Leaving Cameroon In the two weeks that Gwen has been in Cameroon, everything has come as a surprise. Just last night, Leo, her husband, said, "At one point I thought our marriage would last forever, but not anymore." This morning, Gwen's eyes are still swollen from crying, which is probably why the man carrying the white golf bag looks like an elephant and why she wouldn't be shocked if he was. The rain has tapered. Now, gauzy mist hangs between the hotel and the sprawling city of Yaounde, slowly poking through the fog. It's a day like all the others. Trapped at the Mont Febe Hotel like a Charlotte Bronte character, curtsying to the obsequious staff, while Leo is busy transforming the country's dysfunctional health care system into lists, proposals and contracts. In fact, just minutes ago, Leo stood over her so that Gwen could see that his button-down blue shirt was too big for his narrow shoulders, and his blondish hair was greased into a part like a little boy's. Then he picked up his briefcase and said, "Let's do something special tonight." Gwen didn't answer, or even look up from her coffee. Every night should be special, she thought. For Godsakes, she was only here, visiting him, for three weeks, and they hadn't seen each other in twelve. After eight years of marriage, they had never spent that much time apart. When Leo first left, Gwen thought the time apart would be good for them. She would use the time to lose some weight and save some money -- so that Leo would be pleased with her when he returned. But the motivation wore thin and the days got lonely. Only a few weeks after Leo had been gone, on her way back from the grocery store, Gwen started to cry. Usually, when Leo was home, he helped her unload the bags from the station wagon. That day only an empty house awaited her. No steaks or Haagen Daaz, none of Leo's favorite foods were in the bags. Only iceberg lettuce, generic corn flakes and cottage cheese for her lonely evenings at home. Even here with Leo, she was alone every day -- without her part time job, her friends, her phone calls and little errands -- while Leo did whatever it was that made him feel so important. Fortunately, spring days in Cameroon are short. The moon puts a cap on the city before it's ready to close. That's why every morning here feels like the beginning of a century, with the low, soaked clouds rapidly giving way to a mean sun. By 11 am. Gwen is at her usual lounge chair by the pool, pretending to read while she watches the male hotel staff relax under the mushroom shaped pavilion. Their faces are shadowed but their lean bodies gleam like plastic. There is one, usually he wears pink shorts, who always seems to be gliding his eyes over her. Today, he walks over to her chair. "Bon Jour Madame." At noon, silverware clinking and chairs scraping pavement rouse the men from their shaded spot. It's time for lunch: a buffet of wet salads, airy breads and cold meats, which grow grayer by the hour. Gwen decides to skip lunch, get some extra sun and be tense and thirsty when Leo comes to retrieve her at 5 p.m. The fire behind her eyelids reddens as the sun lifts higher into the sky. Later she will admire her own tanned face, her cheekbones rising from their new darker depths. How much prettier and more exotic she is becoming here! She will wear her blue dress tonight so that Leo will feel threatened by the hard men who can taste his wife. Like the pool boy with the yellowing eyes -- whom she imagines looking down on her naked body with lust as his smooth black body fills her with heat. When she opens her eyes, most of the men are gone but two still remain, sitting in the shade, quiet now, looking in her direction. Her legs have fallen looser on the chair, exposing soft white flaps of skin where her bathing suit cuts into her thighs. She lowers her legs, embarrassed now that she should seem so available. Leo gets home late because the accountant
didn't show up for a meeting. "It is so typical.
