SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF SUEZA Novel
By
Gene C. McCoy
CHAPTER 1
Mogadishu, Somalia - 1965
Maggie Chandler lay quietly in the bed staring wide-eyed
into the darkness. Over the soft purr of the air conditioning
unit she could hear the slow, heavy breathing of her husband,
Greg, lying beside her. The smell of scotch whiskey, the depth
of his sleep, and the slow steady cadence of his breathing were
reminders of the previous night's drinking bout, not that she
needed anything to remind her. She thought about Greg's drinking
a lot. He drank too much, too often. Everybody out here,
including her, drank too much, too often.
For a long time she denied the extra drinks before parties,
the increasing length of the cocktail "hour" on the nights they
stayed home, and the, always, two or three more, after they came
home on the too many nights that they went out. Lately, though,
she could not deny it and she could not forget it. It was
beginning to effect her life too much. There was less sex, and
less conversation, and when they had either it was lousy.
There's too damned much entertaining at this post, she
thought. For a piddling little non-country the diplomats here do
an awful lot of giving and going to cocktail parties. There are
more parties here than we had in Paris or Madrid.
The night before they had gone to a reception at the German
Embassy, and if they had returned home when it ended at eight,
things would have been fine, or at least better. On the way out,
however, Mario Bianchi the First Secretary of the Italian
Embassy, rounded up a group and invited them down to his beach
hut for a swim and a night cap. Greg and Maggie had been in the
group, and not unusually, it turned out to be considerably more
than a night cap.
There had been no swimming until midnight when a secretary from the French Embassy stripped off her clothes, and ran naked into the sea while the crowd, by this time reeling with drink, cheered her on, and then stripped themselves and joined her. Maggie had stayed on the terrace watching them. The water had a sobering effect on them, and after ten or fifteen minutes they all, one by one, came sheepishly out of the sea, embarrassed and self-conscious as they pulled on their clothes. Shortly thereafter the party was over. Maggie drove home while Greg sat in the seat beside her, and to sooth his own conscience accused her of being puritanical and a "wet blanket." Incidents like this were becoming more frequent and it had left Maggie uneasy as she helped Greg into the house and finally bed, after "one last drink," that turned out to be two, both with three fingers of whiskey in them.
The early morning light filtered through the louvered
shutters; Maggie glanced at the illuminated hands on the alarm
clock beside the bed. It was almost five o'clock.
There was no point, she knew, in trying to sleep any longer,
nor would there be any love making. While Greg might have a case
of the "hangover hornies," as he called his need to make love in
the morning after a night of drinking, she was in no mood for it.
She slipped carefully out from between the sheets of the bed,
slid her feet into a pair of leather thong sandals, and pulled a terrycloth robe over her bare body.
In the kitchen she shuddered as a fat, dung-colored
cockroach scurried for cover. "Christ," she muttered, "these
damn bugs just grow bigger and stronger on DDT." Taking a can of
coffee from the refrigerator, she made an extra-strong pot in
anticipation of Greg's needing it, then poured a glass of canned
grapefruit juice for herself. She twisted her nose and shuddered
again at the bitter taste of the canned juice. What I wouldn't
give for a glass of fresh California grapefruit or orange juice,
she thought.
When the coffee had brewed, she poured a cup for herself,
walked out of the kitchen to the living room and opened the long
louvered French doors. The early morning air was still, cool and
fresh; pushing the screen door open, she stepped out of the house
onto the terrace and inhaled deeply. There was just a hint of
the briny smell of the sea, and she thought again of California,
and the rocky, wind-swept central coast where she had grown up.
In California, at this time of year, the morning air would be
filled with the scent of Monterey Cyprus, anise and wildflowers.
She was homesick, she realized.
They had been out in Mogadishu for eighteen months, and this
was the first time that she had gotten up at this hour. She was
startled as the guard, who roamed their yard at night to protect
them from burglars and other intruders, slipped out from behind a
tree to investigate the noise. Once he saw that it was the
mistress of the house he touched the red fez on his black head,
gave a wide, white smile and padded away, tapping his stick on
the pavement as he walked.
