Chapter 15

When you get into a tight place, and everything goes against you

till it seems as if you couldn’t hold on a minute longer,

never give up then, for that’s just the place

and time that the tide’ll turn.

—Harriet Beecher Stowe

What happened the evening before Bolingo’s arrival set the stage for what was to come. Even though I was glad no one mentioned my pregnancy or my second-wife status, my family behaved in a way that made me wonder if they would say anything that might offend him. But reflecting back, I think I was just being overly sensitive and defensive.

I sat on a barstool next to Mom, who was writing a grocery list and planning the next day’s dinner, while Cynthia took dishes out of the dishwasher.

“I’m not sure what an African would eat,” Mom said, looking at me.

I thought she was talking about him in a condescending manner, as though he were coming straight from the bush. “Bolingo is a wordly man,” I said, trying to stay calm.

“No one is doubting that,” Cynthia butted in. “But what does he like to eat?”

“Good food,” I said with a hint of annoyance.

“How about a leg of lamb, garlic potato, string beans, and a salad?” Mom suggested.

“That sounds good,” I answered in a neutral voice.

Mom peered at me with a worried look on her face. “Would it be all right to serve wine?”

“He likes good wine,” I replied dismissively.

 

* * *

 

I pulled into the driveway in Cynthia’s car and noticed a head behind the living room curtain. It had to be Cynthia’s. The door opened before I could use my key or ring the bell, and there she was, smiling. Mom, Dad, and Latham showed up behind her.

“Welcome to our home,” Dad said to Bolingo in French, and introduced himself.

The others did the same.

“Please, come this way,” said Mom, leading us to the living room, where a tray of hors d’oeuvres sat on the coffee table. About half an hour later, we moved to the dining room for dinner. The conversation, a mixture of French and English, varied from African art to the United States policies toward Africa. Bolingo had an excellent command of English and I was pleased that everyone seemed relaxed and comfortable.

But that didn’t last. Looking into darkness through the window and holding a cappuccino in one hand, Latham announced, in English, that he was concerned with the demographic problem polygamy has created in Africa. “It’s important to hold onto traditions, but it’s even more important to live within the realm of a modern world,” he concluded, placing his cup back in its saucer.

“True,” Bolingo argued in French, “but Africans are aware of the problem. They’re not having as many children now, whether they live in polygamy or monogamy. One woman used to have ten or twelve children, but that’s changing. Everyone knows about birth control now.”

“What’s wrong with having one woman at a time?” Latham challenged.

Instead of saying something in Bolingo’s defense, I agreed with Latham, who I knew must have been thinking about my living thousands of miles away from home and being the object of another woman’s contempt. Although I had been told the wives often became friends and lived in harmony, I couldn’t imagine it. The conversation continued with each one speaking in the language he felt most comfortable with.

“Africa has her own traditions,” Bolingo’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Why should we allow the West to dictate our way of life? Polygamy is a long-standing tradition and wasn’t considered a problem until the missionaries arrived. I have opted to live the life of my ancestors because I am the product of my culture. Since women outnumber men, it is unfair that only some should have the privilege of having a family of her own.”

I sensed Bolingo’s humiliation behind his calm appearance and wished for the conversation to stop and for people to leave that one aspect of my life alone. I imagined having to sit through many more conversations of this sort, when Bolingo would have to defend his culture and I would feel a judgmental finger pointing at me.

“If you think about it,” Mom said, “a lot of men in developing countries have mistresses, who sometimes have their children. From a social point of view, I think it’s better to be a second wife than a mistress, if the culture allows it.”

“The anthropologist has spoken,” Dad said in a light tone that contrasted with the rising tension in the room.

Encouraged by Mom’s comment, I finally decided to speak, but Latham intervened first. “I’m trying to be understanding. But some of these African brothers have more than two wives!” he said. “Don’t they think about the emotional and physical needs of women?”

No one answered. They all avoided looking at me, but I was sure they had me in mind, which made me want to scream, to tell everyone to butt out of my life. A lump in my throat, however, now prevented me from uttering a word. I also knew if I tried to speak I wouldn’t be able to hold back my tears.

Latham leaned toward Bolingo. “I hope my comments didn’t offend you,” he said. “I was only playing devil’s advocate.”

“It was an interesting discussion,” Bolingo replied, and I wondered what exactly he meant.

“How about going to the Yellow Bird in Greenwich Village?” Latham was obviously trying to relieve the tension he had created.

Just as I expected, Bolingo declined. “I appreciate the invitation,” he said, “but I’m tired from the trip.”

“We don’t have to stay long,” Latham insisted, determined to make peace with Bolingo. “It would be a good way to end the evening.”

“If you’re still tired when we get there, we can go back to the apartment,” I suggested.

Cynthia tucked her hair behind an ear. “I promise it will be fun,” she encouraged.

Bolingo hesitated, but finally agreed to go.

The phone rang. Cynthia jumped to answer it in Mom’s study and returned to the living room minutes later. “Sorry, guys, I can’t go with you,” she said. “I need to be at the hospital in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

I was thinking about the way that young man made the violin cry desperately or laugh jubilantly, when I realized I needed to break the silence that persisted during intermission. But before I could think of something to say, Latham spoke: “There was nothing personal in what I said earlier. I was expressing my opinion so we can understand each other. Iris is like a daughter to me, you know.”

“Does that mean you don’t approve of our relationship?”

I covered Bolingo’s hand with mine, broke into a sad smile. “There’s nothing my godfather likes more than a controversial discussion.”

