Neither Mr Malik nor Harry Khan had considered that Rose might have another admirer. That every year for the last ten years, she might have received the same invitation. It was never made personally at the Tuesday morning bird walk, it always came by post – Mr Tom Turnbull requests the pleasure of the company of Mrs Rose Mbikwa to the Nairobi Hunt Club Ball. Each year she had penned a kind refusal. The subject would not be mentioned again until the next invitation arrived. This year for some reason, Rose had said yes. Even Rose herself was not sure why she had done so. Perhaps it was something to do with her operation and seeing things better now, differently. Perhaps it was something to do with Harry Khan and having fun. Perhaps it was even something to do with Mr Malik.
Rose had, thought Mr Malik, never looked so lovely. She let go of Tom Turnbull’s arm and greeted Joan and Hilary with light hugs. Mr Malik saw her catch Harry Khan’s eye and smile and wave. People from other tables began drifting towards the buffet. Rose looked around the room, apparently searching for someone else. When she looked in his direction and smiled Mr Malik could not help turning round to see who was behind him. Rose bent towards the other women now seated at the table and murmured a few words, then made her way through the crowd towards him, still smiling.
‘Mr Malik,’ she said, ‘I hoped I would find you here.’
‘Mrs Mbikwa. I think I hoped the same.’
‘You must excuse me,’ said Rose. ‘Mr Malik, I promise not to keep you from your friends – or your supper – for long, but do you have a moment?’
She led him past the buffet, back through the double doors into the lobby and over to the reception desk.
‘Could I have the package I left here just now please?’
The desk clerk handed over a plastic bag. She reached inside and pulled out something blue, singed and soggy.
‘Hilary told me you had bought tickets so I thought I should take the opportunity tonight of delivering this in person. It is yours, isn’t it, Mr Malik?’
Mr Malik looked down at what was left of his missing notebook.
‘It is indeed mine, Mrs Mbikwa. But how did you…’
‘I found it just outside my house. In Serengeti Gardens, you know. It was on a bonfire, not far from where your car was left the other day. I noticed the bird on the front and I thought I recognized it. I suppose it must have fallen out of the car or been thrown out. I’m sorry, it seems to have got slightly burned, and rather wet too. It was raining.’ She put the book into his hand. ‘It doesn’t have your name on it but I was sure it must be yours. I thought you might want it back. All those notes.’
‘Yes, I…’
‘Good. Well, why don’t we just leave it safe here at the desk and you can pick it up when you go.’
‘Yes, I shall indeed do that. Thank you. May I say, Mrs Mbikwa, that I am very relieved to get it back. More than you might know.’
Rose smiled and looked into his eyes.
‘Yes, I thought you would be.’
At that moment Milton Kapriadis raised his baton for the next dance to begin.
‘Oh, the Vienna waltz,’ said Rose as she heard the first notes. ‘It used to be one of my husband’s favourites.’ She leaned towards him and put a soft hand on his forearm. ‘Mr Malik – or should I say Mr Dadukwa? Would you, I wonder, care to dance?’
And so, to the music of Milton Kapriadis and his Safari Swingers, we must leave the Nairobi Hunt Club Ball. On the dance floor of the Suffolk Hotel Mr Malik is holding in his arms the woman of his dreams, who is smiling at him with a most tender smile. If at this moment he is not the happiest short, round, balding brown man in all the world then I don’t know what happiness is. We see his eyes turn towards his daughter Petula, who is also on the floor. In gold-trimmed crimson sari she looks as lovely as ever her mother did – and is that Harry Khan’s niece’s fiancé she is dancing with? He is gazing into her eyes, she into his, and they seem to be very happy too. Harry Khan has taken his niece Elvira to sit with his fellow members of the Asadi Club, and he must have told them some joke for they are all laughing. Perhaps it is a story about Bill Clinton, or about one of the American franchisees’ wives. I hope he isn’t saying anything about how Mr Malik got that old school nickname, because I never shall.
A Guide to the Birds of East Africa Page 18
