Fletch, Too

“No, I don’t know him.” Carr smiled. “I thought he was a friend of yours.”

On the dance floor at the Shade Hotel, Juma was break-dancing with some paid-for performers. It was early in the evening and only a few of the tables in the yard had people at them. The performers seemed to be showing Juma a few things, and Juma seemed to be showing them a few things. A tape machine at the edge of the stage/dance floor was playing “Get Out of Town” loudly.

“He just got into the car with us,” Barbara said. They were at a little wooden table under an umbrella. “First he said his name is James. Then he said we could call him Juma.”

Carr said, “He probably just wants a ride back to Nairobi.”

Carr had gone across the yard to the barbecue pit and ordered their dinners. A waitress brought three beers.

Fletch said, “I asked him how old he is and he said thirty-seven,”

“He is thirty-seven,” Carr said.

They watched Juma on the stage/dance floor spinning like a top on the muscles of his left shoulder.

“There are two rainy seasons a year here,” Carr said. “The short rains and the long rains. Ask someone how old he is, and hell tell you how many rainy seasons he has behind him. In Juma’s case, it would be thirty-seven. That means he’s eighteen and a half years old.”

Fletch said, “Oh, I see.” He was getting the three little notes nearly right.

On their way from the witch doctor’s shamba to the Shade Hotel, Carr had driven them on a detour through Karen. They had stopped at Karen Blixen’s, that is, Isak Dinesen’s farm, or what’s left of it. Not a tarted-up tourist attraction yet, the low stone house and a few acres adjoin a business school. They had gotten out of the Land-Rover and walked around, under the trellis, through the roots and trunks of the great trees in back.

Barbara and Fletch had sat for a moment on the stone arrangements near the back door where Karen Blixen had held court with her people and maybe did some of her writing about them.

“Dinesen, Hemingway, Roark,” Carr said. “That was all light-years ago, in African time.”

“Time, space.” Juma started back to the Land-Rover. “They were always light-years away from Africa, anyway.”

In the deepening dusk at the table in the yard of the Shade Hotel, Carr said, “You must be aware of what time it is, too. You’re on the equator. The sun rises at roughly seven each morning and sets at roughly seven each night, year-round. Sunrise is the beginning of the day, naturally, and sunset the beginning of the night. So if someone says he’ll see you at three tomorrow, he might mean ten o’clock in the morning. Ten might be five o’clock in the afternoon. Five tomorrow night is midnight.”

Fletch said, “Oh, I see.”

“It is through such simple misunderstandings,” Carr said, “that cultures clash.”

The waitress brought them a large plate of cooked meat and a bowl of rice. She placed three paper plates on the table.

Carr took a piece of the meat in his fingers. With it he lifted rice from the bowl into his mouth.

“Shouldn’t we ask Juma if he wants something to eat?” Barbara asked.

Carr said, “He doesn’t want to eat now.”

Barbara raised her eyebrows. “Say what, bwana?”

“Traditionally, people here eat only one meal a day, at nine or ten o’clock at night, after it cools down. A very high-protein meal, if they can get it. They believe eating during the heat of the day makes you sick, fat, and lazy.” Carr looked around him at the few other people at that early hour. “Some come to the city, of course, put on polyester clothes, take to eating three meals a day, and in no time they took just as chubby and pasty as your average New Yorker.”

Watching him dancing, Barbara said, “Juma is not chubby and pasty.”

“So,” Carr said. “He doesn’t want to eat now.”

Eating the meat and rice with his fingers, Fletch asked Carr, “What are you looking for?”

“Beg pardon?”

“For what are you looking? Or shouldn’t I ask? At Thika, Juma was translating for us. He said you told the witch doctor you are looking for a place. You asked her where it is.”

“Oh, that,” Carr said.

“Private business,” warned Barbara.

Fletch shrugged. “No one ever has to answer a question.”

“No one ever has to ask a question, either,” Barbara said.”

“I’m a reporter.”

“You’re not working now.”

“May the searchlight of the free press never darken,” said Fletch.

In the glow of the kerosene lamp on the table, Carr’s face looked more red than usual.

