He had prayed with a man who had AIDS on his last visit. The man was the color of burnished brass and his skin stuck to his bones like plastic wrap. They prayed as the rain clouds gathered, and David kept thinking they had to start walking again before the rain came. His name was David too, the dying man’s name, who was probably dead now. He had a hut with a tin roof instead of thatch, and chickens clucked in the dirt as they prayed. Afterwards, David told Hannah he didn’t feel sympathetic toward the man. It’s okay, she said, we don’t feel sympathy for everyone. She was a nurse and sometimes didn’t feel sympathy. But did you for that man? he asked and she said yes, because he was helpless. He was one of God’s orphans no matter what he had done. David’s suitcase got soaked because they didn’t make it back to the guesthouse before the rains came.
He set his suitcase down across his lap. His watch beeped. 6 pm local time. Eight hours difference meant ten in the morning back home. Hannah had another doctor’s appointment this morning. Maybe right now. She would be sitting in the waiting room, reading People magazine. She would have her hair tucked behind her ears as she read. Her hair that reminded him of the beach that he first saw at Mercury Cafe. What book was she reading? He remembered her green sweater and dark red scarf that he later learned she knit herself. He had remarked on the book and she asked him to sit and he bought her more coffee. It was November and he gave her his umbrella, so he’d be sure to see her again.
The minibus stopped abruptly. The mother pulled her son away from her breast and he started crying. It was the cry of a baby with weak lungs, straining to be heard over the noise of the street. The girl kept kicking her legs. He heard over and over as men and women got off: “Taxi! Do you need Taxi?” Other blue and white minibus taxis idled across the wide street. The sun was gone now, the street only illuminated by the buzz of the streetlights above and the harsh, yellow light of idling taxis. The faces were unfamiliar on the sidewalk. Taxi drivers hassled slow-moving travelers with bloodshot eyes. The browning concrete building behind them had chips and cracks in it. A few men stood off to the side with their hands in their pockets, smoking and eyeing the crowd. With nearly three out of four people in Zambia unemployed, there was time to stand and smoke in the evening. Maybe someone would walk away from their suitcase and the loiterers would get lucky. David saw Billy against the wall, trying to peer over the taller heads of the men and women around him. He had the smooth face of a child and the quiet eyes of a man at peace with himself. David knew it was Billy in the half-light of the street. He exited before the girl and crying baby, holding his suitcase to his chest, and his eyes met his friend’s.
“David! It does me well to see you. How is it with you?” Billy spoke slowly, but grinned and took his friend’s hand. “You are a picture of health.”
“It’s good to see you, Billy.”
“Do you have any luggage on the top?” The taxi driver was unfastening the netting holding bags on top and handing them down to needy travelers.
“No. Just this.”
“Good. Then let us go. It is night and you are white and I want to hold my money.” Billy laughed, throwing his head back like he was in a commercial.
Billy insisted that David take the front, and after some friendly resistance, he did. He never knew how or when to resist a friendly gesture in America, which made the practice in Zambia absolutely overwhelming. Why is there always a charade, he wondered to himself as the minibus pulled away, if you don’t want to pay don’t offer, if you want the front don’t offer it to someone else. His father was like that, even as he was dying and had no money. He insisted on paying for dinner.
