I count the bottles to her left. Nine. Most men would be on the floor by now. I’m on eight beers, and it’s more than enough. Sounds are coming to me dimly, from a distance, and there’s a sour taste at the back of my throat.
Where’s Maggie? Maybe she can help.
I turn, spot her behind the counter, her shoulders stiff under the blue T-shirt. She looks at Ranna, then at me. Her expression says she doesn’t want to know. She takes the yellow cloth that’s draped over her shoulder and begins to polish the beer glasses lined up in front of her.
I turn back to our table.
“Ranna,” I try to say over the drone of voices. Then louder: “Ranna, no! Come on. Time to go home.” I run my finger across my throat. “Enough.”
Instantly her smile vanishes. Her eyes turn an icy blue. “I offer you a chance to win your money back, and you chicken out?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to drink anymore. Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She motions for Maggie to bring her another beer, but the waitress shakes her head, pointing from Ranna to me.
I get the message. The photographer is my responsibility.
The German tourists look upset and start to grumble as if I’m spoiling their fun for wanting to take Ranna away.
I ignore them. Tomorrow they’ll be gone, and we’ll still be here. Besides, I like Hardings. I don’t want Maggie to ban me from the place.
“Why do you want to go on drinking?” I hang my head in a show of defeat. “You beat me hands down. I give up.”
Ranna presses her lips together. Then she leans across the table and smiles broadly. From ice to water in one unpredictable second.
“What do I win?” she asks.
“A week’s beer money.” I point at the pile of bills on the table. “And someone—a decent guy—to walk you home.”
“You said you’re not decent.”
“I lied.”
“Is that a habit of yours?”
“Lying? Only out of decency. Like any good Afrikaner boy.”
Her laugh comes from a place deep inside her throat, and I can’t get enough of the sound. She gets up quickly, sure-footed, as if she’s been drinking orange juice. Then she stops and tilts her head, deciphering the music in the background.
Turn up the volume, she motions to Maggie. This time the waitress obliges.
Ranna’s hips, clad in tight blue jeans, begin to sway. The movement is hypnotic.
“I adore Angélique Kidjo.” She pulls me to my feet. “Come, dance with me. Just for a minute. Then we can go home. Swear.”
I wonder if I still know how to dance, but the promise of her body against mine is too tempting to refuse.
On the small, crowded dance floor at the back of Hardings I try to draw her body to mine, but she evades my hands. She raises her arms, shakes her hair back over her shoulders, closes her eyes, and starts moving to a rhythm my beer-fogged mind fails to grasp.
I remain still, staring at her, until finally she calls me closer. I put my hands on her hips, where I can feel her pulse, warm and rapid. Instantly I forget everything I said about going home.
We leave Hardings in the early morning. There’s been a shower, bringing relief from the night’s heat. The clouds have drifted away, and the clear, bright sky is flush with stars. Nights like these almost make me homesick for the farm.
Behind me Ranna is counting her steps. “Seventy-one. Seventy-two.” She stops when her phone rings.
I turn when she doesn’t answer the call. She’s standing motionless on the poorly lit sidewalk, her long fingers pensively stroking her lips, as if she wants to erase the fear I can see hiding there. She’s staring at the cell phone in her hand.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“It’s the middle of the night. It’s got to be a wrong number.”
“But you’re awake, aren’t you? And what if it’s a story?”
She returns the phone to the pocket of her jeans. “I’d rather talk to you.”
She comes up beside me and links her arm through mine. We walk on in silence.
I know I should ask, but I don’t want to. It’s like knowing you’re going to lose someone, yet still getting up every morning as if nothing is wrong. Or like calling your mother and talking about the weather, or the article you’re working on, or the busy lambing season, but never your father.
You don’t want to know. You silence the voices in your head. Because you know it’s usually only a lover—past or present—who will call at three in the morning.
4
Someone forgot to switch on the air conditioner in the conference room, or maybe, like Hardings, the Skylark Hotel is saving money. The air in the long narrow room is so stuffy I battle to keep my eyes open. For the umpteenth time in the hour since I sat down, I yawn.
“Stop it,” says the man next to me.
Tom—Tomboy, Tom Pom—Masterson freelances for a few publications, including the Guardian. Because of his name and the chest hair that spills over the top button of his shirt, he has to sing “What’s New Pussycat?” at every foreign correspondents’ Christmas party. It helps that he has a good voice, of course. Anyway, that’s what I’ve been told. If I’m still around at Christmas, I’ll probably find out whether it’s true.
He runs his hand over the blond stubble on his chin, over his nearly bald head and sunburned neck. His eyes blink rapidly. Stop. Blink again. It’s an irritating habit that makes it hard for me to look him in the eye.
He gives a long yawn. “See? It’s contagious.” He looks at his fake Rolex. “How long have we been waiting?”
“Fifty-three minutes,” I say. “For the minister of health to come and open a brewery, because the president is in China. Am I the only one to find it ironic?”
To our right a number of journalists, mostly from the local media, are milling about. I’m here because I have nothing better to do. More than any other profession, journalism understands the value of the comparative degree.
“How long are we going to give the man?” Tom scratches his dry scalp with the chewed end of a pen. It grates like sandpaper. “I’d give anything for a beer. You?”
I look at the assembled audience, mostly factory workers in overalls and yellow T-shirts, hovering near the cases of beer stacked in the corner. From time to time, two bulky men in dark suits stop someone from pinching a bottle. The beer is for later, and probably the only reason anyone would be prepared to listen to a long list of boring speeches.
“I think it’s going to be a long wait, Tom.”
My nose picks up Ranna’s scent before I see her. I register the elusive citrus fragrance combined with what I suspect is Cuban cigars from last night. It makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. Her unhurried approach is accompanied by the faint crackle of static electricity generated by her long blue skirt.
Finally her black Doc Martens reach us and come to a halt. “I can’t believe you actually thought they’d start on time,” she teases.
I wave a greeting. “I was optimistic. What time did you get up?”
She smiles, her eyes bright. She shows no sign of last night’s heavy drinking. “An hour ago. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it. Helps if you have a favorite dala dala taxi driver who goes out of his way to pick you up.”