Natalie looked out of the window again at the placards. “Sir Maxwell, I can’t pretend that I like being caught up in this … this mess. Yes, part of me thinks that Richard and Russell brought this trouble on themselves. Yes, I understand that Mutevu Ndekei was only obeying local traditions. But did Richard Sutton deserve to die? No, I don’t think so. I am British, brought up in a Christian household. I saw what I saw. I can’t go back on that and will tell it to the court. In the same way—”
He tried to interrupt but she waved him down.
“—in the same way, if I say I will give evidence, that is what I mean. I—will—give—evidence. I don’t want to be the object of any demonstration, or smear campaigns in the newspapers, or anywhere else for that matter, but I owe it to Richard, and to Russell, to give evidence, quite apart from my own conscience.” She smiled. “Am I being clear enough for you?”
Sandys nodded and stood up himself. “Yes, yes you are. Thank you. I wish all witnesses were like you, my dear. No wonder Jack is so taken with you. All being well, Ndekei will hang before Easter. Lunch?”
• • •
Natalie stared at her face in the mirror. She had a good skin, she knew that. People were always telling her. But the shadows under her eyes, so prominent in the wake of Dominic’s defection, hadn’t quite gone. What color were they? They weren’t brown—that was too strong a word. They weren’t gray either—that was too weak. They were nothing like bruises, so purple and yellow were out. Whatever color they were, they gave her face a washed-out, vulnerable look. As though she spent her nights crying. True enough in its way. She wished they would disappear and added a little powder, as camouflage. It worked, up to a point.
She tried some brown lipstick. That suited her coloring. A smidgeon of brownish rouge on her cheeks, just under her cheekbones, and she was more or less done. She stepped into her dress—the only one she had brought, which had been hanging over a hot bath for the past three hours, in the hope that the steam would help at least some of the creases fall out. It was white, with green and yellow flowers printed on it. Short sleeves. She clipped on a gold bracelet her mother had given her. Shoes with wedge heels. The only heels she had with her in Africa.
She was ten minutes away from dinner with Jack and sat now in a wicker chair on the balcony of her room in the hotel, overlooking the pool where she’d eaten lunch. Beyond the lobby area was an arcade of shops—selling newspapers and magazines, traditional clothes, European jewelry—and then a covered walkway alongside the pool, where one area was set aside as a restaurant. She looked around. All the people seated at the tables in the restaurant were white, all the staff black. There were at most half a dozen bodies in the pool, but they were all white, too, as were those lounging on the long chairs covered with towels. But the man cleaning the pool was black, and the man handing out towels. It was no more than what she had expected, but after her experience of the demonstration, and what Sandys had to say about Mutevu’s defense, she couldn’t help but notice.
She had spent the afternoon touring Nairobi in Maxwell Sandys’s car, with Mbante, the driver, pointing out the sights in his not-very-good English: the governor’s house, the National Assembly, the market, the train station, the main mosque—an ugly affair, she thought, in blue concrete with hardly any windows. They had driven past the racecourse, with its thin grass and rotting railings, which had once been white. And along embassy row, with its flagpoles, security gates, barking dogs, and hidden tennis courts. Mbante hadn’t specifically meant to show her but she had seen anyway the shantytown on the edge of the capital, the chaotic bus station—for blacks only, it seemed—and a local hospital, with bin upon bin of surgical waste overflowing into the car park. The National Museum had been closed, as had the National Library. Temporarily, or permanently, she couldn’t tell. She had seen two other, much smaller demonstrations, but on each occasion Mbante had turned the car quickly away.
When she had got back to her room, she still had a couple of hours to kill before dinner, and so there was more than enough time for a debate with herself over whether to call her father. It was a risk and she alternated between anger at him and a longing to hear his voice. When she had received the invitation to Kihara from Eleanor Deacon, she had written to her father to tell him she would be going abroad, and for some months. She had allowed time for the letter to reach him, then phoned. His housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey, had answered. She had gone in search of Natalie’s father but had returned to say he was practicing at the piano and was not to be disturbed. Owen Nelson practiced at all hours and was simply being distant, deliberately so. Natalie had left for Africa without saying goodbye.