Nothing in this country is ever on time," he
complains. His eyes are red-rimmed with fatigue. Gwen has been getting ready for hours: smoothing sweet lotion on her body, adjusting her blue dress so her breasts beam forward. She expects Leo to remark on her dress but he seems distracted. Gwen remembers when she first met Leo, how interested he seemed in everything she said. It was why they worked. He was the first soft-spoken man to love her. She knew if she married him that he would allow her to live like she wanted: desired and in control. "Let's have a drink downstairs," Gwen suggests because she likes to watch the prostitutes watch her. Leo nods. They take the elevator down to the basement where the cocktail lounge is caught in a chaotic symphony of a live African band, Madonna on MTV and four or five different languages -- loud and slurred. The prostitutes are lazing around on the couches in front of half finished cokes, smiling at the business men who walk by. A few of them glare at Gwen in her tight blue dress, arm in arm with a rich-looking American. But when Gwen smiles back, trying to make friends, their eyes change from slits to curious circles. Leo and Gwen sit at the bar and Gwen orders something fruity that comes out blue, in a wineglass rimmed with sugar. Leo has a beer and they eat all the peanuts. Then Leo looks at her like he expects her to make him even more tired and tense. "Long day," he finally sighs. They order wine and share their main courses: buttery fish and grilled fish. They only eat French food in Cameroon because the alternative, African food, could make them sick. While they eat, Leo tells Gwen about the accountant, about how he must fire three locals, about his lunch at a nearby bakery. She listens and looks at him with love, pretending that she is an actress playing a role. When she gets bored of this role, she fills him in on stories about her life back home. What the other wives are doing, whose kids are going to which colleges. He listens with interest, real or forced, she doesn't know now. After a long silence, she says, "I
think we should try to make this work." He takes her hands. "Let's just see what happens." The previous night's tears bounce back. She can't believe this is happening. They are a solid couple. Everyone says so! A few tears fall and Leo squeezes her hands in apology, which turns her disappointment to anger. She is supposed to be the strong one. Leo has always needed her, not the other way around. I must pretend not to care, she resolves. She will return to the States, and after a few weeks of her normal routine, when she is feeling strong and stable, she will telephone him at the Mount Febe and tell him it's over. She goes over and over this plan as she and Leo lie in the dark: Where will she call from? How will he react? What will life be like without him? Could she really leave him? When Leo's breathing gets heavy, she lets the tears fall. Soon she is crying so hard that she has to go to the bathroom, close the door and sob. The next night they are invited to the health care minister's house for dinner. Leo says the man is a big shot. Gwen is nervous. They follow the minister's truck to his house outside the city. The roads are unpaved and Leo's wimpy Jetta bounces them around in the front seat. Halfway there, they get stuck in a large dirt hole and have to spin their wheels to get out. Gwen thinks it's fun. It's a story she can tell her friends -- how Leo looked like a race car driver trying to keep up with the minister's four-wheel drive on the rough roads of the bush. The minister's house is enclosed within a circular wall -- the front gates of which open for them to drive through. They park side by side on the large square of dirt in front of the house, then enter into the living room where the minister immediately orders them to sit down. The room is elegant with large fluffy white couches and a long wooden table set for twelve. "Who else is coming?" Gwen asks, suddenly nervous that they won't be the most important guests. Leo ignores her and reaches his hand out to accept the minister's offering. A photo album of his life. Page one is pictures of his coronation; page two the speech he gave when he was first appointed; page three his first office with a pretty secretary beaming in the corner. Every page is him. "Drinks?" The minister walks over to the side of the couch, to a huge spinning world globe on a stand. Right above the Western Hemisphere, a hatch opens and he pulls out four bottles: Campari, Kahlua, Vermouth and Sherry. "Which?" he asks Gwen. "Campari, please." Gwen looks to Leo to share the situation's strangeness but he is still looking at the pictures, so she pours herself a large glass of Campari and looks around. The fluffy white couch seems to be the room's only luxury. The walls are covered in scratched wood paneling like a suburban rec. room in need of remodeling, and on the far wall is a door that leads into a dusty hallway. Voices echo and a cool breeze blows in as if there was no wall between the rest of the house and the outdoors. Although Gwen would like to use the bathroom, she is afraid to venture out of the sitting room for fear that the rest of the house will be roofless and dirty like the huts on the outskirts of town. When the minister returns with a Baobab beer for Leo, a small boy is trailing shyly behind him, whom the minister introduces as his son. When the boy leaves the room, a teenage girl comes in and introduces herself. Six more of the minister's children come in a similar sequence. Then his wife appears with huge platters of food and they are told to sit at the table, wherever they like. There is enough food to feed thirty. Chicken, sausage, fried plantains, French fries, leaves stuffed with mashed roots, a whole fish, a few small fishes, scrambled eggs, tomatoes, creamy greens, four different types of rice. Gwen takes more than she thinks she can eat and looks up to see the minister's wife smiling at her. The wife takes only a small piece of fish and a slice of tomato. "Big eater," the wife says of Gwen to Leo who has also only taken a small amount of food. Leo looks over at Gwen with pride. Then he turns to the minister and continues a discussion about Cameroonian politics which they had apparently started days before. Gwen has nothing to say and eats everything on her plate. The wife hands her another platter and asks her if she likes the cooking. She nods and notices that Leo has barely touched his food. "What is it all coming to?" the minister laughs. "Soon women will be in the offices! Like in your country. That will be the day." Leo laughs too, but the wife sits straight up in her chair. "America is right," she says and smiles slyly at her oldest daughter. The minister's wide body vibrates with giggles. When he calms down, he asks Gwen in his big booming voice -- which makes everything sound like a proclamation -- if she likes his country. "Yes," Gwen smiles. When there seems like nothing more to talk about, the wife switches on the TV to a news channel and they watch pictures