Mistaken
“My deplorable ignorance of French prevented me from explaining my humble intentions to them.”
Mary Kingsley
The stewardess glanced at the professor, sleeping peacefully now, with his head resting comfortably on the airline pillow. “That was easier than I thought,” she whispered to Meg. “I was expecting at least one attempt at lighting the pipe.”
“He didn’t get off when he should have,” Meg whispered back. Nearly everyone in first class was either reading quietly or dozing, now, and they both kept their voices low. “He’s on the wrong plane! I think he was supposed to change planes back in Paris!”
“Professor Anderson?” The stewardess shook him gently.
“It won’t do any good,” Meg informed her. “Between all that alcohol and those pills, he’s taken enough to drop an elephant.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be too concerned. Lots of people overdo things a bit when they’re nervous about flying. He’ll probably just sleep the rest of the way and be glad when it’s all over.”
“He isn’t nervous about flying, he just doesn’t trust your African airlines with all their…”
Meg caught a slight glimmer of disdain flicker briefly over the beautiful young face. The woman had no accent, but perhaps she had lived abroad somewhere and simply had a knack with languages. Whatever the reason, it didn’t hide the fact that she was clearly insulted at the inference. “I mean, well…what do we do if he doesn’t wake up? Personally, I don’t think he’ll wake up for days.”
“Then we’ll take him off in a wheelchair and call for a doctor. The airport handles these kinds of problems all the time, Miss Jennings, so you really shouldn’t let it bother you. Besides, I’m quite sure he intended to go to Africa, tonight. At least he seemed sure enough when he had your seat switched to first class.”
“What? You mean it wasn’t just a courtesy upgrade?”
The stewardess shook her head with a slow, rather mocking smile. Or was she imagining things? A call button bell went off in the first row, and the young woman turned to see who had rung. Then she looked back at Meg and smiled again. “Maybe he just wanted to talk to a private investigator…I never would have pegged you for one of those!”
“What? Oh, honestly! That was just something Vidalia…”
The stewardess left Meg talking to herself and returned to her duties.
“Well…well, of all things!” Meg looked back at the professor, again. Sleeping like a baby. Imagine someone paying good money to have a perfect stranger upgraded to first class. It all seemed rather desperate in a sad sort of way. But whatever his reasons, he had definitely managed to get himself into a bad situation, now. And Meg was not the kind of person to leave anyone in the lurch at a time like that.
Hadn’t he said he was in some kind of trouble?
Which was why she remained in her seat and did not get off the plane when they finally landed in St. Louis. When Vidalia (who was the last person to leave on account of her seat assignment) finally passed by, she was in fine high spirits, and reached over the sleeping professor to give Meg an enthusiastic shake.
“What do you think, girl? The tour guide ended up in your seat, and he personally knows a genu-wine witchdoctor! Gonna introduce me! And wait ‘til you see what he give me. It’s a…”
“You can show me later, Vidalia,” Meg answered, having no desire for a close inspection of some dried toad, or lizard’s tail, or any other piece of fetish a witchdoctor might consider valuable. “Right now, I’m going to make sure this gentleman gets settled into the nearest hotel and call his family.”
Vidalia leaned over the professor for a closer inspection. “Just drunk if you ask me. The old coot! Serve him right if you just…”
“I’m taking him to a hotel. They’ve already called for a wheelchair, and…”
“You gonna be way late, I can see that right now. I’ll register for us both and make sure we get the same bungalow.”
“Oh, you don’t have to…”
“I want to!” A peal of delighted laughter bubbled out of her as she hurried her large bulk down the deserted isle. “Kindred spirits gotta stick together!”
Kindred spirits! After that, Meg waited nearly half an hour in the deserted plane. Where was that stewardess? It seemed everyone had forgotten about them. Just when she figured on taking things into her own hands, a wheelchair came in. Propelled by a dark man who looked more like a passenger than a skycap. He was wearing a shiny, multi-colored shirt that reached almost to the knees of his slacks, and a fez-type hat on top of his head to match. He also had a thick gold chain around his neck, at the center of which was some primitive rendition of a crocodile with an enormous red eye. It was her first glimpse of the real Africa.
“Finally!” Meg said. “I thought everyone forgot about us.”
“It isn’t easy to find a wheelchair at this hour, Megan Jennings.” The voice was deep and hypnotic, as if laced with some kind of poison. “It is nearly midnight. Yes.”
There was something odd about him. Something that made her uncomfortable. His face looked as if it had been chiseled out of rough black granite, and he had three peculiar lines on his left cheekbone, just under his eye. Those eyes looked very cold and impatient, but it may have been from having to deal with the task at hand.
“The witching hour. Yes.” He flipped the armrest up and grasped the sleeping professor under both arms to drag him into the waiting chair. Then he pulled a black bag from an open upper bin, smacked it onto the professor’s lap, as if it might keep him securely weighted into the chair. “There.” He rolled the large wheels backward a few feet to let her pass. “You are free.”
“You don’t look like an airline employee.” Meg pulled her carry-all over her shoulder, stepped into the isle, and started toward the door. “Where’s your badge? And how did you know my name?”
“It is our policy to call everyone in first class by name. I will show you my badge when we get inside. Watch your step. The stairs may be slippery.”
Looking back on her arrival, Meg tried to console herself with the fact that any decent person would have done the same thing she did…only no decent person had. Of all the people on flight two ninety-two out of Paris that day, she was the only one who felt compelled to accompany the sleeping professor to his fate. Eventually, even the airline people bowed out.
And that small city in Senegal wasn’t what she expected, either. Even though it was nearing midnight, Meg knew the moment she stepped down off the set of metal stairs rolled up against the plane, that the runway was not paved. What’s more, there were no other planes around. Not even one.
