Game Control by Lionel Shriver Read Free Book Online Page B

bedroom of any adolescent in DC. Likewise when he showed her his notebooks from the mission school, the handwriting was the same round, exacting cursive of students anywhere to whom words did not come easily but who were trying hard.
      He insisted on tea as Eleanor began her ritual mumbling about having to leave, and led her out through the back to his family compound, where his younger siblings gathered in the corners to stare at the prize Peter had brought home today. They all shook her hand, exerting no pressure so that her own gentle clasp folded their fingers, and then retreated in new awe of their older brother, who could entertain a mzungu for tea. The service arrived, jam glasses and a beaten pot, the brew generously thick with milk and sugar. The mother's deferential bearing, a little stooped with too many smiles, made Eleanor feel undeserving, since for the last ten minutes an ugly worry had needled: what will they want?
      Quickly a bowl of pinto beans and corn kernels were delivered with tea, and Peter's mother asked if she would please stay for a meal, the preparations for which, the daughters scurrying, were already under way. When the eldest scuttled off, Eleanor was terrified the girl had gone to shop.
      'No, no,' said Eleanor hurriedly, knowing the word when employed on someone else's behalf. 'I can't.' And certainly she could not. To be polite, Eleanor helped herself to one handful of beans—well cooked, salted and slightly crunchy—but she was mindful of her appetite because of a forthcoming dinner with Calvin. Watching your weight in Mathare Valley was humiliating.
      Peter's mother was pregnant, and dutifully Eleanor drew her into a conversation about family planning, explaining she worked for the clinic near by. The mother nodded and said this was definitely her last child, but Eleanor recognized the desire to please. The same graciousness that produced the beans and would have laid out a bankrupting meal would also tell Eleanor what she wanted to hear. How many times had women claimed to her face they wanted no more children and come in the next month for perinatal care?
      Peter walked her to the clinic. A funny formality had entered the occasion, and she was let off easily with providing her address. She yearned to press him with a hundred shillings, but the ruse of hospitality had become real, and neither could violate courtesy with cash. Even in Mathare, paying for your tea was gross. For the life of her she couldn't fathom why he didn't slit her throat and steal her watch.
      Though Calvin had agreed to retrieve her readily enough, when she found him in the waiting room he looked annoyed. Eleanor chattered nervously with the nurses, asking about the tubal ligation programme, hoping they didn't know who he was.
      'I hate that language,' said Calvin malignantly once they started down the road. He hadn't dared park a new Land Cruiser in the slum, so they were in for a slog.
      'Swahili?'
      ' Chumba cha kulala, chakula cha mchana, katikati, majimaji, buibui, pole-pole, nene-titi-baba-mimi …Baby babble. The whole continent has never grown up.'
      'Do you hate the language or the people?'
      'Both.' The statement didn't seem to cost him much.
      'Do you like English?'
      'Not particularly. Angular, dry, crowded.'
      'Americans?'
      'Grabby, fat, empty-headed pond scum.'
      She laughed. 'Fair-mindedness of a sort.' She was coming to like Calvin best at his most horrid, and was reminded of a story she was fond of as a child, 'One Ordinary Day, with Peanuts'. A man goes out and feeds peanuts to pigeons, gives coins to beggars and helps old ladies across the street. When he comes home, his wife reports cheerfully how she shortchanged a salesgirl, screamed at a bus driver and had a child's pet impounded for nipping her leg. They were very happy together, and this suggested to her that she and Calvin had the makings of the perfect couple.
      Calvin sighed, casting his