Alala ran ahead toward a row of shacks and motioned for Patty to follow. Alala chugged up to the front of one where a chubby, pretty-faced woman stirred a black kettle set above sticks on fire. Patty wondered at the wisdom of anything being set alight here, but on the other hand, was this woman to jump up and tend her Aga? The woman, probably Alala’s mother, was wearing a dark garment and a length of multi-flowered cotton wound turban-style round her head. She looked at Alala and Alala’s new friend and said, “Karibu.”
Patty knew that meant “Come in,” and said, “Asanti.”
Alala said, “Ninaitwa Pat-ti.”
“Ah, Pat-ti. Unatoka wapi?”
Patty had no idea what this meant, and the woman obligingly translated her own words into English: “Where you from?”
“England. Mimi Mwingercza.”
The woman laughed good-naturedly. “Ah, Pat-ti, good for you, you are British. Where in British?”
“London.”
“You are long way home.”
Long way home. Patty thought that poetic. Long way home. It was, too.
Alala’s mother stirred the pot. “You not at Mbosi Camp, Pat-ti?”
“Where’s that?”
“In national park. English people. American. Europe. Rich people. You rich?”
Patty thought of Hemingways. She liked rich. “No.”
“You eat?”
Whatever was cooking smelled really good.
Soup? “Asanti,” she said, always one to take a chance, swallowing hard.
“Taste?” The woman lifted the wooden ladle, sipped from by many mouths, Patty imagined. Why was she being so hygiene-conscious? She was plenty used to shared bowls and cutlery.
“Asanti,” she said again, making as much use of her meager word store as possible.
“Pat-ti,” said Alala. She appeared to like the sound of the name. Then she said a lot more in rapid-fire Swahili of which Patty had no understanding, but she thought it must be complimentary, for the mother’s expression grew increasingly wondrous as she looked at Patty.
Alala was starting to babble again, but this must have had to do with household matters as her mother merely went about setting out plastic bowls and wooden spoons and shooing Alala off as if she were a fly.
Alala sat down on a cushion on the earthen floor and gestured for Patty to sit on the cushion beside her. The cushions looked made from the same material as the mother’s turban. Patty sat down, thanked Alala’s mother for the soup set before her, looked up at the top of the tent enclosure and thought she could be on safari. She thought about Africa and the animals she’d seen only in pictures and on a TV special about big cats. That program had followed the progress of a mother cheetah and her two cubs. The cubs spent a lot of time jouncing on what appeared to be nothing. Perhaps bugs. The mother would sometimes give one or the other a little swat with her paw to keep them in line. Patty didn’t know in line with what. The mother took good care of her cubs.
Patty drank her soup, feeling the presence of these animals all around her—lions and their cubs, cheetahs and their cubs. Knowing that this was as close as she could get to them made her feel lonely. She thought about what Alala’s mother had said. “This camp—I’ve heard of it, I think.” No, she hadn’t. But she reached around to her backpack and pulled out one of her notebooks. Turning to a blank page, she pretended to read something. “What’s the name of the camp?”
“Mbosi,” said Alala’s mother.
“Oh! That’s where my uncle is!” Patty repeated the name. “Mbosi?”
“Yes. Your uncle, he rich?”
“Very.” Returning her notebook to her backpack, Patty said, “That’s where I’m supposed to meet him. Mbosi Camp. So where’s the national park?”
“Park huge. You go Magadi Road.”
“Then I’ll go and stay with my uncle.”
“No, Pat-ti, too far walk. You stay here tonight.”
But Patty was still thinking of Hemingways and all the advantages of richness. “My uncle might be worried about me. And the distance doesn’t bother me. I walk a lot.”
“Park closed now.”
“If it’s so big there must be some way in.”
“Yes. Lots of construction. They make roads. Park not for animals no more. For people. Lots of fences, like zoo.”
When Patty had finished her soup, she insisted on going to the camp. “Uncle Édouard will be wondering where I am.”