Instead of the “wind tinged with the ever present smell of burning grass,” she had read about in books, she was met with a warm, rather sticky dampness that carried with it the bold announcement that they were practically on the ocean. Having been an ocean-dweller herself for the first half of her life, she could tell. She could also tell in one sniff that the tide was low, and the main occupation for locals must be the fishing trade.
At the bottom of the stairs, she turned around in time to see the professor’s head whip back and forth as his wheelchair lurched down the steep steps, with the skycap barely hanging on behind. After that, progress was irritatingly slow over the unpaved ground, and a thought suddenly occurred to Meg. She was going to miss her connecting ride to the traditional village compound in the historic town of Podor, on the Senegal River.
Then (like a prophecy fulfilled) she caught sight of a dilapidated blue bus, with the words Bremen Tours painted in colorful letters across the side and a giant mound of luggage piled on top, lumber away with her fellow Bremen tourists from coach fare. She stood stock-still for a few moments and stared after it. Of all things! Now, she would have to hire one of those “bush taxis” just to catch up with them, again. Another unexpected expense.
But she would think about that later. For now, she judiciously caught up with her film professor and the skycap, and followed them through the small one-story airport building to the customs counter. There, they waited their turn amongst the few remaining passengers who had not been put through speedily with the departing tour.
There seemed to be only one elderly official at this late hour to handle everything. What’s more, when her turn finally came up, he was far less concerned with what she had in her bags than what was to be done with “that old man.” He didn’t open the duffel, or even the carry-all, much less ask her what was inside. If Meg really had been a private investigator, she would have made a note of that.
Private investigator. Of all things! Just where on earth had Vidalia come up with that? And as for being kindred spirits, they would make miserable roommates if they had to put up with each other for the entire tour. She was going to have to have a serious talk with that woman, but she would think about that later, too. At the moment, there was much bantering going back and forth between the skycap and the agent about what was to be done, right now. Most of which was in a quick and unusual sort of French, that Meg found difficult to follow.
But that didn’t keep her from putting her foot down when they began to wheel Professor Anderson into a dark adjoining room that seemed to be something of a storage place for unclaimed baggage. The idea! He wouldn’t even know the difference, the skycap argued, and the health inspector could look at him first thing in the morning.
“Entirely unacceptable,” said Meg, with a definite shake of her head and taking no nonsense from either of them. “You will kindly call for a taxi and point us toward the nearest hotel.”
The skycap nailed her with an uncomfortably piercing glare and said, “As you wish, Megan Jennings!” in a way that made her feel as if she had asked to be shot off in the next rocket to the moon instead of just asking for a taxi. He flung a string of words, not even French, to the agent behind the counter that made the older man in uniform jump to his orders as if he had just been poked with a cattle prod.
When the agent disappeared into the baggage room and then hustled out a few minutes later with a golf cart, the bossy skycap quickly loaded it down with their luggage, along with the professor in his wheelchair, and then hopped up behind the wheel. Meg wondered if that was to be the taxi.
“Come, come!” He impatiently motioned her to get into the front seat with him. “I will take you to L’ Hôtel Bonne Nuit.”
She set her carry-all between them on the seat and had barely settled in before he tromped on the pedal that sent them barreling down a wide corridor and out of the deserted passenger waiting area at an uncomfortably fast clip.
“It is only a few blocks away, and I will send a doctor to you there.” The golf cart sailed through a set of glass double doors (hurriedly opened by a security guard), and then they were suddenly flying down a deserted main street in a town that bore more resemblance to old New Orleans than her ideas of the real Africa. (And this was the taxi!) The shocks on the little vehicle weren’t what they should have been, and Meg found it necessary to keep one hand on the bar in front of her and the other on the wheelchair behind in order to avert catastrophe.
After passing several establishments, they finally came to another relatively small building, three stories high, with a few balconies facing out over the quiet street. The words, L’Hôtel Bonne Nuit hung in buzzing pink and lavender neon over a beautifully carved wooden door, proclaiming the remnants of a culture past and that of the modern day. At least, that’s what popped into Meg’s mind at one o’clock in the morning, universal time, after such a strange and awkward arrival in the land of her great adventure.
At the desk, the skycap continued to make all the arrangements. It was simpler, he explained, since she didn’t understand the language well enough. There would also be no misunderstandings about the doctor. All delivered with another of those piercing looks that sent a chill down Meg’s spine. Definitely something strange about the man. He was only in his late twenties, no older, yet, he had such a demanding way about him. It made people hop to his every word. Including Meg. But it had been a long day, and she was probably just overtired.
And who wouldn’t be at this point?
The room was simple but clean, decorated in a brown and white print that resembled some modern art version of palm fronds. The skycap helped deposit the still sleeping professor into the single bed, fully clothed, and stayed only long enough to pull their luggage inside and roll the empty wheelchair back out, again. After that, Meg handed him two American dollars for his services. A fleeting expression of surprise crossed his face before he finally stuffed them into a pocket and walked away, laughing.
Such audacity!
This was not how she had imagined her first night in Africa would be. At this moment, she should be drifting off to sleep in an authentic thatch bungalow that was situated close enough to the river to hear animal noises. That after having been welcomed into the compound to the sounds of traditional native drums. She might even have taken a few pictures already. But Meg was not one to feel sorry for herself.
Instead, she removed the professor’s shoes, jostled him out of his suit jacket, and pulled the brown and white bedspread up over his sleeping form. Then she sat down in a wicker chair, cushioned in the same palm tree print, to look through the jacket pockets in search of that cell phone. It was time to find out if there really was a son named Tom. And if (in some miraculous way) this really was her second chance at that divine appointment she had prayed for. But did God give people second chances like that? If Tom Anderson really was the same man who had stood watching her in the rain...
A glimmer of thrill passed through her.