Susan Minot - Thirty Girls

Which means?

I don’t know, just I am.

I happen to like old.

Right.

The older the better, he said.

Okay, so—what—you’re perfect?

More perfect than you know.

They were twisted into a bound shape on the bathroom floor. They untangled themselves and shuffled, attached, back to the living room.

In the morning they woke next to other lumped bodies under blankets and thin covers, pushed like waves against the stone walls. Jane opened her eyes to see a shirtless man unbend himself from their Indian bedspread and stand in rumpled underwear. He walked slowly toward the sound of the river picking his way over the bodies and disappearing in the light at the door, the back of his head in a rooster’s plume of hair. She thought it was the pilot. On the other side of Harry were two heads touching and four arms draped toward each other.

Her head rested on Harry, on the shoulder of this new person. Her mouth was dry and her eyes heavy, but her body felt loose and light. Some people you met and right away knew they were important. Or it might take a while for you to understand how that first moment when you felt taken aback was a jolt not away but to this new person. And if it turned out the other person had a similar thing happen, then it was one of those connectings that happen not often.

She lay on his shoulder and thought that Harry was now important. What important meant she could not have said, but the word was there. She pictured the letters carved in wood. She thought of his voice in the dark, saying, Take this off. It sounded a little cruel. She drifted on the thought of it, playing it over in her mind.

Later that day they were in the car driving back to Nairobi.

Harry told her about the girl he liked, Rosalie. He saw her at a party, wearing a jumpsuit with zippers. She was small, with skin so pale you could see her veins. Everyone was dancing. Harry had broken his foot and was dancing with a crutch which he threw across the floor and she jumped over. After, they went driving and stayed up all night, sitting on the top of her Jeep and watching the sun rise over Lake Elementaita. She had a boyfriend, so nothing happened. That is, no touching happened, but something had happened. Her hands, he said, looked like an old person’s hands. Rosalie told him that she had to give some thought to her boyfriend now, now that she’d met Harry. Afterward he wrote her a letter and she wrote back. She still loved her boyfriend, she said, and didn’t know what to do. They kept writing letters to each other. She was still deciding.

What do you write to her? Jane asked.

That I’m waiting for her.

Jane lay across the seat with her head in his lap. Harry pushed back her hair. It had been a long time since she’d touched a person. It made a person feel transformed. Before falling asleep in the bumping truck she thought of how she had come to this other country wanting to disappear, but now felt more vivid than ever. It seemed possible that she might actually be finding herself in some new form.

They reached Nairobi after nightfall. On the Langata Road less than a mile from Harry’s, their tire blew and they thumped to a stop. Harry changed it as Jane sat on a dead tree watching in the eerie quiet. A lone streetlight shone amber far down the road like a figure from another era. Harry popped the tire off and cranked the jack, and she watched how youthful his quick movements were and how smooth was the skin of his neck between his parted hair and how nicely shaped were his strong arms, and the perfect contentment she’d felt all day deflated a little with the arrival of her first wish—for more. If only she were that young. She had a keen longing then to be a younger girl whose freshness would make him delirious, the way his was making her.

They were back from their mission, she told herself. Mission was what Harry called it. They’d had a nice moment, she explained to herself. So that was probably that. She would be happy with that, then. Happiness came in pieces anyway. One had to be happy with the pieces as they came. She was trained in gathering pieces. When you had the bad luck to love a person who cared for drugs more than you, then you adjusted to the netherworld of Nothing’s perfect and Whoever said you got what you wanted and It will get better. Those pieces were sharp and cut you, but you still collected them. You justified the cuts.

They went back to Harry’s house. He referred to it as his parents’ house, even though he’d grown up there. A few spotlights shone outside a garage and at one end of a large roof. She followed him across a dark lawn of stiff tropical grass to the guesthouse. Inside was a wide stone fireplace and heavy wooden furniture and to the side a small bedroom with a mattress of clean sheets in the middle of a cement floor. Harry was under the covers when she returned from the bathroom and she switched off the living room light. She slid in next to him and had the lovely surprise, which always remained surprising, of the first contact with the skin of another warm body which felt, well, like a miracle.

He turned her sleepily. She wasn’t wishing for anything then, only this. All right, more of this, then. She felt as if she were on a train, jerking to a start. The slow chugging of the engine was her body coming alive again. As the speed increased, possibilities of the trip expanded. Maybe the journey would not be short. There was hope in the body against her. Maybe it would be a long trip. The Orient Express or the Trans-Siberian Railway. She was riding the shaky rails. She was going faster. Now she was being hurled up against the ceiling.

When she landed in slow motion some time later, her gaze drifted to a blurry window where dawn had turned the sky glass-blue through a pane of lead squares like the windows you see in old churches.

In the late morning, returning to the cottage, Jane found Lana having breakfast in bed with her silver tray. Lana patted the pillow beside her and poured Jane a cup of coffee from a silver pot. Raymond has buggered off, Lana said. He’s tossed us for a safari job. Don’t blame him, really. But—she used a pointedly hopeful tone—Don wants to come.

Don?

Lana shrugged, as if uncertain whether she was ready to promote the idea. He thinks it might be interesting. He has a car …

Jane looked at her.

Lana bit her toast and studied Jane’s face, gauging her reaction. He can always help with the cash flow? she said, chewing.

Later after dinner Lana and Don peeled themselves up off the Balinese bed and slipped away to Lana’s room. It was an early night. Jane and Harry stayed collapsed on the pillows, upholstered in hemp and stamped with a black and beige triangular pattern. In the deeper cushions Pierre was asleep.

I’ll take you, Harry said out of nowhere.

Where?

To Uganda. I’ll drive.

You will?

Sure. I’ve got a truck.

That would be great, she said. Really?

He looked at her. His face was an inch from hers and his lowered eyes were cool. I just said I would.

What about the cows? she said.

Screw the cows.

Really?

Keep saying really and I’ll change my mind.

A warmth spread in her chest.

She couldn’t pay him, she told him, but could cover the gas and his room and board. She had a minor expense account from the magazine, she said, actually, hardly believing it herself, since she had no real credentials as a journalist.

It’s better if you don’t hire me, Harry said. If I’m hired I usually get sacked.

The guest room where Jane was staying had been painted by Lana, salmon and green. Its lantern threw half-moons of light on the stucco wall. Harry got in with her under the pink mosquito net.