Standing at the edge of the terrace Maggie looked out beyond
the wall of their compound. The dunes dropped of sharply toward
the sea, and from their house, directly in front, she could see
the small breakwater seawall and dock where the lighters that
were used to unload the infrequent cargo ships that called
Mogadishu were tied up. To the left was the strip of white sand
that ran along the Lido in front of the beach huts. Offshore,
some five-hundred yards, was the barrier reef. The tide was
rising, and the foam from the waves breaking over the reef caught
the first lavender and orange of the sunrise.
From this vantage point, above the filth and squalor of the
narrow streets and open sewers of Hamar Uin, the souk, or market
place section of town, the place looked almost beautiful in the
fresh early morning breezes which left a welcome chill in the
air. Within a few hours, the breezes would turn to the near
gale-force winds of what is known in Swahili as the tangambili.
These winds, like the North African Ghibli, drove the fine sands
from the unpaved streets into every pore and orifice. By noon,
under the unmerciful beating of the equatorial sun, the
temperature would soar upward to over a hundred degrees.
Brushing an accumulation of sand from one of the porch
chairs, Maggie sat down and took a sip of the fresh strong
coffee, then placed the cup on a table beside her. Putting her
legs up on another chair, she leaned back and closed her eyes.
With both hands she pushed her hair back from the temples and ran
her fingers through the sun-bleached strands. The hairdresser, she thought, I've got to go to the hairdresser. I've let myself
deteriorate in this crummy place to the point that I hardly
recognize myself. Moving her fingers over the skin below the
eyes, she knew that if she looked in the mirror the effect of the
past year's late hours, and too many cocktail parties, would show
under the superficial appearance of health and youth created by a
deep suntan.
The effect of the cool air and the quiet were soothing and
she resolved to do this every morning. The solitude and being
alone with her thoughts, away from the demands of husband and
children, was therapeutic. No houseboys, cooks or ayahs falling
all over her; no blaring hard acid rock music; no telephone calls
from the wife of the Deputy Chief of Mission asking for help on
this charity or that benefit. Yes, her reverie continued, from
now on this will be just me, my hour to relax and prepare myself
for the rigors of daily life.
Maggie recalled a paragraph from one of Isak Dinesen's
Winter's Tales, that she had just read:
I have always thought it unfair to woman that she has
never been alone in the world. Adam had a time,
whether long or short, when he could wander about on a
fresh and peaceful earth, among the beasts, in full
possession of his soul, and most men are born with a
memory of that period. But poor Eve found him there,
with all his claims upon her, the moment she looked
into the world. That is a grudge that woman has always
had against the Creator: she feels that she is entitled
to have that epoch paradise back for herself.
Dinesen was a woman who loved Africa, she thought. Is there
something wrong with me? Maggie asked herself. Her reverie was
interrupted by the squeak of the screen door behind her. She
turned to look back over her shoulder to see her five-year-old,
Kathy, standing at the doorway holding a stuffed rag doll in her
arms.
"I had a bad dream," Kathy whined. "A lion was in my room
and was going to eat me up."
"That's silly, Kathy, you know a lion couldn't get into your
room. There are bars on all the windows. Anyway a lion
wouldn't want to eat you up. You're too sweet, and lions don't
like sweet things. Come over here and sit on mommy's lap."
Kathy shuffled to where Maggie was sitting, and climbed into
her lap. She leaned her head against Maggie's breast and
fingered the gold cross and chain hanging around her mother's
neck.
"Why are you here?" Kathy asked.
"What do you mean, why am I here? I'm here because Daddy's
work is here, and I want to be with Daddy."
"No, I don't mean that. I mean why are you out here on the
porch so early?"
"Oh," Maggie replied and slipped her arms around Kathy to
hug her, "I just woke up early and decided to come out here and
enjoy the morning breezes for a while. It's very nice this time of the morning. The sea is pretty; it's cool and it gives
mommy a chance to collect herself before the day begins."
"What does collect yourself mean?"
Maggie rubbed her nose against Kathy's. "It means to get
myself together before all of you little people come bursting out
wanting your breakfast, and the houseboy tells me there is no
soap, or the ayah says that your play clothes are all torn; just
sort of resting up before I get into the day."
