Thirty Girls. Susan Minot

Lana. What was his name?

      Beryl, Lana said.

      What?

      It was Michael.

      Right, he did that movie about the wizards. The children loved it. But you’re not in the movies, she said to Don, smiling.

      No, can’t say I am. I’m in finance.

      Right, Beryl said. So you’re all off to Rwanda?

      Uganda, Jane said.

      Never been there, actually, she said, surprised. Does everyone have tea?

      None of us have been either, Pierre said.

      So what’s in Uganda? She tucked her legs and curled around her cup, sipping it. Something was knocked over at the children’s table. Mama! someone cried.

      Willa, for God’s sakes, ask Tess to pour it. Fatima! Beryl screamed.

      That wasn’t me. Porter did it, said a little girl with tangled hair.

      Fatima appeared and mopped up the spillage. She spoke to the children under her breath, not in English.

      Well, help Porter out, then, Beryl said. Tessie, come on, you’re the one they’re looking up to. Honestly. Beryl decided to stop noticing and turned in the wicker chair, facing away from the children, draping her legs over the armrest. But Uganda has got gorillas, too, I know.

      That’s in the south, Lana said. We’re going to the north. Jane’s doing a story about the abducted children.

      Oh, right, the rebels. Beryl’s attention was already straying. Tess, enough! She spoke over her shoulder. Go on, if you can’t behave. The children went running off, except for a boy who stayed to talk to Harry. They appeared to be examining a butterfly.

      They call themselves rebels, Jane said, but it’s really a roaming band of bandits terrorizing a rural community too poor to defend themselves. They’re not getting much help from the government.

      Well, that sounds fun, Beryl said.

      Lana was looking at the coins on her necklace, hitting them. Fun isn’t exactly the idea, Beryl.

      No, God forbid fun. No, I’m kidding. Obviously. It sounds good. I mean, good for you to do it. Really. To be honest, I wish I could come.

      Where’s Leonard? Pierre said.

      On safari. Where else? The younger girl came and draped her arm around her mother’s neck, observing the guests. Beryl patted the little hand.

      Oh, I thought he’d be here, Lana said. When’s he back?

      Think he tells me?

      Lana stood and pointed into a side garden. Some of his pieces are here. Don, come look.

      Yes, go look, Beryl said, staying in her chair.

      Everyone else rose from the chairs.

      Dark hedges enclosed large figures that looked at first to be made of sticks. Then Jane saw the material was bones. Hundreds of bones were cobbled together in hulking forms, one in the shape of a birdcage with a large skull inside, another a tornado with bones seeming to swirl. There was a large foot.

      He made practically everything we’re sitting on here, too, Lana said.

      Don, arms crossed, observed the sculptures with a particular expressive reverence some people display when viewing art. He was frowning and nodding.

      My favorite is that one. Pierre pointed down the veranda to a rope hammock strung between two elephant tusks.

      Don brightened. That for sale?

      God, no, said Beryl.

      It’s a little controversial, Lana said.

      She means illegal.

      He found them, for God’s sakes, Beryl said. Not even Leonard would kill an elly. Lana, shall we show everyone their rooms?

      Let’s.

      Roy and Damian are flying in tonight, Beryl said offhandedly.

      Really? Lana regarded her sister with glittering, knowing eyes. Beryl was absorbed in folding stray napkins and returning them carefully to the tray.

      That should be interesting, Lana said. They staying long?

      Beryl shrugged. Who knows. I better go see if the children have killed each other. She stood, languidly. Harry, you’re in the blue room. Beryl whispered loudly to Lana. Is he staying with—what’s her—?

      Jane.

      Right. You have the blue room. With Jane. And Pierre is in the tower. She strolled off.

      Cheers for the tea, Harry called after her, practically the only thing he’d uttered since they’d arrived.

      You are so welcome, darling. We’ll catch up later. I want to know every little thing.

      Lana had a residence of her own on the property, a platform tent out of sight of the house. There was a large bed covered with yellow and orange Ethiopian kente cloth, and a claw-footed bathtub the servants filled with warm water in the evening.

      Jane and Harry’s room had a four-poster bed painted silver.

      After tea she and Harry took a swim in the light green pool beneath the gigantic palm. The early evening was still and quiet. When an owl flew above them it made an eerie whoosh. Jane and Harry exchanged a glance, heads above the surface. She dove underwater and held the glance with her as if it had entered a vein.

      Back in the house the cavernous black and white hall was booming with Beethoven. The transporting melody seemed to roil in the arching ceiling like thunderclouds.

      Jane shut the door to their room on the ground floor near the entrance. The music was muted. She lay on the bed and fell asleep in her wet towel. Traveling, one slept at odd times and suddenly. She opened her eyes to Harry’s face with his eyes closed beside her in the soft shadowless light. His face was smooth and inscrutable. In sleep it looked ageless. She looked at the curve of his eyelashes and the dark eyebrows. The thing that frightened her in his open eyes was not there in his shut eyes. When a person was asleep you could ponder his face.

      His lip curved over his teeth. The mouth was the same as when awake, composed and calm, a little obstinate. She had the strange sensation that he was a younger version of herself. What was that familiar thing in him? Was it because she had been that age once? She had the odd notion that she’d been inside his head, at another time in her life. But Harry was much further along in self-possession than she’d ever been.

      There were no freckles on his face, though his shoulder was sprinkled with them. She kissed his shoulder and, without opening his eyes, he came alive and reached for her and turned her around, pulling her back against him to hold her tight, then lay still again. How many years did she have on him? She hadn’t yet counted, but now she did. Sixteen, no, seventeen. Well, that was a record. She guessed the older one got the more records like that one could break.

      He slept against her and she looked around the room. There was an armoire whose ivory handles had carvings of bows and arrows, and by the door an iron hat stand with antler hooks. A brass lamp had a colored glass lampshade. She thought how these things would have had to be transported in some bumping truck, wrapped in thick burlap or canvas, to get here. The silver ribs of the bed curved over them, with a white canopy draped on it. The bed looked Mexican with its thick layer of paint shimmering.

      She felt far from everything. She often felt far from things in familiar surroundings, so it was a reassuring alignment when she had the feeling when actually far from home.

      Here her thoughts didn’t dominate the landscape. The landscape and the new people in it, asking to be explored, took over. Far from home, she had less need to answer the questions, Why was she here? What was she thinking? What was the point? Those questions hovered, but did not insist on an answer. Habit was left behind, and with it, the old perspective. Her perspective stayed alert when she