She wore a salwar kameez-the most flattering garment in the world, after the sari-in two shades of sea green. The long tunic was a deeper green, and the pants beneath, tight at the ankle, were paler. There was also a long yellow scarf, worn backwards, Indian style, with the plumes of colour trailing out behind her. Her black hair was pulled back tightly and fastened at the nape of her neck. The hairstyle threw attention at her large green eyes-the green of lagoons, where shallow water laps at golden sand-and at her black eyebrows and perfect mouth. Her lips were like the soft ridges of dunes in the desert at sunset; like the crests of waves meeting in the frothy rush to shore; like the folded wings of courting birds. The movements of her body, as she walked toward me on the broken lane, were like storm-wind stirring in a stand of young willow trees.
‘What are
‘Those charm school lessons are paying off, I see,’ she drawled, sounding very American. She arched one eyebrow, and pursed her lips in a sarcastic smile.
‘It’s not safe here,’ I scowled.
‘I know. Didier ran into one of your friends from here. He told me about it.’
‘So, what are you doing here?’
‘I came to help you.’
‘Help me
‘Help you… do whatever you
‘You have to go. You can’t stay. It’s too dangerous. People are dropping down everywhere. I don’t know how bad it’ll get.’
‘I’m not going,’ she said calmly, staring her determination into me. The large, green eyes blazed, indomitable, and she was never more beautiful. ‘I care about you, and I’m staying with you. What do you want me to do?’
‘It’s ridiculous!’ I sighed, rubbing the frustration through my hair. ‘It’s bloody stupid.’
‘Listen,’ she said, surprising me with a wide smile, ‘do you think you’re the only one who needs to go on this salvation ride? Now, tell me, calmly-what do you want me to do?’
I did need help, not just with the physical work of nursing the people, but also with the doubt and fear and shame that throbbed in my throat and chest. One of the ironies of courage, and the reason why we prize it so highly, is that we find it easier to be brave for someone else than we do for ourselves alone. And I loved her. The truth was that while my words warned her away to safety, my fanatic heart connived with my eyes to make her stay.
‘Well, there’s plenty to do. But be careful! And the first sign that… that you’re not okay, you grab a taxi to my friend Hamid’s. He’s a doctor. Is that a deal?’
She reached out to place her long, slender hand in mine. The handshake was firm and confident.
‘It’s a deal,’ she said. ‘Where do we start?’
We started with a tour of the slum, visiting the sick and dispensing packets of the solution. There were, by then, more than a hundred people presenting symptoms of cholera, and half of them were serious cases. Allowing just a few minutes with each of the victims, it still took us twenty hours. Constantly on the move, we drank soup or sugary chai from sterile cups as our only food. By evening of the following day, we sat down to eat our first full meal. We were exhausted, but hunger drove us to chew through the hot rotis and vegetables. Then, somewhat refreshed, we set off on a second round of the most serious cases.
It was filthy work. The word
Karla was kind and gentle, especially with the children, and she filled the families with confidence. She kept her sense of humour through the smell, and the endless stooping to lift and clean and give comfort in dark, humid hovels; through the sickness and the dying; and through the fear, when the epidemic seemed to be getting worse, that we, too, would sicken and die. Through forty hours without sleep, she smiled every time I turned my hungry eyes on her. I was in love with her, and even if she’d been lazy or a coward or miserly or bad-tempered I would’ve loved her still. But she was brave and compassionate and generous. She worked hard, and she was a good friend. And somehow, through those hours of fear and suffering and death, I found new ways and reasons to like the woman I already loved with all my heart.
