Why I Don't Write Read online

  ALSO BY SUSAN MINOT

  Thirty Girls

  Poems 4 A.M.

  Rapture

  Evening

  Folly

  Lust & Other Stories

  Monkeys

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2020 by Susan Minot

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  These stories were first published in the following places:

  “Why I Don’t Write” (2018) on LitHub, “The Torch” (1993) in The Mississippi Review, “Listen” (2018) in It Occurs to Me We Are America, “Occupied” (2017) and “Boston Common at Twilight” (2019) in Narrative, “Polepole” (as “Pole, Pole,” 2009) in The Kenyon Review, “While It Lasts” (1991) in Voices Louder Than Words, “Green Glass” (1992) in The Atlantic Monthly, “Café Mort” (as “Mort’s Café,” 2009) in H.O.W.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Minot, Susan, author.

  Title: Why I don’t write : and other stories / Susan Minot.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019052531 (print) | LCCN 2019052532 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525658245 (cloth) | ISBN 9780525658252 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3563.I4755 (print) | LCC PS3563.I4755 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2019052531

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2019052532

  Ebook ISBN 9780525658252

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover image: lolostock/Alamy

  Cover design by John Gall

  ep_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  To Jordan Pavlin

  con amore

  Contents

  POLEPOLE

  THE TORCH

  OCCUPIED

  GREEN GLASS

  WHY I DON’T WRITE

  WHILE IT LASTS

  CAFÉ MORT

  BOSTON COMMON AT TWILIGHT

  LISTEN

  THE LANGUAGE OF CATS AND DOGS

  Acknowledgments

  • POLEPOLE •

  Goodness, she said. That was something.

  You’re something.

  With you I am. Apparently.

  She looked across the room of the cottage to heavy curtains which blocked out the daylight.

  That sliver of light, she said, it’s totally white. You can’t see the trees or grass or anything. It must be late.

  The African noon, he said.

  It’s blinding.

  Too bright to go out in. You better stay right here.

  She said, I don’t even know where I am.

  * * *

  •

  The night had ended late. It had started way back there at the engagement party she’d gone to with Bragg. Bragg was the ex-fiancé of a friend of hers in London and the bureau chief of the Guardian in Nairobi who’d taken her under his wing when she’d arrived in Kenya a couple of weeks ago. He seemed to know everyone at the Muthaiga Club in the crowd which spread out to a lantern-lit interior garden. At one point he called to a tall man who walked toward them, looking at her. This was one of his boys, Bragg said, fresh in from Mogadishu tonight, and Bragg had winked, leaving her to chat with the man. Then it was Bragg who had corralled them both afterward to go to dinner at the restaurant in Langata. The restaurant was called the Carnivore, and waiters sliced long strips of meat from spits sticking up on carts which were wheeled from table to table so you could choose zebra, antelope, buffalo, ostrich. The side walls of the restaurant were low with a space open to the black night. A thatched roof towered above. She and the man sat beside each other at the long table, but chatted with everyone else, shouting above the noise. At the end of the meal the man turned to her, smiling with a presumptuous look.

  Connected to the eating area by a concrete ramp was a throbbing dance floor with another bar and tables and chairs. After dinner the group flowed down the ramp and disappeared into the jumbling crowd and danced and drank more beer. They danced till the crowd began to thin out.

  In an unlit parking lot Bragg was sorting out rides. Some people were going back to somebody’s house and there was the usual indecision and stumbling and pulling of sleeves and keys stabbing blindly at ignitions. She told the man she really did need to call it a night even though, which she didn’t tell him, she wasn’t working the next day, and all he said was he had a car. Coming out of the restaurant’s driveway to the main road, the red taillights of the other cars turned to the left, floating one after another in the darkness. He and she, in a partly open Jeep, turned to the right.

  They passed no other cars on the road, so the only light was the dim topaz bar cast by the headlights of his rattletrap Jeep. Sometimes the road was paved, with enormous black craters bitten out of it, then it would revert to rust-colored dirt, polished hard with a deep rut, like a road beside a farmer’s field.

  As the Jeep rounded a bend it lurched off the road. She thought he had lost control. Then he applied the brake and she saw they were in a pull-over. She looked at the man, whose face was solemn, staring ahead.

  What is it? she said.

  He said he needed to kiss her. He said it still looking through where the windshield was detached from the hood to the darkness beyond the headlights.

  The direct statement stunned her and made her laugh. A direct statement often had that effect. She sat there, powerless. It was a welcome feeling. She felt the outline of herself begin to dissolve.

  When they eventually pulled back onto the road, the Jeep made a sharp U-turn and headed back toward his place.

