The press conference at the Plaza Hotel is already in progress when I arrive, but for some reason the subject under discussion isn’t the budget. I slide in next to Tom Masterson, just in time to witness the minister of finance shake his head in irritation.
“What’s going on?” I whisper.
“The—what happened to you?” Tom points at my wet shoes and muddy jeans.
“Long story.” I motion at the podium. “What’s this all about?”
“Blame him.” Tom inclines his head toward a journalist from the local Daily News sitting diagonally in front of us. “He wanted to know what would happen if it keeps raining like this.”
“It hasn’t been raining that long, has it?”
“Apparently parts of the countryside are flooded.”
“Oh. What does the minister say?”
“Listen. Here it comes.”
“Fine, let’s talk about the rain.” The bald man in the neat blue suit speaks heatedly. “Let’s ignore the much more significant problem of the budget deficit.” He takes off his glasses and wipes the sweat from his brow with a white handkerchief someone to the right of the podium has handed him.
“It’s too early to say whether the rain is going to be a problem,” the minister says. “As you all know, we have long rains and short rains every year, and this year the long rains have come early. They don’t usually set in before March, so we’re not used to seeing them in February. And the rainfall has been a bit heavier than usual, but what can we do about it?” He pats his chest with his open palm to illustrate his frustration. “All we can do is wait and see what happens. Maybe, if we’re lucky, it will stop raining earlier than usual. That’s also a possibility.”
“So the government isn’t seeking international aid just yet?” the man from a local paper, the Daily News, persists. “Two people died yesterday when their motorcycle was swept away.”
The minister wipes his brow again, gives an exasperated sigh. “Every life is precious. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it will stay in Tanzania. But what happened yesterday was an accident. I know, because I spoke to the police myself. Those men crossed the river where they shouldn’t have. The bridge is a mile downstream, but they were in a hurry. My point is: Why should we apply for international aid at this stage? There’s no crisis at present, and it’s no use meeting trouble halfway.”
“So you’re not even slightly worried?”
The minister’s mouth becomes a thin line. He seems about to lash out angrily when his gaze falls on Tom and me, and he coughs uneasily.
“We’ll keep a close watch on the situation,” he says, assuming a more reasonable tone. “We may decide that it’s a good idea to alert the international community early on, just in case things go wrong. You never know. The weather is remarkably unpredictable these days.”
Next to me Tom writes everything down. It has been one of the better press conferences of the past few weeks. Two stories for the price of one: the budget deficit and a looming natural disaster.
I look around the room. I seem to be the only one battling to focus. For a while now my pen has been moving of its own accord. Situation. Aid. Go wrong.
Go wrong.
Where is Ranna?
She’s not among the huddle of photographers in the corner aiming their lenses at the minister like an impatient firing squad, waiting for him to stop talking. By now they’ve grasped that the bigger story is out there. Photos that can change the world. People battling to see another sunrise while the rain keeps pouring down. In here, there’s a lot of talk, as if you could sidestep death by devising a three-point plan.
Along with the smell of sweat and last night’s alcohol and moldy suits specially dusted off for today’s event, there’s something else in the air. Somewhere in the midst of everything, only barely discernible. If you lift your nose slightly, like an eager predator, you’ll be able to identify it as the smell of anticipation. Of something about to happen.
8
Tom holds the Marlboro between his thumb and index finger. He drags on the cigarette, exhales. Looks around for an ashtray, then tips the ash in the fronds of a dried-out fern. The drone of voices around us abates as the members of the media finish their tea and coffee and leave.
I want to ask him, yet I don’t. How much will I be giving away if I speak to him?
At last I give in to the need to know. One day it will probably be the end of me.
“You don’t happen to know where Ranna is?”
He raises a quizzical brow, blinks rapidly. Again. There’s an inscrutable expression in his eyes.
“So you’ve got a thing for her as well now?”
First Hadhi, now Tom. Why is everyone harping on the same string? I open my notebook and pretend to look for something. “I just want to know where she is, that’s all. There’s something I want to ask her.”
Tom seems unconvinced. He stubs out his cigarette in the fern’s soil as one of the hotel’s managers approaches, shaking his head reprovingly.
“Sorry! I didn’t know I’m not allowed to smoke in here.”
As the manager stomps off, Tom turns back to me.
“There isn’t a single journalist in this room who hasn’t asked me that question. Except Gerald, maybe.” He motions at a muscular guy with a crew cut. “And only because he’s gay.”
I knew it was a bad idea to ask Tom about Ranna. “Forget I asked.”
He laughs and holds up his hands. “Don’t let me upset you, Alex. She’s one of those women who drives guys nuts. But she’ll grow old alone. Men are too much work for her. Too much everything. She feels trapped, then she runs away. End of story.”
“I’m worried about her, that’s all.”
“She can take care of herself.”
“I know, but still . . .”
The Englishman is silent as he gives me a searching look. Is he looking for confirmation that I’m telling the truth?
“She and I have been friends for a long time. Years,” he finally continues. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but she’s going to fuck you up. Let it go. Don’t get involved. Look for someone else to pass the time with while you’re here.”
“Do you know where she is, or don’t you?”
“Yesterday she was fine.”
“So you saw her yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Late afternoon.”
“And she was okay?”
“Ye-e-s.” Tom stretches out the word. He frowns. “Why?”
If what Tom says is true, then whatever went wrong must have happened in the few hours since he last saw her and my encounter with her at Hardings. Or could Tom have been involved?
I study the bald journalist with the nicotine-stained fingers. No. Ranna is taller than him, and he’s probably right: she can look after herself. She’s the kind of woman who knew how to make a fist and throw a punch by the time she went to nursery school.
“Alex.” Tom speaks again. He takes the Marlboros from his shirt pocket, reconsiders, and puts them back. “What’s going on?”