BEYOND THE PALE
THIRD PART
II
We stayed at the Leo Three, a grand hotel from a by-gone age complete with tall, white columns facing the Avenue Reine Elisabeth and an immaculate garden. There was a balcony above, with a white balustrade. I suppose it was the Leo’s way of offering guests what they thought was a romantic view of the river—but that soon loses whatever romantic ideal you may have imagined because there are industrial warehouses lining the waterfront, and the constant shunting of trains in the distance. As we stood waiting for a table, I thought of how the shunting trains sounded like the pounding of drums from every B-grade adventure movie I’d ever seen, from the American West of Red River and Gunsmoke, to the deepest, darkest, Africa of Tarzan and Jungle Jim.
Had my illusory fantasies already been shattered?
The bellhops standing nearby appeared ready in their fresh-pressed, white linen uniforms. I could see the Edgewater Fortune from where we sat. We were on a small terrace overlooking the dirty river, and sharing a pot of tea. I was preoccupied, watching the fishing ships and smaller boats tied up alongside one another as they started unloading their catches.
Richard stared out over the river and then quietly excused himself, saying he had to go inside to use the telephone. He stood up, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and then bowed his head, almost like an apology.
“Must you I asked?” reaching for him.
“I have to find out about our transportation, tomorrow. Can’t put that off until later,” he laughed.
“No,” I smiled.
I watched the gulls floating like tiny white sculptures pasted up against a clear blue sky, screaming at the Congolese fishermen haggling and arguing with one another. I wanted so much for it to remind me of something straight out of Conrad, or Kipling—a hundred years removed—but there was little I could do to shake off the feeling that this was all a façade.
As Richard came back outside, he was forced to stop partway across the terrace because of another coughing seizure. His face turned red with the effort it took for him to catch his breath as he desperately searched his pockets for his inhaler. I ran to his side and helped him to our small table, giving him a glass of water as he sat in the chair trying to catch his breath. He smiled up at me as he sat down, taking in tiny gulps of air.
“I just need to catch my breath,” he said.
“Shouldn’t we take you in to see a doctor?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, reaching out and patting my hand as I sat down across from him, concerned. “I have my medicine. It was like this the last time I was here, with Annie—that was just before she died. It’s the humidity. It does something to me—well, that and maybe a touch of asthma. I just need to get climatized and everything will be fine. I’ll be fine.”
“‘A touch of asthma’?” I said with a slight tilt of my head. “Is there even such a thing? Isn’t that like saying she’s a little bit pregnant?”
“Ness,” he said in a reproachful tone—my attempt at humour obviously not to his liking. He went on again after a moment. “That’s what the doctor in England said it was. Mild asthma. Which is something of a relief, considering I was thinking it was malaria.”
“And you didn’t think to let me know?” I asked, pulling my hand away from his. “How long have you been using that thing?” I asked, pointing at the inhaler in his hand.
“I’ve always had one, it’s just that sometimes I have no need of it,” he added with a slight smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Did the doctor say coming here would make a difference?”
He should have told me, I kept thinking. Why would he hide something like that? If he’s going to hide something like that from me, what else is he willing to hide?
“I’ll be fine,” he said in a mollifying tone, smiling at me—and a part of me wondered if he thought his reassurance was enough to calm me.
“What time do we leave in the morning?” I asked, changing the subject.
“At first light. Livingstone will be waiting for us with a lorry in the morning.”
“Livingstone? And is he driving all night through the jungle just to get here?”
Richard smiled. “He’s been here waiting for several days, now.”
“Livingstone? Does he have another name?”
Richard nodded. “Welles. Livingstone Welles.”
Livingstone Welles was tall, and slender, and muscularly slim, (is there even such a word,) which was what I could see of him as he struggled with the buttons of his shirt. He was the darkest black man I had ever seen. Not that I’d seen a lot of men I could compare him to—and believe me, at first sight of him, no man could compare to him—because his skin was so dark, it looked almost blue-black in the soft morning light. And his features were beautiful.
His eyes were a light hazel colour, far lighter than one would expect to see in such a dark-skinned man, and I found myself immediately drawn to them. His lips were thick and full, his teeth white and perfect, and he had a smile that spread across his face like a Cheshire cat—quite disarming, to be honest—with cheekbones that were both high and prominent. His hair hung on his shoulders in long ringlets, with a bandana wrapped around his head. His pants were too long, and to be fair, he was wearing a white shirt that was partially unbuttoned—and I wondered if he’d been trying to dress himself while he was driving.
I could see him trying to button his shirt up before he opened the lorry door—he had probably not expected to see us waiting outside with all our suitcases and boxes—and smiled as he held his hand up in greeting—laughing at his own confusion with the buttons before he finally gave up. His chest was muscled, his arms as well. He stepped out of the lorry and shook my hand as Richard introduced us.
“Vanessa,” I said, making sure to grip his hand firmly.
“So glad you could make it,” he said in perfect English, but there was a trace of an accent I didn’t recognize. “The school is in dire need of your services, I must say.”