“The witch doctor was fascinating,” Barbara said. “Thank you for taking us. You said people working in holistic medicine now are taking an interest in the witch doctor generally …”

Suddenly, Carr said, “I’m looking for a Roman city.”

“Huh?” Fletch asked.

“Good!” exclaimed Barbara. “Finally an answer to one of your impertinent questions made you almost swallow your teeth!”

“Here?”

Carr nodded. “In East Africa.”

Barbara sighed.

“Hell of a long walk from home,” Fletch said. “Through Egypt, the Sudan, Ethiopia …? How could they supply themselves through thousands of miles of desert?”

“The Arabians did,” Barbara said. “It can’t be all desert.”

“Down the Red Sea,” Carr said. “Into the Somali Basin.”

“By boat.”

“The reason people have always doubted it,” Carr said, “is because once you get into the Somali Basin the southwest winds and currents are strongly against one.”

“So?”

“So,” Carr said. “They rowed.”

“Hello of a long row.”

“Difficult, I admit. But the Romans did difficult things.”

“What would they want here?” Barbara asked.

“Spices. Minerals. Gems.”

“The Romans conquered the known world,” Fletch said. “This world was unknown.”

“Right,” said Carr. “Kenya would be farther than anyone has ever believed the Romans traveled.”

“A Roman city in Kenya,” Barbara said.

“Kenya is as far from Rome as is New York,” Fletch said.

“The Romans came to America,” Barbara said.

“They didn’t build cities.”

“No,” said Barbara. “They ate lobsters and either died or went home. Typical tourists.”

“I don’t think the Romans ever went to America on purpose,” Carr said. “They got blown there by mistake. No one from Europe ever got blown to East Africa by mistake. I think the Romans came here, settled here, and were here for a very long time.”

“If Barbara will forgive another impertinent question,” Fletch said, “what makes you think so?”

“To be honest,” Carr said, “there is currently a small rumor circulating that some documentary evidence of there having been a Roman city on the East African coast south of the equator has turned up in London. That’s all I know about it: there’s a rumor. But long before I heard this rumor, I have believed it. Always.”

“Why?”

“The Masai.” Carr sat back in his chair. “How can you observe the Masai and possibly believe the Romans weren’t here?”

Fletch shook his head as if to clear it.

“Right,” Carr said. “There is a tribe called the Masai. Bantu origins, cousins of the Samburu. The Masai roam the south, the Kenyan- Tanzanian border; the Samburu the north. The Masai are a warrior tribe. They carry spears. Traditionally, they carry shields. They wear togas. Historically, Masai young men go through intensive training in the arts of war, to attain the rank of moran, warrior, including elaborate tests of courage. From what is known, the Masai were perfectly disciplined to use complicated, sophisticated military formations and tactics. So perfect were they as a military force that they succeeded in keeping the Western world, the white people, with their bows, arrows, crossbows, and gunpowder, out of inland East Africa until very nearly the beginning of the twentieth century. What finally made them retreat was the automatic rifle and the English railroad. The coast had been opened, Lamu, Malindi, Mombasa, fought over by the Arabians, Portuguese, whoever. But no one ever went inland, so terrified were they of the Masai.”

Barbara picked gristle off her meat. “Why couldn’t they have developed these military tactics on their own?”

“They could have,” said Carr. “But some of their military tactics were appropriate only for urban areas. There weren’t any urban areas for them to develop such tactics. And why, if they did develop these disciplines and tactics themselves, are these techniques, even their mode of dress, so similiar to the Romans?”

“Come on,” Fletch said. “Why would an African tribe maintain a military discipline imposed on them by a foreign culture for over two thousands years?”

“Because,” Carr answered, “the Masai are a very fragile people. Extremely tall. Extremely thin. Traditionally, they eat only meat, milk, and blood.”

“Good God,” said Barbara.

Carr smiled at her. “They produce the best-smelling sweat in the world.”

“What?”

“Their perspiration smells beautiful. It’s a heavy, dense, clean odor you could bottle and sell in your boutique.”

“Masai Perspiration parfum.” Barbara shook her head. “I don’t think it would be a hit.”

