew was a mixed tribal bag, mostly Luo and Kikuyu, he spoke in Swahili, a language of which Lew had only a smattering—certainly not enough to cope with the slurring elision-filled singsong rapid delivery of Charlie. But surely it was taking too long to translate “Sit down,” and Lew noticed that many of the men exchanged amused glances as they settled themselves on the dusty floor.
“Charlie,” Lew said. When the man turned his small alert face, Lew said, “Charlie, all you have to do is translate what I say.”
“Oh. sure.” Charlie said.
Lew hefted the two-by-four. “Tell them,” he said, “I am now going to show them what to do if a man comes at them with a stick.”
Charlie nodded, and spoke in Swahili. Again there was a ripple of amusement among the seated men. Charlie turned back to Lew, ready for the next translation.
“Right.” Lew held out the two-by-four. “Take this.”
“Sir?”
“Go ahead, take it.”
Confused but obedient, Charlie took the piece of wood, transferring his sugarcane to his left hand.
Lew stepped back about three paces. “Come at me with the stick, Charlie,” he said.
Charlie looked blank for a second, then frowned down at the two-by-four and back up at Lew. “I pretend? Pretend to attack you?”
“If you want,” Lew said indifferently. “Whatever you want to do.”
With a little smile, Charlie turned to the audience and spoke again in Swahili. An appreciative murmur spread through the men; several hid big grins behind their hands.
Lew said, “I didn’t give you anything to translate, Charlie.”
“I just told them what will happen,” Charlie explained. “So they will not be startled.”
“Fine. Come on, now.”
“Okay.”
Charlie came forward, pretending to pretend. Lew had expected that—a deceptively mild approach rather than a lunging screaming performance—and he saw the instant when Charlie’s eyes changed, just before the quick leap forward and the slashing swing of the two-by-four, aimed squarely for Lew’s head.