I sigh impatiently. “I don’t have time to explain. Do you know where she is, or don’t you?”
He relents. “Try the road to Korogwe. She said something about a butterfly migration. That’s all I know.”
9
Korogwe is a long way to the north. I’ve been driving for more than two hours before I come across the first butterflies. A few miles farther along, the scattered clusters of white turn into swarms of fluttering insects, oblivious to their surroundings, blindly following their instincts.
I know I’m supposed to write up this morning’s conference, that I can’t simply abandon everything and chase after a woman as if I have nothing better to do, but the realization doesn’t make me turn back to Dar. Instead I follow the swarms of butterflies as if they’re bread crumbs, constantly on the lookout for Ranna’s white Land Cruiser.
It’s hard to find a single vehicle among a horde of others. I try and locate her car between the multitude of shops, dala dala taxis, motorcycles, cattle, and goats at the roadside. I see nothing. Then, just as the patched, tarred road has taken me through a village and spat me out among the hills, I spot her 4x4 under a giant acacia tree.
I draw up behind her vehicle. Something doesn’t feel right. The door on the driver’s side stands ajar, but there’s no sign of Ranna.
I jump out. The muggy air hits me between the shoulders like a wet fist. I jog to her car and look inside. Nothing. I close the door. There’s blood on the door handle, just as there was blood on her front door this morning.
I turn and search for the flicker of a lens in the afternoon sun that occasionally breaks through the heavy gray clouds. Listen for the creak of the worn leather boots she wears in the field.
Nothing.
Then I hear it. Click. Click-click-click.
I veer sharply to the left and run into the long grass.
Click.
Deeper into the grass. Faster.
Click, click.
Then I see her. She’s squatting on a red sleeping bag in the veld, her camera turned skyward. Click. Click, click.
Relief floods me like cool water. I almost laugh, but Ranna’s voice brings me to a halt.
“Stop right there if you don’t want to get hurt.” She speaks in a low voice, her back to me.
I stop in my tracks, boots parked in a muddy puddle.
Click. Click. Click.
Shadows move across her face, the folding and unfolding of hurried wings, like the fluttering pages of a book. I look up. Hundreds of butterflies are passing overhead, white specks against the overcast sky. Some fly into my face, my neck.
Impatiently I brush them off. “Are you okay?”
She lowers the camera. Her eyes move from the butterflies to me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I gesture over my shoulder at her car. “The blood?”
“I scratched my finger and it bled. Mosquito bite.” She holds up her ring finger. A scratch runs down the right side. “Nothing serious.”
She raises the Nikon. Click. Click, click, click, click.
I want to move to the right, get closer to her, just to make sure, but I stay where I am.
“Can I move now?” I ask at last.
She lowers the camera, straightens up, turns to me. There are mud stains on her elbows and on the knees of her jeans.
“What are you doing here, Alex?”
“You weren’t at the press conference.”
“So?”
“I was worried about you after last night.”
She straightens her shoulders, her eyes suddenly a sullen dark blue. “Forget what happened.”
“As simple as that?”
“Yes.”
“You were bleeding. How do I forget that?”
“Same as when you’ve written a story. It’s not your blood, so it’s okay.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” A warm breeze stirs up a few stray leaves around my feet. “That I don’t care?”
“I’ve read your stories. You keep your distance. Always. Like the article on the HIV/AIDS clinic. It’s very good, informative, but in a clinical way.”
“What do you want me to do? Break down every time I write about death?”
“I suppose you’re right. Keeping your distance is one way to survive.” She takes aim at me with the camera, takes two photos. “Or, rather, it’s how one learns to survive. Who taught you to survive, Alex?”
Typical of Ranna. Attack is the best defense.
I refuse to play along. “I care about you. I care about what happens to you. It’s all that matters. Stop being so difficult.”
There’s a moment’s silence, then she throws back her head and laughs.
Startled butterflies flutter up in the air.
“Was that a declaration of love?” she asks.
I shrug, tired of being cautious, of measuring and weighing my words. “Call it what you like.” I turn, not waiting for an answer. Not wanting to see the pity on her face.
I head for my Land Rover as fast as I can through the tall grass and search for the keys in vain.
I’m still digging in the pocket of my jeans when the rain starts coming down, hot and heavy, as only tropical rain can fall. Within seconds I’m drenched.
Did I drop the keys somewhere? I punch Ranna’s Land Cruiser door with an angry fist. “Fuck.” Kick the wheel. “Fuck everything.”
At last I find the keys in the long grass.
I drive off without looking back. I’m hardly in second gear before the first butterflies land under my windshield wipers like crumpled bits of paper, just like discarded love letters.
On my way back to Dar I write the morning’s article in my head. It’s better than thinking about Ranna. Tom was right: the woman is trouble. In capital letters.
When I reach home, I piece together a story on the budget and the rain in fifteen minutes. I send it off without reading it again.
The words flicker on my screen a few minutes later: How big will this story get?
Jasmine, the news editor.
The budget? I type intentionally.
No, the rain. Will it turn into a disaster?
I almost laugh. The chances are good that Tanzania is going to be flooded. It’s chaos all over again, breathing down my neck. I came to Dar es Salaam bored with Joburg, and I ran into another mess headfirst. I just don’t know whether it will turn out to be Ranna or the rain.
Or both.
Probably, I write back.
Can you handle it?
Of course. Why do you ask?
For a few minutes nothing happens, then the words come back: Because your stories sound different from when you were still at the paper. Maybe the heat is making you soft.
That’s not what Ranna said. According to her, I don’t care. Who’s right—Ranna or Jasmine?
What does caring sound like? I ask.
In my mind’s eye I see Jasmine laugh. She’s a rotund woman with a huge fear of small spaces and an obsession with Madonna.
You’re starting to write about people, not names. How long have you been there?
A few weeks.
Hmm. Who is she?
I don’t know what to say, so I ignore the question and shut down my laptop.
But the truth doesn’t always need a voice. Sometimes it waits where you left it, without anyone having to acknowledge it. Quietly and indisputably. And, above all, patiently.