If she phoned now, would it be any different? Her mother had always wanted to come to Africa, to see the great animal migrations she had read about. Would that make her father more amenable to a phone call from Nairobi, or less?
Natalie didn’t know, but it was his birthday in a few days and so, crossing her fingers, she placed a call with the hotel operator. She didn’t know when she would get another chance. But the operator hadn’t rung back yet.
Having tried on her shoes, she quickly slipped them off again as she affixed first one, then the other earring. Single pearls—her mother’s, naturally. They were lovely—plain, simple, and they matched Natalie’s skin color perfectly. But every time she put them on, she experienced a twinge of guilt. She only had them because her mother was dead.
She realized with a start that she had nothing with her that Dominic had given her.
She had found Maxwell Sandys’s conversation after the deposition disconcerting. Had he really been trying to find out if she would back down if the going got tough? Or was he—she hesitated to think this—actually inviting her to change her testimony? She hoped not. That was against all she had been brought up to believe, and it certainly wasn’t fair to Richard, or his parents, or even fair to Russell, who hadn’t lost his life but had lost so much else personally. Where was Russell now? she thought. Was he back in Berkeley yet? At his desk, stirring up trouble?
She would ask Jack. He would know what Sandys had meant by his questions. Come to that, though, what had Max meant by his remark about Jack, that he was “taken” with her? She knew what he meant at one level, of course. She understood the words, as spoken. But Jack, though considerate, had certainly never given her cause to think of him … they had met only days before.
Her earrings were fixed. She stood and reinserted her feet one by one into her shoes in front of the mirror. Yes, the earrings, half hidden behind her hair, caught the light. She hadn’t put on too much lipstick and those shadows under her eyes … were still there.
She picked up a small bag, put her lipstick and a small handkerchief inside. She stared at the room phone as if that would make it ring, conjuring up her father, thousands of miles away. Nothing happened and she grabbed her room key and went out.
A buzz of conversation—of people drinking, talking, and eating—swept up to greet her. The rooms were gathered around the top of the lobby, off a gallery which looked down. She could see Jack sitting at the bar, by himself. He was wearing a lightweight sand-colored linen jacket, dark blue cotton trousers, and a pale blue shirt, no tie.
She descended the stairs. Her heels sounded on the wooden planks and, when he heard them, he turned to look. He rose from the bar stool and walked towards her.
“You should wear a dress more often. You look wonderful.”
“Thank you.” She touched the lapel of his jacket. “You look good, too. Very handsome. But I was promised a blazer.”
There was a moment’s awkwardness between them. Then Jack smiled and said, “Drink? Gin and tonic, wine, martini?” He moved back towards the bar.
Natalie followed. “No, I’d like a whiskey, on the rocks.”
“Of course, silly me. My mother told me.”
He turned. “A whiskey for Rita Hayworth,” he called across to the barman.
He was drinking what looked like a gin and tonic.
/> They clinked glasses and sipped their drinks.
“How was your afternoon?” Jack helped himself to nuts.
Natalie had decided to delay her questions about Maxwell Sandys until their dinner proper. She was perfectly content to enjoy the atmosphere of the bar, a little casual conversation in civilized surroundings. This time tomorrow they would be back in the gorge.
“Nairobi is pretty much as I expected. The French have this new term—le Tiers Monde, the Third World—and Nairobi is a perfect example. All the trappings of modernity, a great deal of which doesn’t work, and eagerness for independence, whether they are ready or not.”
“No one is ever ready for independence, Natalie, not if you listen to the people who are about to lose power. I had a drink earlier with Max. I asked him what his office is doing to bring on black lawyers and he got quite shirty—he said it was none of my business. He was covering his tracks. He should be doing more, and he knows it.”
