Fletch, Too

There was only one proper-looking gentleman with a drink in front of his face, eyes on the front door of the hotel, when Fletch appeared on Lord Delamere’s Terrace in ski boots, powder-blue ski pants, red sweater (sleeves rolled up), and sunglasses. At least there was only one proper-looking gentleman with drink in front of his face, eyes on the front door of the hotel, who gulped at the sight.

Others glanced and continued chatting.

That man began to rise, so Fletch went over to him.

The man held out his hand. “I’m Carr. The four-door model.”

Shaking hands, Fletch said, “My father not here yet?”

“Can’t think what happened to him.” The man sat down again. His beer glass was half empty. It was a round table, with four chairs. Fletch sat across from him. Carr said, “You’re a dazzler. Absolutely a dazzler. Is that what they wear in America these days?”

“When they’re skiing.”

At a table near them sat two paunchy men in short safari suits, balding, florid-faced, wearing competitive handlebar moustaches. At another table sat a woman in black, with a black picture hat. The man with her was in a double-breasted blue blazer, white shirt, and red tie. His hair was brilliantined. Jammed around another table were six students, male and female, black and white, jabbering excitedly, dressed in cutoffs and T-shirts. Two businessmen, briefcases on the floor beside them, talked earnestly at another table. Their white shirt cuffs and collars were between the perfectly matching blackness of their skins and suits. Many tables away three women sat together in brilliantly colored saris. Almost everyone else on the terrace was dressed in long or short khakis.

Carr asked, “Do you play guitar?”

“No,” Fletch answered. “No talents.”

Carr himself was dressed in khaki shorts, long khaki stockings, a short-sleeved khaki shirt. He was a solidly built middle-aged man with big knees, big forearms, big chest, and not too much gut. His hair was thinning, sandy. Even though his skin was deeply tanned, there was a light sunburn on top of it, and a few freckles on top of the burn. His hands were large, strong, heavily callused. His eyes were perhaps the clearest Fletch had ever seen.

“How do you like the Norfolk?” Carr asked.

“It seems authentic,” Fletch said. “Perhaps the most authentic place I’ve ever been.”

Carr chuckled. “I expect it is. In the old days, you know, the cowboys would come in so dusty and thirsty they’d ride their horses straight into the bar. The bar used to be through there in those days.” He pointed to a blocked-off door. “Now that’s a posh dining room. They’d be so dehydrated half a drink would make them looped, and they’d start shootin’ the place up.” He chuckled again. “I’ve been thrown out of here more times than I can recall.”

“I bet.” Fletch doubted it.

“Red, white, and blue.”

Fletch looked down at his powder-blue pants and red sweater. “What’s white?”

“You are.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

A young waiter said to Fletch, “Jambo.”

“Jambo. Habari?”

“Habari, bwana?”

“Mzuri sana.”

“Good God!” Carr said. “You speak swahili?”

“Why not?” Fletch checked his watch. “I’ve been here two and a half hours.”

Carr gave Fletch a long look. Then he said to the waiter, “Beeri mbili, tafahadhali.” He felt his glass. “Baridi.”

Very carefully, Fletch said, “Baridi.”

Laughing, Carr said, “You’re a dazzler!” The waiter went away. “Americans never used to make an effort at languages.”

Fletch looked across Harry Thuku Road to Nairobi University. “Does my father speak Swahili?”

“Oh, yes. Plus God knows what else. Has to, you see, flying small planes around the world. Here, ninety percent of the people speak English, ninety percent Swahili, and ninety percent speak at least one other, tribal language.”

“What are you?” Fletch asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You could be English, American, South African, I suppose, Australian, from the way you sound.”

“Not Australian,” Carr said. “Not Australian. That takes too much bloomin’ work. I’m Kenyan. Turned in a British passport for a Kenyan passport, and never regretted it. Live here awhile, and you’re apt to sound like anything, I suppose. A cosmopolitan wee place.”

“You’re a pilot?”

“Still flying, as they say.”

“The man who appeared at my wedding, last Saturday, said nothing, but handed me the package with the tickets in it to come here was probably a pilot, yes?” Fletch was hot. The red sweater was prickling his skin. “He was a little guy, dressed in khaki, a blue tie.”

“The international brotherhood of bush pilots.”

“Where else have you flown?”

“Latin America, India. Some in the States. Other places in Africa.”

“Smuggle?”

“That’s not my business.”

“Does my father?”

“That’s not his business, either.”

The waiter brought the beer.

Fletch said, “Thanks, bwana.”

Carr smiled. He put his half-empty glass of beer onto the waiter’s tray.

“How is my father?” Fletch asked.

Carr looked across the road. “We’ve all seen better days.”

“He must be rich.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Tickets here, for two, plus a thousand bucks, this hotel. That’s a lot.”

“Not over a lifetime. Have you ever had anything else from him?”

“No.”

“Did you come here only because you thought he might be rich?”

“No. I was ‘mildly curious.’”

“He’s not rich.”

“How do you suppose he knew I was getting married? Exact time, odd place … I barely made it myself.”

Carr seemed to be studying his rough hands. “I suspect your father’s been hearing from you all your life.”

“Not from me.”

“Hearing of you. I’ve seen pictures of you.”

“Of me?”

“In a school yard. Walking along a street. In a football jersey. On a beach.”

“All those dirty old men taking pictures of me.”

“Pilot friends, I expect.”

Fletch grinned. “And all these years I thought it was because I was so pretty.”

“I take it you’ve never seen a picture of him?”

“No.”

“What were you told?”

“I was allowed to think he was dead. He was declared dead, legally, when I was in the second year of school. I didn’t know until last Saturday that my mother has always allowed for the possibility that he is alive. I guess she didn’t want me to go off on some half-baked father search, you know, only to be disappointed.”

Carr’s eyes opened wider. He shook his head. “Absolutely,” he said, “this has to be Mrs. Fletcher.”

Fletch looked around.

Outside the door of the hotel stood Barbara, in ski boots, powder-blue ski pants, and a red sweater, sleeves rolled up.