Rules of the Wild

by Francesca Marciano

  Acclaim for

  FRANCESCA MARCIANO’s

  Rules of the Wild

  “It’s got passion, personal excess and selfishness—page turner ingredients—but also a well-defined voice that elevates this first novel into something more than just a sexy, fast read.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “Marciano writes with consuming, abiding passion.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Breathtaking. … Marciano writes with the grace and knowledge of a mature novelist.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle Book Review

  “Marciano’s prose deflates romantic African stereotypes … while intelligently constructing the two romances.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “A powerful first novel … Marciano evokes a spirit of place that is cathartic: rudely, exultingly alive rather than a pretty spot for a holiday.”

  —The Times Literary Supplement (London)

  “I found I was not willing to set the book aside.”

  —Fiona Luis, The Boston Globe

  “[A] remarkable first novel.”

  —Marie Claire

  “Marciano’s passion for the spectacular landscape of Africa is almost palpable. This beautifully observed novel announces an impressive new talent.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Marciano skillfully delineates an expatriate life.”

  —The New Yorker

  “[A] wise first novel.”

  —The Atlanta-Journal Constitution

  “Think Out of Africa with all the sex scenes left in. … Smoldering.”

  —Glamour

  “The language the author uses to describe Africa is rich and insightful.”

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  FRANCESCA MARCIANO

  Rules of the Wild

  Francesca Marciano is also the author of Casa Rossa. She lives in Rome.

  I thought, if you’re really going to live in Africa, you have to be able to look at it and say, this is the way of love, down this road: look at it hard; this is where it’s going to lead you. I think you will know what I mean if I tell you love is worth nothing until it’s tested by its own defeat. I felt I was being asked to love without being afraid of the consequences. I realized that love, even if it ends in defeat, gives you a kind of honor; but without love, you have no honor at all.

  RIAN MALAN

  PART ONE

  Adam

  CHAPTER ONE

  To wake up at first light, a flea in the prairie of rock and sand

  each morning, is to realize that one’s own importance

  is something one highly overrates.

  One was mad, all right, after a year of it.

  One sees that now, looking back.

  GERALD HANLEY

  In a way everything here is always secondhand.

  You will inherit a car from someone who has decided to leave the country, which you will then sell to one of your friends. You will move into a new house where you have already been when someone else lived there and had great parties at which you got incredibly drunk, and someone you know will move in when you decide to move out. You will make love to someone who has slept with all your friends.

  There will never be anything brand-new in your life.

  It’s a big flea market; sometimes we come to sell and sometimes to buy. When you first came here you felt fresh and new, everybody around you was vibrant, full of attention, you couldn’t imagine ever getting used to this place. It felt so foreign and inscrutable. You so much wanted to be part of it, to conquer it, survive it, put your flag up, and you longed for that feeling of estrangement to vanish. You wished you could press a button and feel like you had been here all your life, knew all the roads, the shops, the mechanics, the tricks, the names of each animal and indigenous tree. You hated the idea of being foreign, wanted to blend in like a chameleon, join the group and be accepted for good. Didn’t want to be investigated. Your past had no meaning; you only cared about the future.

  Obviously, you were mad to think you could get away with it without paying a price.

  It’s seven o’clock in the morning, and I smoke my first cigarette with sickening pleasure at the arrivals hall of Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi.

  She is on the early-morning British Airways flight.

  Her name is Claire, I have never seen her. I was told that she is blond, long-legged and sexy. She will be looking for me. She has probably been told to watch out for a dark-haired chainsmoker with the look of a psychopath, or at least this is the only honest description that would fit me today.

  I hate Claire, she is my enemy, even though we have never met. Yet I am here to greet her and welcome her as part of our family, the baboon group whose behaviour I have finally managed to make my own. I guess this is my punishment.

  She has never lived here before, but she is coming to stay for good. She will eventually learn all the rules and turn into another specimen, like all of us. That is what everyone has to learn in order to survive here. She is coming to live with the man I am in love with, a man I haven’t been able to hold on to. Another possession which slipped out of my hands to be snatched up by the next buyer.

  The tourists start pouring through the gate, pushing squeaking carts loaded with Samsonite suitcases. They all wear funny clothes, as if each one of them had put on some kind of costume to match the ideal self they have chosen to be on this African holiday. The Adventurer, the White Hunter, the Romantic Colonialist, the Surfer. They are all taking a break from themselves.

  She comes towards me looking slightly lost. I notice her long thin legs, her blond hair pulled tightly into a braid. Her skin is pale, still made up with London fog. She is wearing a flowery dress and a thick blue woolen sweater that makes her look slightly childlike. I wave my hand and she lights up. It’s true: she is beautiful. She has destroyed my life.

  It’s like musical chairs, this secondhand game. When the music stops, one of us gets stuck with their bum up in the air. This time it must have been my turn.

  I steer her cart out of the airport towards my old Landcruiser.