“You talked about ‘hotheads’ this morning, in Max’s office. Are you being a bit of a hothead yourself?”
“Is that what you think?” He looked worried, then grinned. “I just think that if white people—white Kenyans, never forget—are to have any role in the new country, play any part, politically, we have to make our voices heard now, and we have to play to our strengths. Helping to bring on black talent is one of the best ways of showing … well, of showing our goodwill.”
“And not everyone has goodwill?”
“No. Not at all, and on both sides. There are still plenty of out-and-out racists, and many more like Max, reluctant to embrace change. And there are plenty of black racists too, of course, who think that the only good white is one with a plane ticket back to Britain.”
“How many whites think like you?”
“Not enough.”
She hesitated. “Have you made many enemies?”
He drank some gin and swallowed hard. “A few, yes. People who know change is coming, has to come, but will do nothing themselves to bring it about. Most of them never say what they really think but their silence, their sheer inaction, can’t be disguised. Have you never noticed that hatred and silence go together? Hatred and sulking. Hatred is always ashamed of itself.”
Natalie was turning this over in her mind when he added, “That’s the headwaiter, Stanley. I think they’re ready for us.”
Natalie glanced over in the direction Jack was looking. An elderly white man, bald and dressed in wing collar and tails, was standing next to the entrance to what looked like a serious dining room. For some reason, Natalie had assumed they would be eating by the pool.
“Come on,” said Jack, getting up. “I don’t know about you but I’m famished.”
The dining room was decorated in the same style as the bar, as if it were a safari lodge, with slatted blinds, much greenery, zebra hides on the walls, cream-colored linen. Half of the room was covered, half open to the sky. There was a staccato rasp of crickets in the bushes.
As they sat down at the table, the headwaiter who had shown them in lit a small candle, lost between the glasses. Two menus were brought.
“Another whiskey?” said Jack, pointing at her almost empty glass.
“Why not?” She put her small bag on the floor, by her feet.
They both picked up the menus.
Jack grunted. “This place can’t make up its mind whether it’s in Africa, or Sussex.” He smiled. “Look—roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, shepherd’s pie, and below that, ostrich steak. They could probably find some warm beer, if we asked.”
“Do you miss Britain, Jack? You were born here, weren’t you?”
“Yes to your second question. No to your first. I may look British but I’m African through and through.” He set the menu down. “Who could live in Britain once he—or she—has lived here? I know it’s not perfect, but don’t you feel something every time you go out to dig in the gorge? Could you live surrounded by all those little houses, little gardens, little roads? All that rain?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t.”
“I’ll have to, I suppose. Cambridge isn’t quite as bad as you say. Small—yes, but very beautiful, and open to the sky, like Africa.”
“You’ve only been here a few weeks. There’s plenty of time to let the landscape get under your skin.” Jack’s hair was flopping forward and he pushed it back in an unself-conscious way that she liked. “I’ve watched you, smoking late at night, outside your tent—no, I wasn’t prying.” He put his hand over his heart. “I was checking the fence one evening, when we thought a fox had got in. I told you the other night, the time we were listening to the Adagio, that your face is a shield. Outside your tent, you look … composed, self-contained, complete. No one’s complete, of course, ever. But you do your best to look it. You give off this aura of being very self-composed—I wish I had it.” He took a roll from a small basket at the edge of the table.
“Everyone seems concerned about my composure,” replied Natalie tartly. She swallowed some whiskey. “That’s all Maxwell Sandys could talk about in that courthouse: whether I will make a good witness. I’m here as a scientist, Jack.”
Before he could interrupt, she waved him down. “I love Kihara, the nights as much as the days and, Richard’s death apart, I’ve had the most amazing start to my time here. Better than I could have hoped for scientifically, much better.” She broke off a piece of bread from a roll. “But I daren’t think ahead. From what Max was saying, with these independence talks coming up, the trial may be seen as political in some way—and create a huge fuss. I don’t want that and I’m sure you don’t. The only publications I want my name in are academic journals.”
