Rose

The most beautiful women in the world were African.

Somali women wrapped in robes suffused with purple, vermilion, pink. Around their necks beads of amber that, rubbed together, emitted electricity and the scent of lemons and honey.

Women of the Horn who peered through veils of gold, strands in the shape of tinkling teardrops. They stood veiled in black from head to toe, their longing compressed into kohl-edged eyes. In the Mountains of the Moon, Dinka women, dark and smooth as the darkest smoothest wood, tall and statuesque within beaded corsets that would be cut open only on their wedding nights.

And the women of the Gold Coast in golden chains, bells, bracelets, dancing in skirts of golden thread in rooms scented by cinnamon, cardamom, musk.

Jonathan Blair awoke tangled in damp sheets and shivering to the rain, gas fumes and soot that pressed against his lodging’s single window. He wished he could slip back into his dream, but it was gone like smoke. The Africa in his bloodstream, though, that was forever.

He suspected he had typhoid. His bedclothes were dank from sweat. The week before, he had been yellow
from his eyeballs to his toes. He pissed brown water, a sign he had malaria. Which last night had demanded quinine and gin—at least he had demanded it.

Outside, morning bells rang in another foul day, resounding like blood vessels exploding in his brain. He was freezing, and on the room’s miniature grate a pitiful mouthful of coals was fading under ash. He swung his feet onto the floor, took one step and collapsed.

He came to an hour later. He could tell by another outburst of bells, so there was some point to God after all, as a celestial regulator with a gong.

From the floor Blair had a low but excellent view of his sitting room: threadbare carpet of tea stains, bed with wrestled sheets, single chair and table with oil lamp, wallpaper patched with newspaper, window of weepy gray light that showed dead ashes on the grate. He was tempted to try to crawl to the chair and die in a sitting position, but he remembered that he had an appointment to keep. Shaking like an old dog, he struck out on all fours toward the fireplace. Chills squeezed his ribs and twisted his bones. The floor pitched like the deck of a ship, and he passed out again.

And came to with a match in one hand and a newspaper and kindling in the other. He seemed to do as well unconscious as conscious; he was pleased with that. The paper was folded to the Court Circular for March 23, 1872.
HRH the Princess Royal will attend a patrons meeting at the Royal Geographical Society with Sir Rodney Murchison, president of the RGS, and the Right Reverend Bishop Hannay. In attendance will be
 … That was yesterday, which meant he had missed the festivities, had he been, well, invited, and possessed the cab fare. He struck the match and used all his strength to hold the sulfurous flame under the paper and sticks, and to push them under the grate. He rolled on his side to the scuttle. Please, God, he thought, let there be coal. There was. He laid a handful on the fire. A kettle hung over the grate.
Please, God, he thought, let there be water. He tapped the kettle and heard its contents slosh from side to side. He fed the fire more paper and more coal, and when the coal had caught he lay as close as he could to the fire’s warming breath.