Bingo's Run (30 page)

“Maybe,” I said.

“I'd like that,” she said back.

I looked into her eyes. Both were leaking. I said, “But you have to write, too.”

She waved her orange duster across her face. “Maybe,” she said. “But you will have to write first. I can't just send a letter to Bingo Mwolo, Art Dealer, U.S.A.”

She had a point. “Ya,” I said.

The children across the road yelped, and I turned away to look at them. I did not want Charity to see my eyes fill up. Now a third child, a small girl, was playing with them, all three drenched from the water.

Charity came closer and said over my shoulder, “Perhaps, sir, you will come back and visit me one day.”

I wiped my face with my shirtsleeve. I turned, and Charity and me were closer than a Sony TV. “Maybe you come to America,” I said. Streams had formed on her face and tears dropped off her cheeks. I reached out, brought her to me, and we held each other. Her water went into my shirt, and mine went into her stiff brown uniform. I wanted to give her every drop of me.

A cough interrupted heaven. Manager Edward stood there. Fast, Charity and I let go of each other. Mr. Edward looked at us. He filled his lungs. I knew what was coming. “Mr. Mwolo, you are aware of what the great African philosopher Browning once said of love?”

I looked at Charity, and then back at him, and said, “No, Mr. Edward. But wha' does tha great philosopha Managa Edward say about it?”

He looked up at the sky and then across the road at the wet, laughing children. He took a breath longer than it takes to drink a Tusker. Mr. Edward said, “Mr. Mwolo, this world rests upon a lake of never-ending love. Discover the fountain and then drink until you are drunk.” Without another word, the best-dressed man in Nairobi left us and returned to his post.

A new thought banged into my head. Perhaps the whole run—everything—was for this, Destiny No. 3: Charity.

But I had done enough thinking for one run. I took Charity in my arms and moved my mouth to hers. Faster than spit, Charity shoved her orange duster into my face. It smelled of cleaner. “Only after eight turn-downs,” she said.

I did the eight turn-downs fast, as if I did not care, and then, at last, I kissed her.

Bingo's Run
is a testament to the enduring faith of Cindy Spiegel, my publisher, and Natanya Wheeler, my agent. Cindy never settled until Bingo climbed as high as he possibly could, and Natanya pushed me forward, even when Bingo flailed from exhaustion. To Cindy and Natanya, thank you.

This book speaks to family. When you climb a mountain, it never crosses your mind that the mountain might crumble beneath your feet. Such is my family. I never worry because they bear me.

In Nairobi, I thank the staff of the Stanley Hotel for crushed cane juice, hospitality, and rum. Thank you to the Red Cross, the Kenyan army, and the Nairobi police. Most of all, thanks to Jeremiah (“JJ”), my driver. Once, JJ and I were drinking beer in a part of Kibera called Mathare 3A. It was filthy hot. Out of nowhere a riot erupted over a stolen television. I was spotted as a tourist and they came for me, but JJ never left my side.

J
AMES
A. L
EVINE
is an internationally known scientist and physician. He is a professor of medicine at the Mayo Clinic and professor of Health Solutions and professor of Life Sciences at Arizona State University. Much of the author's scientific work and his two novels have focused on the rights of children with respect to labor practices, prostitution, and poverty.