Night Must Wait (6 page)

"I need to start my laundry." Gilman stubbed out her cigarette on one of the pale apricot rocks in the garden border. Strange rocks with holes in them as if sculpted by water. Sandy could have explained them. Gilman wanted see the patient again, assure herself he was all right.

"By all means." Wilton knelt down and poked some bits of weed through the fence to the interested chickens. She made murmuring noises to them and they answered.

"I think you know a lot more than Igbo," Gilman said, "you even speak chicken."

She went into the dim bloody-smelling garage and heard the instant response of the cot creaking and a rustle of bedclothes.

"I'm the doctor. The American doctor," Gilman said. "Stay down, don't worry."

"What do you think?" Wilton said.

Gilman jumped. She hadn't heard or seen Wilton follow.

"He should be okay, but I wish I could be sure there's no concussion. With that eye swollen shut I can't even check if his pupils react bilaterally. He shouldn't sleep with a likely concussion."

"Christopher can keep him awake."

"I'm sorry, Wilton, but do you really trust Christopher?"

"A bit late to ask." Wilton sounded like she wanted to laugh. Maybe she was right. "Yes. I do trust Christopher. How's the patient?"

"Not certain what the real damage to his eye might be. The tongue will heal and so long as he can do without whistling, he'll be all right. He's been lucky on the beatings. Dislocated couple of fingers, now splinted, possible cracked ribs. Nasty facial contusions, broken nose—but I reduced the fracture so no danger now of occluded breathing."

"Not bad for a refugee," Wilton said.

Wilton took a deep breath and went to the man on the cot. She began to speak. He nodded, then nodded again with a moan.

"Edo, from the Mid-West," Wilton said and went back to talking.

"Hell. Poor son of a bitch." Gilman felt as if her mind fragmented away into the trivial now that she no longer needed to focus. So tired now, standing here on shaky legs in the dim light of the garage. The liquid sounds of Wilton's voice halted. She rose from her crouch by the cot with a token pat to the man's shoulder. Wilton didn't like to touch people. She did it as little as possible, always flinching away when Gilman gave her a hug.

"I explained to him about staying awake for a while longer and about Christopher. Your room's ready—bet you could use a nap."

The evening grew around the little porch where Gilman and Wilton sat in folding chairs, a drift of breeze bringing the fragrance of frangipani and jasmine.

"Igbo expect snake-bite victims to die. In fact an old man told me once snakes were returning spirits, so if they bit a person, there wasn't anything to be done but accept the ancestral will. Two weeks ago, a ten-year-old, underweight like all of them, got hauled in by some Sisters of Mercy to my clinic, bitten not more than ten minutes before."

"What'd you do?"

"Sliced and suctioned, gave him a shot of adrenaline then sent for the old antivenin the local Dutch businessman had in his fridge. I had to tell him it was probably so out of date that he needed a fresh bottle anyway before he let me buy it.

"When we let his father in to see the boy the next morning, he touched him like he believed in miracles," Gilman said. "He'd never seen anyone survive a mamba bite before. No one in the village had. Pure luck the kid was near our clinic when it happened and one of the Sisters saw. Otherwise, pfft!"

Wilton was doing that thing where she wasn't smiling exactly, but she made Gilman feel witty and brilliant.

"You're right. There aren't any limits here. I order everyone around. And these people can be so frigging tough—they don't wimp and whine like Americans. I don't have to get approvals or go through channels. Hell, I'm all the authority I need. Anything I'm willing to learn I can try. I managed a really difficult ligature the other day in an infant..."

She turned to look at Wilton.

"Oh hell, Wilton. I'm sorry."

Wilton looked back at Gilman, her warm brown eyes narrowed with her smile. She continued to nurse her tonic water, her fingers curled around the frosted glass in the humid evening. Here on the enclosed porch at Wilton's place, screens stopped mosquitoes and the many deaths the delicate insects carried. A last vivid gold light tipped the leafy branches on the horizon, then vanished into sudden night.

"I'm describing ligatures and you didn't stop me."

"Why ever should I?"

"Boring, as Sandy would say. Gross."

"Hardly."

