The Beautiful Mother

by Katherine Scholes

  As Essie lifted Mara out, there was a brief, dense quiet. All eyes were fixed on the baby. She had on some yellow booties that Essie had found to go with the dress. The plastic pants had yellow butterflies on them. There was even a sunbonnet made from the same fabric as the dresses, with ribbons that tied under Mara’s chin. Again, Essie was overtaken by doubt. Had she gone too far? Had she made Mara into a doll – her toy?

  There was nothing she could do except proceed with her plan. She raised the baby up so everyone could see her. For a few tense seconds, she held her breath. Then she heard gasps of admiration spreading across the crowd. Relief fell over her. As the onlookers stared, wide-eyed and smiling, Essie pictured how she and Mara must look to them, bound together by the matching clothes. Another emotion welled up inside her then – something stronger, deeper. It was a warm rush of joy. Essie no longer looked like a researcher holding a foreign baby. She and Mara were like two parts of a pair. Mother and daughter.

  It wasn’t real – she knew that. Mara belonged to Nandamara and Giga. And Essie had chosen a path that would never lead her to motherhood. She was indulging a fantasy. It was irrational; probably inappropriate. But Essie didn’t care. In that moment, it felt right and true.

  Essie looked around for Simon. He had stepped forward, away from where he’d been loitering by the tent. He had a small smile on his face. The man would never appear tall, especially beside the Maasai whose long limbs hinted at their stature even when they were seated. But he looked strong, nimble, at home in his body. In spite of his pressed uniform and shiny, lace-up shoes, Essie could picture him in a loincloth and baboon-pelt waistcoat, a quiver of arrows across his back.

  One of the older women stood up. She began to sing, invoking an echo-chorus from the others. After a short time, she was joined by more voices. From somewhere came the beat of a drum. The people formed a row and began to dance, ducking their upper bodies forward, swinging their arms. Soon, all the visitors were on their feet. Their earrings swung, bracelets jangled. The dance made sense of the plate-necklaces, which flopped up and down rhythmically. A tiny toddler who looked too young even to be walking gave an expert imitation of his mother. Several of the women had the humped shape of a camel, caused by blankets draped over babies tied onto their backs.

  The dancers closed in around Essie and Mara. An energetic young woman threw a cloth over Essie’s head and danced next to her, shoulders touching shoulders, the fabric forming a tent around them. Essie picked up her smell of rancid milk, sweat and cow dung, contrasting with Mara’s baby powder and the starchy fragrance of the new dress. It seemed impossible that the two worlds of smell could be taken in with one breath.

  The old woman was still leading the dance with her song. Some deeper voices began joining in with the chorus. Essie noticed that the gathering of Maasai was now ringed by camp staff. She found Baraka standing not far away. Like Simon, he’d lost the guarded expression that had been there when Essie appeared with the pram.

  Essie leaned towards him. ‘What are they singing about?’

  ‘It is the story of a white woman with a black baby,’ Baraka said. ‘They have given you a special name.’

  Essie waited to hear what it was. He spoke first in Maa, then translated into Swahili.

  Mama Mzuri. Beautiful Mother.

  Essie smiled, lifting Mara’s face to meet her own. As she kissed the rounded cheek, she repeated the words, pressing them into the soft smooth skin.

  NINE

  The pram bumped gently over the stony plain. With its large wheels and elaborate suspension, it could have been especially designed for the conditions, even though Essie presumed most owners of Silver Cross prams confined their adventures to strolling over pavements or manicured lawns.

  She brought the pram to a halt and peeped round past the fringe of the sun canopy to check if Mara was asleep yet. Seeing the closed eyes and peaceful face, Essie sighed with relief. The baby had been unsettled for most of the morning – refusing to take the bottle when it was time to feed, then crying if she was put down for her sleep. It had been the same yesterday. Essie had abandoned all hope of working on her fossil tray and given Simon the day off. She’d tried writing to her father instead, to cheer him up by sharing the good news of the grant. It was a welcome change not to have to skate around the gloomy facts of life at Magadi, yet she’d managed less than half a page.

