We had arrived. The path ended, and we emerged on a flat platform planted as a lawn, where a group of people were assembled for a late Sunday brunch. I shall never forget the expression on their faces when they saw us. Eyes stared above the coffee cups. Mouths gaped speechlessly. They would never forget that scene either: led by a child, an unknown young man drenched in water, two soaking-wet women in a fit of giggles, holding a struggling serpent several feet longer than a man.
‘Good morning,’ Emanuele said with a straight face and a normal voice, while still trying to hold the snake down. ‘Could we please have something to measure this snake? Quickly?’
The entire thing was so irresistibly absurd that no one demurred, and with amazing speed they all dashed into action. A girl ran to get a tape measure which she handed to Emanuele, keeping the greatest distance possible between them. Someone fetched a camera. We held the snake. Thirteen and a half feet. A female. Emanuele let her go and we all jumped back to a safe distance. He took some notes.
‘I will call her Carol.’ He bowed slightly, grinning his rare, charming smile. ‘Thank you for helping.’
Carol the snake coiled, hissing defiantly, then sprang forward, trying to strike, several times – not unreasonably. She stood her ground, and Emanuele with spread arms, moving in front of her on light feet, looked like a toreador in a strange corrida. Finally, Carol slid away back down the slope to her river, the glimpse of this memory already fading in her reptilian brain. Carol my friend looked at me and at Emanuele, shaking her head, and everyone was laughing.
1981 evolved into a special year in Emanuele’s life and growth. Although the agony of Paolo’s loss had left a deep scar in him which would never heal, he started then to have more time for friends and parties, and he discovered girls.
28
A Young Man
… Though lovers be lost. Love shall not…
Dylan Thomas, And death shall have no dominion
Emanuele’s day-to-day diaries in 1981 and 1982 are full of notes on snakes, pieces of shed snakeskin, and drawings and photographs of snakes. His daily activities are described in detail, and his friends, boys and girls, appear more and more often. He was very popular. The unusual amount of knowledge he had accumulated, his rich and varied life, his gift for languages, the way in which he would tell a story, together with his quiet charm and a subtle sense of humour, were attractive enough. He was also developing into a very good-looking young man. From Mario he had inherited a natural way with girls. Names and photographs started to appear in his diary, and the telephone rang for him constantly. On 4 November 1981 he notes soberly: ‘Went to disco with Ricky. Slept with Juliette.’
Although I have never met Juliette, I knew Ricky Mathews well. A few years older than Emanuele, he was the son of Terry, a well-known and dashing professional hunter of the old days, who, having been blinded in one eye by a client, had become a successful wildlife sculptor. He had four sons, and I can understand why Emanuele, who missed Paolo’s masculine company, was attracted by the lively man’s world of the Mathewses. Ricky was one of the few friends who shared Emanuele’s interest in snakes, and he was already familiar with the world of teenage parties, cars, and a wider freedom. They were in the same class, and theirs became a deep and lasting friendship.
There is a tremendous bonus in bringing up children in Kenya. It is not just the climate, the freedom of having ample space, the opportunity to practise every sport all the year round, the healthy food and the still generally unpolluted surroundings. Kenya is a truly cosmopolitan country. Apart from the local African population, there is a large Asian and Arab community, and Nairobi, the capital and the place of residence of all foreign envoys and of many international organizations, is populated with people of all nationalities, races and colours. Children educated by parents with an open mind learn from a very early age that it is normal to look different, to dress in different ways, to eat different foods and worship different gods; and that all this is not just acceptable, but interesting, enriching, instructive and worthwhile.
The house in Nairobi was in those days alive with young people. There was Toon Hanegraff, a Dutch boy who, like Charlie Mason, had been at school with Emanuele from the very beginning. Their families both had houses in Kilifi and they had kept in close touch over the years, forming with Ema an almost inseparable trio. Toon was red-headed, with a strange crooked nose sprinkled with freckles, and – like Charlie – every time I saw him he seemed to have grown another couple of feet. They had come to Laikipia for half-term, and spent their days riding, a sport in which both Charlie and Emanuele naturally excelled, in shooting rabbits, exploring, swimming, fishing tilapia and black bass in the dams, and generally having a tremendous time. Emanuele loved riding bareback, and often they unsaddled their horses and rode through the dams, cavorting and splashing in the water, an image of youth, freedom and happy days.
