A tourist in Belgium finds that he must confront a terrible nostalgia for a
time past.
Inside the hospital Derek made his way through dark,
cold, pre-modern hallways. Finally he found the gallery and entered it. Derek glanced
about and there she was, across the room. He approached. . .
Derek smiled at the sight of her tiny mouth, her delicate
but quite long nose, at the hint of the double chin. He felt once again the sense of peace
he had always known with her. . .
Then suddenly he and the woman were back together in the
Congo, during that terrible time. He could feel the coolness of the nights after the heat
of the long days. Once again the African humidity lay moist on his skin. He tasted papaya;
he had often eaten slices of it before turning in. He heard the night stillness broken by
that patter of droplets that turned to rain battering on the metal roof. Quite
unexpectedly he experienced a flutter in his heart. It had been a terrible time. But had
he ever felt more alive?
Derek thought the words a man always wants to say to the
women from his past: "Thanks for all you gave me."
Leaving her, returning through the cold hallways, Derek felt
a curious dizziness. He placed his hand against a cold wall to steady himself. Africa,
Africa! Nostalgia for Africa. It was something you never got over. A little like malaria.
It hit you—sometimes predictably, in certain weathers, in certain places; sometimes
unexpectedly—and all you could do was suffer through it and let it pass. |