I've had this written for some time but hesitated about posting it because it seems a little redundant now; still, it's not very long (2 parts) and might pass a few vacant minutes for anyone interested in Zhilliaan.

Usual disclaimers apply; archive if you want and review if you feel moved so to do – it is always helpful.

Shellie

Aide d'Oublier – part one of two

I don't like airports, don't like rail stations, never have. I love travelling, love to be in motion, love to arrive; I've tried to love the point of departure as part of all that but I can't. These places always seem so sad, all those goodbyes hanging in the air, so sad.

But I've hardly thought about that today, waiting for John's flight, willing Charles not to speak to me. I'm not in motion, not going anywhere and this feeling in the pit of my stomach isn't anticipation. When we leave here it won't be for the start of anything but for an end of something. I don't know what, I don't know what.

Sure I do.

......................................................................................................

You get your shots, you take your anti-malarial pills; you pack toilet paper and tampons and chocolate and a couple bottles of something to keep you warm and a couple packs of condoms in case you find something better to keep you warm, and I usually do. I need it as much as the quinine, something warm and sweet to hold onto, something to lose myself in, just a little protection, an aide d'oublier

I've developed an eye for them over the years, I'm good at it. A day to settle in, to get used to the heat, the smell, the feel of sweat constantly on my skin, the crowds, the desperation; and then a glance around to gauge the possibilities, and I know that they've been doing the same. Some of them I can write off straight away, the dull, the too eager, the plain unattractive, but there's usually one. He was it, he was it in spades, impossible not to notice, poster boy for tall dark and handsome. At first I thought he was married although I couldn't say why, and I'd begun to process the risks of going after him anyway. A sly glance showed me no wedding ring but there was something . . .

The women and girls who came to the clinic would giggle and flutter their eyelashes at him and he'd smile or sometimes even laugh a little and wink at the littlest girls and move on to the next case. He was so good with the children it threw me to start with. He had children of his own, surely. I knew he was from Croatia, had my own thoughts about what that might mean, knew he came to us from Chicago but he gave nothing else away. So I asked him, finally got him alone about 3 days in and asked him. No, he had no wife, no children, no-one at home, and there was something in his tone which told me not to ask anything more. Fair enough. Whatever happened it wasn't going to be for the long haul, was it? He was smart, and funny and kind of sweet and after a couple of drinks that night I saw that wicked grin and a couple of drinks after that I got up and held out my hand to him and he took it.

The first time hardly counts I've found. It's not about finesse, it's hardly even about pleasure. It's about sealing the deal and the deal was sealed and after the day we'd both had we didn't want to do anything but sleep then. But later, when I woke up to finds his hands on me, that was sweet and that's where I made my mistake, and I tell myself now that it was because I was still half stupid with sleep.

That first real time you have to be careful because then, in the afterglow, that's when evolution's little endocrinal trick catches you and you persuade yourself you're in love. I'm on my guard, always on my guard because once before it got the better of me and it wasn't until afterwards, when three months had gone by without so much as a 'phone call that I saw what I'd done. Since then I've brought the shutters down by sheer force of will, let myself like them even grown fond of them but never again fallen into that trap, always escaped the lure that's trying to keep us in each others' beds until the reproductive imperative has been satisfied, the trick that makes you believe you can love man without knowing him. It's a good trick.

And I tried this time too; tried and failed, failed hugely, failed and fell, hook, line and sinker.

In the dark he lit a cigarette and for a moment his face was illuminated, very beautiful, a living De La Tour, and voila, another deal sealed, a deal that wasn't even on the table.

Still, I'm good, I can smile and smile and well, not be a villain exactly but be something I'm not. You talk to enough dying kids you get pretty good at that pretty quick. And so it all went according to plan for a few days, a few days and a few nights. I knew for a fact that he wasn't caught in the same predicament, hadn't fallen victim to that dangerous post-coital lure. He'd stuck to the rules and I was pretty sure he didn't notice that I hadn't.

