Maggie ran across beach to the edge of the water. The fine, white coral sand had already become too hot for one to comfortably walk barefoot on it. Turning left she walked down the beach passing the row of beach huts, and the Russian and U.N. Beach Clubs. For a short distance a local handicraft salesman fell in step beside her, and offered to sell her a primitive wood carving, a dik-dik skin rug, a long roll of python skin, and a variety of multi-colored Indian Ocean shells all of which she refused. When it became obvious that he was not going to make a sale, the itinerant trader saluted, said "Ciao," and sauntered off in the opposite direction to look for another customer.
The last structure in the row of buildings was the Lido Night Club, and Maggie looked up at the crazy quilt of patches made from sheets of corrugated iron, flattened tin cans and cardboard. She could not help noticing the girls hanging out of the broken windows shouting, laughing and joking with a group of native boys, who, dressed only in their undershorts, were playing soccer on the sand in front of the club. Just a little over a year ago all of these sights had seemed so sharp and strange to Maggie, but now, thanks to the adaptive capacity of her psyche, they were commonplace and made no conscious impression on her.
Beyond the Lido Club was a stretch of wild, barren rocks and sand dunes, not too unlike some of the California coast. It was this part of the beach that most appealed to her. It was solitary and quiet except for the sound of the waves, and it was here that she inevitably restored her inner calm. At the end of the strip of sand, where the limestone cliffs jut out into the sea and pinch off the beach, Maggie sat down at the edge of the water.
Drawing her legs up in front of her she clasped her hands in front of her knees, and stared at the waves breaking over the barrier reef. Musing over her conversation with Pat, Maggie wondered if she could ever develop such a simple philosophy of life where all of the pieces that make up the complexities of daily living fit together in a nice tight mosaic. Maggie had the feeling that other people knew something that she didn't know, and she wished someone would whisper the secret in her ear. Putting her hands behind her head she lay back, closed her eyes and let the water wash over her body. It was cool and soothing and she could feel it washing away the tension that had gripped her.
Her thoughts roamed back over Pat's suggestion that she take a trip, take up tennis or take a lover. Maggie flirted with the fantasy of taking a lover and decided that it would cause more problems than it would solve. Anyway, she could not think of anyone in the expat community with whom she would want to have a love affair. She had tried tennis, but could never get the hang of it. Even the scoring was beyond her capability. Love, deuce and add out were so much mumbo jumbo to her. The only thing left was to take a trip, and she thought about going to Rome or Madrid. She knew and loved both cities. Just the thought of walking down the tree-lined Paseo de la Castellana to the Prado Museum lifted her spirits. She imagined herself sitting in a sidewalk cafe sipping coffee and reading the Paris Herald Tribune, or renting a car and driving down to Aranjuez or Andalucia; she envisioned driving all day through the whitewashed villages, wheat fields and vineyards and stopping by night in a Parador or a country inn.
"Good morning, Mrs. Chandler," a voice said from above her. "You must be careful of the African sun in the mornings. It can be dangerous."
Opening her eyes Maggie abruptly sat up. Looking down on her was an Italian man whom she had met the previous evening at the German Embassy. "My God!" she said. "You gave me a start. I was a million miles away, and the thought of anyone else being on the beach never occurred to me. Anyway, you're the second person today who has cautioned me about the sun, so maybe I better pay attention"
"Forgive me," he replied. "I did not mean to startle you. You see, I just came in from the water and I was surprised to see you. I was out by the reef doing some spear fishing." He held out his spear gun and fins. "You do remember me, don't you? I am Antonio di Paulo. I met you last night at the German Embassy."
"Yes, of course, I remember you," she replied. "Won't you sit down for a moment?"
He dropped his fishing and swimming gear on the sand then opened a small waterproof bag he carried on his waist and removed a package of cigarettes and a lighter. "Do you smoke," he asked, offering the package to her.
"Yes, I will, thank you, but let me dry my hands." She stood up, walked back to the dry sand and rubbed her hands in it. Returning to where he stood waiting, she brushed her hands together, and accepted the cigarette. It was a French Gitan, and she wished she had brought her own cigarettes with her.
"I don't mean to frighten you, but it is not a good idea to come down here so far away from everyone by yourself," he said. "There have been some unpleasant incidents with European women - less so now than a few years ago - but, nevertheless, I don't advise it."