There was Mukesh Pandit, a thin, quiet boy with black hair, glasses and compassionate ways, who came from a wealthy Indian family and who lived nearby. Emanuele was particularly fond of him, and attracted by oriental philosophy and customs; I never failed to notice, when they were together, a strange similarity in Emanuele’s and Mukesh’s eyes – a sad, deep wisdom beyond their years. There was Ray Matiba, whose father was a minister in the Kenya government. And Felipe Garçia-Banon, whose parents – his father was the Spanish Ambassador – were close friends of mine.
There was also a young man neither Emanuele nor I had actually met at the time, but with whom Emanuele corresponded and spoke on the phone occasionally, and by whom he was very impressed. His name was Michael Werikhe, and he lived in Mombasa, where he trained guard dogs for a firm which assembled vehicle parts. His passion, however, was wildlife, particularly rhino, and, unusually, snakes. At the end of 1982 he had spent his annual leave walking the 500 kilometres from Mombasa to Nairobi to raise awareness, and money, to alleviate the plight of the black rhino which were being heavily poached at that time. For company, he had carried a small python around his neck. A mutual friend had put him in contact with Emanuele, and I still remember Emanuele’s comment after they had spoken on the phone the first time.
‘You know, Pep,’ he had said, ‘Michael is extraordinary. He really knows and cares about snakes. But he has also walked all those miles for rhino: and he has never seen one yet in all his life! Of course I have invited him to come to Laikipia and see one. He will be able to come on his next leave, at the end of the year.’
There were the girls, but as they were usually younger and not allowed to drive, I saw less of them, although the telephone kept ringing and a variety of young girls’ voices kept asking for Emanuele. Lately, there was Ferina. She was half British and half Indian, reddish-gold hair, feminine, a sunny disposition. She was very popular with the boys, and when I eventually met her, I could see why.
Although he was quiet and independent and perfectly happy to be on his own, Emanuele also enjoyed the newly discovered social life, and naturally loved parties.
It was at the beginning of 1983 that we had the idea of having a ‘different’ feast in Laikipia. Emanuele had never really given a proper party. This would be his special eighteenth birthday celebration. We thought of an occasion in which everyone on the ranch could participate in one way or another. To this he would invite his friends and I mine, the fellow ranchers of the neighbourhood who would all bring a team to join our ranch team and would participate in various competitions, some to do with cattle, horses, donkeys or camels, and in games of skill such as spear-throwing, climbing a greased pole, and target-shooting with bow and arrow. We thought of a sort of all-day-long fair, with food, drinks and traditional dances, prizes for the winners, and a disco to end it all at night. We could call it a ‘rodeo’. We decided the date, close to his birthday, and made plans daily, adding details to the events, and much looking forward to organizing it and enjoying it with all the crowd.
The relationship between Emanuele and me had been always one of
love, mutual trust and friendship. I had no secrets from him and often confided in him, knowing that I could count on his balanced advice. He was not emotional and rarely showed his feelings, but he was never aloof, and was capable of unexpected gestures of great charm. For my birthday, the first of June, a public holiday in Kenya when Laikipia is always green and in a glory of flowers, Emanuele went out with his horse or his motorbike and brought me back armfuls of Gloriosa superba, the magnificent wild red lily which he knew I loved.
I remember a late night one weekend in Nairobi, when I was in bed with flu. I heard him coming upstairs two steps at a time, and knocking at my door. He came in hugging a large knobbly elephant made of twisted and thatched banana leaves which he had garlanded with pink bougainvillea. ‘When I went out this morning,’ he said with a grin, ‘I saw an old cripple on the corner of Kitisuru Road trying to sell this elephant. No one stopped. When I returned tonight he was still there with his elephant, and it was raining: so I bought it.’ He looked critically at the elephant. ‘It is rather ugly. Nobody would have wanted it. I just felt sorry for the man.’ He offered it to me with a flourish and a mock bow: ‘For you. Pep.’ He put it in a corner of my room, and it is still there.
Emanuele had a compassion unusual for his age, a depth of feeling, and a concern for others. Like all babies, Sveva often woke up in the night in the grip of a nightmare, or because of a slight cold or upset. I sleep very lightly; the faintest noise is enough to wipe away my dreams instantly, and it takes me only a few seconds to reach Sveva’s room at the end of the corridor. But most times I found that Emanuele had preceded me, and was sitting on the side of her bed, her small hand in his, gently soothing her back to sleep. ‘She is fine, Pep,’ he used to whisper reassuringly. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed? I can take care of her.’