I expected to go to Matenda with him. When Charles brought the vaccines and he said he'd go I told him I'd go with him and he didn't say no. In the night I woke up to find him leaving my bed and I assumed he needed to pee or something and I went back to sleep. When I woke up alone I threw some clothes on and went looking for him but he'd been gone an hour by then.

I cursed him, bit back the disappointment and the hurt I had no right to feel at being duped - or dumped, I wasn't sure which; I thought Angelique was going to say something but the look I gave her shut her right up. I know what she thinks, I know she's waiting for me to fall flat on my ass like before, so I smiled and shrugged. She saw right through me.

But then new excitement. Charles came back from Kinshasa with supplies and a new boy in tow. American, he looked like he'd just woken up on Jupiter or something. He was scared and shocked and he didn't speak any French and not for the first time I wondered what sort of orientation the AMI were giving these days. Still, he was cute in a clean cut sort of a way and for a minute I wondered whether he might not be an opportunity for revenge.

When he told us he worked with Luka in Chicago I think I may have blushed. She's there again, Angelique, asking what he's like at home and I don't want to hear, don't want to know. What's home anyway? We're not there, we'll never be there. Home for me, Montreal, Jean, shift work, laundry, housekeeping, safety, we'll never be about that, never. But where before that thought brought comfort, now it's a knot in my stomach.

Three days turned into six days turned into nine days and I was unprepared for the anxiety I felt, unprepared for how hard it was to pretend it didn't matter. But no news is good news, right? He'd be back, he'd be back soon

You haven't seen rain 'til you've seen African rain. I didn't know what a deluge was until I'd spent 15 seconds in it and been soaked to my bones. The sound of it on the roof almost drowned out Angelique's shouted instructions that night he came back, bloodstained so that for a moment I thought a bullet or a blade had found him. We didn't even look at one another, got down to work, although I felt him watching as John persisted with the hopeless case on the table in front of us, not able to let go, learning a lesson we all had to learn and learn fast. I didn't know then how much it would matter that the boy had happened on a rookie, how much it would matter that Angelique let him carry on. But it did, it mattered.

Eunice, the Scottish girl I share a room with doesn't smoke so cigarettes won't do it; it takes a bar of soap, a bottle of shampoo and my two month old copy of Cosmopolitan to get her to go find somewhere else to sleep and even then she grumbles as I pull on clean underwear and brush my hair.

"He'd better be worth it."

"I'll let you know."

"Spare me."

Vodka, a fresh pack of cigarettes. I was still pissed with him as I made for the lounge but I know myself and I knew what it was going to take to bring me round and it didn't include a long apology. A look, a kiss, a smile. Think I'm easy? Sure I am but you know, life's too short. There some things they don't know here like who won the last American Idol or how many calories in an egg white omelette, but they know that.

So, my plan; pour him a drink, say I'm glad he finally managed to drag himself away from the delights of Matenda, let him toy with the idea of an apology and then smack him right in the mouth with my own and let nature take its course. Deep breath, open the door.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

John, looking like shit, watching as Luka smoked a cigarette. Damn. I poured the drink but I gave it to John; I was all solicitude but that was for John too. Luka watched it all, not speaking, looking anywhere but at me and suddenly I was tired and so sad that I wanted to cry, and I left my drink and the two of them but before I went I said I hoped someone would join me in bed. I wasn't even sure he'd come to me; but he did. When I opened the door he waited to be asked in. He looked around the room, too tall for its confines, nearly smiling.

"Eunice?"

"Eunice is . . . busy."

"Busy?"

"Washing her hair."

He nodded.

"So . . . how was Matenda?"

"Worse than here."

"You were supposed to be gone three days."

"Lots to do." He took the drink I offered him, sat on the edge of my bed. "I have to go back tomorrow. I came back for supplies."

"Tomorrow? You have a woman there or something?"

He looked at me for the first time, really looked, and reached out to pull me between his knees, rested his face against me. I felt rather than heard his "No."

"Well, " I said, leaning down to rest my face on his hair, still damp from the shower, "you do here"