Paul Theroux - The Lower River

It was odd for him to think that he had no power over her, no influence at all; even odder that she giggled at him instead of offering to help. And yet — in her eyes, anyway — hadn’t he saved her from being bitten by a snake?

A month or more went by before he risked inviting her again. In the meantime, he bought her some ointment at Bhagat’s General Store for a wound on her leg. When she accepted the tube of medicine, he concluded that all was well. He’d asked her to his house. But when she was with her friends, or the other woman teacher, Grace, she mocked him gently or pretended not to hear him, twisted away from him in a dance step that only aroused him more.

In time, he thought, she’ll give in, she’ll listen. What else was there for her on the Lower River? Her father was a fisherman, her brother helped him mend his nets; only Gala had an education, because she had no practical skills that would be of use on the river.

Surprising her one day in the classroom after the students had left, he shut the door and leaned against it and said, “I want to talk to you.”

She said nothing at first, keeping her gaze on the copybooks she was stacking.

“You can talk,” she finally said, though she didn’t look up.

“I want to see you.”

“Aren’t you seeing me now?”

“In my house.”

“Sorry. I cannot.”

“Tell me why.”

Adding another copybook to the stack, she said, “I am betrothed.”

“To be married?” He was stunned.

She said primly, “What else?”

“Who’s the lucky man?”

“Mr. Kalonda. I think you are not knowing him. He has an official post at the boma.”

“Married,” he said, fixing the word on her. “How long have you known him?”

“For some two years, but he was in discussion with my father about the lobola. ”

The issue was always the dowry, the bride price, never love. Among the Sena it was the man who had to come up with money or a cow to compensate the parents for the loss of their daughter.

“Do you want to marry him?”

“A girl must marry,” Gala said. She sighed and slipped the copybooks into her basket. “That way her parents can earn. If she has a man without being married, the parents will not get any money.”

“Was he your fiancé when you visited me that day?”

“You tricked me,” Gala said. “And your snake threatened me.” Now she was her mocking self, and seemed even more confident having told him of her betrothal. But he wanted her. Her eyelashes were long and black and glossy, her skinny fingers clutched at the basket, chips of pink on her fingernails, the wound healing on her leg.

“What will I do without you?”

She saw that he was teasing — what else could he do? He was sorrowful, having heard her news. He could not show her his sorrow. Anyway, she seemed to know, but there was nothing to be done.

“You have your snakes,” she said. She stood up. “Please open the door. I have to go to my home.”

Hock hesitated, then opened it. But she did not leave. She walked toward him and onto the veranda, where she turned.

“I like you, Ellis,” she said. “I know you like me. But nothing can happen now. I have a fiancé. If he suspects that I am not true to him, he can refuse me. My parents will get nothing. And they are needing.”

She did not wait for a reply — he didn’t have one, in any case. She hurried away, and he told himself that in these determined strides, and all this talk of money, she was less desirable. He knew she was unattainable, and still virginal, strong, certain, unsentimental, doing her duty as a daughter and a village girl, following protocol and marrying the civil servant. Her parents would get a cow, and some money. Her whole life lay ahead of her.

Gala’s rejection of Hock made his leaving easier, and when the message came that his father was ill, he swept away without looking back. Burdened by the family business, he was sure that phase of his life was over, his four years in Africa under the starry sky. But as the years passed, he often thought of Gala on the sofa, her head at the height of the window, the daylight waning, and the fiery sunset giving way to darkness; the whispers in the dark, the radio music, her touch, unmistakable — squeezing the life out of him; and the snake, dazzled in its darkness, frantic, rising to strike.

In his life as a man it was perhaps the sharpest desire he’d ever felt. Even the memory of it years and years later was capable of arousing him. And what was it? Just a touch, no more, but unforgettable, unrepeatable, magic.

THE SOURCE OF Hock’s contentment, years ago, had been his trust in their innocence. He had been happy when he had never suspected anyone in Malabo of having a darker motive. Grateful, he’d felt blessed. Now it was a struggle that made his head hurt. Hock was so suspicious of Manyenga and those he influenced that he was wary of announcing his intentions, or so much as speaking casually. The consequences were obvious. If you know what’s in a man’s mind, you have power over him.

The other side to this was their obliqueness — the villagers in Malabo never said anything that might reveal how they really felt. This trait made them seem mild, but they were deeply suspicious of him now, too, nor were they innocent. And he had come with the best intentions, had handed out money, had shown that he wanted to help. He even picked up a shovel and a slasher and cleared the schoolyard for the restoration of the Malabo school. But in their general glum strangeness they didn’t trust him.

What does he want? they seemed to think. He saw the question in their guarded smiles, their sidelong looks, their narrowed eyes, the way they floated a suggestion—“We can manage better if we have a new well”—and glanced to see whether he’d bite. He could no longer be truthful; they would mistake the truth for a ruse.

He didn’t want anything from them, but he knew what they wanted from him. Simple enough: an unending supply of kwacha notes. Because the money was so devalued, the denominations of bills so small, even a modest sum, fifty dollars’ worth, was a whole big bag full of paper. And along with the need for money was the need for him to be a witness to their distress, or so he thought. They seemed to want to prove to him that they were worthy of this charity. Yes, it was a shakedown.

When he had nothing left, he’d go. But he resisted telling them anything of his plans, and he was sorry he’d shown so much emotion when Manyenga had told him that Gala was alive. Manyenga had uncovered one of his secrets, that he still had a feeling for the woman he’d known so long ago, a memory he had not shared with Deena in the many years of their marriage.

“You want me to take you to her?” Manyenga said a day or two later, tossing his head. “I can arrange it.”

He didn’t need to say Gala’s name. He knew what Hock was thinking, and was exploiting it. Hock reminded himself that Manyenga had lived among the aid workers for whom he’d been a driver. He had learned to read the gestures and expressions of Europeans; he knew all about mzungu reactions. He knew when to be silent and when to intervene. It was his mode of survival. Europeans could be obvious when they were anxious. He had been their fixer. Festus, see what those people want — Ask them the price — Find us a place to stay — Get us some food here — Talk to the chief — Meet us with the van — Deliver that message.

Manyenga had been their man. The relationship had gone wrong in the end, Hock was sure of that, because in his greed and laziness Manyenga had gone too far. Believing he knew them, he became overconfident, incautious, reckless. They had misjudged him, and he hadn’t known when to stop. Even in his dealings with Hock he didn’t realize how obvious he was.