"Thank you," she said. "I didn't realize there was any danger. I come here often, and have never been bothered."
"It's not a danger exactly. Just say better not to tempt fate or the natives, Mrs. Chandler. Anyway, you know what is best for you, so let us change the subject from unpleasant things. I am using Mario Bianchi's beach hut. May I invite you to join me in a Campari or what ever else you would like?"
"Yes, you may," she said. "That would be very nice."
Discarding his cigarette, Antonio picked up his equipment from the sand and together they walked toward the row of beach huts. As they neared the Lido Club they passed a group of ten or twelve Somali women walking in the opposite direction, toward from where they had just come. "There goes one of the local women's therapy groups on their way to a session," he said.
"Group therapy?" Maggie asked. "I'm afraid I don't understand." She turned to look at him with a puzzled smile.
"Yes," he laughed, and stopped walking. Turning around he pointed with his spear gun. "You see where that point pinches out the beach?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Beyond that point is another small secluded beach, and when the tide is low you can get around to it. One of the local magic women - witch, I think you say in English, for a fee, holds periodic sessions with the women. She gets them singing, shouting and swaying with some magic words and after a while they are in a sort of trance. They pull off their clothes, run into the sea, scream, shout, beat on each other, and roll around on the sand until they are exhausted. Then they sleep for a while, put on their clothes, and return to their husbands, rejuvenated and tranquil. I don't know what she charges now, but years ago she collected five shillings from each of the women. Every society has its means of letting off steam, and in one like this, where women are quite repressed, this method seems as good as any they could find, I suppose."
They turned and resumed their stroll down the beach. "Maybe that's what I need," Maggie said without really meaning to say it out loud. She noticed that Antonio walked with a slight limp. His left leg was slightly shrivled and there was a mean scar in the suntanned calf.
"You don't impress me as a repressed woman, Mrs.Chandler - quite to the contrary, I would say that you appear very relaxed and confident."
"It's all a facade," she said. "Inside, I'm like everyone else out here, tensed up and too much into myself."
"I understand what you are saying," he replied. "That's a common complaint of the women who come here. They generally don't have enough to keep them busy. They get bored and have no way to express themselves. Perhaps you and your friends ought to try the witch. She has a lot of satisfied customers," he teased.
When they arrived at the beach hut Antonio held his hand out to help Maggie climb the steps to the sun deck. He spoke to the guard in Somali. The guard turned and walked inside the hut. "I just asked Ahmed to put up the umbrella and get out some chairs," he said. "Would you excuse me for just one moment while I rinse the salt water off me, and then I will give you that drink I offered."
"Yes, of course, go ahead," she said. "I'll wait here for you."
The guard pulled a table and a pair of deck chairs out of the hut. Then he opened a large beach umbrella and placed the pole in a hole in the deck. Maggie suddenly felt uncomfortable, and hoped that no one would pass by on the beach and see her. The gossip spread through town like wildfire over incidents much smaller than taking a drink with a strange man in broad daylight. Talking too long to someone at a cocktail party was sufficient cause to fabricate a story. Then, as if to shut these thoughts from her mind, she moved quickly to the chair and sat down. I do want to be here, she thought, and I have a clear conscience in doing so.
Antonio returned, dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a faded blue denim shirt. She noticed for the first time, probably because of the blue shirt, that his eyes were a pale, ice blue. He was attractive, but not handsome in the way that Italian men can be handsome. His features were fine, almost aristocratic, but he nevertheless had an air of a simple, bucolic man, like a farmer from Southern Italy. He is left handed, like Greg, she thought, since he wore his watch on his right wrist. On the same wrist where he wore a heavy stainless steel watch he also had an elephant hair bracelet, that on anyone else she would have thought was an affectation. On him it seemed to go naturally with his thick calloused hands.
"Now then, what will you have?" he asked.
"Campari and soda is fine," she replied. He again spoke to the guard in Somali before sitting down in the chair opposite Maggie.
When the guard returned with the drinks Antonio took one for himself and passed the other to Maggie, then raised his glass and touched it to hers in a toast. "To your very good health and a pleasant stay in my country," he said.
"Thank you," she said, "but I don't understand the 'my country.' I thought you were Italian."
"It is my country. I was born here, although I carry an Italian passport, this is the place that I consider my home. After all a passport is only a piece of paper, and the meaning of home has much deeper roots. Don't you agree, Mrs. Chandler?"