  Today Essie had not even tried to work. Perhaps anticipating this scenario, Simon had failed to turn up at the Work Hut after breakfast. She assumed he’d joined the other staff who were lingering around the camp. They were doing various maintenance tasks, in a half-hearted way; it didn’t seem worthwhile to continue work at AJK while the Lawrences’ plans were up in the air.

  Now, though, everyone was going to have to wait a little longer than expected for Ian’s new instructions. There had been an unscheduled radio call this morning. Thankfully it had come during a brief interlude of peace so Essie had been able to concentrate. Ian gave her the surprising news that Diana Marlow was in Arusha. The Serengeti holiday was over and Frank had returned to Canada, but she’d decided to stay on in Tanzania. Whereas she’d appeared bored by the Lawrences’ work during her visit to Magadi, she was now showing a keen interest. Ian and Julia were having meetings with her to discuss options for research. They wouldn’t be back for at least another two days.

  Essie had felt a twinge of unease at this development – perhaps the grant wasn’t going to be ‘no strings attached’ after all. And Diana’s change of attitude seemed odd. But Ian sounded so buoyant that she’d expressed only her excitement. She’d been pleased, too, that he had finished the call by asking after the baby. Without a second thought Essie had told him that everything was fine. She could hardly complain of being exhausted and stressed, caring for a baby, when she was the one who’d brought the situation on herself.

  As she pushed the pram along, Essie took some deep relaxing breaths. The sun was not yet too hot; a faint breeze toyed with her hair. She looked down towards the lake where the masses of flamingos created a vivid band of pink set against a backdrop of white salt flats. The sight was so spectacular that each year, when she witnessed it, Essie could hardly accept that it was real. She had the same sense of disbelief about the volcano – not the parts of it she could see, but the crater she knew was there, inside the broken tip of the summit. Ol Doinyo was a unique volcano, with lava that erupted at a relatively low temperature. The molten rock was black and silver, rather than red. Formed from a rare cocktail of calcium, carbon dioxide and salt, the flow was unusually liquid. When it burst from the crater it travelled down the slopes faster than a person could run. As the lava cooled and weathered it turned white, thus creating the impression that the holy mountain was topped with snow. Essie had never found the time to climb to the peak. People who had – volcanologists and adventurers – described the crater as a seething cauldron with fountains of lava that leapt into the air. It had to be approached with great care. Ol Doinyo Lengai was one of the few volcanoes in the world that was always active. When Essie had first arrived at Magadi, she’d been frightened by the rumbling noises that occasionally emanated from the mountain. The plumes of smoke. The earth tremors. Now, she took the fluctuating activity in her stride. As Ian liked to point out, getting used to such a dramatic backdrop was just part of living in a land that was still being formed. The ever-changing face of this world was, in fact, the very reason the Lawrences were working in the area. So many clues to primordial history had been preserved here.

  In the Rift Valley, where two tectonic plates rubbed up against one another, the landmass of Africa was slowly being pulled apart. The korongos were like deep cuts into the planet’s surface; they exposed layers of sediment in which fossils were trapped, forming a unique record of past times. For millennia this region had also been a place of constant shifting between dry and wet; desert and rainforest. These transformations had taken place over relatively short periods of time. In the area where Essie now
walked, lakes had appeared and disappeared within as little as a hundred years: grandparents would have been able to give eyewitness accounts of lost worlds to the children at their knees. In such a place all life forms had to adapt quickly or die out. This was why, according to Ian, this part of Africa had seen the emergence of some of the first hominids. Our ancestors had had to develop bigger brains in order to figure out how to adjust to the changing climate. When each crisis struck, the smartest individuals were the ones who made it through. Later on, in Europe, Homo sapiens would survive, while the larger, stronger Neanderthals who’d evolved alongside them died out. It was assumed by most people that this too was a matter of superior intellect. Not everyone, though. Essie had once heard a student from America propose another theory. She still remembered the way he’d spoken – his intense tone, the ardent look in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, but what if one species looks at another,’ he’d said, ‘and decides they’d rather die out than become like their competitors? What if not everyone is prepared to be competitive, greedy, violent?’

