C'est la Careme

Careme

It was Springtime, in Koun Abrouzo, in the Ivory Coast, and my partner in the Peace Corps, Michael, and I were in our little house withstanding the heat of the day as best we could.
Usually few people ventured out in the village in the mid afternoon heat.
There sounded, however, a knock at our door. Since my french was better than Mike's, i opened the door. I was confused to find two women whom I had never seen before. Normally, the women don't say much to the two americans, especially without a local man present.
One of the girls spoke and her french was good enough for me to understand her.
It seemed that the elders of the village had decided that two young men, so far from home, needed female companionship, and as she said this, she slipped out of her clothes, right on our doorstep.
I swear that my first thought was: what the hell do i do now?
And my second was: how to get out of this mess without humiliating everyone?
Michael was being of very little help.
Midwestern Catholic law student, circumscribed thinker.
What must rank as one of my more brilliant improvisations, if I may say so myself, I managed to look desolated, while saying that, it being the season of Careme (Lent), sacrifices must be made.
Everyone in the village knew that we often ate dinner with the Catholic pere in the village, and a knowing nod indicated that they understood.
She re-draped herself and, magically, they smiled and we smiled, for by this time, Michael stood beside me at the door, and they left.


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