"Yes, I do agree. Very much, and please, we Americans are very informal. I wish you would call me Maggie. Mrs. Chandler makes me sound like a society matron, or the wife of a First Secretary of Embassy, which I am, but I don't like to be reminded of it."
He smiled and said, "Very good, Mrs. Chandler, I will call you Maggie." He pronounced her name Mahgee with a long a, and placed the accent on the ee, but she liked the sound of it.
"And since we are to be on first name terms, you must call me Tonio."
"Tonio," she repeated. "I like that. It suits you."
"It's the Italian diminutive for Antonio, but tell me, Mahgee, what do you do besides be the wife of a First Secretary of Embassy?"
"Well, I'm also a mother of two children, a boy ten and a girl five. I was writing a book, but I got bogged down in the plot, and now I'm just a wife and mother."
"So you are a writer. You must find a lot of fascinating people to write about here in Mogadishu. It's a very interesting community."
Maggie sipped her drink and the cool bitter-sweet taste of the Campari was refreshing. "I said that I was writing a book," she replied. "And I guess you're right about there being a lot of fascinating people here, but I don't seem to meet them. Or at least the people I meet don't fascinate me. They all seem just like me. Sort of ordinary - boring and bored. Present company excluded, of course. You fascinate me. You're the first european that I have met who was born in Mogadishu. Tell me about yourself."
"There's not really much to tell," he said. "I'm a farmer. I manage the family banana plantation that is located about a fifty miles from here, near Afmadu. Do you know where that is?"
"No," she said and shook her head. "I'm ashamed to say it but I have never been out of Mogadishu."
"Well, it's to the south. Down near the Shebeli River. I live there most of the time, but occasionally I need a little bit of company, and I come into Mogadishu to visit with my friends. Right now, I have just come back from a business trip to Rome.
"In addition to farming, I like to hunt wild animals, and I do a lot of swimming and spear fishing. I read a great deal, and I dabble in painting and sculpting." He held his hands out in front of him, and shrugged his shoulders. "That's it, not so very fascinating is it?"
"On the contrary. You are very fascinating," she replied. "You have a lot of internal resources that you draw upon."
"That's the secret to survival in Mogadishu. One must turn inward and draw upon his internal resources. With no radio, movies or television to distract you, one must develop his own distractions. In short one must develop himself - his or her own resources."
"And if you don't have them to develop?" she asked.
"Everyone has something to develop, to nurture, and here in this little far off corner of the world, away from all of the noise and hubbub of civilization, is a wonderful place to find them."
Maggie looked into his eyes, and she saw a man truly at peace with himself, and this peace, along with his warmth, flooded into her. She suddenly saw her own petty selfishness and she felt ashamed of it. "You're right, Tonio, and I have not done all that I could to develop myself. I have not taken advantage of this time away from the hubbub, as you say, to look inward and see what is there. In fact, I may have been refusing to look inward for fear of seeing the emptiness." She paused and looked out to sea for a long time, then turned back to face him. "I'm so glad that I met you, Tonio. You were just what I needed to see that little, actually not so little, defect in my character. I hope I will see you again. Will you be in Mogadishu long?"
"For another week," he replied. "I would like to see you again also, Mahgee."
"I'd like to have you come to dinner at my house to meet my husband and children," she said.
"That would be very nice," he said, "but I am really more interested in you than I am your husband."
Maggie felt herself blushing, and at a loss for words. "I really must be going," she said, "I have a lot of work to do."
He reached across the table and took her hand in his. "I am sorry if I frightened you. Please ignore my remark. I would love to meet your children - and your husband."
Maggie knew that she had to leave immediately. She was totally off balance and out of control. She stood up and offered her hand. "Thank you so much for the drink. I'll get in touch with you about that dinner."
He took her hand and kissed it, a gesture that is commonplace to Spanish and Italian men, but one that never ceased to thrill her. "You can always leave a message for me with Mario Bianchi's secretary at the Italian Embassy, or I am here, at the hut, most of the day. I shall be looking forward to hearing from you, Mahgee."
She jumped down the steps, and ran across the hot sand. At the edge of the water, she looked back at him and waved, then walked quickly toward the
Anglo-American Club. "Mahgee," she said aloud to herself, and she could hear the warmth and gentleness in his voice. For a fleeting moment she thought about Pat Reynold's advice to "take a lover," but there was enough puritanism in her to keep that thought from coming into full bloom.