  She rode in the passenger seat on the left side, not the right. Many things here in Kenya were like that, opposite or unexpected. This was the sort of moment she waited for, to be whisked away in the dark. It was not something you could do on your own. So much of what Daisy did was on her own. Though on your own had its advantages. On your own you could pick up and leave. You could visit new lives and try them on for a while. And what else was life for but to check it out?

  She rode with a hand on the roll bar, taking the bumps as if riding waves. His kiss had both woken her up and made her sleepy. A warm air blew around them in the dark.

  They turned onto a smaller road and drove till they came to a driveway. The Jeep stopped in front of a metal gate. A figure rose up out of the darkness. The face turned toward the headlights, squinting with an offended expression. He was one of many Maasai warriors who’d left a nomadic life on the savannas to work as askaris, guards outside houses in Nairobi’s suburbs. This askari wore a gigantic overcoat, his black-and-red-plaid shuka showing below the hem. He lifted his spear in greeting, ducked away from the light, and went to unwind a heavy chain from the gatepost. He walked the swinging gate out toward the car and stood beside it as the Jeep drove in.

  Does he stay out there all night? she said.

  The man shrugged. He’ll go back to sleep.

  They drove up a short hill, rocking side to side in the ruts, then stopped in a turnaround in front of an unlit cottage. Paned French do
ors reflected the light back at them. At some distance to the right she could see the pale shape of a low building with one small window and a door. When the headlights went off, everything was black. She saw nothing as he led her to the door and, after turning a heavy lock, brought her inside.

  * * *

  •

  You’re right here, he said. That’s where you are.

  They lay in bed with the curtains closed and the noon light slashing a blade of light across the floor. From the front room, the other room in the cottage, came the sound of something like a couch or a table being scraped across the concrete floor.

  What’s that? She looked alarmed.

  Nothing. Just Edmond.

  Who?

  My man. The extent of my staff.

  That’s what you call him, your man?

  No, I call him Edmond. Edmond takes very good care of me. He has done for a long time. He lives in that little place next door with one of his wives.

  How many does he have?

  Three, poor sod.

  In the other room a radio went on, very loud, then immediately switched off.

  He’s in there tidying up. It’s okay.

  What’s okay? she said.

  * * *

  •

  After a while she said, Doesn’t anyone around here have to work? Besides Edmond.

  No.

  Don’t we have to get to work?

  Sure, he said. Let’s go to work.

  Really.

  No, really. I’m ready. He wrapped his arms around her.

  I thought you said you had a story to file.

  It would probably give Bragg a heart attack if I handed in a story on time. The man spoke with a Kenyan accent. We are not in a hurry hee-ah.

  Then he said, God, what are you doing to me?

  She gave a small laugh, unconvinced.

  You’re dangerous, he said.

  Okay, she said. I was wondering if you were sincere. Now I know. You’re not.

  From the front room a door banged shut, rattling panes.

  You’re brave to be here, he said.

  How’s that?

  Usually I scare them off.

  She looked at his profile. It was not unusual for a man in his late thirties to have an unlined face, but the man’s skin was unusually smooth and fair. It was not a face which would scare off a woman.

  Them? she said. She looked past him to the curtains. They were thick and white but looked dark in the shadows. She sat up a little.

  Hey, she said, something just went by. She narrowed her eyes. A red streak.

  Where?

  Out the window. In that sliver of light.

  He lifted his head off the pillow, looked concerned for a moment, then lay back down. Who knows, he said.

  Doesn’t worry you?

  Can’t, he said.

  You’re not worried about the attacks?

  Oh, them. We’ve always had the attacks. They’re just more newsworthy to the world at large for the moment. It’s nothing new for us. He closed his eyes. If you let yourself worry here, you’ll go mad.

  I thought everyone here was mad.

  He opened one eye, interested. So she had been listening to what he’d said the night before. He peered back toward the sliver of light. Could be anyone out there, he said. Edmond’s got nine children. At last count.

  Yikes. Are they all next door?

  No, but Cecily lets them visit. Not all wives do. Cecily rules the roost. She also does all my clothes washing.

  Your staff is expanding.

  He held his fist to her chin.

  Where do the other wives live?

  In Kibera.

  People here are spoiled, she said.

  Not in Kibera, he said.

  She gave him a withering look. The whites, I mean.

  Did you know Kibera is one of the largest slums in the whole world? he said. Something to make us Kenyans proud.

  Yes, she said. I did know.