“Oh? And why’s that?” I asked.
“Two teachers have died,” he said, as he began loading our things onto the back of the lorry. “The Reverend has been debating about sending the children home early, it being so close to the summer season.”
“Died?” I said, shocked at the news. I turned to look at Richard who tried to reassure me.
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds,” he said. “Well, that’s not true, is it? Of course it’s as bad as it sounds: they died. But I’m sure Livingstone didn’t mean it to sound that way.”
“No, Madame. No. They died from natural causes, mostly.”
“Mostly?” I asked.
“One of them had a heart attack.”
“Only one? And the other?”
Livingstone shrugged. “An accident would be the way to describe it.”
“An accident? What sort of an accident?” I said, sounding somewhat dubious, I’m afraid. “Did he fall into the river and get eaten up by a crocodile? Or maybe a wild animal crept into his room and ate him? What happened?”
“He was washing up and dropped a panga. It stabbed him through the foot. The wound became infected and he died.”
“An infection? Wait. It stabbed him through the foot? How big was this thing?”
“Bigger than a knife. We’d—” and Richard began coughing again, holding onto the bed of the lorry as he tried catching his breath, fumbling through his pockets for his inhaler. Livingstone paused, looking at me as he set about tying our things down. I could not help but see the shock on his face as I tried helping Richard into the lorry.
Richard shook his head frantically, motioning for me to get in first. He climbed in after me, hanging his head out of the open window and taking in short gulps of his inhaler, until he finally caught his breath.
“Are you going to be alright?” Livingstone asked having climbed into the cab, leaning forward and looking at Richard.
Richard nodded, waving him away.
Livingstone turned the key, and shifted gears. His hand rubbed against the outside of my thigh, and he looked at me before looking down at my leg. I tried moving, but there was little room. Livingstone laughed, honking the horn playfully before setting off, merging into the morning traffic.
“It’s a long drive,” he said.
“How long?” I asked.
“About six hours. This thing doesn’t go as fast as I’d like it to. Hopefully, we won’t be chased by anything big,” he added with a smile.
“Richard?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, his head hanging out of the window as he refused to look at either one of us.
We drove out of the city along the Avenue Reine Elisabeth, until we came to the Square Leopold II. There, I saw a statue standing in the centre of a nearby park. There were white cobblestoned footpaths and beautifully arranged flower gardens that meandered through intricately manicured lawns. The early morning dewdrops sparkled as if they were tiny jewels scattered across the green lawns, reflecting the spider webs catching the early morning light.
The traffic was sparse. Most of the vehicles were old, worn out lorries like the one we were in, or else foreign cars—Dodges, Fords, or Studebakers—that criss-crossed the wide avenue without pausing or hesitating; the rules of the road did not seem to apply here. We passed several squat buildings, as well as old, pillared edifices with worn out names impossible to read.
I took Richard’s hand in mine—it was unusually cold—and asked him if he was feeling any better. He nodded, but I could tell he was lying. I kissed his hand softly, placing it on my lap. His breathing sounded laboured, but at least it was under control. I patted his hand gently as we turned up the Avenue Jules Renkin, then on to the Avenue Massart, before leaving the city behind us. It felt as though we were putting more than just the city behind us; I remember thinking that I was starting more than just a new life with Richard, but embarking on a new adventure.
The road out of the city was wide, and paved, but soon narrowed into a thin, dirt track, with tall jungle grasses growing along both sides of the narrow path. The jungle itself appeared as a dark, haunted, woodland locked somewhere within my dreams. Thick boughs and knotted trunks stood thick with twisting vines, as an early morning mist crept along the ground as though it was a torn veil catching on the branches and trees. Monkeys chattered and screamed, birds squawked, and I imagined all sorts of crawling things and hidden dangers lurking in the shadows—giant spiders and scorpions, venomous snakes—every fear, both known and unknown, all magnified by the immensity and impenetrability of the darkness that lay beyond.
At last, the jungle gave way, revealing a broad savanna where we saw wild beasts that had only lived in my imagination before that—great, grey elephants, colourful okapi, droll water buffalos. Even though we were no longer near the river, Richard assured me that all waters flowed into the Congo, and I watched various streams appearing and disappearing through the tall grass. It served as a shimmering reminder of where we were. When we reached the open savanna again, I saw antelopes, and even a rhinoceros standing in the shadows of the great jungle, watching us suspiciously.
Sometime later, Livingstone stopped and handed me a pair of binoculars so that I might watch a pride of lions lazing in the sun, a pack of hyenas laughing and circling in front of them, looking at some unseen meal.
I saw leopards lazing in tall trees, and cheetahs giving chase; as well, there were baboons and chimpanzees. I felt like I was a child in the zoo again, asking first Richard, and then Livingstone, what every living creature was that we passed.
Excellent read! Is there a sequel? I felt like something big was about to happen. I kept waiting and waiting.…….. I see a dust Devil in the distance
I love this story... re-discovering the pleasure of reading a serial. Thank you, Ben.