  “Did you have a good flight?” I try a motherly tone.

  “Oh God, yes. I slept like a log. I feel great.” She smells the air. “Thank you so much for coming to pick me up at this hour. I told Hunter that I could have easily gotten a taxi—”

  “Don’t even say that. There’s nothing worse than arriving in a place for the first time and having to start haggling for a cab. I believe in picking up people at airports. It’s just one of those rules.”

  “Well, thanks.” She smiles a friendly smile. “Wow, you drive this car?”

  “Sure.” I hop in and open the passenger seat while I hand a ten-shilling note to the porter. “Watch out, it’s full of junk. Just throw everything on the back seat.”

  Claire looks slightly intimidated by the mess in the car. Tusker beer empties on the floor, muddy boots, a panga on the dashboard, mosquito nets, dirty socks, rusty spanners.

  “I just came back from safari,” I say matter-of-factly as I pull out on the main road.

  “Oh.”

  She looks out the window at the grey sky hanging low over the acacias. Her first impression of Africa.

  “What a nice smell. So fragrant.”

  She sits quietly for a few seconds, letting it all sink in, her weariness mixing with her expectations. Her new life is about to begin. I feel a pang in my stomach. I didn’t think it would be this hard. As usual, I overestimated my strength.

  “Have you heard from Hunter? He’s still in Uganda, right?” I ask, knowing perfectly well where he is; I have memorized the hotel phone number.

  “Yeah. He thinks he’ll be back next week, unless there are pro
blems at the border with the Sudanese troops. In which case he will have to go in.”

  She sounds so casual, the way she has picked up that hack slang, as if the outbreak of a war was the equivalent of a night club opening. Just something else to report, another two thousand words in print.

  “Let’s hope not.” I add more of the motherly tone. “I’m sure you don’t want to be left here alone for too long.”

  “I’ll be all right. It’s all so new, I’m sure I won’t be bored.” She turns to me and I feel her eyes scanning me. “I knew when he asked me to come here that he wouldn’t be around a lot of the time,” she adds nonchalantly.

  She’s tough, I can tell already, hard inside, under the fair skin and that blondness. She’ll get what she wants.

  “You live with Adam, right?”—to put me back in my place.

  “Yes. He’s still at the camp up north with the clients. I’ve just come back from there. You’ll meet him when he comes down on Saturday.”

  “I’ve heard so much about him from Hunter. He sounds wonderful.”

  “He is wonderful.”

  We take the Langata road towards Karen. She looks out the window taking everything in: the tall grass shining under the morning sunlight that has pierced the clouds, the old diesel truck loaded with African workers which spits a cloud of black smoke in our face, the huge potholes. She will learn how to drive a big car, find her way around town, she will learn the names of the trees and the animals.

  “I’ll drop you at home, show you how to turn on the hot water and things like that, and then leave you to rest. If you need anything just call me, I live right around the corner from you.”

  “Thank you, Esmé, you are being so kind.”

  She will fall asleep in the bed I know so well which is now hers.

  I am glad to hate her. Now I will go home and probably cry.

  This is a country of space, and yet we all live in a tiny microcosm to protect ourselves from it. We venture out there, and like to feel that we could easily get lost and never be found again. But we always come back to the reassuring warmth of our white man’s neighbourhood in modern Africa. It’s right outside Nairobi, at the foot of the Ngong hills where Karen Blixen’s farm was. It’s called Langata, which in Masai means “the place where the cattle drink.”

  There’s no escape; here you know what everybody is doing. You either see their car driving around, or hidden under the trees in their lover’s back yard, parked outside the bank, the grocery shop, filling up at the gas station. A lot of honking and waving goes on on the road. You bump into each other at the supermarket while you are shopping, the post office while paying your bills, at the hospital while waiting to be treated for malaria by the same sexy Italian doctor, at the airport where you are going to pick up a friend, at the car repair shop.

  Even when you are out on safari, thousands of miles away from everybody, if you see a canvas green Landcruiser coming the other way, you look, assuming you’ll know the driver, and most times you do. It’s a comforting obsession. So much space around you and yet only that one small herd of baboons roaming around it.

  This is our giant playground, the only place left on the planet where you can still play like children pretending to be adults.

  Even though we pretend we have left them behind, we have very strict rules here. We sniff new entries suspiciously, evaluating the consequences that their arrival may bring into the group. Fear of possible unbalance, excitement about potential mating, according to the gender. Always a silent stir. In turn each one of us becomes the outcast and new alliances are struck. Everyone lies. There’s always a secret deal that has been struck prior to the one you are secretly striking now. Women will team up together against a new female specimen if she’s a threat to the family, but won’t hesitate to declare war against each other if boundaries are crossed. It’s all about territory and conquest, an endless competition to cover ground and gain control.

