by Unknown
39
‘Well,’ said Mr Patel as the three members of the now disbanded Special Committee sat down that evening around their usual table at the club, ‘who’d have thought it?’
Mr Gopez shook his head.
‘What on earth made him do it?’ he said. ‘I know he didn’t win, but he didn’t actually lose.’
‘I must admit I was myself surprised by Malik’s action – his abdication if I may so put it,’ said the Tiger. ‘As was my wife when I told her.’
‘I can’t help wondering if those bandits had anything to do with it.’
‘Took the wind out of his dhoti, you mean?’ said Mr Gopez.
‘Maybe he actually felt sorry for poor old Khan.’
All that business at the barracks, you mean?’ said Mr Patel. ‘Yes, Tiger. You haven’t told us yet what happened.’
‘Sub judice, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh come on, Tiger,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘You can tell us, can’t you?’
The Tiger thought for a moment.
‘I suppose there is no harm in recounting the facts of the case. It appears that late last night Harry Khan was discovered by an army chap snooping round the barracks, the ones on Limuru Road.’
‘Down by the MEATI, you mean?’
‘The very same.’
‘What on earth was he doing there?’
‘According to what he told me, he and two associates – a couple of Australian tourists he’d teamed up with – were attempting to chalk up a few new species by torchlight. Nothing in the rules against it, I suppose.’
Mr Gopez grunted.
‘Damned silly place to go flashing torches around.’
‘Quite so, A.B., though I imagine all three parties were unaware of this at the time. However, the army – and Colonel Jomo Bukoto of the 1st/2nd Battalion Kenyan Rifle Brigade in particular – takes a dim view of such activities.’
‘So how on earth did you spring them?’
‘I regret it was not them, A.B. – only him. And that is one of the matters which will have to remain confidential.’
Mr Gopez grunted an unwilling assent.
‘So the other two chaps, you mean they’re still in the clink?’
The Tiger consulted his wristwatch.
‘I would imagine that the colonel may have finished his round of golf by now and may be interviewing them as we speak. Tricky business, but I doubt whether it will go to court – probably just a quiet little deportation.’
‘Deportation? But aren’t they innocent?’
‘Innocent in intent, perhaps, A.B., but not in deed. There are laws against creeping round military installations at night, even if you are just looking for birds.’
‘But won’t the Australians put up a fuss?’ said Mr Patel.
‘It’s quite possible that their High Commissioner may have something to say but it is a tricky situation. While our government is ever anxious to make everything tickety-boo for tourists, it is equally keen at the moment to show that we are up to the mark as far as security goes. My guess is that the security issue will be the winner.’
‘How long do you think they’ve got then, these two chaps, before they’re bundled out?’
‘That, I think, depends on how much publicity the government wants.’
A. B. Gopez gave a large sniff.
‘They’ll milk this one for all it’s worth – mark my words. Headlines for months, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Mr Patel turned to his friend with an innocent smile. ‘Oh,’ he said, reaching for his wallet. ‘I don’t know.’
Like every one of the 1,431,116 women who according to the most recent census officially inhabit the city of Nairobi (and probably twice that number who live there unofficially), Rose Mbikwa was unaware of these events. Since returning from Switzerland after her operation, her main concern had simply been to get well soon. Her surgeon had assured her that although she had an excellent chance of making a full recovery it was not advisable – indeed might be counterproductive – to hurry these things. Her vision was already much improved by the new artificial lens but the eye itself would take time to recover. She should rest it, and continue to wear the eyepatch out of doors for at least a month.
As she made her way down the stairs from the bedroom a week after her return to Nairobi, Rose was in a reflective mood. She had been disappointed, she realized, that she had not seen Mr Malik when he came to pick up his car. Why she felt so, she could not quite put a finger on. With his funny comb-over and shy manner he was a strange man but she knew that he was a good man, and it is goodness that counts. He had been coming on the bird walks for a long time now, and he always made sure that old Mercedes of his was filled with young students before they went anywhere. And he always made sure to call everyone’s attention if he saw something they might like to see – but modestly, not like some. Perhaps it was also something to do with that AIDS Aware sticker. She had one just like it on her own car. Perhaps it was all of these things. And she knew that, like her, he loved Kenya and the birds of Kenya.
