For a moment she seems to consider my words, but then the possibility is gone, cloaked in the stubborn resistance I’ve come to know so well.
“Nothing will stop him.”
“Who is it?”
“No one.”
She clenches her hands into fists in her lap. Closes her eyes for a moment as if she doesn’t want to see me. Around us people are laughing and talking, competing with the loud eighties music pumping over the speakers. Behind me rapid-fire French mingles with the gentle inflection of Swahili.
“Ranna. Please. Why not? What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”
“There’s nothing to tell. It’s just . . . nothing,” she says. “It’s unimportant, really.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t give me more information.”
She laughs. The hollow sound is unexpected. It bounces off the walls and faces around us.
“I’ve never asked for your help.” She looks down at her hands. “I’m just asking you to love me. No, not even that. I’m asking you to slowly, very slowly, consider whether you can love me. Why do men always want to pretend the two things are equal? It’s not the same at all. Loving and helping are two completely different things.”
“Ranna—”
“Leave it.” She fires the words across the table. “He’s gone. It’s over. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But you said he’ll never go away.”
“Everyone gives up at some point. He’s no exception.” She waves away my concern. “It’s not important anyway. What matters is you and me. Nothing else.”
11
When I meet up with Ranna again, it’s still raining. She sent me home last night, even though I promised to sleep on the couch just in case this mystery guy came looking for trouble again, but she refused.
The new day is as hot and humid as yesterday. The fetid smell of the city is in my nose—a mixture of wet earth, unwashed bodies, and garbage left out too long. The street hawkers are standing around restlessly. Everything is wet: their wares and the street corners where they usually set up shop. The muddy water makes it hard to see where the street begins and the once-dusty pavement ends.
The passersby keep looking up at the sky, as if they’re expecting a catastrophe. I wonder how many of them went to bed soaked to the skin last night.
Ranna, Tom, and I are waiting for the general manager of Lion Mining in front of the Plaza Hotel. The company promised to show us from the air where the rains have left their mark. One of their gold mines has been flooded, and three neighboring villages have been cut off from the outside world. It worries them that the government has not yet requested international aid.
I check again that I’ve got my wallet. Notebook. Pen. Spare pen. I had to get up at four to file a story, and I’m not properly awake yet.
Last night Ranna and I talked till late. I couldn’t make sense of everything she told me, but I know one thing—no, two: she said we should take it slowly—very slowly.
No problem there.
The second thing I find a bit strange. She doesn’t want anyone to know about us until we’re sure things will work out. Apparently it’s the only way my reputation will remain intact. She’s had too many relationships that came to nothing, and even though she feels differently this time, people won’t see it the same way. There will be gossip, and that’s the last thing she wants.
I disagreed at first but gave in after a while. I’ll do as she asked. But not for long. I refuse to run around as if I’m having some sordid affair.
At least I know now that she’s not married or involved with anyone else.
I rub my eyes and suppress another yawn, the result of only three hours’ sleep. Ranna didn’t get much more time between the sheets, yet she looks fresh and relaxed. She’s standing in the gentle drizzle, taking photos of a middle-aged woman with a red umbrella feeding a stray cat out of her handbag. The woman looks up and smiles, as if she has some unseen bond with the photographer.
Ranna nods almost imperceptibly, her eyes gentle. She studies the Nikon’s screen and looks pleased as she wipes strands of hair, studded with misty raindrops, from her face.
“Nice shot?” I call.
“Yes.” She walks up to where Tom and I are hiding from the rain near the hotel’s entrance and holds up the camera for my inspection.
It’s remarkable. The woman’s face is raised as if she’s listening to something. She looks pensive. Tired. It’s the perfect frozen moment. Unfortunately, it’s worthless to Ranna’s employers. It lacks any news value.
Next to me Tom steps on his cigarette butt. He runs his hand over his freshly shaven head and looks from me to the camera. Then he looks at Ranna. “Are you still working on that exhibition?”
When she fails to reply, he lights another smoke. “Surely you have enough photos by now? When can we see them?”
Ranna tugs at the hem of her black T-shirt and wipes the rain from the Nikon’s screen. “Someday.”
It’s news to me. “Exhibition?”
Tom hisses smoke through his teeth. It disappears against the gray clouds behind him.
When Ranna doesn’t say anything, he answers. “She wants to exhibit all her work. Not just the murder-and-mayhem shots. The moments, the people. All the photos those guys in London and Washington consider unimportant.”
I turn to Ranna, my eyes questioning. She shrugs and rests the Nikon against her thigh. “He’s right,” she admits.
“Do you remember that photo you took in Paris?” Tom asks. “When the two of us covered that absurd presidential scandal?”
“The immigrant boy from Mali who stole the loaf of bread?”
“That one. And the one of the white woman from Joburg and her young Algerian lover who pitched their tent at the Eiffel Tower in protest against the way the police treated him? The woman with the Karl Marx tattoo on her back. Remember? She said she had it done years ago as a fuck you to the South African National Party and the so-called communist threat.”
“She was beautiful.”
“She was sixty-two.” Tom takes a long drag from his cigarette. “And she came on to you like a horny cougar. Just think of the photos if you’d been game.” He winks at me. “Perfect gentleman that I am, I even offered to take them.”
“In your dreams, Tom. In your fucking dreams.” Ranna raises the camera and snaps him as he grinds the cigarette butt under his heel.
He sticks a good-humored middle finger in the air, wipes his hand across his chin, and smiles, as if the memories please him.
At that moment it strikes me: Tom is in love with Ranna.
I’m about to ask about the history between them when my phone rings. It’s Alan from Lion Mining.
“I’m afraid we have to call off the flight,” he says. “We can’t go anywhere in this rain. We’ll try again tomorrow. The forecast says it might clear a little for a few hours.”
“Can’t we make another plan?”
“Driving is out of the question. Too dangerous.”
“Okay, then,” I say, disappointed. I promised Jasmine the story. “I’ll tell the others. Same place, same time, tomorrow?”