Green City in the Sun Page 14

  "That's the spirit, lad," said James, continuing to shake him gently. "Wake up now. Show the people we don't lie."

  Mario's eyes fluttered open. He focused them on Mathenge. Then he suddenly rolled over and retched into the dirt.

  "You see?" cried Grace. "I did not lie! My medicine is stronger than yours.

  The young chief looked from Grace to the medicine woman, back to Grace. For the first time his handsome features were molded in uncertainty.

  When he finally started walking toward the doorway of the hut, Wachera flung herself forward and blocked the way. "Don't listen to the wazungu, my son. It will mean thahu!"

  "If their god can do this thing, then my new daughter lives and there is no thahu."

  Wachera slowly straightened her aged body, drew herself up with dignity, and stepped out of his way. Mathenge entered the hut.

  Everyone watched and waited.

  Finally the young chief came out and in his hands lay the naked body of his newborn daughter. "She lives!" he shouted as he held her high. "And lady mine lives also! She came back from the dead!"

  Hurrahs erupted from the crowd.

  Mathenge approached Grace, his face proudly set once again. He handed the baby to her, then bent and picked the dusty Bible off the ground. Hefting it, he said, "You will teach me about your God."

  And elder Wachera, the medicine woman, retreated into the shadows of a hut.

  11

  T

  HE HOUSE WAS READY.

  As Rose put in her last stitches for the morning, she could not contain her excitement. Today was a beautiful day because tomorrow she was moving into the house!

  She hummed as she folded the tapestry frame and handed it to the African girl, who carried it. Mrs. Pembroke, the nanny, settled ten-month-old Mona into her carriage and tucked the blankets in around her. The only other members of the group were two little African boys, one to carry the food hamper and the memsaab's parasol, the other to take care of the monkey and two parrots. Rose carried her bag of yarn and led the way back to camp.

  There was music in the glade: the rustling of the dry, brittle eucalyptus branches; the wind whispering through tall bushes; and birds, high in the foliage, flitting about in flashes of bright colors, calling, singing, chattering away. Normally Rose was reluctant to leave her special glade, which was hidden and protected by the forest and where Valentine had built for her a pretty little white gazebo, but today she did not mind. She was anxious to begin final preparations for the move.

  Valentine had such a love of ceremony! The house had been ready for a week, the furniture in place, curtains up, carpets laid, the smell of new paint freshening the December air. But he insisted upon a formal opening. The servants had been rehearsing all week; smiling Africans in long white kanzus and scarlet jackets had practiced lining up along both sides of the steps leading to the front door. A red carpet was to be rolled down! First Rose would enter, carrying a bouquet of flowers, with Valentine at her side, then Grace and the Donalds, with all the guests gathered on the circular drive to watch and applaud.

  Rose shivered in anticipation. Her gown had arrived two weeks before from Doeullet of Paris, the very latest style, worn by the Queen herself. The eyes of their two hundred guests, Rose had no doubt, were going to pop when they saw her arrive in the decorated pony cart and climb the steps.

  She had not seen the inside of the house yet and was delirious at the prospect of entering for the first time. That was what had made her fall in love with Valentine when he had courted her; he had such a dramatic flair, such a marvelous sense of surprise, and was so clever at organizing such things.

  Rose looked over her shoulder and said to the nanny, "Do come along, Mrs. Pembroke. You are such a slow coach!"

  "I'm sorry, Your Ladyship," the elderly woman replied as she tried to maneuver the baby carriage over the dirt path.

  Despite the bouncing and jostling ride, Mona sat up without complaining, her big eyes taking in the surrounding forest. She was a quiet little thing and never fussed, much to Mrs. Pembroke's relief, and pretty, too, in her frilly dress with matching bonnet. And intelligent, the nanny thought. Mona was already putting words together and starting to walk without help. At ten months! Not that her parents paid much notice. Whenever Lady Rose did pay attention to her daughter, it was in a childish way, playing with Mona as if she were a doll. And His Lordship—well, if there were a child in the family, one wouldn't know it by him!

