about your sculptures.”
With no hesitation, Jean-Baptiste flowered and expansively described the various statues he had created and how thrilling it felt to be able to see these objects materialize from amorphous stones. He went into great detail as to how the process was one with his religion and how it was through his faith that he saw the stones transform into divine works.
Brother Mike ordered more beer and enquired as to how much time Jean-Baptiste was able to devote to his sculptures given all the rigors of the Abbey. A frown entered the corners of Jean-Baptiste’s eyes as he conceded he was frustrated because his sculpting time was minimal with all the obligations he must fulfill to take his final vows and enter the order.
It would work.
Brother Mike smiled to himself, maintaining a solemn air as he offered, “If you were to be assigned to me, I have a vacant room near the panel beating shop where you could set up a studio and spend all your time, at least in that part assigned to me, developing your wondrous works of art.”
Yes, this would be fantastic, an excellent solution. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Brother Mike shared a few more beers with Jean-Baptiste, steering the conversation to an analysis of the late rains and the impact these might have on the harvest. As the sun moved further west, Brother Mike reminded Jean-Baptiste of Vespers and offered him a ride back to the Abbey.
3
Wednesday arrived at its own speed and Brother Mike prepared for poker. He left early to get a few sacks of cement at the market, thereby justifying his taking the Toyota. He then found Philip’s house with little difficulty. Typical of this expat neighborhood, his bungalow was set back in a small but well-kept garden, set off by a small garage and a large apron with parking for several vehicles including Brother Mike’s pickup. The entryway was through sliding glass doors, directly into a modest living room with an adjacent dining area. The living area was appointed with locally made armchairs with foam rubber cushions covered in bright African prints surrounding a large glass-topped coffee table.
Philip met him as he approached the sliding door, guiding him to one of the chairs; the others were occupied by two gentlemen he assumed to be Karl and Antonio. His suspicions proved correct as Philip made the introductions, thereafter offering beer and cigarettes all around. Brother Mike did not smoke, but he was a minority of one and the room was soon redolent with tobacco smoke.
They chatted while Philip’s houseboy adjusted the dining area to make room for a folding card table under the central hanging light, placing a similar folding chair on each side. As Brother Mike was not only new to the game, but also to the group, the preliminary conversation was more biographic. Brother Mike by now knew Philip well, knowing he was starting his second decade in Central Africa after lengthy schooling in ophthalmology, specializing in tropical eye diseases.
Brother Mike now learned by current standards Philip was still wet behind the ears in terms of experience living abroad. In fact, for the others, living abroad was really the wrong term, applied only because both Karl and Antonio were from European stock, but neither had ever really lived in Europe. Karl had been born in Central Africa where his father had been a doctor in the colonial service. Antonio’s equatorial roots were even deeper. His family had migrated to German East Africa in 1888, and started a bodega in Bagamoyo in what is now Tanzania. His family had considerably expanded their business interests from those early days, but in 1962, when Nyerere was elected president, it became hard for the family to hold onto its investments in an environment of African Socialism. They had moved further into the hinterland, into the Great Lakes Region. Today, after two decades of rebuilding, Antonio and his family had a thriving supermarket as well as commercial and residential property and a profitable poultry farm.
Brother Mike wondered how it was that he had never met these gentlemen before. After all, the provincial capital had a population of less than 70,000 inhabitants; it was not a big city—the expats of all varieties, including the religious orders, accounted for less than three percent of the census. It would seem logical that everyone knew everyone else, but this was obviously not the case. Everyone may well know the rumors and tall tales of everyone else, but they certainly did not know everyone else in the flesh and blood. Karl and Antonio definitely had stories to tell. They were people from whom lessons could be learned.
But this was not the time for introspection. The card table was set with a fresh deck of cards impatiently waiting to be shuffled, not to mention Vespers getting all the closer with each passing minute. Everyone picked up their sweating amber beer bottles and moved to the square field of battle.
The cards were shuffled and dealt and then reshuffled. The conversation was mainly monosyllabic. At one critical point when Brother Mike was considering his wager, there was a loud call of “Bullshit!” When Brother Mike looked up from his hand, he could not tell which of his adversaries had made such a pronouncement. As he stared at his opponents, a resounding “Bullshit!” was again uttered, but by none of the players. His consternation was clear on his face.
Philip saw Brother Mike’s predicament and laughingly pointed to the corner of the room. There, for the first time, Brother Mike noticed a tall cylindrical cage with a domed top. He placed his cards face down on the table and got up to see, more closely, the creature that had so rudely interrupted his concentration.
As he approached the cage, he saw it was occupied by a most impressive African grey parrot. As he got nearer, the parrot scooted across his perch and bowed his head, almost as if to seek Brother Mike’s blessing. Brother Mike extended a finger to try and scratch the proffered head.
“Don’t do that,” said Philip in a stern voice. “You get your finger in there and he’ll flay it. He doesn’t like men.
“That’s Kasuku, Angela’s naughty bird. They say the female parrots bond with men and the males with women. We don’t know which sort this one is, but by its behavior we assume it’s a male and it sure is tight with Angela and enjoys inflicting great pain on us boys.”
Brother Mike withdrew his finger and was turning to regain his chair when, as if understanding the full conversation, Kasuku bid him goodbye with a loud “Asshole!”
Time passed quickly with no big winner nor loser. Soon the shadows lengthened and Brother Mike knew he would have to race the sun to its setting, the hour of Vespers corresponding to sundown at these latitudes.
The next Saturday, as the veranda at the Crane began to simmer with weekend energy, Philip confirmed to Brother Mike that their Wednesday game would be on and would be on for the foreseeable future, as all the players were now committed to the new schedule, which they found to be the most agreeable way to pass a midweek afternoon.
With due precision, the group assembled at Philip’s on the next appointed date. As the introductions and biographies had been taken care of, they were able to plunge directly into their cards. Each was engrossed in evaluating what the Fates had given them when they heard the door slide open. With a quick glance, Philip said, “Do you all know my wife, Angela?”
Karl and Antonio looked up from their cards and offered a familiar greeting to Philip’s spouse who they obviously knew well. When Brother Mike looked up, she had her back turned, as she was removing her scarf. He mumbled a brief salutation and was just about to look back to his cards when she did an about-face and, to his shock, he realized that Mrs. Philip was the lady with whom he had exchanged words at the hardware shop all those weeks ago.
There was a twinkle in her eyes as she came over to the card table and offered her hand to Brother Mike. He politely stood and took her hand, noticing the firm return pressure and the dry palm. She then softly