"Don't want to make you wish you hadn't invited me. It's good to be on vacation even for a short go. How's the book coming?"

"Books. Plural. A full accounting of West African birds would take a shelf. Bannerman's eight volumes are only a beginning," Wilton said. "New species, changing ranges. Which should I leave out? I love them all. But Gilman, no. I wasn't bored by your ligature. Truly."

No, Wilton never showed a lack of attention. Always the perfect audience, which in itself should be suspect. Gilman felt far too happy to worry. She remembered the afternoon and the angry crowd in heroic colors and took a deep satisfied breath.

"You really believe in us, don't you," Gilman said. "You've got some guts yourself, Wilton. What were the odds that the crowd might've turned? You held them, Wilton. Amazing. Wish I knew the languages you do. You told me don't waste the time."

"I still would," Wilton said. "I had leisure growing up. No television, too few books, hanging out by the servants' quarters."

"You're so formal with them now it's hard to imagine you palling around in the servants' quarters."

Wilton smiled.

"English is the
lingua franca
, the medium of commerce, of science and of politics," she said. "More than two hundred languages here, some even divided into dialects. How would you ever choose one tribe's tongue above all others?"

"How arrogant to push a foreign language on a country," Gilman said.

"How arrogant to chose one of theirs above the rest. Too late to change, anyway. English is the language of power."

A borrowed tongue, a borrowed system of politics…did these impositions cause the coups in the Western Region and the massacres in the North? Could anything be mended from the outside by foreigners?

"You think even with the political balance shot, Lindsey will be able to help? I still don't get what it is she does or what you expect her to do. Cultural attaché or whatever in the US State Department isn't the whole story and I know it, even if you two don't trust me with the rest." Gilman tried to make that sound like a joke and hurried on. "Anyway, I'll heal every patient in West Africa, Sandy will find oil and minerals to make the country rich and you'll finish the definitive compendium of West African Birds. Twenty volumes and not one subspecies left out."

Wilton set her glass down on the elephant table. She picked up one of Gilman's books, a slim clothbound volume and flipped pages.

"You brought this for light reading?"

"It's out of date," Gilman said. "World War I cases of shell shock. I like reading old stuff."

Wilton looked up.

"What's
astasia-abasia
?"

"Inability to stand or walk normally. Incoordination."

Gilman got to her feet to demonstrate the lurching gait. As ever, Wilton looked fascinated as if this were some kind of treat rather than a clinical description.

"You look like you're expecting the question on the final." Gilman flung herself back into her chair. "Maybe you should've been a doctor. I've thought that before."

Wilton smiled, looked away. "I'll have to be off. You stay on here. Just let my people know what you want. Besides, you'll be able to smoke without me looking at you."

"You're leaving? But there's a curfew in all towns and cities," Gilman said, disappointment lowering her voice. "Starts in an hour. You can't keep breaking the law. They'll arrest you."

"Don't worry." Wilton picked up her glass. "I'll be far on the bush roads before curfew starts. No one cares out there."

"But where are you going?"

"West. Don't worry," Wilton said.

"Do you seriously have a clue what's going on? How dangerous is it? Will they shoot? Do you need me to come?" Gilman said.

Wilton shook her head. "It's not your country, Gilman. Don't forget that. You're American. Time may come when I'll have to tell you to leave Nigeria again and then you'll listen. I never intended to bring you here to live in violence. But I saw you standing up to that crowd like you were born to it and I was proud to know you. Tonight I'll go faster alone. I hope to take a missionary plane at dawn and you know how tight space is on those little Pipers."

"Okay," Gilman said. "But I'm sorry for what I said to the crowd. I'd have used it even in New York, you know. "

"We all slip up sometimes, but I'd never use the word 'animal' again on a Nigerian. Too many old scars. The first whites traded in 'animals.'"

Gilman knew that and she almost said so, but her furious words still echoed in her own ears. Wilton's houseboy padded up on bare feet to freshen her drink, his white uniform gleaming. 'Servants insisted on uniforms,' Wilton said. It hurt their pride to wear regular clothes. They moved with pride in silent efficient service. Snacks and meals and drinks on these rare nights when Gilman had the chance to come here for a rest. Made her feel pampered, like one of those colonial masters of yesteryear. The White Man's Graveyard, the Gold Coast. That said it all—contrast. Death and riches, and the glitter of sun in the trees.