  There was so much yet to be done. Although Rose's biggest trunks had already gone up to the house, there were still her personal effects to be packed: toiletries; cosmetics; night things. The roses had yet to be planted, of course. And her hair to be done. Grace had offered to do it for her, copying from a picture out of an American magazine. They were going to do the shocking new marcel style.

  "Do hurry, Mrs. Pembroke," she said again. Rose wore a pale pink gauze dress with a scooped neckline and large flounce collar that seemed to float about her. The moonlight-colored hair, soon to be cut short and crimped, was piled on top of her head, escaping in wisps and filaments. As Rose passed through shafts of sunlight, she looked like a forest sprite, translucent and ephemeral.

  When the curious little group emerged from the woods and onto the cleared ridge above the dry river, they could see Birdsong Cottage below, the primitive clinic to which a beaten path now led, and farther along, the clearing with its lone hut and ancient fig tree.

  Rose called out and waved to her sister-in-law, but Grace did not hear. There was a crowd under the thatch of her four-poster clinic: pregnant women and ailing babies and men with toothaches. Ever since that remarkable operation in the village two months ago, Grace's reputation had spread through Kikuyuland like a brush fire. Each morning now she woke to find Africans waiting to see her. And Lucille Donald came down three times a week to teach Bible to the children.

  Everything was going so wonderfully! Rose felt as if her feet weren't touching the ground. Gone was the shock of last March, when she had arrived to a dismal scene. Even though the rains never came and even though everyone complained of the desperate situation the economy was in, Rose saw no reason to be unhappy.

  As she made her way along the ridge, Rose slowed her step. She couldn't believe her eyes. They were at it again, the old woman and her granddaughter. They were building their hut one more time! Which was this? The fourth? Valentine had had the other huts all torn down, and Mathenge's family had gone across the river. Only the medicine woman and her young apprentice stubbornly remained, rebuilding their hut each time the tractor pushed it down. It was a mystery to Rose.

  She recalled the last time the two women had come into the camp. The grandmother had led the way, walking with head held high like a dowager empress, bedecked in all her beads and copper and shells; behind her, the younger one, carrying the little boy on her hip. So polite the two had been! Bowing, smiling shyly, speaking in such soft voices that they could barely be heard. Grace's boy Mario had translated: They wished no offense but wanted only to alert the bwana that for some reason their hut kept falling down and that they would like the hut to stay up as that was where they lived and where they must remain because it was their sacred duty to serve the ancestors who dwelt in the fig tree.

  And that had been their fourth visit! The patience and stamina of the two Kikuyu women had impressed Rose. All four times they had come humbly, bringing gifts of goats and beads, assuring Valentine that they accused no one and desired no trouble, wanting only to remind the spirits in the wind that the hut stood on holy ground and that it should not be allowed to fall down.

  What curiosities the two Kikuyu women were to Rose. Look-alikes nearly, except that the grandmother was smaller and darker, as old Kikuyu women eventually became. There had been a quiet dignity about them; even the boy on his mother's hip had been respectfully silent, as if sensing the gravity of the situation. Valentine had reminded them that the land was his, since he had bought it legally from Chief Mathenge, and had sent th
em away with sacks of grain and a precious bag of sugar.

  But there they were now, toiling again, as Rose looked down, the old medicine woman and her granddaughter, putting up the hut by themselves, patiently, silently. She wondered if they knew that Valentine had ordered the fig tree to be uprooted tomorrow, to open up the new polo field.

  Farther along the river, beyond the tented camp, stood a symbol of Valentine's unshakable optimism. It was a brand-new pulper just out from the West Indies. He wouldn't be using it until the first coffee crop came in, in two or three years, but the pulper was ready, waiting for the moment when it would strip the soft red shell off the first berries and release the coffee beans within.

  While Mrs. Pembroke put Mona down for her nap in the nursery tent, Rose went to the makeshift greenhouse to collect the cuttings she had brought out from England.

