John Goldbach - It Is an Honest Ghost

‘Yes,’ said Galina. ‘I’ll get you a towel.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I really appreciate it.’

I dug out fresh clothes and my toiletry kit from my suitcase and took them to the bathroom. I took off my clothes and looked at my livid left arm; the inoculations I’d gotten at the Tropical Disease Centre at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Montreal had left my arm black and blue and purple and brown and yellow and it was tender to the touch. I showered quickly, cleaned any trace of me from the bathroom save the lingering steam and consequent humidity, then went upstairs and lay down in the boy’s bedroom. Although I often find falling asleep very difficult, I was out within five minutes. Dead to the world.

I was woken up by Alexi, a shirtless three-year-old boy, who walked into the room and poked me several times. I woke with a start and at first had no idea where I was. The boy didn’t seem startled by my being startled, and he simply stared at me as I wiped my eyes and said, ‘Hi there, little man.’

I heard Galina yell, ‘John! We’ve put tea out! Come join us!’

‘Coming,’ I said, my voice raspy. ‘Thank you, Galina,’ I added.

There was nothing in the world I wanted to do more than keep sleeping; in fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever slept so deeply as I did for the forty-odd minutes I slept before being awoken by Alexi and beckoned by Galina.

My head was heavy as I walked down the stairs, following the small child. Boris was sitting with his father-in-law discussing politics — Kenyan politics, Russian politics, U.S. politics — while drinking tea and eating sugar cookies. I sat down with them at the circular dining room table and Galina quickly put a cup and saucer before me, dropped a teabag in the cup and poured in boiling water from a kettle.

‘Sugar?’ she said. ‘ Moloko ? I mean, milk?’

I said no thank you but she put in a teaspoonful of sugar anyway, so I said spasiba and smiled at her. ‘ Pozhalujsta ,’ she said.

We munched on sugar cookies and I listened while Boris and Martin talked — about next year’s elections in Kenya, about Vladimir Putin, about the presidential elections on the horizon in the United States, even though they were two years away — but then eventually, when Galina sat down, after serving us all, she started asking questions about me. Where are you from? she asked. And I answered Canada: originally I’m from outside a medium-sized city called London, in Ontario, but now I live in Montreal, in Quebec, I said, where Boris and Nina live with Tanya. Are you married? she asked. I said no but I have a girlfriend. Galina smiled. What’s her name, the girlfriend? Galina asked. Stacey, I said. Do you live together? she asked. Not yet, I said, but we’ve been together for almost five years.

I didn’t express any of my insecurities with respect to my relationship with Stacey; it didn’t feel appropriate, obviously, but my misgivings dominated my mind.

We talked briefly about how Boris ended up with Nina, their daughter, who’d travelled to the U.S. to go to Union College in Schenectady, in upstate New York, on a scholarship, where Boris was a visiting lecturer, originally from Leningrad, but he’d lived stateside for many years, and there met Nina.

‘How did you meet Boris and Nina?’ asked Galina.

‘I met Boris at a birthday party for a common friend, a Croatian-American writer, Marko, and we hit it off and decided we’d try and work together one day,’ I said. ‘I was aware of Boris as a photographer before we’d met at Marko’s party.’

‘He’s very good,’ said Martin, with pride.

‘One of the best!’

‘We even have a setup here, a little darkroom out back for Boris in the addition,’ said Martin, ‘for when he visits. There’s a steel cot and a toilet in there, too. We call it Boris’s Place. No one else ever goes in there. When you’re not here, Boris, it’s totally empty. I won’t let anyone touch anything.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Boris. ‘You can use the space.’

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘I don’t want anyone damaging your equipment or the kids messing with the chemicals or your computer equipment, either.’

‘ Spasiba ,’ said Boris.

‘ Pozhalujsta ,’ Martin said. ‘I need some more hot water, Galina.’

And Galina went to the kitchen for the kettle.

After another cup of tea, Martin suggested that we move the party outside for a drink.

Martin, Boris and I sat at a table in the backyard, where Martin had produced a large bottle of Stolichnaya from an old Coca-Cola cooler and three small green glass bottles of lime soda. We drank the vodka from shot glasses, Russian style, and we sipped the lime soda on the side. Martin said, holding up his shot glass, ‘John, to your first trip to Kenya!’

‘Cheers! Thank you for your hospitality,’ I said and we all clinked glasses and took back the viscous vodka.

Tanya returned with a plate of barbecued chicken and a bottle of hot sauce, a large bowl of brown rice and peas, vegetable samosas, salad and bread. We stopped drinking vodka while we ate. I wasn’t hungry, though the food was very good and I ate a little of everything so as not to insult my generous hosts. The sun was setting and it was beautiful in the backyard. The large sky was turning dark at the edges but colourful still in the centre — purple and pink and blue and pale yellow. There was a cool breeze fluttering the leaves on the bushes and trees.

Boris said, ‘Man, it’s like being in a Italian film. Look at the sky! Look at the colours!’

And it was true. There’s nothing like the magic hour in a backyard in Nairobi, sitting with great company, drinking vodka and eating barbecue.

Still, I didn’t feel right. Even though the temperature had dropped — due to its high altitude, Nairobi’s cool in the evenings — I was sweating heavily and asked to be excused to use the washroom.

‘There’s a toilet in Boris’s Place,’ Martin said. ‘It’s just right there.’ He pointed toward the small addition attached to the back of the main house.

I stood and walked to the washroom, where I splashed water on my ghostly face for several minutes. I wanted to drink the water from my cupped hands but was worried about giardia, about the possibility of getting sicker. Underneath my eyes was black, and my unshaved face looked sallow. My forehead wouldn’t stop perspiring — I was a perspiring ghost, I thought, even though now it was cool outside.

When I returned to the party, Martin had resumed the vodka drinking, and there was a young woman sitting at the table now, too, in her late twenties or early thirties.

‘This is Sveta,’ Boris said. ‘Nina’s sister.’

‘Nice to meet you. I’m John.’

‘Nice to meet you, John,’ she said and smiled.

‘John’s a writer from Montreal,’ said Boris, ‘a friend of mine and Nina’s. He’s covering the festival.’

I sat down beside her, in my original seat, and she poured me a shot of vodka. I thanked her, clinked my small glass to hers, and drank it back. I reached for a drumstick from the platter. I figured with all the drinking, and the travelling, I should probably eat a little more, even though I felt feverish. Feed a cold, starve a fever, I thought. But nevertheless I found myself chewing on the drumstick. I asked Sveta to pass the hot sauce. She laughed and passed it to me.

‘What’s so funny,’ I said. ‘Isn’t the hot sauce good?’

‘No, it’s good,’ Sveta said. ‘It’s just, well … ’

‘Well what?’

‘It’s a little crude,’ she said. ‘But my boyfriend and I say that before eating this hot sauce it’s a good idea to put the toilet paper in the freezer.’