"Oh, that sounds nice. I think I would like to collect
myself," Kathy said.
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the alarm
going off in the bedroom where, Maggie was sure, Greg was still
asleep. She slipped Kathy down and kissed her on the cheek.
"You run get some slippers on while I go see what Daddy wants for
breakfast."
As she walked toward the bedroom, Maggie found their cook,
Yassin, standing in the kitchen doorway with a puzzled look on
his face. "Good morning, Yassin," she said. "Is something
wrong?"
"Good morning, Madam. No nothing wrong, but you already
make the coffee?"
"Yes," she replied. "I already make the coffee." The
fact that the usual routine had been varied meant that Yassin
would need new instructions. There was no mechanism in his mind
that would permit a deviation from previous instructions, no
matter how generalized they might have been. He had memorized
what he had to do from the moment he walked in the house until
everyone was finished with breakfast, and if there was any
variation in the routine, he could not think what had
to be done next.
"What do I do?" Yassin asked.
"What do you mean, Yassin? You prepare breakfast as usual."
"But you have already make the coffee."
"Then you won't have to do that, will you?"
"No, Madam, but what should I do?"
"Well, let's see," she said, with exasperation creeping into
her voice, "you could start by setting the table and getting the
fruit ready. Let's just say that you do everything just like any
other day, except you won't have to make the coffee. Okay?" She
looked at him and smiled.
He smiled back at her. "Okay," he said nodding his head, "I
see now." He turned and walked into the kitchen.
In the cool darkness of the shuttered bedroom, the window
air conditioner was still whirring and Greg had pulled the pillow
over his head with the hope that he could shut out the
reckoning with the past. She sat down on the bed beside him and
rubbed his bare back.
"Come on tiger, the party's over, and you've got to pay the
fiddler."
"Can't pay, no resources, have to send me to jail," he
mumbled from under the pillow.
She pulled the pillow off his head and he rolled over to
show a bleary-eyed expression. "Why do we do these things to
ourselves?" he asked, and swung his feet out onto the cold tile floor, then stumbled off to the bathroom without waiting for an
answer.
From behind the closed bathroom door, Maggie could hear him
cursing while he attempted to get the hot water flowing.
Periodically, the pipes in their ancient house, built during
the Italian colonial period, filled with air, and the maneuvers
required to get the hot water flowing were like something out of
an Italian comic opera. First, you had to open the hot water tap
in the wash basin, and both the hot and cold water taps in the
bathtub. Then, by holding one's finger over the spigot of the
tub, the cold water flowed into the hot water line, blowing out
the air and causing the faucet on the wash basin to gurgle and
spit until eventually a steady stream of water flowed into the
wash basin. Thereafter, you could remove your finger from the
spigot in the tub, and hot water would also flow from the shower.
All of this was carried out while straddling the space between
the tub and wash basin.
Fortunately, Maggie had not had to figure this operation out
for herself. The wife of the previous couple who had occupied
the house had written it down and left it for the next occupants.
Maggie hoped that someday she might meet the woman so as to thank
her for having recorded this as well as a number of other little
idiosyncracies unique to the old house. It had made life easier
for Maggie, and for the General Services Officer at the embassy.
Maggie was sure that she would never have figured it out for
herself, and would have had to call the GSO. She was not sure
that the GSO, would have ever figured it out either.
Shaved, showered and dressed in a crisp, freshly laundered
seersucker suit, a beautifully ironed blue, oxford cloth, button-down collar shirt and a regimental striped tie, Greg showed
little trace of the previous night, save for a slight husky tone
in his voice as he said good morning at the breakfast table.
Like Maggie, his deep tan covered the lines and circles which are
the inevitable result of excess.
He poked at his papaya, ordered
a second glass of tomato juice and refused eggs. When there was
time, he usually tried to catch the morning news on BBC or the
Voice of America, but this morning he left the radio silent.
Maggie sat quietly while he ate and then, although knowing
that she was inviting trouble said "Why don't you write that
letter today, Greg?"
"Oh, Christ, Maggie, don't start that this morning. I feel
lousy and we've gone over this same ground before."