Latham raised his shoulders. “Hey, it’s really none of my business,” he said, and dropped his shoulders. “It’s between the two of you.”

“I respect your honesty,” Bolingo said, then leaned toward Latham. “I was wondering if you could help me out. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to ask for Iris’s hand.”

“Do it the way it’s done in your culture,” Latham suggested. “What do you think?” he added, turning to me.

“Of course,” I answered, overwhelmed with the prospect of the unusual life that lay ahead of me. I was happy the two men were communicating in a friendlier tone. I sipped ginger ale and listened.

“In my culture,” Bolingo explained, “it’s a close friend or a family member who approaches the woman’s family.”

“Let me be that family member or that close friend.”

“Would you really do that?”

Latham reached across the table, patted my hand. “I want to see Iris happy.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, especially since I know how you feel.” Bolingo paused. “How do I offer the family the goats my culture calls for?”

“Forget the goats. Just take everybody out to dinner.”

The two men laughed, and I thought of the irony of an ancient tradition caught in a modern world.

“I don’t think your family will accept me,” Bolingo said, as soon as we returned to the apartment and were alone.

“They’re just not sure I will be able to cope with being a second wife.”

“I see,” Bolingo said, tightening his lips.

I sat next to him on the sofa, thinking about the baby in my womb. I then stared at Bolingo with an intensity that drew his attention toward me. He pulled me close to him, and I rested my head on his chest. Rain streaked down the living room window and I listened to its murmurs and to Bolingo’s heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

The next morning we walked around the neighborhood, caught up in the rush of New Yorkers heading to work. Some men and women, seemingly homeless or dependent on drugs and alcohol, moved like zombies in an open field. A few desperate souls pushed carts of empty cans and bottles, looking for more in trash cans. Each morning, joggers separated themselves from others, plugged into their Walkman.

“So this is life in the world’s most talked-about city,” Bolingo said. “It’s scandalous to see how some people live in this land of opportunity. How can this happen in a country like this?” We turned on Columbus Avenue. “These Western countries are supposed to be an example for us. What am I to believe?”

 

* * *

 

I sat in the family room, trying to block out the sound of cicadas in the background and thinking about Bolingo, who earlier that day had flown down to Washington to meet with the ambassador.

Cynthia turned on the television set, surfed channels with the remote control. “What’s up?” she asked. “Is something bothering you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You look sad.”

“I’m confused.”

“About what?”

“I’m not comfortable with being a second wife. I’m not saying I want to leave him, but . . .”

Cynthia’s clever eyes gazed at me as she brushed her copper-colored hair that smelled of Granny Smith apple shampoo and coiled it into a bun. A soft ray of light bathed her chestnut skin, and I noticed lines of maturity on her face that I hadn’t seen before.

“It’s a difficult decision to make,” she said and shrugged. “But if it’s okay over there, what’s the big deal? That’s where you’ll be living, right?”

A patch of clouds suddenly covered the sun.

“Would you do it if you were me?”

“Are you kidding me?” she said and laughed. “I wouldn’t be caught dead living in Africa. I will visit though.”

The clouds disappeared and the sun brightened the afternoon again.

 

* * *

 

Hunger pangs woke me the next morning and the fetus kicked. I touched my swollen belly and smiled at the thought of a life growing inside me. My pregnancy was a journey of fear, and my anxiety was like that of an artist during the creative process. It was a period of apprehension that would last until the day the baby discovered life and breathed on its own.

“Good morning,” I said to Mom as I entered the kitchen.

She looked up from Margaret Mead’s book on relativity of customs and returned my greeting.

I reached for the refrigerator door. “Dad’s already gone?”

“He left early this morning.”

I placed a bowl of Raisin Bran and a banana on the table. “The baby kicked this morning, and a thought came to me,” I told her. “Bolingo won’t always be around to share those important moments.”

“Is it the fact that he might not be around that’s bothering you?” She took her glasses off as she spoke.

“What do you mean?”

She twirled her glasses. “Could it be the thought that he might be with his other wife that you’re worried about?”

“I’m expecting his child!”

She frowned. “Is that the only reason you’re staying in the relationship?”

“I want to be his wife, but I don’t know if I can cope in the long run.”

“What are you going to do?” she finally asked, still staring at me intensely.

I shrugged and peeled the banana. I lowered my eyelids to avoid Mom’s gaze. My doubts covered me like a blanket of fear and prompted me to understand that I couldn’t continue to pretend to be happy with the life that lay ahead of me.

“I can’t go through with this marriage,” I said matter-of-factly.

“You’re welcome to stay home.” Mom put her glasses back on and looked for her gynecologist’s phone number.

I sifted through my conversation with Mom and finally realized that my willingness to accept polygamy had been illusory.

 

* * *

 

“How’s Pierre?” I asked Pépé, who took a seat across from me in the Manhattan apartment. She looked ravishing with a new haircut; her eyes radiated happiness.

Before she could answer me, the phone rang. It was Brahami, who I had called days after I arrived to New York.

“Iris! Good news!” he said as soon as I picked up the phone. “Dieudonné received your letter. He said he’ll make sure Pierre is treated well until he can get him out.”

A silence followed. I imagined Pierre smiling at me the way he had at his parents’ beach house. I also remembered the bouquet of anthuriums he had left for me the morning before I returned from Monn Nèg, and the sadness in my heart on the plane that took me back to New York.

“Are you there?” Brahami asked.

“I’m too happy for words.”