  Not only had they survived, but they now flourished with new blossoms. All the way from Suffolk into the heart of an African drought. She put them into a wheelbarrow now and led the Kikuyu gardener up the path toward the house.

  Where the formal drive met the dirt road there was a large, imposing gate with a stone arch that was inscribed with the Treverton coat of arms and the name of the estate.

  It brought a smile to Rose's lips to recall the look on Valentine's face when that stone had been delivered last month. The Swahili stonecutter in Mombasa had worked lovingly and painstakingly on the carving, making the letters perfectly matched, putting extra flourishes at the corners. It was an artistic accomplishment, everyone agreed, and certainly worth more than Valentine had paid for it. There was only one thing wrong with it: The name was misspelled.

  "Bella Two," Valentine had ordered, in memory of Bella Hill, his ancestral home back in England. He had added, "Not T-O-O, mind you, as in also, but Bella Two, meaning the 'second house.' Do you understand?"

  The man had insisted that he understood perfectly and then had sat down to a four-month job of doing it wrong.

  The look on Valentine's face ... And then everyone had burst out laughing. Sir James had quickly made the best of a bad situation by saying, "Very clever, Val. Whatever made you think of it?"

  Carved permanently in stone was BELLATU. And it meant in Swahili, Sir James had hastened to explain, "totally and completely Bella."

  Valentine had had the long drive planted with giant poinsettia trees so that the approach to the house was very dramatic. The dwindling supply of precious water had been tapped for these bushes to ensure their blossoming for the gala celebration. Petals like tongues of flame exploded from every branch and littered the barren ground like a scarlet carpet. This was the way the guests would come tomorrow, after they were first shown to their quarters among the many tents and temporary huts Valentine had had put up in a nearby field. There stood a village, a clean little shantytown that would vanish after the guests were gone but that, for a few days, would be alive with parties, laughter, fox hunts, and endless champagne. It was the way things were done in the protectorate when guests had to travel long distances to an event, arriving with servants and animals.

  Rose fought the impulse to sneak a look inside the house. Ever the showman, Valentine had even had all the draperies closed so that Bellatu remained a sealed secret. He hadn't even allowed her to see the color of the paint for the interior.

  It was a magnificent house on the outside and so different from the stodgy mansions of England.

  Bellatu was two-storied, gabled, built of fieldstone with a deep veranda all the way around, and had an air of tropical luxury, of gracious living. It was a new and innovative style, created especially for East Africa, and it spoke of new beginnings. The dining room at the rear had tall French doors which opened onto a multilevel flagstone terrace. Flower beds were freshly stocked with blooming plants; Rose knew they must have cost Valentine a fortune in this drought. But she was not going to plant her roses here; they were going to go in front of the house.

  Last June there had been a ceremony in Nairobi at which Lady Rose had officially presented some of her rosebushes to the town. There had been a band playing, and a banquet afterward, and a rowdy celebration.

  A plaque had been erected among the roses:

  ROSA GALLICA OFFICINALIS

  These roses, which came from the

  gardens of Bella Hill in Suffolk, England,

  are believed to have been first planted there

  after the War of Roses, when Henry Tudor, in

  1485, gave lands to a faithful soldier in reward

  for fighting for the Lancastrian cause. To honor

  his king, the new earl of Trever's Town planted

  on his estate red roses, symbol of the

  House of Lancaster.

  Lady Rose, countess of Treverton, brought

  these cuttings to British East Africa in

  February 1919.

  It was on such occasions that Rose, like her flowers, bloomed: when there was pageantry and ceremony, when the right food was served, the correct protocol followed, and the proper people were in attendance. Then she opened up and glowed. She felt herself come to life, in love and loved.

  Valentine had invited only the best of British East Africa society to the celebration of their new home. Some were coming from as far away as Uganda, the Sudan, the coast, even Tanganyika, which was British now that it had been won from the Germans. There would be officers of the king in smart regimental uniforms, with ladies on their arms; titled personages; people with wealth and position in the protectorate; and those without but who were no less glamorous: the white hunter surrounded by legend, the brothers who had explored the Congo, a famous writer, and two screen actresses. It was going to be the Event of the Year, perhaps of the decade, and Rose, finding her place at last in this strange country, was going to reign over it all.

