She was disoriented for a moment or two in the dim pre-dawn light. Then she remembered. They were sleeping on the floor. The fire had long since burned out, and her breath made little white poofs in the cold air. Time to get up, no matter how warm and cozy it was with Pieter nestled against her back. She scanned the room. No noxious bugs. Nothing like the scorpion she had found last week. She had screamed for help until Ghalib burst through her door to gallantly chop the bug in half with his machete. The perspective from the floor was interesting. She could see under the beds. Nothing amiss there. The only odd thing was a rope under her bed, draped across her sandals. Or maybe it was a hose. But she didn’t own a rope or a hose.
Her body recognized the danger before her mind could take it in. Her heart pounded, and her stomach churned.
Pieter stirred. “What’s wrong?”
“A ss-ss-snake,” she hissed.
He peered over her shoulder. “So it is. Don’t move.”
He rose very slowly, stepped between Sarah and the snake, and reached back to beckon with his fingers. “Stay right behind me,” he whispered. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face against his back with her eyes tightly shut as they backed slowly toward the door in tiny steps. She could hardly breathe until they were outside, and Pieter slammed the door.
“What do we do now?”
“I’ll rouse Ghalib. He has some snake catching gear.”
“Catching! Aren’t you going to kill it?”
“We have to contain him first. Don’t go back in the house.”
“Are you kidding? I don’t think I can ever sleep in there again.”
Pieter returned with Ghalib, both men clad in tall heavy boots and thick gloves, bearing machetes and snake tongs. Balinda brought a plastic trash can with a tight-fitting lid and a kitanga to wrap around Sarah’s bare legs. So much for the discrete sleepover. Pieter must have had some spare pants in his tent.
Word of the snake had spread throughout the village, and spectators assembled to see the show, adults murmuring and children giggling. A couple of enterprising young men brought ladders, so they could observe the spectacle through the transoms.
Pieter and Ghalib stood at the door, quietly discussing strategy. They would wait until the sun was a bit higher in the sky, for better light. But if they waited too long, it would warm up and the snake would become more active.
Balinda held up two fingers. “It is two step snake.” She scratched the air with fingers curled like fangs. “Snake bite.” Then she straightened out the two fingers and held them in front of Sarah’s face. “Take two steps,” with a wave of her hand, she concluded, “then you die.”
The door creaked open slowly and Ghalib stepped through. Sarah could barely breathe as Pieter followed him in and closed the door behind them.
Balinda dragged Sarah to the window, pushing aside others who had crowded around to watch. Ghalib crouched down and peered under the bed. Then he gave Pieter a signal.
It all happened very quickly but seemed to play out in slow motion: Pieter kicking the cot frame away, Ghalib thrusting his snake grabber, Pieter jumping backward as the snake lunged toward him. For a seemingly interminable point in time, he and the snake hung in the air, and life was a two-dimensional image projected onto a screen that was ripping apart with Pieter’s soul tumbling into oblivion.
The snake thrashed wildly, and his head stopped just short of Pieter’s leg. Ghalib had grasped its midsection and pinned it to the floor. Pieter deployed his own tongs, landing a successful grab near the head.
Sarah could not bear to watch any more. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying her best to ignore the scuffling and banging sounds, until she heard the metallic clang of the machete on the concrete floor, followed by cheers of the crowd. When she looked through the window again, a long black headless creature writhed on the floor, summoning an odd recollection of digging for worms with her grandfather.
Pieter stood over the snake. “It’s a big one. More than two meters long.”
“Black mamba.” Ghalib clicked his tongue. “Very bad.”
Balinda loaded the snake into the plastic can and carried it outside, where she was mobbed by a jubilant crowd, everyone wanting to get a look.
Pieter called to Sarah through the window. “You can come in now.”
She shook her head and backed away. He came out of the house and worked his way to her through the high fives and arm bumps of well-wishers.
She clung to him. “I was so afraid. I thought you were finished.”
“I was a little worried myself.” He kissed the top of her head and held her close.
She whimpered, “They don’t travel in pairs, do they?”
He stepped back, lifted her chin. “Are you really afraid to go back in?”