  He’d suggested that the Neanderthals might have retired to the fringes of society, choosing to relinquish their place in the race to become more and more human. To support his idea, he’d pointed out that Neanderthals were the first known artists. Essie had nodded as Ian delivered a blunt rebuttal, though she’d secretly admired the young man’s ability to think outside the boundaries that were being observed by everyone else – and not be afraid to say what he thought.

  Essie marched on, keeping up a steady pace as if she were aiming for a particular korongo or some other work site. It was odd to have no destination, no reason to be walking beyond the act itself. There was no hurry, she told herself, yet she found it hard to slow down. As she strode along, she scanned the area closer at hand, looking for Rudie and Meg. She knew Tommy had not strayed; he was right at her heels, his front hooves almost touching her boots. The dogs were chasing something in the distance, running with their bodies stretched out, heads low, as if drawn along by their noses. She was about to call them back when they both stopped, suddenly shifting their focus. Essie saw a figure come into view over the brow of a shallow rise. It was mainly the movement that caught her eye; the person’s body, formed of muted, natural colours, merged with the landscape.

  As the shape became clearer, Essie saw the stark line of a bow rising above the head. A hunter. She barely had time to speculate about the man’s identity, when she recognised Simon.

  He lifted his arm in a wave. When he drew near, Essie stared in surprise. His upper body was bare; his shirt was tied around his waist by the sleeves. He had an animal – or perhaps part of one – draped over his shoulders. He gave her a cheerful smile as he approached. There was a hint of a swagger in his step.

  The two exchanged the usual greetings, just as if they were meeting in the Work Hut to begin their day’s tasks. Simon leaned round to see Mara in the pram, acknowledging her presence as well. Essie noticed a bleary look in his eyes.

  ‘You have been out all night?’ she enquired. That would explain why he’d been absent this morning.

  As if in reply, Simon swung his load down to the ground where it landed with a solid thud.

  It was a substantial portion of a large species of antelope – an eland, perhaps. Essie doubted he could have stalked, killed and butchered it by himself. Perhaps he’d managed to form a connection with the Maasai from the manyatta. Sometimes young warriors led groups from the staff camp in a nocturnal hunt. It caused Ian great annoyance as work was disrupted; sometimes there were meat-eating parties that went on for days.

  ‘You were with others?’ Essie queried.

  Simon hesitated. ‘The Hadza.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘They have not left yet?’

  ‘They are still at the cave,’ he confirmed. ‘There was some delay. But they will go very soon.’

  Essie scanned Simon’s face as questions chased through her head. How had he met up with the hunters? Had he actually been to the cave? If so, had he seen Nandamara and Giga? Had they talked about Mara? Even though she’d have liked some answers, Essie remained quiet. She knew Simon might not wish to discuss his connection with the wild Hadza – he’d been so keen to keep his distance from them. It would be best to let him tell her more when, and if, he chose to.

  Essie made herself focus instead on the huge hunk of meat on the ground at his feet. Visions of a hearty stew came to her mind. Ian and Julia would return with supplies for the storeroom, but for now the shelves were still bare. Baraka had begun serving porridge for evening meals. Mara was the only person at Magadi who had everything she could possibly want.

  ‘It was a long walk to find this animal,’ Simon said. He pointed towards the country that lay beyond the Steps.

  Essie wasn’t surprised. Most of the herds would have set off on the migration – only stragglers were left behind. ‘It was worth the effort. You have brought back lots of good meat,’ she complimented him. ‘Baraka will be very happy.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘You should not say that.’ He spoke lightly, with a touch of humour.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It is not the Hadza way.’