  She hurried now. She dug the earth with her bare fingers. The house! she thought. A proper house at last! No more tents, no more insects and lizards. A real bed in a real bedroom. One for Rose, one for Valentine. In these past months he had come to respect her wishes; that unpleasant business was forgotten. He hadn't approached her bed and most likely would not in the future.

  She planted the first rosebush.

  THE TRACTOR HEADED for the fig tree.

  "Cut the bloody thing down," the bwana had said, "and then we'll be rid of those pestering women."

  Two strong Africans had sawed through the tree's ancient trunk; the tractor would push it over and then pull up the stump. Bwana Lordy wanted the job finished by this afternoon. The wazungu were already arriving in their wagons and motorcars and on horseback; he wanted the polo field to be ready.

  THE SPIRIT OF the river was angry. That was why young Wachera and her grandmother had traveled far for their water, rising before dawn and striking into the heart of an unfamiliar forest, walking many spear throws to reach the mountain slopes where a few creeks still trickled. Now they were in the land of wild animals. The two Kikuyu women were guests and had no wish to offend the animal spirits or the spirits in the rocks and trees of this place so far from their home, so they sang as they walked and left offerings of maize meal and beer along the way.

  The river spirit was angry because of the wall the bwana had built across its throat, choking it, causing the waters to back up and swell and grow out into a pond where never before had there been a pond. It was to take care of the people during the drought, the bwana had said. While the other clans died of thirst, Chief Mathenge's family had water. But this was wrong, the medicine woman had told her apprentice. The Children of Mumbi must not offend the spirits of nature to satisfy their own selfish needs. The river was being strangled, and that was why there was thahu in Kikuyuland.

  They carried large calabash gourds and sat patiently while each gourd slowly filled. Young Wachera grew sad as she thought of her husband.

  After the birth of Gachiku's daughter Mathenge had followed the road to the white man's mission, and there he had listened to tales of a miraculous god nam
ed Jesu who had died and come back to life and who promised the same returning to life for any who worshiped Him. At the mission Mathenge had been bewitched. He had seen the thing called a "bicycle," and he desired one of his own. He had ridden in a "motocah" and had fallen under its spell. He had been given charms called "coins" and had seen how they were more valuable than goats. He had been shown how to "speak" symbols that were drawn on paper and had been told that in this skill lay all the power in the world. In the white man's village Mathenge's head had turned; he had witnessed the might of the mzungu, in his guns, his boots, his tins of food. And Mathenge had returned to his family by the river a changed man.

  "The white man has the better way, lady mine," he had said to young Wachera the night he left her forever. Mathenge had come to the hut wearing white man's clothes because the mission fathers had told him that nakedness was an abomination to the god Jesu. "This is the new age. The world is changing. Ngai on his mountain is dead; there is a new god. Shall the Children of Mumbi perish for not worshiping the new god and learning his ways? Remember the proverb that says the pretty girl walks past the house of a poor man. Will you have the other tribes of the world walk past the Kikuyu door?"

  Wachera had listened in respectful silence, her tears to be shed later so as not to shame herself before her husband. Little Kabiru, their son, toddled about, unaware of the great farewell being spoken.

  "I was made chief, lady mine, and it is my duty to take care of our people. Remember the proverb that says cattle that have a limping leader never reach the good grazing grass. I will learn the reading of the white man, and I will sacrifice to the god Jesu. The mission fathers showed me an image of the bad god whom they call Satan, and his skin is the color of the Kikuyu. They have shown me that black is evil, and I do not wish to be evil. They washed my forehead and called me Solomon, which is my new name. I am like the white man now, I am his equal. And my son here, who is called Kabiru for his grandfather, will go to the mission and will also be washed and will receive a new name and thus be the white man's equal."