Brother Mike pulled in his line, reached into his ever-present holdall, extracted his bottle of Courvoisier and a small glass; things were good. The breeze picked up, rustling the fronds on the nearby banana trees. The gust startled a hamerkop that scolded all as it flew from its hiding place along the shore where it had been hunting small fishes. Children laughed and played at the school on the hill on the far side of the swale, their melody vibrating off the rich lowlands where cabbage, carrots, and tomatoes sprouted like buds on a rose. Life was good.
❦❦❦
Brother Mike’s routine now seemed fixed and his situation stable. He approached new friendships with caution after a lengthy break following Sister Alice. He managed short, almost ephemeral, friendships with a sister visiting from a northern order and a public health specialist from the Ministry who was touring centers in the area.
He enjoyed the challenges of keeping things moving—the logistics of intertwining the Abbey’s supply chain and his own substantive network. But his real pleasures were still to be found crowd watching from the Crane’s veranda and placing his bets at Philip’s.
The seasonal changes were very nuanced in these hills, and Brother Mike was scarcely aware of the passing of time. The arrival of a new container was the main milestone, and this, too, was routine enough as to not create any feeling of exceptionalism. The Christmas season was always a joy, but the abstemious spirit of the Abbey made this a modest festivity, with the exception of a splendid and ornate Christmas Eve Mass.
The ascetic lifestyle notwithstanding, the monastery was not to forego opportunities. The Christmas season was a time when the bakery and butcher shop produced baskets of seasonal favorites to entice their customers: special breads, exotic sausages, and heavily scented cakes and cookies. There was a cornucopia of holiday gastronomy that required a whole new stock of supplies. It was, thus, that at this time there were no less than two containers a month to ensure the brothers had all the fixings to satisfactorily serve their clientele, some coming from as far away as the national capital.
After the holidays, there was a respite—a deep communal sigh of relief that yet another season had successfully passed. This lull was generally filled with a quite good cheer such as one has after consuming a well-prepared feast. In fact, the comparison was very apt as the brothers themselves also tended to up consumption of all sorts during the festive season.
Brother Mike was enjoying the seasonal afterglow during his first go at the cards for the New Year. They had just dealt the first hand when there was a raucous pounding on the sliding glass door. All looked up, but only Karl recognizing Etienne frantically knocking on the door.
As Karl escorted Etienne into the room, he announced to all that Etienne was the houseboy of Mr. Goldfarb, the math teacher at the Catholic High School. While none of the other players knew Mr. Goldfarb, they had heard of him, as he had been here for ages. Now in his advanced years, he still walked to school every day, wearing the same old charcoal gray three-piece tweed suit with a red fraternity tie. No one knew if he had but one set of clothes, but he was only seen wearing the same somber attire when he marched to and from school, through the years with the same strong gate.
Like Karl, Mr. Goldfarb had sent his wife to back Europe, or she had opted to return. In any event, as with many expats in town, they lived separate lives. Since La Coopération—the international assistance agency that employed most of the expatriates ostensibly assisting the country in various capacities—paid travel for the whole family, a spouse living in Europe could come to Africa on holiday while one working here could return at regular intervals to reacquaint him- or herself with the homeland.
These somewhat fluid spousal arrangements led to a variety of accords. While Karl found in this detached connection a new freedom to sow the wild oats he had forgone as a youth, when he was consumed by his academics, Mr. Goldfarb had preferred a more staid arrangement—setting up house with a young girl for whom he could more likely have been a grandfather than a lover.
This relationship, so scorching at the onset, had cooled and assumed another form of detachment as Mr. Goldfarb’s years continued to climb. While the flame may not have been fully extinguished, the young and striking (and for all intents and purposes, the second Mrs. Goldfarb) frequently sought the attention of younger men—often on the veranda of the Crane. Many an evening, the still comely but aging second Mrs. Goldfarb could be seen on the portico encircled by a gaggle of would-be suitors. After leaving the Crane Hotel, whatever, however, and wherever things happened was only the object of the community’s active rumor mill, as the second Mrs. Goldfarb, to her credit, masked her extracurricular flings in nearly complete secrecy. The onlookers could only, as they did so well, wonder with whom and how.
While his spouse was assessing the evening’s crop of young admirers strutting their virility at the Crane, Mr. Goldfarb could be seen in his study through the rarely drawn drapes, pacing back and forth in his shirt sleeves, a whisky glass in his hand, a well-used bottle on the coffee table, listening to cassettes of François-Joseph Gossec and seemingly talking to himself between sips.
But now the delicate spousal equilibrium had shifted, as a frantic Etienne was anxiously trying to explain to any who would listen. The second Mrs. Goldfarb had locked Mr. Goldfarb out of the house. When he had returned from his day at school, perspiration drenching his face as it was now the hot season, he found no way to enter his home. Madame had barricaded the doors and was deaf to his calls. Etienne had been returning from the market when he saw the sight. He was now concerned his patron could succumb to heat exhaustion, as he was hammering and hammering on each and every door and window, all to no avail, but with the sweat now soaking his three-piece suit.
The players decided they had to intervene. If they could not penetrate the ramparts on Mr. Goldfarb’s behalf, they could at least bring him back here where he could have a cold beer and a sympathetic ear.
Antonio had driven the minivan from the store, so there was room for everyone as they drove the few blocks to the colonial style house that had been occupied by Goldfarb for years and years and years. Pulling into the drive, they spied their prey sitting in a heap on the stoop; his coat still on but his tie loosened around a sweat-soaked collar. He was so still they were worried he may have expired, but when they shook his shoulder, he revived and meekly accepted a ride to Philip’s, apparently having lost all will to access the habitation now apparently overseen by the second Mrs. Goldfarb.
When finally seated in one of Philip’s armchairs, Mr. Goldfarb resembled a blow-up Saint Nicholas that had suddenly lost all its air. In fact, like air hissing from a leak, his lungs seemed to be voiding their very essence. Nonetheless, when a frothy pint of beer was passed before him, he eagerly took it, instantaneously consuming the entire contents. After a third pint, Mr. Goldfarb’s hooded eyes fluttered and he looked as though he could speak. With the four men perched over him like a kingfisher at the fishpond, and Etienne shadowing them in the corner, unwilling to leave his long-time patron, Mr. Goldfarb uttered but a word, “Damn!”
It took yet a fourth pint before the tale could be spun.
Goldfarb knew it was in the offing. She was still a prime specimen and he offered little to keep her close to home and hearth. Heretofore, the long parade of young men had been able to assuage the urges, while she still found safety and security in remaining the second Mrs. Goldfarb. However, as was bound to happen, she finally met a man who was not just there to satiate her but who said he really loved her; he wanted to marry her and build a house for her. This seemed so little to ask. A normal life was now so attainable—no more galavanting, no more evenings on the terrace. The opportunity for a real home with someone to whom she could relate and with whom she could communicate. Was it too much to ask? She certainly did not think so and had said as much to Goldfarb that morning. She only wanted her freedom and a stipend that could help with building the new house.