The deck of the beach club was empty, and she collected her things and went to her car. She was oblivious to her surroundings as she drove home.
Stopping at the entrance to their house she honked the horn and waited for the day guard to open the big iron gate in the driveway then drove into the yard where Kathy was playing with the boyessa. Kathy ran to the side of the car. "I'm mad at you, mommy. You went to the beach and left me at home."
Maggie opened the door of the car and swung her legs out to straddle the child. Leaning over she drew Kathy to her and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but when I left the house you were taking a nap, and I wanted to get in a quick swim. I'll take you another time."
Once inside the house the cook, Yassin, told Maggie that that she had received two telephone calls, one from Greg and one from Sharon Jacobs, the wife of the DCM, the Deputy Chief of Mission. With the feeling that Sharon had some project for which she would be soliciting help, Maggie walked to the telephone and dialed the embassy to talk first with Greg. After being passed from the switchboard to his secretary, Greg's voice came over the line.
"Hello, Maggie. You know we're having a visit by this Congressional delegation and the ambassador is having a reception on Saturday evening?"
"Yes, I know." She noticed that the huskiness in his voice was gone.
"Well, the reason I called was to tell you that the ambassador's wife is going over to Nairobi and she won'tbe here, so I volunteered some of your services."
"That was good of you to be so generous with my time," Maggie said and immediately regretted the sarcasm.
"Okay, Maggie, come off of it. I'm sorry about this morning, but there is no point in carrying it out for several days."
She could visualize Greg sitting in his air conditioned office at the embassy. All of his papers would be neatly arranged on his desk. On one side there would be the red-bordered action copies of incoming cables from Washington, and on the other the replies he had drafted. In front of him would be a yellow drafting pad on which he would be doodling and making notes. In is crisp summer suit, button-down collar shirt, and just right tie, he looked like an Ivy League professor, and she contrasted this image with her recollection of Antonio in his khaki shorts and old faded shirt as he held out the Campari for her. "I'm sorry too, Greg. I shouldn't have been so sarcastic. What do you want me to do?"
"You know there is no decent catering service here so you wives have to get together and help with the arrangements - fix up some hors d'oeuvres, and supervise the staff at the residence. This is an important CODEL, and the ambassador wants to make a good impression on them, so you and Sharon are in charge. Okay?"
"Sure," she replied. Her voice was flat and without emotion. "I've already got a message to call Sharon. That's probably what she wants to talk to me about. I'll call her right now and we'll take care of things."
"Where were you this morning when I called?" he asked.
"I went down to the beach for a while and had a swim." It annoyed her that she could not leave the house in the morning without having to account for her time, but she managed to sound off-hand in her reply.
"I'm glad. A little relaxation is good for you. I'll see you later," he replied and hung up.
Maggie was thankful that during the next several days she was able to occupy herself so completely with the arrangements for the reception even though it angered her that the embassy made such a special effort to show extraordinary treatment to the visiting CODEL. In Maggie's view the Congressmen should be made to see what it was really like to live on a day to day basis in this primitive outpost with no television, no radio, no movies, two restaurants, one, Chinese run by a man named Ming Sing, and the other a trattoria called Azan's that was owned by an old Italian colonial family.
In the course of shuttling from house to house, and the ambassador's residence, leaving and collecting serving dishes and pots and pans, Maggie had to drive along Lido Road behind the row of beach houses. Each time she passed Antonio's hut she wondered if he were there, and she hoped that she might see him. She wished that she knew what sort of car he drove so that she could look for it. However, once at the residence or in the home of one of the other wives she was once again involved with the tasks at hand, and so long as she was busy she was free from the compulsive thoughts of Antonio which kept forcing their way into her consciousness. There was a part of her that stood off to one side and observed her. This shadow told Maggie that her thoughts were becoming obsessive and that her behavior was like that of a school girl with a crush on a boy. There was another part of her, though, that she had never before heard, and this voice frightened her. It came from some deep wild place that she had never touched or explored. It told her that she was a woman with passions and desires that were beyond anything she had ever acknowledged, and that neither her children, her home nor her husband could satisfy them. And, while the voice that told her she was like a school girl whispered to Maggie, this primordial voice came from her bowels and shrieked that only Antonio di Paulo could quench the fire that was burning in her.