Alala and her mother walked Patty back to the road and pointed her in the direction of the national park. “You watch for construction. You follow road building to old road that go through park to Mbosi Camp.”
Patty crossed the wide Magadi Road and headed south. There was not a lot of traffic and there were not many dwellings. A big building that might have been offices, or flats, or government—random windows alight. Aside from that, not many lights—building, street or otherwise. She walked for an hour before she came to the park and then to some of the construction. It looked like the road Alala’s mother had mentioned. It looked very dark.
Here was real darkness, where she could see nothing at all except for her feet on the rough dirt road that disappeared into the night between plane trees. She sat down by one of these trees; she had no expectations of anything happening or not happening. It would not have surprised her if something had dropped on her from the tree. At one point, something seemed to drop—not from the tree, but from the night, though it was so lightweight it might have been nothing but a breath on her neck. She brushed her hand at the invisible intruder and settled back.
Her first taste of the dark had occurred when her father died. Patty had been permitted to go into the room with the nurse who held a candlestick, the candle the only source of light. That was silly, Patty had thought, acting as if there were no electricity, but the nurse refused to turn on the lights.
“I can’t see, I can’t see Daddy. Are you sure he’s here?” She was four years old and the bed on which her dead father lay was huge and high. It needed a little wooden ladder to reach the top, but the ladder was missing. Even when Patty was on tiptoe, her eyes came only to the top of the mattress. Had someone taken the ladder away? Had Daddy kicked it away from the bed so that no one could get to him?
Patty raised her arms to the nurse in expectation of being picked up and sat on the bed, but that did not happen. The nurse said she couldn’t get up there. Patty tried to jump, but that didn’t work. She went to one of the posts and tried to climb up and almost did but the nurse pulled her down. Patty ran round to the other side of the bed and pulled herself up most of the way when the nurse came round and yanked her down. Then Patty pinched and kicked the nurse so violently the woman gave up and left her there. “See how you like it here, lying on a deathbed!” The nurse left.
Patty crawled onto the mattress and up to the pillows, where lay the head of her father. She touched his hand and found it cold. She touched his face and found it even colder. She herself was hot from her exertions with bed and nurse, and she wondered if that would help him. She lay her cheek against his, wondering if her heat could become his heat and he could throw off the cold of death. She squirmed down to where his feet were and felt them. Cold, too. She took off her shoes and socks and put her feet on his feet, the way she did when he had danced with her, to move her around the dance floor. But the feet did not warm, even though hers grew no colder.
She pulled herself back to the top of the bed and lay her head on his chest where she thought his heart was. If any of her own life could get down there, perhaps the heart would start beating again.
After falling asleep and waking several times, she came to realize that her father was never going to be anything but dead anymore, that death was implacable.
And so was the darkness it inhabited.
She had brought with her an excellent torch, given to her by a friendly thief. He always used one like it when robbing houses because it had a narrow beam and it was almost impossible for someone else to see the l
ight when it was directed downward.
That was where Patty was aiming it as she left the cover of the tree and walked through the night, still brushing at her shoulder and whatever kept wanting to land there. Were there bats in Kenya?
Mbosi Camp, Kenya
Nov. 5, Tuesday night
20
Comfortably far from the others in his group, Melrose Plant sat after dinner in the lounge in a chair so deep he could sink back into invisibility. It gave him a view of the wide back porch, where Lumbai was escorting two of the guests back to their tent. He had a gallon of whisky at his elbow, together with a decanter of water, and what with the seven-hour flight and meeting the Mbosi Camp guests, he was sure he’d be drunk inside of ten minutes.
He sat reading a book called Instant Africa. He had picked it off the lodge’s library shelf because of a title he considered not just absurd but slanderous. Instant U.K., all right; Instant Canada, definitely; possibly Instant France, Instant New York, Instant London; but if ever a place struck him as non-instantaneous it was Africa. Or he could simply sink into cliché and call the continent timeless.
