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During his brief time in Africa, former governor Jack Caries learned that a monsoon meant heavy wind coming from one direction. It was defined by its single-mindedness. Despite what most westerners thought, a monsoon might not bring rain.
But five days of nonstop downpour, rendering roads unusable and work on construction impossible, surely merits some special name, Caries grumbled to himself as he paced the length of his suite at the Castle Royal Hotel in Mombasa, Kenya. While standard rooms were furnished with modest iron-frame double or twin beds, a desk with a TV, and a single chair, Jack’s suite was specially equipped for his longer stay. It also took into account his status as a visiting dignitary, an American politician.
The bed frame was a heavy black-red mahogany, the mattress dressed in a tufted golden spread topped with six pillows cased in royal purple with gold and green tassels. The sitting area featured a rattan couch and two matching chairs, all with colorful pillows. A well-stocked dark-wood bar with two stools graced one wall.
It had been three months since Jack Caries stepped down as governor of California and saw Raymond Fernandez inaugurated as his successor. It had shocked the public and angered Democratic leadership when Caries, a shoo-in for reelection with record-high approval ratings, had chosen not to run for a second term and to work instead with a nonprofit to establish schools in Africa.
Jack moved first to Nairobi, then on to Mombasa, the oldest city in East Africa. Located on an island connected to the Kenyan mainland by ferries and bridges, Mombasa was bursting with a million inhabitants, many of whom lived in slums right outside the city.
Nearly year-round hot and humid weather punctuated by an ungodly rainy season gave added armor to Mombasa’s entrenched poverty, impossible to penetrate without a determination and resources that most men and women lacked. But not Jack Caries—when he set his mind to something, washed-out roads and the rotting stench of months of uncollected garbage weren’t going to stop him.
Two of the planned primary schools had been built, but the third sat unfinished in the torrential downpour.
Caries poured a drink—straight rum, no ice—and contemplated going down to the hotel casino. But he figured been there, done that. And HIV was rampant in Mombasa. Even condoms didn’t make sex feel safe, taking the shine off hooking up with ready female company. Plus, Jack no longer found casual liaisons satisfying. He wanted the chance to put public office behind him, do meaningful work, and find Ms. Right.
He sipped his drink, shoulders slumped as though the deluge outside were directly pummeling him despite the solid walls of his suite. The alcohol did little to help—Caries’s real drug of choice was music, or to be specific, jazz. When in office Jack had worked with the California legislature to establish an annual jazz competition for middle school and high school students. He planned to continue to attend the auditions and to have lunch with the young winners each year.
Unfortunately, tonight’s transmission from local Capital FM radio at 98.4 was mostly static, though at odd moments the keystrokes of Aaron Rimbui, a Kenyan jazz pianist, did break through. Rimbui had suffered severe burns in a childhood accident and said faith drove his beats. Although dramatic when the piece flowed intact, the intermittent chords were not enough to calm Jack. He physically ached to feel the Southern California sunshine and see the palm trees. The only water he wanted to hear was in the form of waves on the Pacific Ocean rhythmically striking the white sands of Malibu. He had fallen in love with Los Angeles the first day he moved there from New York.
Jack’s intention had been to break into films with the help of a mid-level Hollywood producer, an old friend of his dad’s. But with his JFK good looks and charm he ended up in politics instead—another kind of acting, Jack recalled.
A soft tapping sounded at the door to his suite. Jack rose and opened it to find a petite hotel maid barely taller than her large wheeled cart stacked with towels and supplies. She looked young, not yet out of her teens. Her ebony skin blended into her black uniform. Her white collar seemed somehow out of place.
“Turn-down service, mister?” she asked, then corrected herself. “Mister Governor. Turn-down service, sir?” Clearly, she had been coached to handle him as a VIP.
He nodded, and she withdrew a small silver tray with chocolates from a lower shelf of the cart. She moved quickly to set the tray on the table next to the bed, then efficiently folded back the blankets and plumped the pillows. She was halfway to the door to leave when she stopped.
“There is better music, Mister Governor,” she said.
Jack had forgotten the mostly static playing in the background. “Yes,” he laughed, “I imagine there is.”
She raised an eyebrow and frowned. He felt reprimanded for having implied that a lack of music might be a laughing matter. Crossing briskly to the radio, the young woman turned the dial and a classical station at once filled the room with clear tones. She listened keenly for a moment, her head tilted to one side, and then seemed to remember where she was and left.
Despite the company of the Kenyan orchestra via the airwaves, his suite felt emptier to Jack now than before she had arrived.
More rain outside. It was endless.
Santa Fe might do, Jack considered, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the distance, and clean, crisp air without an ounce of humidity.
But more than a stable climate, Jack Caries wanted his money. Luxury in Mombasa wasn’t close to luxury stateside. He dreamt of soft leather furniture, state-of-the-art electronics, and bricks and mortar built into a house that would be his forever. He and his sister would never want for anything. Something that early in their lives would have seemed impossible.
He had expected to be home by now, but his business manager kept putting him off. And Jack had to agree it was smart to be abroad—far from the public eye—when the final, multimillion-dollar deal went through. Still, he wanted details, to understand the persistent delays. But the last message on his investments had been two days ago. It had said only “Sale in process, hold tight.”