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The Early Termination
of Adrian Wilder
 
by Hal Fleming

Hal Fleming has been a senior official with the Peace Corps, the Department of State and  UNICEF. He has managed development programs in North and West Africa; has been a US Delegate to the United Nations permanent missions in New York, Geneva and Rome; and has intervened in major humanitarian crises in Sudan and elsewhere. These activities have provided him with a rich foundation for his poetry, short stories and novels.

      Starting after graduate school, he worked as a researcher for Forbes Magazine and taught in the evening sessions of City University of New York. At this time, he had a novel accepted as a finalist in a first writer’s contest and wrote three pilot scripts for a series on inner city youths.

    He has published works of poetry and essays on international development and the Peace Corps. He is currently marketing a novel set in North Africa and completing other works of fiction.

     He hold degrees from Brown and Columbia Universities and is married to the former Arlene Krimgold.

  

How could anyone get used to the mass of white reptilian bellies meshed against the window screen?  The  mosquito net cocooning her bed, the sweat-tortured sheets, the rains of la grande pluie machine gunning down on the corrugated zinc roof, the smells of rotting vegetation in the dense forest, all had become too familiar after one year. But she would never become blasé about the swarm of geckoes and tetes rouges pressed against the window screen just above her. They remained constant in her dreams, her cauchmars, churning, slithering, hissing,  growing to dinosauric  proportions.

      The rain exploded on the roof. She did not hear Blais pull his bicycle up on the small clay tile veranda, drop his muddy sandals, and pad on his hard bare feet into the house. She knew, nevertheless, he would be there, arose, cracked the bedroom door, and saw him, a small boy-like man of thirty  perhaps, already rattling about the kitchen. So much noise for just instant coffee, toasted baguette, and a sliced up orange. They exchanged their bon jours and ca vas. Little between them had changed since the day she arrived at the district health center. Neither the New Year’s bonus, nor the visit of Blais’ wife and baby daughter for a painfully awkward tea, seemed to have made any difference in their relationship. Everyone had a least one domestic, both the expats and the African functionaries of  any level, and  she had no choice since Blais had come with the four room Health Center bungalow. Still she would never get used to him rummaging about, waiting on her every need like she was some white bush princess. Yes, he did save her time, precious even in the slow moving forest region. When could she in her long days at the clinic go to the market? He bargained well, found the best produce and avoided the toughest long-walked beef. He kept back the ever-encroaching outdoors, constantly sweeping out the pervasive ochre dirt brought down from the Sahara by the Harmitan winds. Now, in the rainy season, he battled against the march of ants, the rhinoceros beetles and all other forms of gigantic insect life that the resident lizards spurned. He kept her nurse’s uniform spotless and pressed, her other clothes such as they were neatly folded in the chest of drawers. How different from her messy days in dorms and in nurses warrens.

 
 
 

     Two months ago she tried a new tactic and invited Blais to bring his wife, Amina, and their new toddler daughter by for tea and cake. The ‘care’ package from her mother had managed to survive the vagaries of the U.S. and African postal systems, arriving all the way from Connecticut in tact. From the cake mix and the canned frosting she concocted a Devil’s Food affair of two layers and thick dark chocolate icing. It had turned out well in spite of the humidity and the precariously small oven which ran on bottled gas. Madame Blais remained frozen  when Adrian ceremoniously presented the cake.Thankfully, the baby’s large, black saucer eyes widened in anticipation. The conversation went on painfully. Blais interpreted for his wife. ‘Oui, Madam liked her new town, her new house.’ ‘Oui, Madam,’ who was no more than 17 ,’had come down from Mali as a new bride two years ago. Oui, she came from Blais’ very same village. She might go back for a visit when the rains stopped, in a month or so. It would take four days each way by bush taxi and autobus. In spite of the tortured pace, Madame Blais and the baby got through most of the cake, the mother attending to every crumb and drool with a hand rag.

      Blais never once mentioned the visit, nor the special cake, nor the book of brightly colored African animals she had given the baby. Now in the early morning with the rain thudding above them, he hovered over her, spooning out another dab of instant coffee, pouring more hot water from the aluminum kettle.

      Pulling on her rubber muck boots, she told him not to bother with lunch for she had to go to Duekue village and wouldn’t be back until after 6. “Please, nothing for the evening either,” she instructed as firmly as she could manage, knowing whatever she said, he would leave a whole roast chicken or something else elaborate in the fridge. She had gained 2 whole kilos in 12 months, much too much. Cooking for herself would have meant salads and canned tuna, not all this meat and starch he persisted in putting before her.

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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