He turned back into the lawn, the arena of a safer place, and wandered towards a tree in the centre of the lawn where a woman stood on her own. The tree glowed softly from lights strung in its thick foliage, like luminescent fruit. As he approached, the woman turned her head and looked straight at him. If allure is the beauty that arouses hope and desire then Michael saw in an instant that he had stumbled on the allure – he struggled to think of a fitting expression – given by God to Eve herself. If the woman that he approached had held out a fruit, plucked with her lissom arm from the boughs of the tree, and invited him to eat, he would have willingly accepted – just to please her. She wore a halterneck gown, a deep fuchsia colour, made of something silky (charmeuse, chiffon, something like that). Her eyes had the seductive lines of a Pharaohonic princess; her lips were full, kissable. Her face was exquisitely set off by her earrings: a pendant of three small pearly-white cowry shells.
Beautiful, yes, but there was more. She held his captive stare with such a deep-welled self-assurance that Michael, himself used to projecting confidence, felt his gaze faltering and had to stop himself lowering his eyes in deference to a purer, uncontrived composure.
‘Good evening. I’m Michael Lacey.’
The woman did not proffer her hand, but she smiled, still holding him with her eyes, and said, ‘I am Felice.’
‘I’m . . . charmed. Call me Michael.’
Felice dipped her head slightly but said nothing, although Michael, with a clinician’s attuned eye, thought he detected a transitory dilation of her pupils. They stood facing each other, Michael all of a sudden feeling wonderfully relaxed, free, with no imperative to make forced conversation. A curious but comforting feeling grew in him: that he and Felice shared something in their past. Something about her was familiar – more than that: was dear – but he could not think of any occasion when he might have met her before. It came as a relief that his sudden bedazzlement had more complex roots than simply a Pavlovian response to her physical appeal. She smiled at him again. He asked if she would like her drink filling up; he noticed that she wore no rings.
‘That’s kind, but I’m OK. Just enjoying this lovely place.’ She spoke softly but with a clear, clipped accent, as if she had had an expensive English education.
He found himself saying, ‘Yes, it’s, well . . . I thought . . . oh, damn it, I’ll say it: you make it lovelier still . . . you really do.’ Propriety caught up with him: ‘I mean . . . under the tree here . . .’ He stopped. Or anywhere, he thought.
Now she looked down for a moment, but recovered quickly enough, looking up at him again with what he felt was a quizzical eye. He couldn’t quite believe that he had spoken like that, and was about to apologise for embarrassing her when she smiled at him. He found himself trapped again in her gaze.
He searched for something safe to say. ‘Do you live in Kampala?’
‘Thank you. You don’t know how nice it was to hear someone say that,’ she said, and then when he opened his mouth to ask the question again, she said, ‘I used to, but not now.’ She suddenly became animated and came a little closer. ‘See if you can guess where I live, if I give you some clues.’
He would go along with anything. ‘Let me try.’
‘OK, listen carefully. Your first clue is . . . I’m often bathed by the Cloud King.’
She seemed eager to hear his reply, but not in the fawning way of someone intimidated by him, but as if she wished to intrigue him; to entertain him, and to be entertained.
‘Hmm – could be near a waterfall.’
She laughed. ‘Good try. Your second clue is . . . my place is hidden from the eyes of Europeans.’
Her gaiety was infectious; intoxicating. Michael screwed up his eyes and said, ‘Very mysterious – take me there.’
They laughed together. He was surprised not to feel foolish at his playful conduct. They stood in their own small and private pool of candy-coloured light, the rest of the party having slipped away into the darkness.
‘My third clue? Let’s see . . . in the moonlight there are white fields in the sky.’
‘Oh, gosh! It’s impossibly romantic.’ At any other time in his life, an utterance like that would have been tongue-in-cheek, bordering on sarcastic, but not tonight.
Now she came closer still. If you touch me, I shall melt, he thought.
My final clue . . .’ He saw her notice something over his shoulder. She pulled back. ‘Ah, our game’s over. Here’s my husband.’
‘Your husband?’
