Behold the Dreamers(46)
“Sir,” Jende said after a brief silence, “I think Vince will stay in India for a few months and run back to law school.”
“I won’t be surprised,” Clark said with a laugh.
“I don’t know how India is, Mr. Edwards, but if there is heat and mosquitoes there like we have in Cameroon, I will be picking him up at the airport before New Year.”
The men laughed together.
“I will not worry about Vince for one minute, sir. Even if he stays, he will be happy. Look at me, sir. I am in another country, and I am happy.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“A man can find a home anywhere, sir.”
“Funny, as I was thinking about Vince today, I wrote a poem about leaving home.”
“You write poems, sir?”
“Yeah, but I’m no Shakespeare or Frost.”
Jende scratched his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I have heard a little about Shakespeare, but I don’t know the other man. I did not make it that far in school.”
“They were both great poets. I’m just saying my poetry is pretty remedial, but it keeps me going on many days.”
Jende nodded, and he could see that Clark could tell he didn’t quite understand the last point, either. “You learn how to write poems in school, sir?” he asked.
“No, actually, I just started a few years ago. A colleague gave me this little book of poetry, which I thought was a rather odd gift—why would anyone think I could use a book of poetry? Maybe it was just one of those lazy gifts where people pull stuff off their shelves.”
“A Christmas gift, sir?”
“Yeah. Anyway, I kept it on my desk, picked it up one day, and loved the poems so much that I decided to try writing one. Feels real good to just write out lines about whatever you’re feeling. You should try it sometime.”
“It sounds very good, sir.”
“I wrote one for Cindy, but she didn’t like it much, so I just write for myself now.”
“I will be glad to read one, sir.”
“Really? I can show you … Dammit,” Clark said, looking at his watch. “Didn’t realize it was getting this late.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I should have kept my eyes open. I was just talking and talking without paying any attention to the time.”
“No, no, I’m glad we talked. Thanks for joining me; I really appreciate it. I hope I didn’t put you in an awkward position, throwing out my feelings about work and shit.”
“No, sir. Please, Mr. Edwards, thank you so much for inviting me here.”
“Well, thank you for listening,” Clark said, smiling. “And I’ll be glad to recite the poem to you. It’s called ‘Home,’ and if you don’t like it, I’d rather you don’t say anything.”
“Yes, sir,” Jende said, smiling, too. “I will not say anything whatsoever.”
“Okay, here goes:
Home will never go away
Home will be here when you come back You may go to bring back fortune You may go to escape misfortune You may even go, just because you want to go But when you come back
We hope you’ll come back
Home will still be here.”
Twenty-four
THE ONE THING SHE MISSED ABOUT THE HAMPTONS (BESIDES THE BOYS, Mighty especially) was the food—the scrumptious catered food served at the Edwardses’ cocktail parties. All her life she’d thought Cameroonians had the best food but, apparently, she was wrong: Rich American people knew something about good food, too. Despite having to work fifteen hours on the days when Cindy hosted the parties around the pool, she looked forward to them because the food was too good, so ridiculously good that she had called Fatou one evening and told her she was sure she’d died and gone to food heaven, to which Fatou had replied, how you gonno be sure the cook no piss inside food to make it good? Neni was sure the cook hadn’t done anything to the food, since the three chefs Cindy always hired for the parties prepared most of it in the kitchen, and their three servers, with her assistance, took it directly from the kitchen to the backyard. All kinds of foods were there, things she’d seen in magazines and wished she could taste just by looking at the perfectly lighted pictures, wickedly delectable creations like sesame seared tuna with lemon-wasabi vinaigrette; beef tenderloin and olives on garlic crostini with horseradish sauce; California caviar and chives on melba toast; mushroom caps stuffed with jumbo lump crabmeat; steak tartare with ginger and shallot, which she loved the most and devoured without restraint though she’d never once imagined she’d one day find herself eating raw meat like a beast in the forest.
She was certain she’d gotten her fill, thanks to the ample leftovers at the end of all three parties, but she was nonetheless glad when Anna called and asked if she could come help out at a brunch Cindy and her friends were having in Manhattan.
“Are they going to use the same chefs from the Hamptons?” she asked Anna.
“No,” Anna said. “This one is just brunch. Two chefs from here and no servers. So me and you, we going to serve and clean after. The other girl who works for Cindy’s friend used to work with me every year, but she quit last week, so Cindy tell me to call you.”
“All those people for just the two of us to serve and clean after?”