Girl with the Golden Voice

by Carl Hancock

  Angelo Gomez broke his golden rule. He pulled into a parking space close to the gates of a public garden.

  ‘Lady, you want me to take you some place else? A hospital maybe? I got daughters your age.’

  ‘No! No! I have friends back at the hotel. I didn’t mean to upset you, embarrass you.’

  Angelo was startled at the girl’s lightning return to polite composure.

  ‘I couldn’t help hearing. You were praying. I thought that if we stopped … and said something together. It might help.’

  She said nothing but shook her head gently. There were the beginnings of a smile on her face.

  He took this to be a consent. After a few seconds silence, he began to sing. His light baritone whispered a melody that was slow and, in that moment, full of poignancy for her. Halfway through the second verse, Rebecca was singing the melody without the words that were in Spanish.

  When the song was finished, more silence broken by a question. ‘Please, do I know you from somewhere? It’s like I’ve seen you … not in the cab. Say, was you in a show on television or something? Hey!’ he clapped his hands, ‘the concert from the Flamingo. My girl Maria, she’s crazy for your voice. Am I correct?’

  ‘Yes. My name is Rebecca. I sing with Toni Wajiru.’

  ‘Say, would you sign your name on my Post?

  ‘If you want..’

  ‘Fantastico! Maybe Maria will believe that you were riding in my cab. And now, I gotta get you back. Ten minutes. I know a short cut.’

  He pulled up outside the Flamingo at the promised time. Before she stepped down she reached out her hand.

  ‘Thank you so much. God did not forget me. That’s why He sent you along at the right moment. But I’m keeping you. How much must I pay?’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed your company. I should be paying you! Lady, Rebecca, I’m on my way home now. We’ll light a candle for you in Saint Patrick’s tonight.’

  ‘Perhaps Maria would like to come to a concert, all the family.’

  ‘Rebecca, you fooling me?’

  ‘Call the ticket office. Tell them Rebecca Kamau wants to pay off a debt. Any trouble, tell them to talk to me.’

  She opened the door to her bedroom and looked over to the blue telephone, the good friend who was a lifeline between her and Tom. But it was past midnight in Naivasha, too late for a call home. In an hour Mary would be calling in. The concert coming up was a big one, being recorded by a company who wanted to see if there would be a market for a live performance where any errors, big or small, were not wiped off. Toni had called one of his silent rehearsals. These took the same time as a normal run-through but with hardly a note played or sung.

  The warm, perfumed water of a bath soothed her body and relaxed her mind. She recalled every moment of the time since she bumped into Julius in the bookshop. The memory was vivid, but there was a quality of separation about it, as if the act of stepping into the taxi marked the start of a new phase in her life. She was amazed. Yes, the rational side of her brain caused her to groan. She could not marry Tom and she would have to submit herself to Julius. That was still the only way in which she could save Tom’s life. She could not even be sure of this. She thought of Papa’s words about the Rubais being driven by a need to avenge themselves, with interest, on those who offended them, caused them to lose face.

  More amazing still to her was a spill-over from her emotional core. She could and would cope. Already there was an uncompromising sense of mission building up inside her. From now on into an unspecified hour in the future, her every thought, feeling and action would take place against this background of mission of protecting the person she loved above all people.

  Mary arrived and found her friend sitting in an armchair, sipping bottled water with the favourite red silk dressing-gown draped tightly around her.

  ‘Why so many things red, ‘Becca?’

  ‘Oh, many reasons. But red is the colour of Africa, isn’t it? And it reminds me of the sun rising over the lake. I think it’s a good colour for me, too’

  Almost straightaway Mary noticed a change in Rebecca. Cool, sophisticated, in control, reminding her of those Nairobi wives of bigwigs in the know and in the money, usually someone else’s. And her sense of the absurd was back, just like in the old days in Santa Maria.

  ‘Mary, what do you say? We two pack a small case, leave this city and go to live in a convent. Perhaps one day we could become teachers at Santa Maria.’ She was smiling mischievously.

