Burning Embers

by Hannah Fielding

  “Where did you disappear to yesterday evening?” asked the servant gruffly.

  “Didn’t Juma tell you?”

  “No one tells me anything in this house. They all say Aluna’s crazy.” She shook her head sadly. “But Aluna isn’t crazy. Aluna sees, hears, but doesn’t speak,” she added with a sudden burst of indignation.

  “I wish you would speak, Aluna dear. Maybe if you explained yourself instead of using riddles, people would take you more seriously.”

  “You were meddling in those damned cellars, child, weren’t you?” Aluna pointed an accusing finger at her mistress. “And don’t you deny it.”

  “What if I did go down to the cellars?” retorted Coral impatiently. “I found nothing there that justifies your attitude. Really, I fail to see what all the fuss is about. The only discovery of any interest was a load of paintings — paintings of me! Imagine! I suppose Daddy had them commissioned. They’re good too, but there are so many of them…Have you seen them?” Her eyes glittered with excitement.

  “Evil! Evil, that is what they are. Listen to me, child, you must burn them. Tonight we will go together, you and I, and we will burn them.”

  “Burn them?” Coral cried out with undisguised horror. “Why on earth would I want to burn them? I love them. They’re so real, so true. They don’t only depict my features, can’t you see? It’s as if they’re a reflection of my inner-self. This Raphael, or whatever his name is, is very gifted. He’s a real find.” She spoke vehemently, with a passion that surprised her.

  It seemed to disconcert Aluna as well. The yaha moved to the chair in the corner of room and sank down into it, closing her eyes and sighing. When she opened them again, a sad and dismal look was on her face.

  “Aluna, what is it?” Coral was becoming exasperated with her yaha’s strange behavior. “Please will you tell me what on earth’s going on!”

  “Okay, my child, you want to know the truth? Then Aluna will tell you everything.” The old woman sighed and began her story.

  “It all began eight years ago, when the estate next to Mpingo was put up for sale. It is called Whispering Palms. Your father had been after it for a very long time, even before your mother left him to go back to England. He used to talk to me in those days. He would stand on the top veranda outside his bedroom in the evenings, before the sun went down, or sometimes in the mornings. From up there you could see Whispering Palms in the distance, you see. ‘Aluna,’ he’d say with that wild look in his eyes he used to get sometimes, ‘this will all be mine one day. I will make it flourish and prosper for my little one. She will come back when she’s grown up, and she will be the queen of the whole estate. She will reign on this land that I love and she loves, and then all will be as it should be.’ He loved his little Coral and was content to wait for your return. That year was mbaya — unlucky — for Mpingo, a very bad year. There was no rain. Drought threatened our land with famine. The crops were bad, and on top of this there was a barn fire.”

  “A fire? What happened?”

  “I do not know, Missy Coral. No one knew. Your father lost a lot of equipment too, but there was talk of it being started deliberately, and the insurance company refused to pay. It was also in the same year he met that witch of a redhead, the present Mrs. Sinclair.”

  Aluna’s expression darkened. It was obvious she hated the widow with all her might. She cleared her throat before continuing with her narrative. “For two years Bwana Walter fought against bankruptcy, and yet Whispering Palms was still not sold, so he had hoped that it could still become his someday. Another two years passed, then, one morning, out of the blue, we learned that the estate was up for auction. By this time your father had recovered from his financial crisis, and he managed to get some sort of loan that would enable him to buy his dream, especially because rumors had it that the property was going cheap.”

  There was a lull while the servant reminisced silently, her eyes lost in memory. Coral dared not speak again in case the river of information she was finally getting ran dry. She quietly sat down on the edge of her bed.

  Coming back down to earth, Aluna resumed her narration. “I shall always remember that sunny afternoon, the day of the auction. Your father was so excited. He reminded me of a child going on some sort of fairy tale expedition. He changed his tie three times before leaving for the auction an hour too early. ‘Aluna,’ he said before he got into the car, ‘Aluna, I will come back the king of this universe.’ Your mother always told him he had delusions of grandeur, and maybe she was right. But God creates dreams, says our African proverb — for what hope has a man in this life if he cannot dream? Still, I waited that afternoon, but I wasn’t happy. Too many bats had been flying around the house the night before, and the sound of the tom-tom had kept me awake. The evil spirits were at work. Aluna had an ill feeling, a premonition that all would not go well.

