I look longingly toward our destination. “Look, once you get him started, Donatien will talk. He loves to talk about conflict minerals and Congo, but he’s a little touchy, so just let me ask the questions, okay? Can we go now?”
Michael scans the harbor, where white-sailed dhows roll over the current. In the distance, a squat ferry is chugging toward the shore in a haze of blue diesel. Even from here you can see the rust on its hull and the throngs of people crowded at its rails. It’s a struggle to not shout at Michael that we’re wasting time. But finally he hefts the helmet back onto his head and starts the engine.
? ? ?
Open and noisy, smelling like fried chips and masala spice, the restaurant is a popular spot. It’s full of fishermen at cheap white plastic tables, most of whom seem well into drinking away any profit they’ve made selling their catch this morning.
“Better hitch up your skirts,” I say when I see Michael’s face. “It’s a little dirtier than what you’re used to.”
“I’ve been in places like this before. It’s fine.”
“Sure you have. Now, listen,” I say, lowering my voice, “whatever you do, don’t tell Donatien who you are, right? I don’t think he’ll recognize you. Better yet, don’t talk.”
“Great,” Michael says. “So I just sit there?”
“Do what I say, okay? This is my world, and you are now my guest.”
I lead Michael past a speaker blaring rumba. Twilight girls with short skirts and long nails cluster at one end of the bar. They flick their braids over their shoulders and watch me closely, making sure I’m not invading their turf. The smells grow denser: to the mix is added sour beer and the tang of men who sleep in fish boats.
I don’t mind the noise and the stink. It’s more private here, in a way, than many other dingy back rooms Donatien could have chosen to make our usual rendezvous spot. He won’t meet in places like that. He says there are too many bored waiter boys whose ears are too big for their brains.
Donatien is already seated at his usual table in a shaded corner of the patio. “Who’s this?” he asks, jerking a stubbled chin up at Michael before we even sit.
Donatien’s the only mzungu in here, unless you count Michael, but even with his pasty white skin singling him out, he still looks completely at home. Empty beer bottles are starting to gather at his elbow. A pile of whole fried fish sits in front of him, several already eaten down to the glistening bone.
“He’s not important,” I say.
“You know I don’t talk to strangers, Tiny.”
“He’s a friend. It’s fine. He’s no snitch.”
“You don’t have friends.”
“Jeez, thanks a lot, Donatien. He’s a new refugee. I’m showing him around.”
“Looks too soft to be a refugee kid.” Donatien means he’s too white, but he won’t say so.
“I know; that’s what I keep telling him,” I say.
“You’re a reporter and you don’t talk to strangers?” Michael asks.
I shoot him a dirty look to warn him to keep his mouth shut.
“Not ones I don’t know,” Donatien says. “But I’m not really a reporter. I’m on sports.” He says sports like it’s a dirty word.
“That’s still reporting,” Michael points out.
Donatien grunts dismissively and checks how much beer he’s got left. He raises his bottle to the waiter to signal for another. “Speaking of which, I can’t hang about long. I have a very important junior-league cricket match to cover in about an hour.” He waves at his fish. “You want something?”
“Just soda.”
Snapping his oily fingers, Donatien calls the waiter. “Sampson, leta Tuska baridi sana. Na soda mbili.”
A man brings a fresh Tusker beer. Cold, very cold, which Donatien tests by grabbing the bottle’s neck before allowing the waiter to pry the cap off. Two orange Fantas are placed in front of Michael and me. I kick Michael under the table when I see he’s about to use his sleeve to wipe the mouth of the bottle.
Donatien takes a grateful swig of beer, then digs into his fish again with his fingers just like any local dude. He uses ugali, white corn mash, to grab up flesh and chilies. After he wolfs the whole lump down, he belches without apology. “Your loss. Best fish in town.”
“Donatien is French,” I tell Michael. “He’s picky about his food.”
“Belgian,” Donatien corrects. “How many times have I got to tell you? I hate the effing French.” He regards me with bloodshot eyes. “So, half-pint? What’s up?”
I pull the photo out of my pocket. “Do you know who this is?” I ask, pointing at the girl beside my mother.
Donatien squints, wipes his hands, and picks up the photo for a closer look. “No idea.”
I try not to let my disappointment show. “Are you sure? It was on his computer.”
“What do you mean, his computer?”
“You know. His. Don’t give me that look.”
“Tina, you haven’t done anything stupid, have you? If you went—”