Excerpt

It was only when the room was nearly empty, after she had shut down the computer, that she noticed the young man sitting in the back row, staring out of the window; the same young man from the parking lot. His body was sprawled in the chair like a coat thrown carelessly across the room, one arm draped over the chair next to him, the other hanging at his side. She hadn't seen him enter – he must have slipped in just after her. She made her way towards him, regarding him with some confusion. Even when she stopped right next to him, he didn't acknowledge her.

"Hi," she began. "Are you waiting for me?"

"Nah." He turned his head towards her. Beneath heavy lids his eyes were light, almost yellow-brown, creating an unnerving contrast with his dark skin. "I'm waiting." He grinned. "But not for you."

She frowned, uncertain what this response was supposed to mean. "Are you one of my students?"

"Sure."

"Oh." She cleared her throat. "I've never seen you before. This is quite a small class – I thought I knew all the faces. Did you just arrive?"

"I've been around…a while."

Helen bit her lip at this vague reply. "I see. Did you register? Because I might not have you on my list." She opened her file. "What's your name?"

"Benson. You know, like Benson and Hedges, sans Hedges."

She shook her head. "There's no –"

"Turn the page," he suggested lazily.

She looked at him through narrowed eyes, then turned the page. It was there, the only name on that side of the page, the side she could have sworn had always been blank. She raised her gaze to him again, frowning. "It just says Benson. No initials. Is this your first name or surname?"

He shrugged. "I just go by Benson." He grinned at her again. "I think your class is fascinating. All those different cultures, hidden away from the rest of the world. And you really know what you're talking about. You're a real anthropologist. You've been out there, haven't you? You're not one of these academics who read all about what other people have done and never do anything themselves."

She found herself blushing at the unexpected praise. "Thank you, Benson. I have worked in the field for most of my life, actually – my father used to take me on all his research…trips." She faltered, feeling as if she had divulged too much.

"It shows. You have a real passion for people, for different cultures, and things you don't understand."

"I hope to understand, at least a little," she said, relaxing. "That's the point, isn't it?"

"Ja."

"Do you have a copy of the course outline?" She produced one from her file and handed it to him, pleased to have found at least one student who wasn't bored to death by her classes.

He scanned it quickly. "Miss Helen King." He looked up with a smile. "Aren't you being modest? I mean, it's almost Dr King, isn't it?"

Her eyes widened in a mixture of pleasure and shock. "I didn't tell my students that!"

He shrugged. "I did my homework, Dr King."

"Please," she said, laughing. "It's not official yet."

"What's a few months?"

Helen shrugged, flattered in spite of herself. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Benson. I look forward to hearing you talk more in class."

"Sure, maybe. Ja, we'll see."

She raised her eyebrows, smiled and began to walk towards the door.

"It's not because you're white."

She froze, then turned around slowly. "Excuse me?"

Benson wasn't even looking at her. He was staring down at the floor. "The students aren't acting up because you're some white woman from overseas who's barely thirty. It's because they don't get it, that you really love what you do. They think you're just a daddy's girl, come to darkest Africa to make some money teaching the natives about other natives. They don't know that you care, that it matters to you, all this stuff about culture and tradition and beliefs."

She stood still, surprised by his words. "But you can tell," she sputtered. "If you can tell that I love my work, then why can't they?"