of burning streets and riots narrated in French. Then the wife takes the platters away and brings in fresh fruit. Leo eats four bananas, and Gwen realizes he must be expecting diarrhea. Of course. African food. Why didn't she realize this? Why didn't Leo tell her? At that moment, she feels the ominous grumbling of her own stomach. She puts her hand on Leo's knee and he smiles at her for the first time all evening. When everyone has stopped eating, the minister stands in front of his chair and announces that it is time for Leonard and Gwen to go home. He orders his oldest son to drive the truck down the hill so that Leo can find his way, and then all the children shake their hands goodbye. In the Jetta jumping around, Gwen keeps her arm around Leo's neck, wanting to kiss his stubbly cheek and put him to bed. They laugh at the big bumps and then put their hands over their stomachs and jokingly groan. "Stay home tomorrow," Gwen says. They park in the hotel parking lot and Virgil, the attendant, runs up to their car. He is a small dark man who studied English in Nigeria and always wants to practice. The day before, Virgil asked Leo for a job. "I can do more than this," he spread his arms over the parking lot. "Let me think about it," Leo had said. His eyes tired and unforgiving. It was then that Gwen realized why Leo liked this country so much. Despite the heat, the frustrations, the lack of companions, he was a man of power here, something he had never quite been able to achieve in America. "Is Madame tired?" Virgil asks Leo
as soon as he opens the door. "Darling? Honey? Are you sick?" She opens her eyes and realizes where she is. Then she realizes that Leo is looking at her with love, his small blue eyes are soft and sincere. She must look frazzled and child-like. She knows these are the times he finds her most attractive. "I'm not sick," she says. They lunch under the mushroom near two African men in suits who are eating in silence. Leo and Gwen also have nothing to say. Work, the morning, the food, tonight. There is next week and the following week to discuss but most of all, in this moment, nothing about the future feels sure enough to mention. "Leo, let's get separate rooms."
The thought comes as soon as she speaks it. "I think
we need some space." She gives him a look like he should know the answer. He gets angry, then shrugs it off. He has grown colder since he's been here. Perhaps because nothing arrives on time. That night in her own room, Gwen feels a foreign tingle of excitement. She turns on the TV to French rock videos and orders up a bottle of the Nouveau Beaujolais. The waiter who brings the bottle is stockier than the pool boys, obviously from a different tribe. She thinks about giving him a glass and then leaning over to rub the bulge in his black waiter pants, but decides against it. She doesn't want to give her husband any opportunity to hate her. When he leaves, she takes off her robe and runs her fingers over her body as she watches herself in the mirror. Her breasts are still firmer than most women her age. Her thighs have started to sag, but a little aerobics would get them back into shape. She strikes a sexy pose. It is peaceful alone. No heavy breathing, no trying to make things work. I will have to get used to this, she thinks and then turns off the lights before she can torture herself with any more thoughts. The following day Gwen decides to leave the hotel. Suddenly it seems obvious that Leo's paranoia about her alone in town is less about her safety and more about his need to keep her contained. She walks to the main drag: a dirty street flooded with little stands selling fruit, sneakers, knick-knacks, and cigarettes. As she walks she tries not to make eye contact with the hungry men or angry women. At the top of the street, she doesn't know which way to turn. She is tired but she doesn't want to give up. If I look confused, someone will hurt me, she thinks and she continues down the next street as if she knows where she is going. Trucks full of men beep as they pass, and one man yells "nice woman" in French. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches kids buy big white sticks of sugar cane from wagons on the road, old women selling bananas, fanning themselves under their homemade sun-tents. She is afraid to look for too long. Sweat runs down the sides of Gwen's face, mixing with her freshly applied foundation and making her nervous about the damage she is doing to her pores. After a long and sweaty walk, she is right back on the busy market street where she started. No little yellow taxis in sight. She waits a few minutes on the side of the road, careful not to watch the man in Adidas pants walk by. But as he passes she can smell his cheap after-shave and then before she knows what's happening, she feels a pinch on her butt. Leo was right. There is real danger on these streets. Instinct tells her not to react. Did anyone else notice? I shouldn't be here, invading this country, showing off my white skin, she thinks. Up ahead a tall building looks like a safe place to hide. The building turns out to be the Hilton Hotel with a cool marble lobby, men in real suits, waitresses in tailored uniform and a restaurant which looks like it might serve authentic French food. Alone in the elevator up to the penthouse bar, Gwen tears off her modest, long sleeve shirt which it was anyway too hot to wear. At the Hilton, her low-cut purple camisole seems more sophisticated than suggestive. The cocktail lounge has large picture windows, which turn the city back into a serene postcard. Here there is no hustle nor heat, only gentle piano music and recycled air. The only other customer is a man drinking fruit punch at the bar. Gwen sits at a little table in the back and orders a whiskey sour -- her favorite. The waitress brings a dish of nuts and olives with the drink and after a few moments, Gwen feels more relaxed than she has since she stepped off the plane, more relaxed than she has since Leo left home. The drink is wonderfully intoxicating and the olives, the first she's had in a week, are spicy and salty. She lets her body collapse into the cushy European-style chair. Halfway though the drink, Gwen sits up, suddenly remembering that she has no money. How would she have taken a taxi? What was she thinking? How will she get home, not to mention pay for her drink? She is tipsy enough not to panic. In fact the situation seems almost funny and she starts seriously considering options more exciting than promising to return later with the money. It's the first time in two weeks that Gwen can have her own adventure. She could sign the bill to a random room number. She could leave her watch as collateral. Or she could ask the man at the end of the bar for a loan. "Excuse me sir. This is going to sound
awful but-" The man had barely looked at her and when Gwen sits down on the spinning, felt-covered stool, she notices that his profile is actually very handsome. He is about forty-five with small blue eyes and a classy British accent. "I felt you watching me," he says.