“The Masai are so brittle,” Carr said, “they can never win in hand-to-hand combat. As soon as their ancient enemies, the Kikuyu, would penetrate the Masai’s disciplined formations and go at them with their hands and feet, the Masai would lose. Maintaining this Roman militarism was their only way of surviving as a people for two thousand years.”

Electronic music was blaring from the stage.

“In fact,” added Carr, “the Masai are so brittle they have trouble bearing children. Over the centuries they have needed the women of other tribes. The Masai were not just militarily defensive, but these enormously tall, skinny people had to be militarily aggressive to survive.”

“Whew.” Fletch shook his head. “Witch doctors. A lost Roman city. Carr, you are a surprising fellow.”

Carr shrugged. “It’s just a hobbyhorse of mine. If anything works out, I might make a bit of a name for myself. It’s so crazy anyway, I didn’t mind going to a witch doctor about it. You never know what little thing might come out of traditional wisdom.”

“Are you actually spending time and money looking for this place?” Barbara asked.

“Time and money. I have a camp set up. Sheila’s there now.”

“Is Sheila your wife?”

“Might as well be. Dear old thing’s been with me years now.”

Barbara looked shyly at him. “Has either of you a degree in anthropology, archaeology, anything?”

“Good heavens, no. Barely finished school. But to paraphrase the ignoramous regarding art, I’ll know when I see something out of the ordinary.”

Fletch smiled. “And is your camp in the south, in the hills, near a river?”

Carr nodded. “Exactly. Figured the Romans needed a certain altitude, a supply of fresh water, and a river big enough to give them access to, yet protection from, the sea.”

Fletch pushed his chair back. “We won’t tell anyone.”

He couldn’t imagine Frank Jaffe’s reaction to such a story anyway. Avalanches, mud slides, major earthquakes, airplane crashes, train wrecks, mass murders, acts of terrorism, airport bombings … Be sure and phone in, if you get any good stuff…

Hello, Frank? I’m onto a search for a lost Roman city on the East African coast. One of my sources is the witch doctor of Thika…

Uh, Frank …?

“Tell anybody you like,” Carr said. “Harambee. All in good clean fun. Better than poaching elephant tusks.”

“Go for it.”

Carr smiled at Barbara. “I thought you’d prefer the goat to the beef.”

Barbara said, “What goat?”

“Anytime you have a choice around here between goat and beef,” Carr said, standing up, “choose the goat.”

Barbara was looking at the empty plates. “I’ve been eating goat?”

“It’s much more tender,” Carr said, “than beef. Tastier, too.”

“I’ve been eating goat? I ate Billy the Goat?”

Suddenly, Barbara looked ill.

On the dark sidewalk outside the Norfolk Hotel, Juma crossed his arms over his chest. His feet were planted far apart.

Carr had just driven away in the Land-Rover.

Juma said to Fletch: “At the shamba in Thika you said my friends were drunk.”

“Sorry,” Fletch said. “Didn’t mean to insult your friends. They looked pretty drunk to me.”

“How do you decide friends?”

Fletch said, “I don’t care about drunkenness.”

“How do you decide who is your friend? Is that something you decide about?”

“What?” Barbara asked.

“How can you decide someone is your friend without deciding everyone else is not your friend?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Fletch said.

“Do you decide who is your enemy? That’s not the way things happen,” Juma said.

“Oh, I see.”

“Things just happen,” Juma said. “When you first saw me, I was with those boys. They were drunk. I don’t decide if they are my friends or not my friends. Maybe they are my enemies. How could you decide?”

Barbara shook her head. “I am very, very tired. I don’t have to decide that.”

Juma grabbed her arm. “That’s right!”

“Barbara said something right?”

Juma looked all around. “Deciding everything like that, all the time, north, east, south, west, is very hard.”

Barbara asked, “Do you mean difficult…?”

“… or harsh?” Fletch finished.

Juma turned and began walking away from them down the street. He waved. “Nice time!”

Watching him, Barbara asked, “Does he mean, Have a nice time …?”

“… or We had a nice time?” Fletch finished.

“I don’t know.” Barbara took Fletch’s arm as they started into the hotel. “But he understands Fletch is your father … ”

“… and he’s sorry.”