Peter Cawdron - Xenophobia

Bower found her lips were pursed, shut tight in anguish. She didn’t know what to say. Kowalski had been thinking about this in far greater depth than she had.

“This whole fucking country is a five, Liz.”

Bower nodded. Tears ran down her cheeks as he continued.

“There’s nothing we can do, not a goddamn thing.”

Kowalski rested his hand on her thigh, patting her gently as he stood up, saying, “Sometimes the right decision is the hardest decision of all. We came here to make a difference. We can no longer do that. As much as I hate to say it, it’s time to leave.”

Bower struggled to swallow the knot in her throat.

Kowalski started walking toward the bathroom.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said in the same, deadpan tone of voice, switching subjects effortlessly as though it were entirely natural. He walked into the bathroom with his shoulders stooped, the weight of an entire country bearing down upon him.

Bower sat there for a few minutes, listening to the sound of running water falling like rain in the bathroom. She felt empty, but she had to move on. She understood that.

Kowalski was almost six feet tall, there was no way he’d fit on the couch, she figured. While he was in the shower, Bower took a pillow and a sheet from the cupboard and turned off the light. She curled up on the couch with the sheet draped over her.

Bower was still awake when Kowalski came out of the bathroom but she kept her eyes shut, pretending she was asleep. She wasn’t, but she didn’t know what else she could say to him. There were no words that could soothe the grief they were both feeling.

Lying there in the dark, Bower felt the seconds pass as though they were hours. She had no idea how long she lay there awake but after an age she heard Kowalski softly snoring. Ordinarily, this would have kept her awake even longer, but on that night his gentle rasp brought relief. As with all things, time marched on and her body demanded its rest even if her mind rebelled.

In the morning, Bower woke to the sound of the soldiers playing in the courtyard below. They were boisterous, yelling at each other, throwing a football around. It was late when she arose. This was becoming a habit, she thought to herself, but she knew it was a physical reaction to the stress she was feeling, wearing her out. Five, she thought, remembering the conversation from the night before. Was Kowalski right? She didn’t want to know. Her head said yes, her heart refused to reply either way. For now, she had to put that behind her.

Why did they let her sleep so late, she wondered? Didn’t Jameson want to push on to Lilongwe? And she remembered the discussion with the Red Cross. Jameson was probably trying to find out what was happening in Lilongwe so they didn’t go from the frying pan into the fire.

After going to the bathroom and freshening up, Bower dressed and headed downstairs. She found Jameson and Kowalski sitting in a decrepit restaurant by the pool. The water in the pool was green, but that didn’t seem to worry the soldiers who were hell-bent on emptying the pool with the biggest possible splashes they could muster. They ran and jumped into the murky water, sending tidal waves crashing over the edge of the pool and out across the cobblestones. The courtyard must have been quite nice once, but missing tiles and cracked walls betrayed neglect.

Jameson and Kowalski were talking with another man, someone Bower didn’t recognize.

“James Leopold,” the middle-aged man said, standing to greet Bower as she walked over. “Reporter for Rolling Stone and African correspondent for CNN.”

Leopold’s pale complexion looked out of place in Africa. His hair was neatly cropped. As a young man he wouldn’t have been out of place in a Sears catalog, he had that natural, handsome look and engaging smile that seemed to guarantee a sale. Bower figured he was in his mid to late fifties, perhaps his early sixties, and he still looked good. He was trim and fit. A light dusting of gray sat on either side of the dark hair on his head, making him look distinguished rather than old.

“Elizabeth Bower, I’m a doctor with Médecins Sans Frontières.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he replied, shaking her hand gently.

And he had a smooth tongue to match, thought Bower.

“Do you want some breakfast?” Kowalski asked. “They’ve got eggs. They’re not very good, but a bit of protein doused in fat never hurt anyone, right?”

“Sure,” Bower replied, a little confused by Kowalski and his surprisingly upbeat mood. Last night had been a watershed moment for her, but he appeared to have switched off after what had seemed like a conversation reserved for a confessional booth. Two Hail Mary’s and three repetitions of the Lord’s Prayer, would that really wash away the past? Somehow, he’d shut down those seething emotions, or perhaps that was the impression he wanted to give. Either way, she could understand that. Being doctors, they both knew introversion was professional suicide, leaving only an empty shell. There came a point where you had to bury the past and move on. For her, though, one night seemed too quick. She doubted he was over what had happened yesterday at the hospital. She knew she wasn’t.

Bower sat down as Kowalski got up and walked behind the bar, disappearing into the kitchen. Jameson must have picked up on the look of surprise on her face.

“The help here is a bit inconsistent. If you want something, you’ve got to go get it yourself. Your buddy, Kowalski, isn’t a bad chef.”

Bower smiled, pouring herself a glass of water.

“Like kids, aren’t they,” she said, gesturing toward the soldiers by the pool. Elvis was lying on a deck chair with his shirt off, sunning himself, while Smithy was being chased by several of the other soldiers. They crash tackled her, flying into her and dragging her into the pool. She didn’t seem to mind a bit of wrestling.

Bosco was the only one doing any work. He was sitting beneath the shade of a poolside umbrella, working on the radio. Beside him, another soldier lay asleep in the shade.

“Shouldn’t they be soldiering, or whatever else it is you normally do?” Bower asked. She wasn’t being mean, she was curious. Jameson must have sensed her question was genuine and not a criticism.

“Yeah. Seems a little out of place, but that’s army life for you. These guys have not only been trained to fight. They’ve been trained to exploit. In the army, you never know what’s coming next. So if you don’t have to stand, you sit. If you don’t have to sit, you lie down. If you don’t have to be awake, you sleep. Either way, you exploit whatever opportunities you have, as you never know what the next 48 hours will demand of you. So it’s good for them to let their hair down, have a little R&R, although I need Bosco to get that radio fixed. We need to find out what’s happening in Lilongwe.”

Bower nodded.

“So, Dr. Bower,” Leopold said, pulling out a small worn pad and pen.

“Liz, please,” Bower replied, wanting Leopold to address her informally. She felt a little uncomfortable with his tone, not sure how she’d walked into an impromptu interview.

“Liz, what do you make of all this?”

Leopold had already started jotting notes, but she wasn’t sure why. How could he write something before she had even replied? Besides, Bower doubted she could tell him anything of any significance.

“Me? I think it is grossly irresponsible for the international community to pull out of Malawi. I don’t see how an alien spaceship changes anything on the ground here in Africa. There are plenty of people in NASA and ESA to deal with that, and I think the biggest danger we face is not from some alien visitors as from our own paranoid reactions.”