  You always considered yourself better than the others, in a sense less corrupted by the African behaviour. You thought of yourself as a perfectly civilized, well-read, compassionate human being, always conscious of social rules. The discovery that you too have become such an animal infuriates you. At first you are humiliated by your own ruthlessness, then you become almost fascinated by it. The raw honesty of that basic crudeness makes you feel stronger in a way. You realize that there is no room, no time for moral indignation.

  That this is simply about survival.

  Nicole and I are having lunch in a joint off River Road, where you can get Gujarati vegetarian meals. You have to eat off your aluminum plate with your fingers. There is a lot of bright-coloured plastic panelling, fans, flies, and a decor straight out of some demented David Lynch set. Wazungus, white people, never dream of coming here and that is exactly why we do, because we like the idea of two white girls having a lunch date on the wrong side of town.

  “You look sick,” Nicole says, gulping down chapati and dal. Her skin is a shade too pale for someone living in Africa and covered in a thin film of sweat. She’s angular, beautiful in an offbeat way.

  “I am sick.”

  “You have to get over it. I can’t stand to see you like this.”

  She has just had a manicure at the Norfolk Hotel beauty salon and her nails are painted a deep blood red. She’s wearing the same colour lipstick which is rapidly fading onto the paper napkin and the chapati, a skimpy skirt and a gauze shirt. Looks like she has just walked out of an interview for an acting job at the Polo Lounge in Hollywood and driven all the way to the equator in a convertible sports car.

  “You didn’t have to go pick her up at the airport. I mean, someone else could have.”

  “I guess I wanted to test myself. And in a way it was symbolic.”

  “Did Hunter ask you to do it?”

  “Yes.” I nod quickly. But it’s a lie.

  “I can’t believe it. He’s such a—”

  “No. Actually it was my idea.”

  “You are sick.”

  “True. But it’s all part of our private little war.”

  Nicole sighs and takes another mouthful of vegetable curry, her wavy hair hanging over the food.

  “What does she do? I mean what is she planning to do here?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Articles for House and Garden? Maybe she will start a workshop with Kikuyu women and have them weave baskets for Pier One. She looks like she could be the crafty type…”

  “Oh please.”Nicole laughs and lights a cigarette, waving her lacquered nails in the air. “She must be better than that.”

  I take a deep breath, fighting the wave of anxiety which is about to choke me. I am actually drugged by the raw pain. It is almost a pleasure to feel it inside me, like a mean wind on a sail that any minute could wreck me. If I survive it it will eventually push me to the other shore. If there is another shore.

  I feel as if I have lost everything. It isn’t just Hunter. I have also lost Adam, myself, and most of all I have shattered the silly dream I had about my life here: I have lost Africa.

  “When I saw her this morning”—I have to say this, to get it out of my system—“the way she was looking at things, so full of excitement…you know, everything must have seemed so new and different…it reminded me of myself when I first came down here. Of the strength I had then. I felt like Napoleon on a new campaign, I wanted to move my armies here, you know what I mean?”

  She nods; she’s heard this a million times, but has decided to be patient because I guess she loves me. She knew beforehand that this lunch would require an extra dose of tolerance.

  “She’ll fight her battle, and learn the pleasure of annexing new territories. And I don’t mean just sexually. She will start to feel incredibly free. Whereas I am already a prisoner here. Like you and all the others. We fought, we thought we had won something, but in the end we are all stuck here like prisoners of war. And we still can’t figure out who the enemy was.”

  “Oh please, don’t be s
o apocalyptic. You are just in a seriously bad mood. I think you need a break. Maybe you should go back to Europe for a while.”

  “Nicole, why is it that after so many years we don’t have any African friends? Can you give me an answer? I mean, if you think about it—”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “It does. We’re like ghosts here; we can’t contribute to anything, we don’t really serve any purpose. We don’t believe in this country. We are here only because of its beauty. It’s horrifying. Don’t you think?”

  Nicole picks up my dark glasses from the table and tries them on, looking nowhere in particular.

  “Look, there’s no use talking about this again. I hate it when everybody gets pessimistic and irrational and starts ranting about living here.”

  She stares at me from behind the dark lenses, then takes them off and wipes them with a paper napkin.

  “Haven’t you noticed the pattern? We’re like this bunch of manic-depressives. One moment we think we live in Paradise, next thing this place has turned into a giant trap we’re desperate to get out of.”

  “Yes,” I say, “it’s like a roller-coaster.”

  “I think what we all do is project our anxieties onto the whole fucking continent. This has always been Hunter’s major feature and you’ve just spent too much time listening to him. He loves to ruin it for everyone else because he hates the idea of being alone in his unhappiness. He will ruin it for Claire as well, just wait, you’ll see.”

  This thought makes me feel slightly better. I am not in a position to rejoice at anybody’s future happiness at the moment, I feel far too ungenerous. I am acting just like Hunter: working to create as much misery around me so that I don’t feel completely left out.

  Nicole smiles.

  “Come to the loo. Then I’ll take you to Biashara street. You need a bit of shopping therapy.”