  She looked past him into the shadowy room. There was a kilim-covered hassock near a side table with a beige dial phone on it. Clothes were gathered in small piles at the edge of the room and newspapers and books rose in loose stacks against the wall. Hanging in the doorway instead of a door was a purple-and-yellow-striped kikoi with dangling tassels. On the wall beside it was a large black-and-white photograph of a Maasai warrior leaping a few feet into the air above a dusty cloud. A heavy iron hatstand made by a local artist whose ironwork she’d noticed in other Nairobi houses held a dirt-spattered oilcloth coat, a few safari hats with brims, and, balanced on top, a carved wooden club called a rungu with its persimmon-shaped knob. She looked at the room, but she was thinking of the Kibera slum. She’d been filming the children there at an orphanage. Most of her previous work had been in nature documentaries; she’d not seen this sort of poverty up close before. At first the children she was filming had watched her with an expectant stare as if she were about to burst into flame. Then gradually they became animated till they were swirling around her like a school of fish, showing perplexingly joyful smiles. These children had lost their parents mostly to disease and were living in a place made up of a jumble of lean-tos the size of armchairs and she couldn’t get over how much they smiled. The camera around her neck cost more than most of them would see in a lifetime. Many of the children were infected with the disease. She told herself, I am here to help, a weak plea of self-justification against the shame she felt seeing her life in comparison to theirs. She had an even more uneasy feeling she admitted to no one, that in some way she was worse off.

  We are spoiled, said the man with his hands crossed behind his head. But there’s justice. We are also miserable wrecks. What are you looking at?

  You.

  The man’s face may have looked untouched, but his eyes did not look spoiled. They looked worn out.

  She turned onto her back and faced the ceiling. The ceiling was painted dark blue and where it met the white stucco walls you could see in the undulating line the brushstroke of a human hand. The plaster had been smoothed by hand, too, giving the surface a soft uneven look.

  So what are you doing here? he said.

  She glanced at him, not sure what he meant. His expression was relaxed.

  The documentary, you know, we’re—

  He shook his head. I mean, really. Here, on the other side of the world.

  I always wanted to come here.

  His eyebrows rose.

  You mean, what am I running away from? She went on in a flat tone, Nothing. Getting as far away as possible from Darien, Connecticut?

  Is that where you’re from?

  Was.

  Not anymore?

  It’s not a place I ever really related to, she said.

  So you’ve come to Africa to relate?

  Oh no, she said. Are you going to be one of those people?

  What?

  Who give you a hard time for being in Africa.

  He shrugged. I just don’t have a lot of patience for the thrill-seeking tourist.

  She said nothing. She thought of Babette, the German woman who ran the orphanage they were filming. She was not a thrill seeker. She was a good human being with a strong center of gravity, stern one moment, loving the next. She had a purposeful manner. The first day filming Daisy had taken one look at Babette with her steady eyes and pronounced jaw and thought, Now there’s the sort of person I’ll never be.

  * * *

  •

  After a while he said, I’m glad you’re in Africa.

  Can I ask you something? she said.

  Anything. He sounded relieved.

  You don’t happen to have…Her voice trailed off and she sort of laughed. A girlfriend or a wife, do you?

  Well, yes, he said in
the same gentle tone. I do.

  You do?

  Yes I thought you knew.

  Her body went still. They were both facing the ceiling and neither turned.

  I thought Bragg would have told you, he said.

  She shook her head. No, she said. Bragg didn’t tell me.

  They were silent for a moment.

  Which? she said.

  Which what? he said. He too seemed surprised.

  Wife or girlfriend?

  Wife.

  They were silent again.

  Children? she whispered.

  Uh-huh. He cleared his throat. Two. Girls.

  She turned on her side to face him, propping herself up on an elbow. She thumped him on the chest. It hit harder than she meant it to.

  Ow, he said.

  Sorry. She flopped onto her stomach and smushed her face into a pillow. She reached back for the tangled sheet and pulled it up over her backside. The sheets were sort of olive brown, typical bachelor sheets, she had thought.

  That’s okay, he said.

  I’m an idiot, she said into the olive-brown pillow.

  No, you’re not.

  I thought you lived here. One finger tapped the mattress near her ear while the rest of her remained frozen.

  I do. When I’m working in Nairobi.

  She peeked out one eye. How old are they?

  Fiona’s six and Emma’s three.

  Jesus. She sat up, holding the sheet around her. I didn’t ask, she murmured. She looked at him. He looked back. Okay, she said, so I didn’t ask.

  Where are you going? he said.

  Getting up. She dragged the sheet with her and stood on the thin pale rug. She scanned the dim floor for her clothes.

  I thought you knew, he said.

  It looked like such a bachelor pad, she said under her breath. She located her bra and wisp of a shirt. I thought…I mean, I wasn’t even…I mean, whatever. I didn’t want to think. She found her skirt crumpled under the bed.