Given he felt that his eyes had deceived him ever since he’d been here, he assumed they must be deceiving him now as he looked out upon the broad porch and the wide wooden steps leading up to it. It appeared someone—someone small—was advancing up those steps.
A waif. Through the screen doors she came. He was astonished to see a genuine waif in this rich people’s hangout and wondered how in God’s name she’d got there. Had the Kenyan night simply belched her out into Mbosi Lodge? Moreover, how could anyone, even a grown person, be out walking on his own over this dark terrain, much less a waif?
But here she stood solidly before him as if she were Godot and he, waiting. “Hello,” she said; “will you do me a favor?”
“Hello,” he answered. “No.”
“Oh, come on.” Here she swept her large eyes round to take in the other part of the room, but didn’t move her head. It was a remarkable exercise in non-turning. “You’re not like them.”
“That I know,” said Melrose, flipping a page of Instant Africa.
“You look okay.”
“I am okay.”
“Just pretend you know me, that’s all.”
“Since I’m speaking to you, it would appear that the pretense is already established.”
She laughed. It was a merry sound.
“What in God’s name are you doing here all alone?” He gave in to that question.
Removing her backpack and setting it on the floor, she said, “It’s a long story. Could I have some of that water?”
“Certainly.” He picked up the decanter and offered it. “Whisky?”
“No, just water. I’m Patty Haigh.”
Melrose poured out a glass for her and handed it over. “And I’m Melrose Plant.”
“Thanks. I’ve walked a long way.” She drank the whole glassful and handed the glass back for more.
He poured again and returned it to her. “I’d be afraid to walk even a short way out there.” He nodded toward the night.
“Why?”
“Why? Have you come from the moon? Africa has long been known for its wild animals.”
She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Probably if you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.”
He sighed. “That sounds like an admirable setup for disaster.”
“And what have we here?” Mildred Attaboy pulled up before them like a schooner with wind full in her sails.
Melrose had a real aversion to the “what have we” kind of question. “We have my niece, Patricia Haigh.”
“Patty.”
He gave her a dark look.
“Your niece? Well, my, how did she get here?”
“A car just dropped her off.”
“I didn’t hear a car!”
“It was a Bentley. One doesn’t hear them,” said Melrose.
“A Bentley! Way out here?”
“A Bentley jeep.”
“Does Bentley make jeeps?”
Talk about missing the point. The woman was a waterfall of questions. Every answer would be turned into a new question.
“Yes,” said Patty, “It was driven by Prince Ramakudu. He’s my uncle’s friend who lives in Nairobi.”
“He’s a prince?”
Melrose pulled Patty up by the hand. “You must excuse us, Mrs. Attaboy. I have to speak to Mrs. Van der Moot.” And he walked Patty over to where Trish was pouring coffee.
“Mrs. Van der Moot, this is my niece, Patricia—”
“Patty.”
Melrose shoved her behind him. “—who has just arrived from Nairobi.”
“Oh? We knew nothing about this.” She smiled uncertainly.
“I know you didn’t.” He pulled Trish gently off to one side and said in low tones, “It’s a bit of an emergency—” He pushed Patty, who was trying to get in on the emergency, farther behind him. “Her parents were caught up in a coup at their hotel in the city.”
“Oh!” Trish’s hands went to her cheeks.
“Nothing big and kept very quiet. I understand they’re quite all right, but Patricia—”
“Patty.”
Melrose kicked her foot. “—managed to get away.”
“Good Lord! You poor child!”
Melrose kept the poor child behind him. “She was quite brave.” That was indeed true. Melrose thought of her walking in the dark across the savanna. That took more grit than any little armed insurrection could muster. “So do you think you could arrange for her to have a bit of dinner?”
“Of course. I’m not sure we have any of the beef left, but there are plenty of vegetables. Would you like to sit with her, then?”