The arrangements were time consuming and at night Maggie was exhausted, not just from the work, but from the civil war that raged inside her, so she was relieved and pleased that on Friday night, the night before the reception, she and Greg had no social obligations. She prepared a light supper of lobster and cold meats for the two of them and, after getting the children to bed, Greg opened a bottle of chilled Chablis. They ate on the terrace in the cool of the evening breezes, and after coffee Maggie thumbed through magazines and glanced at the newspapers that had arrived that day in a diplomatic pouch, but she was unable to concentrate long enough to read any of them. Dropping a magazine beside her, she interrupted Greg who was reading the Paris Herald Tribune. "Do you have the guest list for the reception?" she asked.
"What's that, darling?" he answered without looking away from his newspaper.
"The reception," she repeated, "do you have a guest list?"
"Yes, it's in my briefcase. Why?"
"I was just wondering who was coming?"
"The same people who come to all of them, but I'll get it for you." He folded the newspaper and started to get up.
"That's alright, I'll get it," she said, rising out of her chair, then walked inside the house.
She opened Greg's briefcase and took out the list then glanced down the pages through the names of government officials, Members of Parliament, the Diplomatic Corps, the United Nations representatives,and under the heading "Business Men" her eyes focused on"Antonio di Paulo, Plantation Owner." There was no asterisk beside his name which meant that he was not married. Her pulse quickened and she felt a wave of relief knowing that Antonio would be there. In her mind Maggie quickly ran over the things she would have to do the next day. She would have to get up early and go to the hairdresser in the morning. Everyone in town would be trying to get into the one Italian salon, and she would be busy at the residence all afternoon with Sharon getting things ready. She wished that she could buy a new dress, but she knew that was impossible. There was no place in town to shop or buy nice things on the spur of the moment. That was another thing she hated about Mogadishu. You couldn't even have the satisfaction of shopping for a new dress.
From the peak sensation of exhilaration at seeing Antonio's name on the list, her emotions plummeted downward to fear as a kaleidoscope of doubts flashed across her mind. How could she be sure that he would come? She had never seen him at any of the other parties at the residence. Or maybe he had been there and she hadn't noticed him. Was it possible that this man who now occupied every free moment of her thought could have gone unnoticed by her? She put her hands to her face, covered her eyes and shook her head from side to side in a vain attempt to free herself from the sweet torment of her obsession. "Oh Lord, why is this happening to me? I must be going mad," she whispered.
She was so completely absorbed with her pain that she did not hear Greg enter the house from the terrace. "What's the matter, Maggie? Are you ill?" He walked across the room and stood behind her and placing his hands on her arms he turned her around to look her in the face.
She forced a smile. "No, I'm alright. I just suddenly felt very tired. It must be from all of the running I've been doing for the past few days. I feel like I could sleep for a year."
He slipped his arms around her and embraced her. "Let's go to bed then. We've still got tomorrow ahead of us and all of those damned visitors. I have to be at the airport at six in the morning to meet the Air Force plane they're coming in on. I'll be glad when they're gone, and I bet you will be, too." He drew her close to him and kissed her. "If it makes you feel any better, darling, I appreciate all of the work you've done to make this thing a success."
She leaned her head on his chest and hugged him. "Thank you. It does make me feel better."
After showering she slipped in bed beside Greg and immediately turned off the light. Greg rolled over, pressed against her bare back, and slipped his arms around her to gently stroke her breasts. He knew every inch of her body and what she liked in love play, what turned her on. It was comforting to feel his familiar touch. She turned over and faced him in the darkness then ran her fingers over his face. She was as familiar with his body as he was with hers, and she knew what he liked. Pressing her mouth against his she let her tongue roam over his lips then pressed it deep into his mouth. He was hard and erect and she stroked him. He slipped his hand between her thighs and rubbed her gently then more firmly. Rolling on to her back she spread her legs. Greg slipped his fingers between the lips of what he called her vertical smile. It was moist and she wanted to feel his weight pressing on her. She wanted to feel him inside of her. "Come inside of me, Greg. I want to feel you inside of me. I want to feel you come in me." He pressed into her and she moaned as the orgasms started. For a moment she imagined that Antonio was making love to her then she was lost in a sea of tenderness. "Oh, God," she sighed and repeated,"Oh, God." She had never before experienced such profound ecstacy and she was terrified by the depth of her passion.
Before dropping off to sleep, she prayed for relief from her own anguished thoughts, and also that Antonio would be at the residence.