Making mental adjustments, Michael wrenched his attention away from Felice. The small thin man with the thick glasses that James had pointed out – he reminded Michael of a rather intense laboratory officer at his hospital – had joined them, and was holding out his hand.
‘Stanley Katura. I enjoyed your lecture.’ He held Michael’s hand in a steady grip.
Michael, still settling from the sensations of a moment ago, said absentmindedly, ‘Good. Was it useful?’
‘In the city, yes, but I work in the bush and we don’t have the technical facilities. That’s a way of saying we don’t have the money.’
Michael loosened his handshake, but Stanley failed to do the same and relaxed his arm as if he was going to hold Michael’s hand all evening.
‘I’m sorry,’ Michael said. ‘You must be looking forward to moving to somewhere that does have the money – the amenities.’
Stanley glanced at Felice but Michael saw that she did not reciprocate. Still Stanley held his hand. He said, ‘We’ve already moved to where we want to be. We’re very happy there, thank you.’
Michael relaxed his hand further. ‘Forgive me,’ Stanley said as he released him. ‘You’re new here so you won’t know that we Ugandans like to come close when we greet, to hold each other and take our time over the introduction.’
Felice said, ‘I think it’s our way of seeing into the soul.’ She tilted her head as if she was particularly interested in his reply – willing him to reveal himself.
‘We Europeans don’t have a soul nowadays. It’s unscientific.’ He liked to counter irrational sentiments, even if it meant being pedantic, although he immediately regretted sounding so cold.
‘Oh, how dull,’ Felice said lightly. ‘My friends all have souls. Isn’t there an old Middle Eastern proverb: man cannot live by bread alone?’
Michael was pleased she could counter him; here was someone sharp enough to parry with. ‘We have a mind, of course.’ And sometimes a wonderful body as well, he thought.
She shrugged. ‘So does an elephant.’
‘Indeed – but ours is more complex. It gives us that subjective phenomenon some call the soul, but it’s all generated by that physical entity we call the brain. Science will find an explanation for any sense of soul some day.’ He felt he had sounded pompous, and added, with a jovial tone, ‘Everything else is mumbo-jumbo.’
She said, evenly, ‘Are you sure you meant to bring our Mumbo-Jumbo into this?’ She turned to Stanley, and with a shocked air said, ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean to be blasphemous. But perhaps we ought to advise him to sacrifice a white goat; we don’t want any bad juju coming his way.’
Stanley squinted at her, as if he had not understood.
Michael started to apologise (perhaps Felice and Stanley venerated Mumbo-Jumbo) but Felice’s serious expression melted and she laughed, a delightful belly giggle, and said, ‘Don’t worry, Mr Lacey – Michael – I’m teasing you. And anyway, I don’t think you’re without a soul. Other people’s perception of us is more accurate than our own.’
She smiled at him again and then glanced at Stanley, but he was looking away as if his mind was on other matters. Michael saw a tightening in the corner of Felice’s eyes – betraying a disappointment perhaps. An overwhelming need came over him for Felice to believe that he had whatever she considered to be most admirable in another person. A soul, for example. Whatever that meant to her.
He said, ‘I’ll bow to your astute judgement on my s
oul.’
Felice sipped her drink, looking satisfied with his response.
Stanley intruded again. ‘How long are you here for?’
‘I have leave, but I’m booked to return to the UK on Monday, and then I may join some friends skiing in France.’
Felice spoke excitedly to Stanley, ‘Shall we invite him to see what Europeans call the real Africa?’
She turned back to Michael without waiting for Stanley’s reply and said, with what he make-believed was a smoulderingly seductive invitation, ‘Why don’t you come and stay in our home? We’ll take you to the Queen Elizabeth National Park in the Rift Valley. It’s not far from us. I’m sure you can change your plans.’