“Fine.”
Before leaving to see to the food, Trish added, “I will bring you a little surprise.”
“That was brilliant!” said Patty. “I’m really starved.”
“You look it.” Melrose pulled out a chair at the overly long table and she sat down. Before he took the chair beside her, he went to replenish his whisky.
Trish appeared at the table with a small box displaying a happy sailor, hand held to his white cap, saluting. “Cracker Jack,” it said. “You can’t get this in Africa or even in England,” said Trish.
Patty was looking it over when Melrose returned to the table.
“What’s this?” He picked up the Cracker Jack box as Trish said, “It’s caramel corn. A nice American guest sent us a crate from the States when she returned. And look, each box has a prize inside. You’ll find it down at the bottom.”
Pleased, Patty shook the box.
Melrose took the rattling box from her and waited until Trish walked off before saying, “Now, tell me this long story of yours. How did you get to Nairobi? I assume you didn’t walk; you flew.”
“Following a killer.”
Melrose slowly set down his glass. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was trailing a man who shot some people.” Patty was looking toward the door she assumed her food would be coming through.
Melrose took a drink. “Tell me another.”
“What’s the matter with the first one I told you?”
“It struck me as being short on truth. Now, again, how did you wind up in Nairobi?”
Patty sighed, thinking she might as well bypass the Emirates spa and Dubai, but her taste for drama could not have her flying any old airline, such as British Airways, so she said. “We flew on Etihad and landed at Alibaba.”
“Indeed? Are you sure that’s pronounced ‘Alibaba’? And then you continued on to—where?—Treasure Island?”
“Nairobi. That’s where we got separated.”
“You were with your family? Mum and Dad, I suppose.”
She nodded.
“Brothers and sisters?”
“Two of each.”
“Sounds like an assortment of sherbets.”
“Then there’s my Aunt Monique … and Uncle B.B., and some
cousins.”
“Good Lord, how many of them are here?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve people? And they couldn’t keep hold of you?”
The waiter set a plate of vegetables before Patty. She forked up the potatoes and chewed and thought. “What happened was, Dad and my brothers—um, Conrad and Randy—and my Uncle B.B., yes, and Aunt Monique, they went to get a car or cab. Two cabs we’d need to go to the hotel. Then Mum and Inez and—er—Clara, they waited for me while I went into the toilet. When I came out—I guess I took a long time—they were gone.” Patty stopped to put butter on her potatoes and then resumed her tale. “Well, I guessed they just went after Dad and the others so I waited a few minutes, then I went outside to where the cars were and didn’t see anybody.” She stopped, thinking. “Here’s what I think happened: there were two cars, and the ones in the first car thought I was with the ones in the other and didn’t discover I wasn’t with them until they got to the hotel.” When Melrose opened his mouth to interrupt, she said, “I forgot the name of the hotel.” Her forehead pleated in thought. “I think it was the Excelsior.” She had passed that hotel at some point in her progress through Nairobi.
“The Excelsior?”
“You know. Where the coup happened.”
“There wasn’t any coup. And when was all this, this morning?”
She shook her head and ate some more. “Three days ago.” She counted on her fingers. “Or four.”
Melrose nearly choked on his whisky. “What?” Surely the police would have been notified of a missing child. He pulled out his mobile. “I’m calling the police right now.” He looked around for someone who could supply him with an emergency number. He was stupid about phone calls in foreign countries.
She shrugged. “Okay, but it won’t do you any good. I went to the police station twice to see if anyone had reported me missing. Nobody had.” Quickly, she added, “And the name isn’t Haigh, it’s Umbijawa. Freddie and Marie Umbijawa. I’m an orphan. I mean, they’re my foster parents. So are Randy and Conrad and Inez. They’re foster children. Don’t look so worried. I’m not.”
The Knowledge: A Richard Jury Mystery (Richard Jury Mysteries) Page 15