"I don't doubt that you feel lousy," she snapped, "but that
is getting to be a fairly regular condition, and I don't care if
we have been over the same ground before. You know as well as I
do that if you wrote to some of your friends in the Department,
you could get a transfer out of this place."
"It's not all that easy," Greg said, taking a swallow of
coffee. "They don't run the Service for the convenience of the
officers, and you knew when you married me that it was not always
going to be Rome, Paris and Madrid."
"Ba-loney," she said with the accent on the Ba, then
continued with a tone of irony in her voice. "The good of the
Service and convenience of officers - I've been a Foreign Service wife for ten years, and all of this crap about the 'good of the
Service and convenience of officers' makes me want to throw up.
I can't count the number of people that I've watched pull strings
to arrange their assignments. There hasn't been anything
important happen in this country in the last two thousand years,
and it's not likely that anything important will happen in the
next two thousand years, no matter how much you and the rest of
the people sit up in that embassy pouring over your reports and
polishing the language in them to describe the 'geopolitical
significance of the Horn of Africa.'" Her tone had gone from
irony to mocking a recurring phrase in the embassy's reporting
cables and strategy statements. In the end her eyes filled with
tears, and she removed a tissue from the pocket of her robe and
dabbed at her eyes.
Greg looked at her for several moments, and he was glad that
he was going to work. He knew that she was in a terrible mood,
and even though he sensed that he ought to drop the conversation
he continued. "You're a smart woman, Maggie, but I don't think
you're qualified to discuss the geopolitical significance of the
Horn of Africa, and I'm sorry that the Service makes you ill, but
it has provided a pretty good life for all of us for a good
number of years. The trouble with you, Maggie, is that you have
a distorted view of reality. You think that all I have to do is
cry a little bit, and say I don't like it here and someone will
pat me on the head and say, 'oh fine, Chandler, where would you
like to go?' But things don't work that way, and promotion panels
don't look kindly on that kind of stuff. You want to have it
both ways - reap all of the good and leave the bad to someone
else."
"That's not true, Greg," Maggie replied. Her voice now
softened. "I know you have to take the bad with the good, the
bitter with the sweet, but there are plenty of time servers in
your precious Service. You can name a few yourself who would
be happy, even overjoyed, to come out here and vegetate. I love
you Greg, and you are too vital and intelligent to waste away in
this stinking hole. You're ruining yourself, and what's worse is
that you're beginning to believe what you write in your damned
reports."
He was on the verge of unleashing a salvo of what he
considered to be the "facts," that would have included a
suggestion that Maggie get interested in something besides his
next assignment, but before he could continue, a horn sounded
from the front of the house signaling the arrival of the car
which came each morning to transport him to the embassy. He
swallowed the last of his coffee, pushed his chair back from the
table, and with briefcase in hand he left the house in an angry
mood without saying goodbye to either Maggie or the children.
Their ten-year-old, Steve, had been sitting quietly during
the discussion, and after Greg's departure he spoke to his
mother. "Gee, Dad really was mad. How's come you and Dad fight
so much, Mom? Don't you love each other?"
Maggie pushed her fingers through her hair and pressed her
hands to her temples. Shaking her head from side to side she
replied "Oh, Steve, I don't know. Maybe it's me." Looking at Steve, she smiled. "But of course we love each other, and don't
let it bother you." She reached out and touched his hand. "Run
along now, and catch your school car or you'll be late."
Steve slipped out of his chair, smeared a kiss on Maggie's
cheek, and ran for the door.
"Don't forget to brush your teeth!" she called out to him,
but he was already out the door.
She looked at her watch. It was only six-forty-five, and
she felt like she had done a day's work even though the day had
barely started. She finished her coffee, and pushed away from
the table to return to the quiet of the darkened bedroom.
She stood for a moment in the cool stillness of the air
conditioned room. The half light that filtered through the
shutters, kept closed during the day as well as at night to keep
out the heat, tempted her to crawl back into the bed. Instead,
she slipped off her robe and let it fall to the floor and
inspected herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall.
Ten years of marriage and two children had not damaged her
figure, and she could still appear in public in a bikini bathing
suit, as was evidenced by the strips of white flesh across her
breasts and waist. Stepping closer to the mirror, she looked
carefully at the skin around her eyes and concluded that she
looked tired, but still attractive and appealing to men.