Rose was also slightly disappointed – though in a different way – that Harry Khan wasn’t in town. Harry was fun, and while she was away she had been thinking that it was time to have more fun in her life. A little less of the past, a little less of the future, a little more of the present. Harry had left a message to say he’d be away from Nairobi for a week or so on business – something to do with franchises. Maybe they could get together when he got back? Yes, maybe they would. But perhaps another cause of Rose’s disappointment, though, was that when you arrive back from some time away – even if it is only nine days – it feels good to know that everyone is pleased to see you back, or at least has noticed your absence. She should drop by the museum later. Though she had taken in advance a whole month’s leave, there might be some cheques to sign or urgent letters to see to. Under its piratical patch her eye was still a little sore, but otherwise she was feeling fine. In fact, she might take a little walk, right now.
I have mentioned before that a feature of Nairobi is its rubbish disposal system. The smoky bonfires that help keep its streets relatively clean by consuming anything from dead leaves to dead dogs (this is true, I have seen it with my own eyes) do so at the expense of the air above. Combined with the smoke of fifty thousand badly tuned diesel engines, they make for a distinctive urban aroma. Yet on that October day the smell that greeted Rose’s nose as she walked down the driveway of her house towards the gate was almost delicious in its familiarity.
Those cars, though. There were more than ever on the street outside the house next door. She really would have to have a word with the judge. How Mr Malik’s old Mercedes had ended up among them would presumably remain a mystery – perhaps the thieves had just been looking for a place to dump it where it wouldn’t be noticed for a while. But she was glad she had recognized the car and even more glad that Mr Malik had got it back. And she would speak to the judge, but she wouldn’t do it yet. With a cheerful nod to her number one askari, old Mukhisa, she adjusted her eyepatch and set off along Serengeti Gardens. She walked away from the parked cars with hardly a glance at the small bonfire in the gutter outside the judge’s house, and off down the hill. But then the rain started, heavy rain. Rose, having taken no umbrella, decided to turn around. Never mind, she had plenty to do inside. For one thing, there was that invitation which had just arrived. She must send a reply. Head down, she hurried back to the house.
Can you worry both more and less about the same thing at the same time? It certainly seemed that way to Mr Malik. No, not about losing his chance to ask Rose Mbikwa to the ball – that business was over and done with and so were his chances, even though the tickets to the ball had come at last and were now lying on the table by the front door. He would decide what to do with them later. And his car was back from the repairers with the rear axle and rear window replaced and the roof beaten back into a rough approximation of its original shape. But there was still the missing notebook.
On the one hand the fact he had not heard anything probably meant that it had been lost or forgotten or thrown away. But Mr Malik couldn’t stop the niggling thought that the very same fact might mean that even now it was being examined by someone who he’d rather was not examining it. Someone in the government, or the judiciary. How they would love to know the identity of that thorn in their sides, Dadukwa. What they would do if they found out.
‘Daddy,’ said his daughter Petula as she joined him on the veranda one morning and noticed that once again he had eaten only one of his breakfast bananas, ‘is anything the matter?’
He had been very quiet of late and looking a little grey. He hadn’t been to the club all week. She hoped it wasn’t anything to do with his heart. Mr Malik looked up from his Nescafé and gave a small smile.
‘No, my dear, nothing.’
If it wasn’t anything to do with his heart perhaps it was that accident he had told her about. Fancy trying to drive on a flat tyre – no wonder he had rolled the car and smashed the window and dented the roof. What on earth was he doing going all that way to that silly village with Benjamin? Yes, exactly what had he been doing? There was something funny going on.
She must remember to ask Benjamin.