Even as Michael found himself saying, ‘That’s most kind. Are you sure?’ he thought of the disturbing events of the last two days and the need to cancel the skiing holiday. He was astonished at his unhinged acceptance of the invitation – as if Stanley was not there; as if Felice was going to lead him to that place he had seen mentioned in the book that he had picked up in his bedroom at the McCrees: In Search of Paradise. With a jolt of guilt he thought of Naomi; but then he remembered her parting kiss: her tense lips more a peck than a kiss. As he recalled it now it seemed like a dismissal. A danger presented itself, although he immediately discounted it: he would be many miles away from his childhood home. They had lived in the south; this was the west, the far west. There was little risk of meeting anyone he knew from those days.
Stanley was looking at Felice, his eyes small, bead-like, behind his myopia-correcting lenses. ‘But – our work. The patients,’ he said, frowning.
Michael immediately regretted his haste. He tried to give Stanley a way out. ‘Perhaps I’d better not; it’s too short notice.’
But Felice had puckered her cheeks and was staring out Stanley.
‘It’s too much trouble – I’ll be getting in the way,’ Michael added.
‘Ah! There could be trouble,’ Stanley said, and then exhaled sharply. Michael was not sure whether he had laughed.
Stanley left the words hanging until Felice said, ‘Stanley?’
A hint of a smile pulled at Stanley’s cheek. ‘The trouble will not come from us.’ He stopped again.
He’s hard work, Michael thought, and to fill the silence said, ‘Travel here seems a little hazardous. Is it safe to come with you?’ He tried to sound nonchalant.
Stanley took off his glasses, studied them, put them back on and then turned to face Michael squarely as if he had come to a decision. ‘Safe most of the time. And if you come with us it’ll be safer for me and Felice at the roadblocks on the way home. There’s something of a taboo against harming a white man. For a start, your government makes a tremendous fuss about it.’
‘I’ll be pleased to be the token taboo.’
Stanley didn’t smile, but said with polite formality, ‘It’ll be a pleasure to give you hospitality. Forgive my hesitation – I seem to have my mind on my work too much.’
Michael thought that Felice relaxed.
The McCrees joined them.
Audrey said brightly, ‘I hope you’re enjoying getting to know each other.’
Michael was struck again by her transformation from the frightened woman he had first met the day before. Even her movements had become liberated.
‘Michael’s coming to visit us,’ Felice said, sounding triumphant.
‘My dear fellow, I thought you were returning to the UK,’ James said.
‘So did I, but I’ve been persuaded otherwise. An invitation that I can’t refuse.’
Michael looked at Stanley as he spoke, rather than Felice. He feared his rapid intoxication might be showing like a flashing red light on his head. He wondered if Stanley was used to every man falling for his wife, got a closet pleasure from it, knowing that it was he (the antithesis of a charismatic, well-physiqued man) who had been the one to marry her.
Felice said to Audrey and James, ‘We’re going to show Michael the real Africa. He’ll not regret it.’
Audrey said, ‘Beware, Michael. Africa’s a siren to white men. They end up shipwrecked on its ancient spirit-filled rocks.’
‘That’s a bit melodramatic, Audrey. Look at me,’ James said.
‘Exactly.’
James threw back his head and laughed loudly.
Audrey said to Felice, ‘I do like your dress.’
Felice mouthed, ‘Borrowed.’
‘Wonderful fit. And your earrings, lovely too.’
‘Oh, thanks, it’s a family tradition – my mother and grandmother always wore shells.’
‘Symbol of fertility,’ James said.
Audrey coughed and said, ‘Such a beautiful evening – not too hot.’
James stuttered, ‘And . . . er . . . were used as currency until the beginning of this century. Inflation caught up with them; in the end it required seven men to carry the value of five pounds. When the shells were banned they were incinerated in their millions. The first District Commissioner’s house in Kampala was called the Shell House because of all the lime from the burnt shells used in its construction.’
‘Sort of boring thing James knows,’ Audrey said, her tone giving away a hint of pride.
James was getting into his stride. ‘I heard of a boy from the interior in those days who accompanied his master to the sea. It was his first time at the coast. When he saw the beach he fell on the shells, crying “Money, money, money!”’
All the guests gathered around as James entertained them with stories from his archives. All except Stanley. When Michael looked away from the group he saw him wandering, restless, around the lawn. Michael glanced at Felice. She caught his eye and smiled at him again. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Audrey watching him.