From this, her thoughts ran in a free association to
something that she did not like to think about. It had been
weeks since she and Greg had made love. It seemed that either
there was a wall of hostility between them from the constant
arguing and fighting, or they were too tired and dull from the
round of parties to enjoy one another. Many the night that she
had tried to arouse him in the early hours of the morning, but
with no success so deep was his alcohol-induced sleep. She knew
this had a bearing on her excessive nagging and pettiness, but
then, as if the problem were either circular or too many sided to
solve, she shook her head as well as the thoughts from her mind.
After bathing and giving the day's instructions to the cook,
the houseboy and Kathy's ayah, or boyessa as they called them in Somalia, Maggie decided to go down to the
beach with the hope that a swim, a walk on the beach, and some
gossip with the other women in the Beach Club would restore some
of the calm that she had felt earlier when watching the sunrise.
Driving in Mogadishu, Maggie had learned, was a test of patience,
nerves and skill, that required dodging people, overloaded donkey
carts, and the stray goats and cattle that wandered aimlessly
looking for a blade of grass; she had also learned to keep her
eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the outstretched hands of
beggars and the snarling epithets hurled by the grimy ragged
children who ran along beside the car each time she slowed. It
was like running a gauntlet and she was always relieved when she
turned into the parking lot of the beach club and saw the
friendly face of the guard who touched his red fez and gave a
warm welcome in hopes of getting some baksheesh from her when she
left.
The Anglo-American Beach Club was an enclave of white
colonial "standoffishness" that had survived the wave of African independence that placed these bastions of white separateness
under attack. Even the few American blacks assigned to the U.S.
Mission were not comfortable with the club's clear preference for
an all white membership, and they, along with other non-whites in
the expatriate community, belonged to the U.N. Beach Club that
was farther down the Lido.
Pulling her Kenyan beach basket from the car Maggie walked
out on to the sun deck, and was pleased to see that it was empty
except for Pat Reynolds, an outspoken matronly American
Southerner who was the acknowledged leader of the international
women's community. Pat was the wife of Ben Reynolds, an American
oilman who headed up an exploration team. Pat and Ben had been
in the country longer than almost any other expatriates except
the handful of Italian colonials who predated all other
foreigners, and had a club of their own, as did the Russians, but
for other reasons.
In the hierarchy of nationality cliques the Italians came
first, followed by the "Brits," and then the French. The
Americans, although the largest community, were considered
neophytes on the African panorama, but were welcomed into the old
established British clubs, in part, because of their linguistic
affinity, but also due to their ability to shore up sagging
finances.
The Anglo-American Beach Club, had originally been the
British Beach Club. But during a period when the Brits had been
kicked out of Somalia because they refused to support the Somali
government in its running battle with neighboring Kenya over the
Northwest Frontier District, to which the Somalis lay claim,
it had become the American Beach Club while the Americans looked
after British interests. When, just after Maggie and Greg
arrived in Mogadishu, London reestablished diplomatic relations
with Somalia, the club became the hyphenated Anglo-American Beach
Club. Greg had been president of the club at the time, and had
helped sort out the tangled ownership of the facilities, so
Maggie enjoyed a special place with all of the local hired help.
Pat was well travelled and steeped in practical knowledge
about the rigors of overseas living, and she rarely missed an
opportunity to say what ever was on her mind. As Maggie
approached Pat, Mohammed, the club's headman, rushed to set up a
red, white and blue striped canvas chair beside where Pat was
sitting. Maggie dropped her basket, pulled off her cotton shift
and sat down in the chair.
"Hi, Pat, I see you're out early this morning, too."
Pulling off a pair of reading glasses, Pat folded her book
and looked up. "Hey, Maggie. Yes, I get my sun in early. Although the
morning sun is supposed to be bad for your skin, I find it's too
blamed hot in the afternoons to even move out of the house. I
haven't seen you for a while, Maggie. You look tired."
While some people were thrown off balance by Pat's
frankness, Maggie liked it. There was never any pretense with
Pat. "I am tired, Pat. Too many parties, and besides that, I
got up with the sunrise this morning."
"So you're in that stage now. Let's see, I guess you have
about a year here, don't you?"