40
The temperature in the kitchen of the Suffolk Hotel is a hundred and rising. All ovens are aglow, all hotplates afire. Curries simmer, birianis boil – devilled shrimps, lamb chops and chicken wings sizzle and bake. Through the back door the aroma of roasting meat wafts in on the breeze. Just outside, on three large spits over charcoal fires, are three whole sheep. They have been cooking since noon. In the prep room three hundred curry puffs and an equal number of cocktail samosas (meat and vegetarian) are lined up on their metal trays ready for a final blasting in the oven. Six hundred vol-au-vent cases await their fillings. The head chef himself is adding the final fancy icing to the cakes. An hour to go before the ball.
In the breakfast room, which has been set up for drinks service, eight full cases of Johnnie Walker, eight of Hennessy and eight of Gordon’s stand at the ready behind the bar. In the cold room is enough Tusker beer, tonic water and soda water to float a small herd of hippos. From the flower- and foliage-bedecked ballroom comes a screech as Milton Kapriadis tests the microphone. He has already set up music stands and drum kit and is now fiddling with wires and amplifiers. Past experience has taught him that it is best not to leave these things to others. From an old blue valise he removes some sheaves of music and begins to distribute them around the music stands. Top of the pile is the ‘Blue Danube Waltz’ – the old Glenn Miller arrangement. It has been first dance at the Hunt Club Ball since long before he started playing there. Next will be a foxtrot, then a two-step, a quickstep and on to a nice fast rock and roll medley. After the first break another waltz. Later in the evening he might get the band to play a couple of disco numbers – well, one has to keep up with the times. At Number 12 Garden Lane, Mr Malik is sitting in his pyjamas in front of the television.
Now the guests have arrived. Milton Kapriadis raises his baton. His Excellency the British High Commissioner to Kenya takes his wife by the hand and steps on to the floor for the first dance. Harry Khan turns to the woman beside him at the table.
‘How about it, baby? Shall we dance or shall we dance?’
With a gracious smile, she assents. Arm in arm they take to the floor. Other couples join them. Hands clasped, his arm around her, they one-two-three, one-two-three around the floor behind the High Commissioner and his wife. Harry winks. Suddenly he and his partner spring apart. Still facing each other, they crouch then step to the right, step to the left. They twirl – what has happened to the waltz? Taking opposite hands he guides her under his raised arm, stops, and passes back. More twirls, more steps – and isn’t that a sugar push? Rock and roll dancing in 3/3 time? In all the seventy years of the Hunt Club Ball no one has seen anything like it.
Not everyone is dancing. At a table for four near the buffet sit Jonathan Evans and his wife and Patsy King and her husband. Jonathan will ask Patsy for the next dance and she will coldly decline – thus ensuring, they hope, that their spouses will continue to suspect nothing of their illicit love. Other Old Hands from the Tuesday bird walks are sitting, glasses full before them, at a table nearby. Hilary Fotherington-Thomas (gin and tonic) and Joan Baker (brandy and soda) sit side by side inspecting the dance floor. Both longstanding members of the Karen Club, they form two-fifths of the Hunt Club Ball Committee. Two seats at their table are still vacant – Tom Turnbull has no doubt been having trouble with his bow tie or his Morris Minor, perhaps both (being on the committee, Hilary and Joan know just who has bought tickets). Nor yet any sign of Rose.
For the woman Harry is dancing with is not Rose Mbikwa. He had phoned from the Asadi Club and left a message, and she had later phoned him at his hotel. She was, she said, extremely flattered that he should ask her but she had already made other arrangements. Harry has instead persuaded his mother to come. She has never been to a Hunt Club Ball and is, despite her grumbling that the music is too loud and there is too little curry in the curry puffs, having a fine old time. Also in the party are Harry’s pretty niece Elvira, with her brother Sanjay and his girlfriend. Finally there is Elvira’s fiancé, just back from Dubai and at this moment looking none too happy – perhaps because the woman Harry is now dancing with is Elvira. For the last two nights they have been practising moves (not all of them, I have to say, strictly vertical) in his hotel bedroom and right now she seems to be having a hoot.
