I was already on the road when Nazir’s call came in. I hardly ever take calls when I am driving unless they are from other tour operators or park officers. The market has grown saturated with new players in the last decade or so, squeezing operators into competition with each other, but those who are veterans to the industry still do things the old way. We still flash our headlights when we spot each other on the highways. 

We share information about adverse weather; which roads have flooded or been blocked by felled trees or new gulleys or good old traffic. Where there are cops harassing tour operators, or where the lions or leopards or cheetahs have been spotted that morning. If any of us has a surplus of business, we refer to the overflow to someone on the network. It’s a symbiosis. 

I let the call go unanswered. 

After a self-indulgent crying spell, I combed over the day’s events and tried to make sense of Nazir’s unmannerly withdrawal. It was all Bjørn’s fault, going on and on about the Australian’s eligibility with Nazir standing there, unable to assert himself. His humiliation was only known to the two of us, but that was hardly any consolation. He of all people knew that entertaining and accommodating was part of the job. I’d hoped he would look past it, but then there had been that thing he’d said before. 

There’s a life here, if you want it. 

That was it, that was the crux. It was easy to forget because of how warm and gentle he was outside of work, but he was still a man who wore a uniform and carried a rifle. He thrived in structure and order. Even in his cooking, he was methodical. I could see traces of his training in the way he completed his chores. He was self-aware, decisive, and would not tolerate ambiguity for too long. My entry into his life must’ve tilted him on his axis, thrown him out of character. I didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but my effect on him had been real and that was good enough for me.

I woke up with a cold and a stress headache, worsened by all that childish play in the rain. 

But then I popped some painkillers and antihistamines and rallied, busying myself with the bustle of check-outs and check-ins, the hauling of luggage, fueling and carwashes — anything to keep from chewing my nails through to the skin. 

He didn’t call again. I was disappointed that he hadn’t tried harder, although knowing him, he was probably being considerate. Doing that, without succumbing to the urgency of alleviating emotional discomfort, was well within his abilities, unlike me. I liked to resolve issues promptly and resented anything that left me in limbo. I wouldn’t find out until later, during a particularly constructive session with my therapist, that this propensity was a sign of my distress intolerance. 

***

It was late evening when I dropped the Norwegians off at their lodge. It was well out of the way, and did not have sleeping quarters for drivers or tour guides. I would be spending the next two nights in a farmstay down the road, at the home of a local guide who would lead us on treks around the mountain. It was not a mountaineering trip, so we would not be summiting any peaks, but the views would be epic and the toll on the body would be a welcome distraction. 

When I had set up my tent, my host dropped by with a plate of food and wood for a fire. After ironing out the details about our routes and his compensation, we sat for a while, shooting the breeze. Then he brought out a deck of cards and a bottle of hooch that I politely declined. He was good fun, which also made him unlikely to know when he’d overstayed his welcome. Getting rid of him tactfully took some work, but at last he left me alone. 

I crawled into my tent and zipped up my sleeping bag. While the wind howled outside, I checked my phone for messages. There was a picture of the lavender pots in my front yard from Mundia with no context. I thought it might’ve been a mistake but upon closer examination I noticed that they’d stained brown. Since the rains had returned, they were probably not draining properly. 

Drain them out or they’ll get root rot, I texted. 

There was also a voice note from Nazir. 

Hi, so umh.. I’m sorry I left like that. That was rude and I understand if you don’t want to hear from me again. It just occurred to me that we might be having very different ideas about what you being here means. I thought…sigh. I was a bit jarred. I felt like maybe I’m just a stop on your way some place else. I don’t know. I got in my head a bit. To a certain extent you can say I brought this on myself. But yeah. I felt awful and that has been the prevailing feeling since you left. The house feels a bit foreign to me now. Bigger, if that’s even possible. Or maybe empty? Celeste misses you. She hasn’t expressly told me that she does but I intuited it. Who wouldn’t? Miss you, I mean, not intuit things from their cat. That’s uuh…uuh… I’m gonna end this here now. I’m sorry, again. I wish I hadn’t done that. Call me, if you want to. 

A stop on my way some place else? What gave you that idea? What part of planting a bird bath in your backyard gave off that vibe? 

Okay, that’s fair. But I feel like you’re not hearing me. 

Oh I’m hearing you just fine. You want reassurance that I won’t just move on to whoever catches my attention next, implying that what happened between us is habitual for me, which leaves me wondering why you even ‘brought this on yourself’ as you say. Are we taming wild horses here or what? 

No, no. It’s nothing like that. I — should we maybe do a call? I’ll call. “Okay, that’s better. Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

“I think what I’m struggling to put across here is that the time we spent together was meaningful to me. And yes, you’re right. I think I was afraid that you might not eer…share that feeling.”

“Because you’re comparing me to your ex, the one who left you.” 

“Nooo.” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay yes, my bad.” 

“And because I cheated with you so now you think I’ll cheat on you too.” 

“Well no. And I wouldn’t put it so indelicately either.”

“Aaw have I offended your sensibilities Princess?”  

“It has made me feel a bit icky, yes. Then again, all’s fair in love and war.” 

“Is that you colouring in the grey areas?” 

“Is that you mixing your metaphors?” 

“Is that not the saying?” I chuckled. “If it’s not, it should be.” 

“Not in my neck of the woods, no. But then there aren’t many pioneers here.”

“I’m still mad, stop making me laugh.” 

“I’m just saying, I respect your creative process.” 

Huh. A man capable of actual introspection? And an apology? A true apology, not the go-along-to-get-along kind. I mused to myself. I had been made to believe that this was the stuff of myth. The realm of mermaids, centaurs and unicorns! Mundia is sluggish about things like that. Whenever we lash each other, be it over a slight or weighty transgression, his reaction is the same. He sits on his thumbs, watching gashes fester until the damage leaves a mark. I have never met anyone so resolutely inert. So infuriatingly passive. It drives me up the wall. But here was a man repairing a rift he had caused, or even that we had both caused? 

That was it. That was the moment the singularity occurred. 

***

To be continued…