She stopped. The waiter had reappeared to take their orders. She chose sea bass—who knew when she would see fresh fish again? Jack had the beef. She opted to stay on whiskey and he preferred beer. The waiter went away again.
His eyes held hers. “I understand that. There is, however, something you don’t know. Something that my mother doesn’t know and something that not even Maxwell Sandys knew when you were with him.”
Another short silence, until she murmured, “Go on.”
He took a sip of water, to ease the dryness in his throat. “That lawyer, Tombe Nshone, who left the room with me … we went for a walk in the grounds of the courthouse. He had a message.” Jack leaned forward and lowered his voice. “He made his point by saying that he’s from the same tribe as Ndekei. He has law degrees from London and Toronto but he is a Maasai. His message was from the elders—they’re called loibone.”
He paused. “As you know, the Maasai regard the gorge as their land, to do with as they please.”
He paused again.
Natalie searched his face for some clue as to what was coming. There was a solid lump of foreboding in her stomach.
“Ndekei will plead not guilty. We knew that. But …” He looked around. The dining room was filling up though so far there was no one at the tables next to them.
“But,” he went on, “if Mutevu is convicted, the Maasai will exercise their right to reoccupy the gorge. Only they won’t just occupy it. They will destroy it.” Jack’s hair had flopped forward again, but this time he left it where it was. “They say that Kihara is the root of the problem. They say we white people are more interested in bones that are millions of years old, that have turned to stone, that belong to no one with a name, than we are in their recent ancestors. They say that if they destroy the gorge, if they hack into the walls and occupy the area with their goats and cattle, we will go away and there will be no repeat of this problem. Their burial ground will be safe.”
He fell silent, knowing the effect this would be having on Natalie.
“I know there’s a lot of racial thinking in Britain, Natalie, but I tell you this: these people are not stupid or politically naive. They know that, with independence in the offing, this case pits modern thinking against traditional practices and will receive a lot of attention. So their threat is not a feint. It plays into
the hands of both the Marxists and the Muslims.”
He sat back as the food arrived.
Natalie said nothing while the plates were laid before them. Her distraught features said all that needed saying.
Jack continued as though he hadn’t noticed the food.
“It turns out that the actual grave which Richard and Russell looted wasn’t just anyone’s. It belonged to a great warrior, one the Maasai have remembered and revered for generations.” He pushed back his hair at last. “Years ago—I mean in the nineteenth century—the Maasai never buried their dead. They left them in the bush, wrapped in their favorite cloaks, to be eaten by scavengers—hyenas, lions, vultures. It sounds grisly to us—but it makes sense in a hot country with wild, savage animals who might dig up corpses.” He finally noticed his food and sprinkled salt and pepper on it. “Then, at the turn of the century, the Maasai were converted to Christianity—or some of them were. They started to bury their dead—but not everyone, only the chiefs and warriors and their wives, their great ancestors. They built a fence around a small but important burial ground to keep the animals out, although their goats feed there because, for obvious reasons, the burial ground is fertile and bushes and trees do well there.”
He cut into his food.
“But ordinary people are still disposed of in the traditional way. The Maasai are now this weird mixture of Christian and pagan—”
“Yes, I know,” Natalie cut in. She told him about Mgina’s brother, Odnate, and what had happened, her visit with Christopher and Kees to the sand dune.
“There you are,” said Jack. “Exactly my point. And the defense will make a lot of that.” He rubbed a scar over his eye. “I don’t want to lay it on too thick, Natalie, but the defense will allege that you were having an affair with Richard, that Russell was jealous, and that is the real reason Richard was killed, and Ndekei was set up, Russell being sent away to cover up. And that therefore you are almost as much to blame as they were, that you are part of a conspiracy and made up your evidence—”
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