The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [85]
He slid down, curling himself behind her.
—It was stupid, she said. The lobster.
—You think it was that?
—I know it was that.
The room lit only by the light from the bathroom.
—You’ll take a plane in the morning, he said.
—Peter’s meeting the bus.
—You can’t take the bus. It’s out of the question.
She didn’t argue.
—I’ll have the hotel call him.
He could feel a slight tension leave her body. She was drifting off.
—Do you know where Peter is staying? he asked quickly.
—The Ocean House, she said, closing her eyes.
______
He lay with her until daybreak, occasionally dozing off himself. Extricating himself as gently as he could, he picked up the key and left the room and walked out to the lobby, which was empty and still. He searched for a phone book, but couldn’t find one. Not surprising. He picked up the phone — a black, old-fashioned phone — and asked for Malindi information. When he had the number, he rang it and asked a sleepy desk clerk if he would put him through to Peter Shackland’s room. He waited, tapping a pen nervously on the wooden desk.
—Hello? A British accent apparent, even in the hello. She hadn’t told him that.
—Is this Peter Shackland?
—Yes. It is. British and boyishly handsome. An unbeatable combination.
—I’m calling from the Peponi Hotel on Lamu.
—Really? Peponi’s?
—Linda’s had a bout of food poisoning, Thomas said. From lobster she ate, she thinks. She’s asked us to call to say she’ll be flying back to Malindi early in the morning. The plane leaves at seven forty-five. I’m sorry I don’t know when it gets in.
—Not much after eight-thirty, I shouldn’t think. There was a pause. Oh Lord. Poor thing. Of course I’ll be there. Has she had the doctor?
—You might have better luck in Malindi.
—Yes, I see. Well. Is she asleep?
—I believe so.
—Right, then. Well, thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?
Thomas was ambushed by the question. John Wilson, he said quickly, borrowing the name of the airport.
—American.
—Yes.
—You work for Marguerite?
Thomas hadn’t even asked the woman her name. Yes.
—Lovely woman. You don’t by any chance know how Linda got there, do you? She was meant to be staying at Petley’s. The hotel must have been full?
—I think so.
—No matter. I’ll ask her tomorrow. Thanks for looking after her, the man named Peter said.
—Not at all, Thomas said.
______
Thomas put the telephone back in its cradle. He walked through the lobby onto the verandah. The air was mild, the sea nearly flat. Peter, who was British, knew Marguerite. Peter, who knew Peponi’s, had quite possibly taken Linda there on a vacation.
He took his shoes off. At the horizon, the sky was pink. He began to walk in the sand, cool and damp on the soles of his feet. He would not ask Linda why she hadn’t told him Peter was British; nor would he ask if she and he had made love in one of the rooms in the hotel behind him. A fishing dhow skirted the shore, and a man aboard it leaned gracefully over the side, letting go of a net.
He would not walk out very far or for very long. In an hour and a half — less now — he would put the woman he had lost and then found again on a plane.
February 15
Dear Thomas,
I want to say thank you and I’m sorry, knowing perfectly well you don’t want either my gratitude or an apology.
I feel as though I have left all of me in Lamu, that nothing remains. I am hollowed out, empty without you.
The several days after I flew to Malindi are barely worth mentioning. I stayed in a hotel until I had recovered enough to make the trip to Nairobi and then to Njia. In Malindi, Peter had a doctor come — a drunken quack who kept wanting to talk about the good old days — and apart from a packet of pills we never quite caught the name of, but which worked extremely well, he seemed to be pretty useless, unable even to identify what was wrong with me. Though I’m sure it was the lobster. (I think I can promise you I will never eat another lobster again as long as I live.)
Oh, Thomas, I am dying for you. You asked me questions that made perfect sense in the