She nodded.
“We could stay at the lodge tonight.”
“Don’t you have to get back to the hospital?”
“They can do without me for another day.” He looked up at the roof of the house. “I want to seal off those transoms. That’s probably how the snake got in. Mambas are great climbers.”
He drove down to Lushoto to buy some wire mesh. By late afternoon, the house was secured, and Sarah and Pieter headed to the lodge. Halfway there, Sarah’s phone began to ping repeatedly with incoming messages.
“You are too popular.”
“I’ve been out of cell phone range for a while.”
“Who wants you?”
“Everyone. My mother, my sister, the hospital back home.” She scrolled silently through several text messages from David. As usual, the most recent messages were displayed first and so the others appeared in descending levels of urgency and frustration, starting with, “Where the hell are you, Sam?” and ending with “Dear Sarah, please call.”
She squealed with joy when she read the latest text from her mother. “Allison had her baby! A little boy. Eight pounds, two ounces.”
She checked her email in the lobby of the lodge. Her mother had sent ten photos of the new baby, and Allison had plastered her Facebook with multiple images.
Pieter peered over her shoulder. “Cute little fellow.”
She opened an email from Philadelphia Memorial Hospital, a multicolored multi-page spreadsheet.
Pieter said, “That looks complicated.”
“It’s the schedule for next year. I’ll be chief, so I’m in charge of this.”
“Seems you’re headed home already.” He stood up. “I need a beer. Want one?”
“Sure.”
He strolled to the bar, and she opened David’s latest email. It began with, “I haven’t heard from you in so long. Are you okay? Please call me.”
Pieter handed her a Serengeti and glanced at the computer screen. “Sorry, I shouldn’t read over your shoulder.”
“It’s okay. No secrets.” That was a lie. Two lies, actually, but neither intentional. She fervently wanted everything to be okay. And she wanted to share the turmoil in her soul. But a small leak of emotion could lead to a dam burst and the flood might wash Pieter away.
He said, “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
The screen door slammed. David’s email said that he wanted to talk, sort things out, couldn’t wait any longer, wanted to speak face to face, was looking to book a flight over.
Six months ago, she would have been ecstatic to get such a message. But now…
For months, she had been drawn and quartered. Okay, not quartered—bisected, her soul rent asunder by opposing forces. On the one hand, loyalty to a man who had been the center of her life for so many years. They had plans for the future. On the other hand, hopeless addiction to a man from another world who had a rich and gorgeous girlfriend.
It had all become crystal clear—in that instant when a man and a snake hung in mid-air.
A world without Pieter would be unbearable.
Decency demanded that she call David. She had to let him know that she didn’t love him—not now, possibly never did, not really. Not the way she ached for Pieter. But how could she make such an announcement by email, or even over the phone?
She composed a brief email promising to call him later. She titled the message, “Proof of Life,” pressed send, slammed her laptop shut.
PIETER’S RUCKSACK WAS in their room, but he wasn’t. And he wasn’t at the lookout or on the trail to the campsites. They had planned to watch the sunset together on the terrace. She sat there alone until the sun disappeared behind the mountains.
She found him in the dining room of the main house, at the family style dinner table with six other guests: two German couples and two French women. She took the seat next to him and whispered, “I looked everywhere for you.”
He nodded and passed a platter of chapatis. “I was walking.”
Animated multilingual dinner chatter at the table masked the silence between Sarah and Pieter. Talk was still sparse as they walked down to their room. “I lost track of time,” said Pieter. “Sorry to make you worry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, and silently cursed herself for being so stupid.
He stopped just inside the door. “We need to talk.”
She didn’t say a word.
“Look at me.”
She felt his eyes drilling into her, could not face him.
He thumped his hand on the door jamb. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just don’t know anymore.”
She sat down on the sofa, stared at her feet.
He said, “If you pull a bandage off slowly, it’s torture. You feel every little hair and skin cell being teased out.”
She covered her face.
“But if you just rip it off, the pain is gone in a second.” He walked across the room and picked up his rucksack. For a moment, he stood with his hand on the doorknob. Then he was gone.