“Yes?”
“Feel like supper?”
I turn away from the secretary who gave me the angry look. Cover the phone with my hand. “Always.”
“Choose a place.”
“You know Dar es Salaam better than I do.”
“Just say Dar. Fine, make it Hardings.”
I know where that is. “Sounds great.”
“See you at seven.”
There’s a moment’s silence.
“And, Alex,” Ranna says, laughing, “bring some more words. For a journalist you’re pretty stingy.”
As the line goes dead, I turn to find the same irritated secretary tapping her foot next to my chair. She motions me toward the CEO’s office. “Mr. Paulson will see you now.”
Hardings’ yellow neon sign flickers in the muggy evening air, as if someone had just switched it on a moment ago. I push open the door and look at my watch. Quarter to seven. Early again. A bad habit in this place.
A man in a white New York cap with a neck like a tree trunk is sipping his beer at the bar as if it’s lukewarm water. In one corner a middle-aged woman is eating a hamburger. Except for the two of them, Mkwepu Street’s favorite haunt is deserted.
A waitress in a tight blue T-shirt looks up from her newspaper as I enter. She motions from behind the bar that I can pick any of the thirty-odd wooden tables. I choose one in the farthest corner with a view of the door, then sit down below a sign that promises two Heinekens for the price of one on Monday nights.
Inside Hardings, it’s only a degree or two cooler than the February heat outside. A ceiling fan slashes feebly at the hot air. To my right is a newish air conditioner that will probably only be switched on later, when the tourists arrive. Sweat is pouring down my back. Why did I choose, and iron, a long-sleeved shirt for tonight?
I look at my watch again. Three minutes later than a moment ago. The music changes from Ali Kiba to Elton John. The smell of fried food drifts from the kitchen.
The waitress saunters to my table. “What can I get you?”
“A Kilimanjaro, please. No need for a glass.”
Nine minutes to seven.
The beer she places in front of me a while later is ice-cold. Fine drops have condensed on the outside of the bottle. I look at the man in the white cap, who is still sipping his warm beer. Saying “please” must have done the trick.
I down the Kilimanjaro, banishing the heat for a moment or two. The man in the cap raises his beer in a respectful salute when I smack the bottle down on the table. I signal for the waitress, who is back behind her paper, to bring me another. She nods and smiles for the first time.
I lean back in my chair. Maybe this will be my lucky night.
Everyone looks up when she walks in. Even the waitress, who obviously knows her. Ranna said “Hardings” the way other people say “home.”
I don’t have to look at my watch to know she’s late. It’s half an hour after my first beer, and Hardings has filled up with every imaginable accent and color. It’s rowdy and disorderly—which is how the photographer likes it, I guess.
She sits down, briefly laying a hand on my forearm. “Sorry I’m late.”
She doesn’t mean it, but the smile is real.
She smells of lemon and cinnamon. And something else. Smoke. Not cigarette smoke. Something more pungent. Pipe? Cigar? I can’t place it, but I don’t want to waste time guessing. What does it matter? She’s here.
“What are you drinking?” I ask.
She points at the Kilimanjaro in my hand. “That looks good. Is it cold?”
“Ice-cold.”
“Then I definitely want one.”
She turns to beckon to the waitress, but the short, buxom lady in the blue T-shirt is already behind her.
“Maggie! Nice to see you again.” Ranna takes the woman’s hands in her own. “How are you?”
“Fine.” The waitress gives her the broadest smile I’ve seen tonight.
“And your brother? Is he better?”
Maggie gives a relieved sigh. “Yes. He’ll be back at work tomorrow.”
“I’m so glad.”
“So am I. Running this place alone is killing me. What can I get you? The usual?”
“A beer tonight, please. Same as his.”
Maggie frowns. “You know how drunk you get on beer. Remember the headache?”
Ranna winks. “Who says I’m going to get drunk? Besides, this is a decent guy. Can’t you see? Look at his shirt. He’ll make sure I get home safely.”
Maggie weighs me with her eyes. Then she laughs as if she doesn’t believe Ranna, shakes her head, and turns to go.
I’m not impressed. I take a critical look at my green striped shirt. Decent? Is that what I want to be? I knew I should have worn something else.
“Don’t look so annoyed,” Ranna says, as if she can read my mind. She takes the bottle out of my hand and downs half the beer in two gulps. “It’s good to be decent. Very few people are decent.”
“Depends on what you mean by decent.”
She thinks for a moment. “It means you’ll put me to bed without getting in yourself.”
“Then I’m not so sure I want to be decent.”
I watch as laughter spills over her lips, along with the last of the beer. She stems it with a quick hand. “That’s not a very decent remark.”
“At least we agree on that. So I’m not so decent after all?”
She’s about to reply, but something, or someone, behind me distracts her. She tosses the thick black curls back over her shoulders and cranes her neck to see past me. Her blue eyes, paler tonight against her white T-shirt, turn into searchlights, only to fade with something like disappointment. At last her gaze returns to me.
I turn, but all I see is a sea of people. Was it someone she knows?
She puts down the empty beer bottle with a loud enough noise to get my attention and fiddles with the label at the bottle’s neck.
“I know people.” She carries on as if there was no interruption. “You can object as much as you like: you’re a decent man. Something happened to make you that way. Something that chewed you up and spat you out a long time ago, and it’s too late to do anything about it now.” She lets go of the bottle and trails a lazy finger along my forearm. “And no, there’s nothing wrong with being softer, either. Softer sleeps better. I can promise you that.”
“I suppose softer is okay.” I think for a moment and decide to forget about the people behind me. “And so is decent.”
She laughs. “Well, why are we arguing then? How about another beer?”
“Done!” Ranna shouts.
She slams down the bottle on the table. It teeters to the right, then the left, but stays upright. The German tourists next to us, all sporting stiff broad-brimmed hats and light-brown hiking boots with clean soles, applaud enthusiastically. They’re leaving for the Ngorongoro Crater tomorrow.
I down the last of the Kilimanjaro and hold the cold bottle to my forehead, where a headache is lurking. “You win. Again.”
She holds out her hand. “That’ll be five dollars, thank you very much.”
“You’re cleaning me out. Whose idea was it to play for money, anyway?”
“Well, why don’t you win it back? Winner of the next race takes all.” She points at the pile of crumpled bills in front of her.