  “As the evening came, I grew more restless by the minute. Finally, when night had fallen and I could stand this waiting no longer, I heard chanting and wailing in the distance. I recognized that frightening sound: it announces disaster. It began to get nearer. There was a silence for a moment, and then they appeared at the bottom of the drive, all singing and making their way to the house, carrying the body of my master. In those days, Deif, the head boy, was still with us. Followed by two of the other servants, he went to greet the procession while I stood there frozen with fear and dread for my master. But your father was not badly hurt. It was only his ego that had taken a blow.” Aluna wiped the tears that had filled her eyes at the sad memory.

  “As it seems, the auction had been going in his favor. No one was showing much interest in the property, so it looked like he would get it at a very reasonable price. Then a young man appeared out of nowhere and began to bid against him. The outsider was a foreigner, and apparently he didn’t care how much this foolishness would cost him as long as he laid his hands on it. My master had fought against his bids until Bwana Timothy, his solicitor, who had gone with him, forced him to stop. But your father was not going to renounce his dream without a last battle. He had challenged his competitor, who at first had refused to cross swords with my master. Unfortunately, my master would not give up. ‘May the best man win,’ your father had shouted and rolled up his sleeves, ‘and what is more, may the victor buy Whispering Palms.’ Though the foreigner was considerably younger than him, Bwana Walter had always been big, fit, and strong. They had fought each other hard with their bare fists, but finally the foreigner had knocked your father out.”

  “Poor Daddy,” whispered Coral sadly, “that is just like him. He never was a good loser.”

  “A few days later,” Aluna went on, “this young foreigner had the gall to turn up at Mpingo and ask to see my master. If it had been me he had spoken to, I would have given him a piece of my mind and sent him off with a flea in his ear. That would have saved a lot of grief, I dare say. But he was showed into your father’s office by Deif.”

  “Daddy agreed to receive him?”

  “Oh, yes, not only did he agree to receive him, but he listened patiently to the stranger’s cock and bull story about his wife’s death, after which my poor master was like putty in his hands. They became the best of friends, it pains me to say. From the very beginning, I realized that they were like king and courtier. For where would the sly fox go if the lion was not fond of praise? Bwana Walter did not only open his home, but poured his heart out to this stranger. His fondest topic of conversation was you, his baby, the apple of his eye, his ray of sunshine. I know he only wrote to you sometimes, but that just wasn’t the master’s way. He wasn’t a man of letters. He was a dreamer. Still, he would talk to the Frenchman about you relentlessly, with stories of your childhood, showing him your pictures, sharing with him every one of your letters and your postcards, dreaming with him of the day when you would return. They used to sit down there on the veranda, hour after hour, drinking scotch until they were both quite merry. I did not like the way this foreigner spent so much
time with Bwana Walter. I would lie awake in my room, listening to them joking and cheering until dawn. Then your father would stagger upstairs. I would put him to bed, and no sooner did his head touch the pillow than he would fall into a deep, heavy sleep, without a glance or a kind word to Aluna.”

  Coral thought how bitter her yaha sounded and how much she had aged. She could not be more than fifty, yet she already looked an old woman with her bulging tummy, frizzy gray hair, deeply furrowed face, and lifeless, haggard eyes. She could barely recognize the handsome woman with the shapely figure, the sparkling ebony eyes, and the bubbling disposition that she had once known. Coral remembered her mother saying that Aluna was a flirt: “She was born to be a courtesan, that one.” At the time, Coral had not quite grasped the meaning of those words. Today, she could hardly describe Aluna as a courtesan.