But Harry Khan and Sanjay Bashu are not the only members of the Asadi Club to have bought tickets to the Hunt Club Ball. At a table on the other side of the room Mr and Mrs Patel are seated between Mr and Mrs Gopez and the Singhs. The Tiger is tuxedoed, Mrs Singh is looking radiant in pink. Mr Patel is wearing the special smile that can only come from winning a recent bet with Mr Gopez. Two seats at their table are also unoccupied.
‘Think he’ll come?’ said Mr Gopez.
‘I don’t know, A.B.,’ said Mr Patel. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘Well, Daddy, how do I look?’
Mr Malik, still in his pyjamas, looked up from BBC World News. And what did he see? His daughter Petula, and not wearing jeans. He smiled, then his brow furrowed. That sari of deep crimson trimmed with narrow gold – was it not one her mother used to wear? And that little sparkling bindi on her forehead, was that not just like the one her mother would have worn? True, his daughter’s hair was not the long dark tresses that his wife would wrap behind her head to show her slender neck to such melting effect, but Petula’s short hair was shining like ebony, and yes, those were surely her mother’s gold and ruby earrings dangling from her dear small ear lobes.
‘My daughter,’ he said, and tears came into his eyes. ‘You look beautiful. Where are you going?’
‘To the ball, of course.’
‘The ball?’
‘The Hunt Club Ball. Hurry up, we’ll be late.’
‘Late – us?’
‘Daddy, I saw the tickets. I got the hint. Come on.’
‘I…’
‘Come on, Daddy. A girl can’t go to the ball all by herself, you know.’
She smiled at him and because more tears came into his eyes, he had to look away.
Mr Malik went into his bedroom and opened the camphorwood wardrobe. He took down dinner jacket, trousers and shirt. He shaved and showered. The trousers and the jacket were a little tight, but the trousers had an adjustable waistband and he could leave the jacket unbuttoned. At least his black lace-up shoes still fitted. He went to the dressing table and tied his bow tie, then picked up the comb and, bending further towards the mirror, carefully arranged his hair.
‘Well, daughter,’ said Mr Malik as he re-entered the sitting room, ‘how do I look?’
‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘You look beautiful.’
∗ ∗ ∗
Benjamin had been surprised when Petula had asked him what had happened that day out at his vill
age but was only too happy to tell her about the birds and the bandits. And then he told her the rest of the story, as told to him by the barman at the Asadi Club while he was drinking his Coca-Cola (not being a member, he felt under no obligation not to divulge this privileged information). So Petula had found out all about her father’s wager with Harry Khan and the tickets to the ball. She had figured the rest out herself. And she had known what she must do.
She insisted they drive her little Suzuki to the Suffolk Hotel, not her father’s car.
‘It will be much easier to park.’
And she was right because she managed to squeeze it into a spot just over the road from the hotel where the old green Mercedes would never have fitted. Taking his beautiful daughter on his arm, Mr Malik walked her across the road and up the steps into the lobby. From the ballroom to the left they could hear a blast from the horn section. The first set was over. A waiter hurried from the kitchen, two trays of mushroom vol-au-vents held high on spread fingers. They followed him into the ballroom through the open double doors.
Mr Patel was the first to spot them. He stood.
‘Over here, Malik.’
The dancers were returning to their seats and it took a little while for Mr Malik and Petula to reach the table and greet his friends.
‘Glad you made it, old boy,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Beginning to think you wouldn’t.’
‘How could I not?’ said Mr Malik, glancing towards his daughter and finding tears once more in his eyes. So, so like her mother tonight.
‘Everybody seems to be here,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘I suppose you spotted Harry Khan. He’s been dancing – with that niece of his, you know.’
Mr Malik looked around the room. Yes, there was Harry Khan now sitting at a table with the girl and Sanjay Bashu and two others who Mr Malik supposed were his mother and some other member of the family. At another table he could see some of his friends and acquaintances from the Tuesday bird walk. He couldn’t spot Rose Mbikwa but saw Joan Baker rise from the table and go over to the microphone. The room became quieter.