The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [48]
—My husband says you are a wonderful poet.
—Your husband is very kind.
—In your country, writing poems is not dangerous work?
—In my country, writing poems isn’t considered work.
—In my country, such a thing is sometimes very dangerous. But you are not writing of my country?
—No. I don’t know it well enough.
—Ah, said Mary enigmatically, patting him on the knee. And you will not.
Two sisters brought in a sufuria filled with pieces of burnt goat. A leg bone was sticking out. Ndegwa sliced the crispy black meat on a wooden table with a machete and passed bowls of the glistening goat around the room. Thomas held his plate in his lap until he watched Mary use her fingers. The grease on the rhinestone was fantastic.
The eating was painful. Ndegwa presented Thomas with a bowl of choice morsels reserved for the guest of honor. He explained that these were the goat’s organs — the heart, lungs, liver and brain — and that they were sweet. To encourage Thomas, Ndegwa drank the raw blood which had been drained from the goat when it was slaughtered. Refusing the delicacies was not, Thomas already knew from having been in the country half a year, an option — not without embarrassment to himself and insult to Ndegwa. Thomas didn’t care whether he himself was embarrassed, but he guessed he didn’t want to insult his teacher. His gorge rose. He stuck his fingers into the pot, closed his eyes, and ate.
Another African experience, he knew at once, that could never be described.
After a time, Mary rose and said they must all excuse her because she was uncomfortable and needed to nurse her baby. Ndegwa laughed and added, Her breasts are so big, she is now a bent tree.
The good-byes, Thomas remembered, had taken an hour.
—Now you know where to find us, you will come again, Ndegwa said to Thomas when he was leaving.
—Yes, thank you.
—Don’t get scarce.
—No. I won’t.
—We will have two goats next time.
—Perfect, Thomas said.
* * *
—When will the arrest be? Thomas asked Ndegwa at the café.
—In a week? Two weeks? In five days? I do not know. Ndegwa flipped his hand back and forth.
—Is a poem worth dying for?
Ndegwa licked his lips. I am a symbol to many who are like me. I am a better symbol arrested, where my people can hear of me and read of me, than if I flee.
Thomas nodded, trying to comprehend the political act. Trying to understand the reasoning of a man who would put himself and his family at risk for an idea. All through history men had died in droves for ideas. Whereas he couldn’t think of a single idea worth dying for.
He wanted to tell Ndegwa that his work was too good, that it shouldn’t be sacrificed for politics. But who was he to say? In this country of so much suffering, who could afford the luxury of art?
—Stay with Regina and me, Thomas said. They’ll never look for you in Karen.
—We shall see, Ndegwa said. Noncommittal, having committed himself elsewhere. As good as arrested already.
The big man stood. Thomas, shaken, rose with him. A feeling of helplessness overtook him. Tell me what I can do, Thomas said.
Ndegwa looked away and then back again. You will go to visit my wife.
—Yes, Thomas said. Of course.
—This you will promise me.
—Yes. And did he see then, on Ndegwa’s face, the tiniest flicker of fear?
* * *
Thomas paid for the beers and left the Thorn Tree. He felt dizzy and disoriented. It was the beer on an empty stomach. Or Ndegwa’s news. A man approached him, naked but for a paper bag. The bag was slit up the sides to allow for legs, and the man was holding the two openings closed with his fists. He looked as though he were wearing diapers. His hair was dirty with bits of different-colored lint. He stopped in front of Thomas — the American, the easy mark. Thomas emptied his pockets into a pouch the man had slung around his neck.
He needed to find Regina.
He passed the street that led to the Hotel Gloria, where he and Regina had spent their first night in the country, not realizing it was a brothel. The sink had been stopped up with a brown matter