  ‘Love it, but don’t forget, no silk dressing-gowns in there, no hairdos and the rest of it.’

  ‘But we wouldn’t be bothered by silly little things and certain people.’

  ‘Dongos like Julius, you mean? But there would be no Tom either. Something else. We would be bothered by silly little things, all the time!’

  ‘I’d love singing psalms all day long.’

  ‘Now I know you’re losing it.’

  Rebecca’s expression became serious, almost haunted. ‘Do you really think so, Mary?’

  ‘Of course not, goose! Come on! Rehearsal is in five minutes.’

  On the surface business took over Rebecca’s life for the next few hours. Underneath, the reasoning, the questions, the constant return to the brick wall of reality of Tom and Julius continued, unsuspected by those around her who had business of their own to focus on. The inner affected the outer in an important way; her on stage performance moved to new levels. Every person in that spiritual space locked onto the something that was driving that beautiful African girl on the stage in front of them. The emotional charge she exuded was electric and palpable. Toni, Mary and the rest of the band responded and at the end of the evening they were drained by the effort that had been drawn out of them.

  The recording team was ecstatic. There had been fifteen one-take winners.

  Rebecca slept badly and in the morning it took a huge effort for her to make her daily call to Tom. She composed herself, hoping that he would detect no change in her. But he did detect a change and quickly. He showed it by the pauses to her news about the cold weather, the new book she had bought, the concert, the absence of enthusiastic chatter about preparations for the wedding. She visualised the thoughtful frown on his face when he was not happy about something. Did he suspect that she was not being completely open?

  For the rest of the day she was in company. After the band lunch, Toni took them up to Yankee Stadium to watch a Major League baseball game between the home team and the Chicago White Sox. Rebecca enjoyed the change of watching while somebody else performed even though what was happening on the pitch was a mystery to her. Toni had told her that what they would see would be a sort of rounders for men. The hitting she recognised but little else. Sister Letitia who taught the game at Santa Maria as a recreation for young ladies would surely have enjoyed the speed and power of these athletic men. Rebecca loved the noise and the colour. She would write about it in her diary later that day in the privacy of her room.

  Anne Frank, the Jewish girl who had been cut off from normal society had given her the idea of writing down thoughts and feelings she must keep hidden. Anne had her Kitty, her make-believe friend, to read her secrets. Rebecca had her Mary, her kind and sympathetic best friend, as her unsuspecting confidante. Her large red book was her safety valve, a place where she could explore her own depths. Sometimes the freedom of thought it created brought tiny slivers of hope.

  ‘Julius has fooled himself into seeing me as some desirable creature. He has seen something he thinks he wants and he must have it. He would probably describe his lust as love. Like the spoilt child he is he wants this toy above all things. If I offer myself to him he will soon become bored with me, the easy conquest, and move on to the next desirable novelty.

  But the animal lust is a strong force in him. The thought of it causes me to shudder. He will not cast me aside until he has taken full possession …’

  ‘I have just left Maxine the Flamingo, “Coiffeuse des Dames” as she likes to be called. She is
a lovely lady, but you would never want to share a secret with her! I picked up a magazine, Samba, written in English but mainly for Hispanic women. “Think long and hard” was a title that I was drawn to. Wow! It was about mixed marriage, a sad story, a lament written by a lawyer’s wife, a Bolivian woman from a poor family who had married into a rich Long Island family. Such a lot of prejudice, pressure on her kids, a husband who thought she was making a fuss about nothing. What a tough lady! Optimistic, too. “Before you sign up look ten, fifteen years down the track. And remember, if you only look at his bank balance and his body today, you’ll pay your own price tomorrow”.

  Hispanics are Europeans and they have trouble! Black and white in Kenya, worse still!’

