Won't You Stay, Please?

Professor Muyenzi, head of linguistics, had been so charming in his correspondence—you will love Burundi, for we are the heart of Africa—that even at tiny Bujumbura International, with only a handful of people waiting for the arrivals, Neil assumed the African walking toward him was meeting someone else. The man was short and bug-eyed, with a small, rounded chin and an enormous forehead etched with deep scowl lines. He was not smiling. If not for the pumicy tufts of gray hair above his ears, he would have looked for all the world like a sullen child.

The flight to Burundi had been exhausting, three days in total, and when the pinched little man raised an inquiring finger, Neil leaned against the luggage on his cart and closed his eyes. The man wouldn't disappear. It was the professor—he pulled out his card and held it to his lips—but in some ocean-scented region of his brain Neil held out hope that from around the corner some Nelson Mandela look-alike might emerge, someone with a dazzling Iforgive you-everything smile, and with a bear hug announce himself to be the charming correspondent. All around the terminal, people were laughing and throwing their arms around each other, and students in tight shirts shouted greetings into their parents' ears. Outside, beyond the huge glass panes, couples walked hand in hand across the gravel to their cars, and a woman in a bright sarong jangled her bracelets at a boy, who grabbed her wrists and pressed them to his cheeks. There was a kind of whoosh in the air, a joyous crackle, but around the professor the sound all but disappeared, as though someone had placed a jar over him. When Neil at last stuck out his hand to shake, he had to fight the urge to say what he had been thinking ever since boarding the flight back in Los Angeles: I have been deserted.

"You are the guest linguist?" the professor asked. He sounded bored, and his eyes drifted to Neil's trolley cart. His handshake, Neil thought, was fishy and damp, even less appealing than what he had heard was typical of Africans. "You are not ill, I hope," said the professor. Neil frowned. "Your expression," his host explained. "You looked like you had just eaten something disagreeable."

"Oh no, no, no," Neil said, waving off the suggestion. He made reference to jet lag, then to the tag team of humidity and sun. Who knew? he said: travel was a funny thing, wasn't it? The professor raised his eyebrows—whether the gesture was universal or borrowed from some movie, Neil wasn't sure—and then began speaking in French. He was of the opinion that Neil had packed too many bags. One could buy clothes in Burundi, he said. One could even purchase luggage.

Neil laughed in what he hoped was a disarming manner. Of course, he said, he had nothing against the Burundi luggage industry . . . but the professor didn't seem to be listening. His host shooed away some men in dirty orange overalls, one of whom had already laid claim to Neil's biggest suitcase, then abruptly grabbed two of Neil's bags for himself and started toward the exit. "Sorry, sorry," Neil called out, and the professor stopped in his tracks. "Foreigners are expected to spread the wealth," Neil said, motioning to the men in orange. "Give big tips and all that." An Africa scholar back in Los Angeles had told him as much. Over wine, the man had grinned slyly and said, "We all suckle from the same teat." He paused a long time, savoring his earthiness. "But if you've got a bigger mouthful, share it," he continued. "Noblesse oblige, my friend. We're all brothers and so on."

The professor remained frozen a moment, then let the suitcases drop. "I am not with you," he said in English. "You are with me." And with that he picked the suitcases back up and continued out the door. Neil followed. What the professor said sounded like a rebuke, but...