Maggie laughed. "Actually a little more than a year.
Almost a year and a half, but what do you mean by that stage?"
Pat picked up a package of cigarettes, shook one out and lit
it. "You laugh, Maggie, but I've been here seven years, and I've
observed that there is an almost predictable cycle that folks go
through. First, it's sleeping in and the beach every afternoon,
then when the newness wears off and the climate begins to get to
you, the beach is dropped as a diversion. Then you start taking
siestas, and shortly after this, because of all of the sleep
you're getting, you start waking up with the sun. This lasts a
while, and then it's back to sleeping in and siestas. All the
while an anger is building up, and all you can think of is the
day that you'll be leaving. This period is also marked in most
cases by considerable friction between husbands and wives. At
about this time it's a good idea to take something. Take up
tennis, take a trip or take a lover, but don't take on your
husband and don't take to drink."
Pat's homespun philosophy and insight cheered Maggie, and it
gave her just the opening to discuss her own problems. "You're
right about the friction between husbands and wives. Greg
and I fight all of the time about the most trivial and silly
things, but it's me too. I keep bugging him about getting a
transfer out of here, but he doesn't want to do it."
"Why do you want him to get a transfer, Maggie?" Pat asked.
Maggie looked out toward the sea. Beyond the barrier reef a
ship rolled in the long oily swells. It was discharging cargo
into a lighter. Maggie examined her own inner self, for an
answer to Pat's question, for that piece of cargo that she could
offload and make herself feel better. "I don't know, Pat. It's
just that I see the place as hopeless, and nothing we're doing
here is going to make any difference." She turned to look at
Pat. "I guess the truth of the matter is that I'm just bored,
and I resent Greg's fooling himself into thinking that what he's
doing is important."
Pat ground her cigarette into a shell ashtray. "And, if
Greg's not doing anything important, then you're not doing
anything important. All any of us women are here for is to be
support troops, and who wants to support an operation that's not
important in the first place. Right, Maggie?"
Maggie smiled again. "Right, Pat."
"I think you're right in saying that nothing that we're
doing here is going to make a difference, and down deep inside
Greg probably knows this as well as anybody, but don't expect him
to admit it. Especially to himself."
"I don't see why, Pat. He's just fooling himself, and
fooling yourself is not a good idea."
"That's just the way men are, honey. Did you ever watch
your ten-year-old playing cowboys and indians? He's not playing.
He really believes that he is either a cowboy or an indian. Men
are just grown up little boys. They really believe in what they
are doing. They have to believe in what they are doing, and to
tell them otherwise is like telling a child there is no Santa
Claus.
"You see, Maggie, we women know what we were meant for from the time that we're born, but a man has to find it out, and he
does this through his work - so, if you tell him his work is not
important, you're saying that he's not important. That's pretty
hard for anyone to take.
"You and I know that if we go away from our homes for a week
everything falls into disorder. We know how important we are.
Do you think an office works the same way? In most cases, a man
can leave his office to his secretary and it will run better than
if he's there, but he'll never admit it. That's why, no matter
how sick they are, they'll pull themselves down to their offices.
For the same reason they'll put off taking vacations saying that
they just can't get away because their work is too important.
They prove how important they are everyday by just going to their
offices."
"I wish things all fit together in my head as neatly as they
do in your's, Pat," Maggie said. "Somehow or another I make
things more complicated."
"If God had meant life to be simple, Maggie, he would have
made it that way," Pat replied and lifted herself out of the
chair. "I've given you enough of my cracker barrel theories, and
I think I've had my quota of sun. You know, I really do worry
about the aging effect of the morning sun." Pat dropped her book
and her glasses in a straw bag. "I'll see you, Maggie."
"Bye, bye, Pat," Maggie said and held her hand up to her
forehead to shade her eyes against the sun. "Thanks for the
lecture. I guess they're things that I knew, but it's good to
make them explicit once in a while. It sort of brings things
into perspective. That's one of the troubles out here, I think.
We all tend to lose perspective. I guess I'll take a walk along
the beach and then have a swim before going home. Ciao." Gene McCoy © July 1998
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© 1997 ginofso@gte.net