As the guests dispersed, Michael helped clear up, and found Audrey stacking plates alone in the kitchen. She spoke as he put a tray of glasses on the sideboard. ‘Michael, I know it’s none of my business – but I don’t think you should go to Lwesala with Stanley and Felice.’
He turned to look at her, but she was facing away from him. ‘Really? What makes you say that? Is there something I should know about them?’
‘It’s not them. It’s . . .’ She seemed unable to go on.
‘Too dangerous?’ he prompted.
Audrey was running the tap, still busy. He felt irritated: she was behaving as if she could see into his life and knew what was best for him, delivering hints obliquely, like a fortune teller.
‘Is it . . . me?’
He was thinking about asking her if she had read the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup, but James came in whistling the Skye Boat Song. He clapped his hand hard down on Michael’s shoulder, causing him to catch his elbow on the edge of the sideboard and setting off his funny bone.
‘Fff . . .’ He stifled it.
James was oblivious. ‘Thanks for your help, old chap.’ He swung round towards Audrey and placed his hand on her waist. He was less clumsy with her. ‘Audrey, my dear, do go to bed; we’ll finish off. You made this evening a spectacular success.’
She flicked the water off her hands in a satisfied way, and dried them on a towel. ‘I think I will. So much excitement all of a sudden.’
That night Michael dreamt of a place in the Rift Valley where the moon cast a silvery light. White fields hung in the sky, like some imagined country. At the entrance to a house made of sheaths of grass cut from those fields stood a woman adorned with white shells, hair plaited with red beads, a smile of perfect teeth and white shoes on her feet. But when she turned to lead him to her bed of downy pillows, a child appeared in the doorway and blocked their way. The woman picked up the child and swung him around playfully. The child laughed and was happy. Michael woke restless and unhappy. In the calm of the night he reflected on his agreeing to go with Felice and Stanley: a foolish crush on the black woman; a married woman, even if he was right in detecting that she was a frustrated one. Then there was Audrey’s warning. It was too late now; he had committe
d himself in a moment of foolishness. In the heat of an emotion.
Four
To their relief, Stanley, Felice and Michael reached the Rift Valley before nightfall. Travelling by day had its dangers but these were multiplied at night. Stanley had earnestly recounted tragic misadventures on the roads: variations on a theme of drunken soldiers, potholes, trucks with no lights, or all three combined.
They dropped down a forested escarpment of ironwood, thick with leaf and vine and moving with feathered and furred creatures, into a geological playground. Blue-watered explosion craters, rimmed with red aloes, punctured the wide valley floor; deep-silted plains spread far south and north glassed with the lakes and rivers that feed the Nile. Michael would not have been surprised to see an Arab caravan or a Victorian explorer’s train of porters tramping their shores. Ahead, the sun had been swallowed whole by the clouds of the Rwenzori massif. Vapours advanced like pale-gloved fingers down the thick-forested buttresses as if the hand of God was gathering in the mountain’s secrets.
Nearing the foothills of the mountains they took a twisting track through dense banana groves, compact fields of dark-leafed coffee, heavily fruited mango trees and bloated gourds; the soil as black as congealed blood. Hushed by a land fit for the gods, they had been silent for a long time, when Stanley said suddenly, ‘It’s fertile country; they say that even a toothpick will root. Be careful not to fall into the toothpick bushes.’
Michael saw Felice shoot Stanley a startled look. He had found Stanley polite but, until then, lacking in humour. Perhaps his tribe were the Prussians of Africa. In contrast, Felice had been voluble and sparkled with wit.
As they got near to Lwesala they slowed frequently to return the greetings of brightly clad women returning from market. It was obvious that everyone knew the Katuras. When they arrived at the hospital, nurses hurried towards them as they parked at the edge the compound. The women formed a crescent in front of the Land Rover and danced to the accompaniment of an impromptu song. Michael heard a drum start up, like a church bell heralding a cause for rejoicing.
The Ghosts of Eden Page 22