  “My master taught him everything,” Aluna went on. There was no stopping her now. “Your father was the one who saved Whispering Palms from deterioration. Yeah, some will deny it, but I tell you that Bwana Walter helped him all the way up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had also lent him money. The man took and took without ever giving anything in return, except for those horrible paintings of you that the Frenchman used to produce from time to time to my poor Bwana’s delight.” Aluna shook her head.

  “He would laugh at me sometimes, when I used to urge him to be cautious — not to give so much of his mind, his heart, and his money. I remember so clearly what he said to me. ‘Aluna, if I were to listen to you, I would go nowhere, see no one, and do nothing. This boy is like a son to me — that is why I have asked him to paint those paintings of my little girl.’ The Frenchman didn’t get any money for them, it’s true, but as far as I’m concerned they were poor payment for my master’s friendship and hospitality. According to Bwana Walter, the Frenchman had suffered a great tragedy and it made my master feel good to lend him a hand.” Aluna grunted. “Hmm, he lent him a hand, all right, and the dog turned round and bit it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He hurt your father in his most private possessions: his pride, his honor, and his manhood.” Aluna sighed. She was now leaning forward in the chair, her hands resting on her parted knees, pressing them down with her weight as she swayed her body backward and forward in a woeful, desperate fashion. Suddenly she stopped. She lowered her voice, casting a suspicious eye around the room, and signaled Coral to come closer, which the young woman did.

  “That evil man was carrying on with her,” she whispered, pointing her index finger toward Cybil Sinclair’s room.

  “That is a horrible accusation to make, Aluna,” Coral reproached gently. “How can you make such a statement without any proof?”

  “My master had proof, all right,” retorted the servant bitterly. “That’s why he went for them with his rifle. They had been lovers before, a long time ago. I have seen photographs of them in another country — that’s where they had first met, and here they were just taking it up again, like in the olden days, under my poor master’s roof. But he got wise to them. With all the whispering and shenanigans that occurred whenever he came into the room, he sensed that something fishy was in the air, and he caught them.”

  “What do you mean?” pressed Coral, horrified by these strange and unexpected revelations.

  “Bwana Walter said he was going away, then he came back that same afternoon without warning. They were in the drawing room. She actually was in his arms. My master shot at them both. He missed her, but got him. In the ribs, he did…They were guilty, all right. Both of them, I tell you. Though the Frenchman took all the blame and said he was trying to kiss her by force. Ugh…let me laugh! That’s why the snake never pressed charges. If the scandal had come out, he would have looked mighty bad. Everybody knew of his friendship with Bwana Walter. He left the country shortly after that, but bad pennies have a habit of always turning up again, and he — ”

  Aluna was interrupted by a knock at the door. Cybil appeared and, with what seemed to Coral a false smile, said, “Coral, dear, I’m going into town. Would you like to come?” She looked even lovelier than the previous night, dressed in a casual green Chanel suit that intensified the fire reflected in her hair and matched to perfection those catlike eyes now fixed on Coral intently.

  Coral declined the offer politely, and Cybil swiftly disappeared downstairs again. After her strange talk with Aluna, she wished to avoid being alone with her stepmother in case she said or did anything that gave away her misgivings about the woman. Coral felt confused and was uncertain whether to believe Aluna’s tale.

  She wondered how long Cybil had been behind the door and whether she had overheard snatches of their conversation. She must stay clear of her father’s widow until she had a better perspective on the situation, a more solid grasp on the facts. It struck her that she was too hasty in allowing Cybil to stay when her stepmother had asked the night before in the drawing room. But if her stepmother had intended to throw her, it certainly had had the desired effect. The next step for her to take tomorrow, she decided, would be to ring Timothy Locklear, her father’s solicitor, and arrange for a meeting without delay.