As she follows Tom out of the bar and into the elevator, Gwen's mind is fuzzy. Is he going to give her something? Money to get home perhaps. Yes, he is bringing her to get cab fare from his room! The Hilton rooms are more refined than the Mont Febe's. There is a gold watch on the dresser and four nice suits in the closet. Tom goes into the bathroom and calls out for Gwen to make herself comfortable. She sits down on the desk chair and tries to think of a way to excuse herself. It is getting late and Leo will be worried if she isn't back in the room. Tom comes out of the bathroom in his bathrobe. He has taken off his ring and washed his face. "So?" he smiles at her. "Come here," Tom finally says
putting out a hand as if helping her down from a ledge. She opens her eyes to see Tom rubbing his forehead. "Just a minute," he says and goes into the bathroom. Gwen imagines he is taking some aspirin, slipping on a condom, checking his reflection in the mirror, flexing. She tries to arrange herself on the bedspread to look as if she hasn't been waiting. But when Tom comes out of the bathroom, he is fully dressed, with his shoes and ring back on. "Take your time getting out of
here." He looks disappointed and drops some bills on
the dresser without looking at her. When he gets to the
door, he pauses. "No worries about paying me back.
Take care of yourself." Gwen takes her drink to one of the couches and watches music videos, feeling blank, like she is just waking up from a confusing dream and then falling back asleep again. Toni Braxton is jumping around on the screen mouthing the words to a song that makes Gwen imagine herself dancing in a room by herself. "I like this song," a young woman says. She is light-skinned and beautiful, sitting on the couch behind Gwen. When she moves up to Gwen's couch, Gwen can see her schoolgirl uniform and long thin legs. "Are you American?" she asks in an accent like Virgil's. "Yes," Gwen says. "Are you
from here?" The mushroom has closed the lunch service and put everything away. It must be at least 4:30 p.m. Gwen has left her shoes by the bar and the white cement is hot on her bare feet as she walks over to the pool side tables. Most of the tables are already taken which suggests that maybe it is later than she thought. At the last poolside table, a man is waving to her. It is Leo! She doesn't know how long it takes her to walk over to his table but by the time she arrives, the scene looks like a memory. There is an African man sitting with him, whom Leo introduces as Otto, his accountant. Otto is a little older and broader than Leo, and his cheeks crease in handsome lines. "Sit down," Leo is smiling. They
both have empty martini glasses in front of them. The men talk mostly about African politics, who is owed money and how Leo should handle the situation. Gwen tries to let the drink erase the horror of her day, while Leo tells stories of waiting for weddings which had been canceled; driving out in the bush at night; his safari up north where he saw elephants and soothsayers who read his future in a clay crab pot. All the things he did before she came. After three martinis, Leo seems strangely comfortable, crossing his legs and unbuttoning the first three buttons of his shirt. He is flushed, talking in long sentences. This is what he's like without me, Gwen thinks. Finally Leo gets up to go to the bathroom. They both look over at the pink clouds
hanging low over the golf course. The sun is making its
slow descent behind the darkening skyline of the city
beneath the hill. Soon they hear Leo's heavy shoes on the
cement and both turn to watch him, swaying slightly past
the other tables. Before he gets to theirs, he stops.
Gwen is about to call out for him to walk a little
further when she sees what is about to happen and holds
her breath. Even before the gurgling, belly-rising belch,
Gwen knows she will never be able to forget this scene:
Leo falling to the ground like a pathetic child. The
vomit in an eruption of curdled, brown cream spreading
over the ground, under a table and over an African man's
sandled feet. The people at the tables rise to their feet
as if the putrid lava might eventually engulf them too.
Leo just freezes on his knees, head bent, waiting for the
world to stop spinning. "Hello Madam!" Virgil has just
finished needlessly escorting a young man from his car to
the hotel. "How is she today?" Contributor: Shana Liebman
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