"Don't worry little Wilton. I won't bail. I'll hold down the fort while you're off. You know what my life in a New York hospital would be? More paperwork than blood work."

Chapter 8: Gilman

December 1966

Nsukka, Eastern Region, Nigeria

Gilman stared into the mirror over the sink. Old and cloudy, the blurry impression of white face, blue eyes and tawny hair that needed brushing. She poured a little water from a pitcher into the stoppered sink, then soaped and rinsed her hands. Letting the slops go, she tipped water over each hand to rinse it twice. Erratic water supply, but such things mattered more in the hospital. She had a vacation now, and for that she'd put up with water out of pitchers. Gilman thought she heard someone in the passageway outside the bathroom.

"Christopher?" she said.

Gilman stepped into the corridor and almost collided with a tall man who avoided her with the grace of a dancer. Not Christopher. The shock of the stranger's presence, his size, silence and blackness all forced a startled sound from her.

He looked down at her. Nothing distinctive about his clothing, only a white short-sleeved shirt and khaki trousers, his face peaceful behind his wire rimmed glasses, like a man who practiced never being surprised.

"Who may you be?" he said in perfect English.

"That's my question," Gilman said. Was he looking for the refugee?

"I am sorry," he said, backing up one more step, his face smooth with politeness. "Maybe I have the wrong house?"

"This is Professor Wilton's house," Gilman said.

"Madam?" Christopher's voice came from the garden. He must have thought Gilman called him.

Calculation, that was what she saw when the stranger looked over at the closed door to the laundry and hesitated. Was the Edo man safe in the garage?

"Who are you and who are you trying to find?" she tried to speak with authority, louder, so that Christopher would hear.

The stranger made a little bow.

"It is the wrong house," he said. "I was looking for one particular person. Alone."

She positively disliked him now. Who could be more alone than a man from a different tribe, isolated in a hostile land?

"Christopher," she called, trying to project her voice far enough to be heard beyond the passageway. "He'll help you out," she said to the stranger.

"Do not trouble yourself," the man said. "I shall be able to find my way."

He moved down the hall, silent and graceful. Gilman stood staring after him. He seemed to know which way to turn when he reached the main rooms. Surely Wilton didn't have a male friend? Not that kind. Wilton was way too religious to have that kind of fun.

"Madam?" a voice came from the window and she saw Christopher peering in.

"I found a strange man inside the house," she said, feeling inadequate. "Tall, glasses, cleanly dressed. I don't think he was a thief, but…"

"Excuse me, madam," Christopher said. "I believe I know this man. Mr. Oroko. He runs errands for the professor sometimes. Professor Wilton has assigned him to take our guest West. She told me to inform you that she will return in time for dinner tomorrow."

"Do I need to help Mr. Oroko?"

"No. I shall make sure it is well. Professor said before she left that Mr. Oroko will care for all. He is skilled. She wants no fuss to bring attention."

Gilman took the route the strange man had back down the hall, reassured by Christopher's words. Disorienting to feel that Wilton had reached in under her hands and taken away the responsibility. So much for holding down the fort. The shadowy front room, its floors gleaming, seemed an invitation to stay inside, but Gilman left the house, walking down the uneven cement steps to the hard ruddy ground.

She blinked in the brazen light and pulled out her cigarettes. Gathering storm clouds threatened the sky, intensifying the glint of stray sun. Drama. Even a quiet afternoon in Nsukka looked like a portentous set from Hollywood.
The African Queen
, maybe, color added, cranked up high. In the highlands of Nigeria the weather came emphatic in all its moods.

Nsukka had a rural feeling despite the flourishing university it harbored. The roads were stained with clay. Bright orange dirt, crawling vegetation clambering over itself, strangling itself and a sky that looked like God was coming. Gilman the atheist, in a land where God was always coming, brought there by Wilton, the Christian missionary. A missionary of education and reform. A champion of refugees.
Go figure
.