  * * *

  Sandy arrived at Mpingo sharply at nine o’clock that evening to pick Coral up. She was accompanied by five friends, and Coral quickly invited them all in for a drink so introductions could be made. There was Bonnie Jenkins, a giggly red-haired girl with a turned up nose and great big eyes, and Fiona McCallum, a husky blonde who reminded Coral of Julie Christie and worked as a tour organizer in Mombasa. All of the three young women had come dressed for a glamorous night out: Bonnie in her Pucci-style evening dress which was a swirl of pinks, greens, and golds; Fiona elegant in a Christian Dior slim-fitting white evening dress cut bare over one shoulder, her hair adorned with a matching silk headscarf; and Sandy shimmering in her turquoise halter maxi dress that set off her shapely curves. Coral herself had chosen a scarlet-red Ossie Clark dress that she had fallen in love with in London, with fabulous balloon sleeves, smocked bodice with a plunging neck line, and full, flowing skirt. The three men were all smartly turned out in tuxedo jackets and shirts. Everyone in the group made themselves comfortable in the drawing room, and Coral set about fixing drinks, sensibly pouring a soda water for herself.

  Of the three men, Coral took an instant dislike to Fiona’s partner, Henry. Fiona’s father employed him in his accountancy firm, and though he was attractive enough, Henry had an air about him that Coral found mean and competitive. His friend, Peter, a tall and rather jittery young man, was nice enough, and indeed had looked rather approvingly at Coral when vigorously shaking her hand. Sandy introduced Jack, the third man, as one of Fiona’s work colleagues at the tour company. He kept himself quite aloof from the rest of the chatter, and for most of the time seemed almost bored, constantly smoking his Dunhills and peering round the room as they all downed their drinks and swapped pleasantries.

  “Oh, is that the time? We’d better get a move on, especially as we haven’t eaten yet,” exclaimed Sandy, glancing at her watch and chivvying the rest of them to finish their drinks.

  The party drove in two cars through the silent African countryside. Coral, Bonnie, and Peter went with Sandy in her car, while Henry, Jack, and Fiona followed in his gold Ford Capri. Coral shivered as she stared out into the black night, trying to make out some of the shadows silhouetted in the dark. Soon, they were following the coast, and the automobiles began their ascent to the top of the cliffs.

  At an abrupt turning in the road, overhanging a precipice, the Golden Fish dominated the skyline, shedding light into the surrounding gloom. As they approached the beautiful nightclub, Coral saw that it was glass-sided and peak-roofed, with its feet in the ivory-colored sand, offering a view to the far-off old harbor.

  The cars went through the bougainvillea-lined entrance gate and stopped in front of the wide porch. As the doors opened and they stepped out into the illuminated garden, they were given an exuberant welcome by ebony-skinned doorme
n in white caftans. The group was ushered into the foyer, where a retinue of young women received them. Coral thought they all looked like Scheherazade in their beaded waistcoats with bold-red sashes, their billowy trousers held in at the ankles, gliding rather than walking, attending silently to the needs of the new customers.

  The actual nightclub was set atop a flight of stairs, the fronds of potted palms wafting in the sea breeze, creating an exotic and romantic mood. With its tall white arches, inlaid marble floors, and Moorish fountain warbling softly at the entrance, the atmosphere had all the flavor of Arabian Nights.

  Coral felt like a guest in a mogul’s palace as she followed her party into the softly lit room. Here again the Middle Eastern ambiance was enhanced by the tall, mosaic mirrors dressing the unusual five-sided columns and reflecting the flowers and candles of an elegant and festive scene. The audience was seated at small tables, all of them in evening dress, the women dripping with expensive jewelry. The room was hazy with cigarette smoke that curled up from the tables, and the whole place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and a frisson of excited anticipation.

  The hostess led the group to an excellent table, very close to the bar, with a full view of the stage where a group of Kenyan dancers were finishing their routine, effortlessly leaping into the air to the sound of wild drumming and pipe music. Coral and her friends seated themselves on velvet-covered armchairs and a semi-circular divan as the audience applauded the end of the show. Coral joined in, sorry that she had missed their performance as she hadn’t seen Masai dancers since she was a child and remembered how delighted she had been at their crazy acrobatics and mesmerizing energy. She turned her attention to the panoramic vista from the glass walls. The view was breathtaking: all palms and greenery in one direction and in another, the perfect sweep of beach and its midnight waters.

  “What a stunning setting,” Coral remarked. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I’d love to take some pictures for the articles I’m writing about Kenya.”