  The days were drifting down to the time of her return. The disc was almost finished. Awesome was the word Toni used to describe what was going on in the night-time concerts. The audiences were overwhelmed. They had come along to see this African band who were building a reputation for being pretty hot. The opening instrumental numbers were no disappointment. The lights dipped briefly and when they rose again a tall girl in a plain white dress stood centre stage.

  ‘Look at this! A black angel!’ from a man in the front row and seconds later, ‘Yeah! With a voice to match!’

  For the shrewd music lovers, who noticed small details, Rebecca impressed with the unemotional control of her performance. This inexperienced kid who had come to them out of nowhere cast a magical spell which drew her listeners through a wide range of emotions without allowing herself to become involved. The feelings were there but they were not tearful but steely. The truth was kept private. These same observers guessed that some deep pain was a mainspring of this special quality. Rumour had it that she would soon be taking this talent back to some backwater village in darkest Africa. Crazy!

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ebecca looked down at her diary. As they took off on the flight out of New York, she had changed its name from Mary to Rafaella. It was the first time she had opened the book outside the privacy of a room. But everyone else in that club cabin on its way between London and Nairobi had their lights turned off. Perhaps they were asleep, but for her sleep was neither possible nor necessary. Tom would be at Jomo Kenyatta. She was dreading the moment when they would come face to face. Her resolve to protect him in the only way she knew had not weakened.

  ‘I wonder what we’ll say. I have imagined this meeting a thousand times. Please, God, guide my mouth and my eyes.

  They can be the great betrayers. I’ve never had my heart broken before. And now I have to hurt the people I love most without a hint of explanation. I am beginning to understand why so many people find a strange comfort in drugs and drink. Can I do this thing?’

  There was no steely grip on the emotions now. Her insides were being churned up relentlessly. How wonderful to be in a state of everyday boredom where she could check the menu of films on offer and pick one out and be distracted by it.

  Some relief came when she drifted off into a long doze. When she woke, she saw the open page of her diary but knew that it wasn’t in her to write a single word more. She was nervous, afraid and without energy. For three weeks her only contact with Tom had been via a piece of plastic and wire. The calls had become difficult and she had come to dread making them. She had learned to lie, how successfully she could not tell. She hated herself for it. Lies. White lies, another expression she first heard in Santa Maria. She remembered the laughter Sister Fiducia had caused when she had explained to a class of fifteen year old black girls.

  ‘Oh, yes, girls, black people can just as easily tell one as any white bwana!’

  Rebecca was learning that being a liar was more than speaking untruths by means of using words. The time for lies was finished. Part of her was glad for this. Her life was about to enter turbulent waters and she hoped she would survive. Her single piece of forward planning was that she would give herself a week to move the huge change on and begin by telling Tom that afternoon when they went for a walk by the lake. Plans don’t always work as they should.

  They met in the arrivals hall. As she emerged with her trolley she did not see him at once. The hall was crowded and she was surprised when a loud round of applause broke out, more surprised when she realised that the clapping and shouting was for her! And there he was, breaking through the line of people hogging the barrier opposite the exit from customs. He ducked under the barrier and in seconds they touched hands and were locked in a tight hug then into a long kiss which was greeted by cheers and whistles. Their faces touched. The smooth cheeks were damp They broke apart briefly before launching into another hug, rocking from side to side rhythmically. They were jostled as they zigzagged the short distance to the car park. Tom pushed the trolley through the crowd who were pressing to get near to Rebecca, wanting to touch her hand or greet her with a smiling ‘jambo’. Tom had organised transport to take them to Wilson and the driver of the dark green Mercedes taxi interrupted his furious polishing to open the passenger doors and stow away Rebecca’s two suitcases.

  Tom took the long route home. They flew south leaving the sprawling confusion of Nairobi to their left. Passing over the Kajiado district of Masailand, Tom pointed the nose directly at the huge bulk of Kilimanjaro. The great mountain was eighty kilometres away but, plainly visible, the snow-cap gleamed like a giant ice cone in the bright morning sun.