  Essie was intrigued. ‘What is the Hadza way?’

  ‘You remember you told me how that hunter offered you zebra meat and you rejected it?’

  ‘He didn’t seem to mind,’ Essie said. ‘He laughed at me. In fact, the more I shook my head, the more he laughed.’

  Simon nodded. ‘He thought you were pretending to be a Hadza, and not doing it very well.’

  Essie frowned, mystified. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I will show you.’ Simon gestured energetically at the meat. ‘Are you the one who has brought this to the camp?’

  Picking up on his performance, Essie played her role. ‘Yes,’ she said proudly. ‘It was me.’

  Simon spat on the ground. ‘You think I will thank you for it? It is from a skinny animal. It has died from old age.’ He shook his finger at Essie. ‘You are no good as a hunter.’

  ‘But it looks like very fine meat,’ Essie protested.

  ‘It is,’ Simon agreed. He abandoned his theatrical tone. ‘But that is not the point. The hunter must feel humble. If he is proud, his heart becomes hard, and he is no longer gentle.’

  A fly buzzed down, settling on the tawny hide. Simon flicked it away with his bare foot.

  ‘So nobody should be proud?’ Essie asked.

  Simon spread his hands. ‘If one person wants to be above another, they will not put the tribe first. So it must be discouraged.’

  Essie thought back to the after-supper conversations that used to take place at Magadi when anthropologists were visiting. The topic of Hadza culture was often brought up. Essie had soon learned that they had created one of the few truly egalitarian societies that had ever been studied. Men and women were equal. Children were respected. They had no religious leaders to demand offerings. No kings or queens. Everything was shared freely regardless of whose labour had provided it. This wasn’t a big issue because the Hadza had nature as their larder, and they only spent a few hours a day working. There was nothing to be gained by putting in extra effort because there was no tradition of storing excess food. The people had no huts, and no possessions beyond their hunting weapons, collecting bags, simple clothes, strings of beads and sleeping skins. They were completely self-sufficient.

  Over coffee and whisky, academics and students alike debated the pros and cons of this way of life. The Hadza enjoyed so much spare time. They faced seasonal hunger at times but didn’t suffer real famines like farmers did; when necessary they simply moved to another place where conditions were better. But their lack of possessions was off-putting, to say the least. People raised in England or America simply couldn’t imagine having so few things to call their own. There were other drawbacks, too. The Hadza moved around in remote areas – in the lands that had not been taken up by settled tribes. Consequently, they usually had no access
to schools or hospitals. Nandamara’s daughter had given birth in the bush, and not survived. Mara was lucky not to have met the same fate.

  Essie gazed into the distance while she absorbed the new information Simon had just shared with her: that the Hadza – unable to show off through possessions – could not even enjoy status earned by skills and talents. She thought of the framed photographs in the Dining Tent, and William’s picture on the National Geographic cover. Her own father, too, had a collection of career memorabilia including museum catalogues, certificates and newspaper cuttings, as well as invitations to special occasions. From an early age she’d sensed their purpose: it was to show that Professor Holland was successful and important, that the world recognised him. The treasures had more to do with anxiety – the need to prove himself – than celebrating good memories. Essie tried to imagine a life in which status did not exist. In one way it would be a huge relief. But at the same time, what would propel people to great achievement? The more Essie learned about the Hadza, the more paradoxes she saw. No wonder Simon found his position so complicated.

  Turning back to her assistant, Essie searched his face. She couldn’t really see the distinctive features of the Hadza that the experts identified, but that was probably because she knew him so well. When she spoke she made sure her words could be taken equally as a question or statement. ‘You have rejected the Hadza way.’

  ‘I know more than they do,’ Simon responded. ‘I have been to school. I was baptised. I am a modern Tanzanian.’

  Essie suppressed a smile. He didn’t look very modern right now. His skin was dusty and marked here and there with scratches. His boots, tied together with a leather thong, hung from his shoulder. He had a long cut on one forearm, oozing blood.