  Just before reaching the Tanzanian border, they turned back on themselves. They were soon skimming the plains and woodlands of the Mara. The waterholes were full and the grasslands were between colours, burnt dry and lush green, the earth the familiar red brown.

  ‘Look! They’ve all turned out to welcome you home. We’ve missed you.’

  Everywhere they looked herds were grazing peacefully. All too quickly these were left behind and the white craft was over the plains of the valley dotted with the patchwork of hundreds of shambas.

  Conversation was fitful. It was enough to enjoy the exhilaration of the moment. Most of what was said was general small talk. The love they had for each other was deeper and purer than ever. While they were apart, he had experienced a mounting unease. So often their conversations that he had looked forward to as the high point of his day turned out to be a disappointment. There were the long pauses, the hesitations. Once or twice he wondered if there was someone else in the room with her as she talked. When he had asked if there had been a problem, she had reminded him how uncomfortable she found it to use the phone. Seeing her, being with her for two hours had swept away all the doubts.

  Those same two hours had moved her, too. On the descent to Nairobi she had been steeling her resolve to stay strong. Here, in this little world above the world she let go, careless of where this indulgence would lead. Instead of creating a fear that she would pay a price for this, she felt a release into freedom, a revelation that the control she thought she had over events was an illusion. A spark of hope flashed, briefly but strongly. Her old uninhibited smile lit up her face. The sun had come from behind a heavy cloud.

  The glowering, dark ribs of Longonot declared that they were nearly home. The wide stretch of the lake appeared out of the haze and Tom was preparing to land. The tension within her began to rise again. Tom had said nothing about the likely reception. She hoped it would be quiet and private. It was not. As the wheels reached out for touchdown, she could see the bright block of colour at the far end of the runway. This time the eyes focused on her knew her well, some of them since the day she was born. Country people were sharp observers. She hoped she was a good enough actress to protect her secret for a short time, at least.

  The first part of the welcome home came on Crescent Island. There were scores of men and women allowed up from the fields to wish her well with singing and dancing. They were full of enthusiasm, partly, she thought, because they had been given an unexpected hour off. There was a scramble over who should carry her bags. It ended with four or five boys carrying one and the same number of girls happy to get a touch
.

  An excited procession led them along the twisting path to the grassy area in front of the veranda. The cheering broke out louder than ever as Rebecca and Tom climbed on to the veranda to be with the families. Bwana McCall satisfied the crowd with some warm, welcoming words to his future daughter-in-law and five year old Alice, the youngest child in the family next door to the Kamaus, presented her bunch of newly cut roses.

  Rebecca was a good actress, but something about her eyes, her expression was not quite right. Maura and Rafaella had noticed it, independently of each other. Perhaps it was tiredness after a very long journey. Rebecca normally viewed the world calmly, even serenely, opening and closing her eyes with slow, langorous movements. Today, as she hugged her mother and father, those eyes were constantly on the move glancing sideways, darting here and there, anxiously looking out for someone or something. The McCall ladies said nothing to each other, nor to anyone else, but they both made a mental note for future reference and went on with preparations for the party that evening.

  Rebecca and Tom arranged to meet when work in the fields was over. He went off with his father and Stephen while she hurried through the house to the laundry garden to find her mother. Without a word Rebecca slipped out of her coat and plunged her arms deep into the warm, soapy water.

  ‘Mama, in America they call this therapy. Rich ladies pay money to do it.’

  Angela laughed. ‘There seem to be many crazy people in that country. Perhaps they have too much money. I have seen many pictures in Memsahib’s books of their expensive parties. The party here tonight will not be like that.’

  Rebecca did not miss a stroke as she thumped a bath towel against the shiny grey concrete of the wash troughs, but the unexpectedness of the news sent her into a mild panic. She plunged her arms deep into the trough and stared out over the drying lines towards the cei-apple hedge. The sound of a deep sigh was masked by the midmorning breeze and the sloshing and slapping of the water.