Emanuele was fourteen years older than Sveva, and she worshipped him. He carried her around on his shoulders, sometimes dressing her up for fun in his large shirts and sweaters. He taught her new words, and told her stories as Paolo had done for him when he was a child. She sat quietly for hours observing him skinning a snake, rode out sitting in front of his motorbike, and often, looking at Emanuele, strong and healthy, holding her in his arms on the saddle of his horse and trotting around the sunny garden to her delighted gurgles and squeals of joy, I felt how lucky we still were as a family, and how privileged my children were to grow up in the freedom and beauty of Ol Ari Nyiro. I am sure Sveva owes to Emanuele her natural unaffected way with young people which makes her delightful and charming.
From Paolo, Emanuele had inherited a passion for fishing and from both Mario and Paolo his love of the sea. In Paolo’s days Emanuele had become a good fisherman and they had shared many expeditions and successes. He had caught several sailfish and his first marlin when he was eleven, a small striped one out between Shimoni and Pemba. After Paolo died and Sveva was born, I went back to the coast occasionally, usually to Kilifi, with my children and Sveva’s Kikuyu ayah, the adored Wanjiru. Emanuele went out with our boat ‘Umeme’ and brought me back fish to cook: bonito, tuna, or cole-cole, barracuda or kingfish, once even a small shark.
Sitting with my back to the largest baobab in Kilifi, I still waited for that one solitary figure on deck to wave to me, and pointed out to Sveva her big brother on the boat. ‘Umeme’ hooted three times… and it was gone behind the palms, inside the creek. Emanuele once surprised us all when, still physically very young, he boarded a large yellowfin tuna, a fierce fighter, the heaviest ever caught in the Tia Maria competition at Shimoni, and won the cup. He always entered – as Paolo had in the past – the Lady Delamere Cup, the prestigious fishing competition organized every February by Diana from the Mnarani Club. It was a sporting and social occasion which Emanuele thoroughly enjoyed, and all the fishing community converged there.
In memory of Paolo I presented an annual trophy for the largest blue marlin caught off the Kenya coast. It was a bronze sculpture of the jumping fish by which Paolo had been haunted and which had many times eluded him. For this occasion, Emanuele came to Mombasa with me and presented the trophy at a special dinner in the old Mombasa Club.
Once, in 1982, passing through Kilifi to go and present the prize, I heard that Diana was sick, and I went to visit her with Emanuele and Sveva in her elegant summer house on the north side of the creek. Built in large grounds and with manicured lawns landscaped beautifully down to the sea, exotic shrubs shadowed by tall whispering palms, the place was peaceful and patrician. She sat, half-reclining, in her wide four-poster bed in an open verandah room filled with flowers and potted plants, propped up on many cushions of silk and lace. She wore an embroidered négligée with silky scalloped edges, and was perfectly made up and manicured, her silver-blonde hair impeccable, as if expecting visitors. She looked beautiful in her peculiar ageless, cool, aloof way, playing the part of a living myth to perfection, and receiving our homage like a reclining queen. Sveva was just a baby, barely beginning to walk. She looked like a cherub with her halo of blonde curls, enamel-blue eyes and golden skin, and with her white lacy frock was a breathtaking picture of contrast in the arms of Wanjiru. Always appreciative of beauty, if not particularly fond of children, Diana said: ‘Why don’t you choose a bear, darling?’
The corner of the room and almost every couch and easy chair in sight were covered with teddy-bears of all sizes and all ages. Some looked as if they had been nursery favourites of long-dead Victorian children, their fur worn and shiny, a glass eye gone. Some were enormous silky creatures larger than a child. Sveva pointed to one of the smaller animals, a brown scruffy teddy-bear, partly moth-eaten, and with a dangling ear.
‘How extraordinary you should choose that,’ Diana said in surprise. ‘It was Tom’s favourite when he was a child.’ I protested. ‘No, of course she can keep it. Tom would like that. Teddy-bears are really for children.’ Lord Delamere was rather sick at the time, and seldom appeared in public, or with Diana, preferring the cool climate of their house at Soysambu to the humid heat of the coast. He was to die a few months later. Amongst her dolls and puppets, Sveva still has today that funny teddy-bear who had kept a lonely little lord company at night in the nursery of Elmentaita, in the early days of the Kenya colony.
Certain friends adopted us and became naturally closer after Paolo’s death, and among these were Oria and Iain Douglas-Hamilton, whom I had first met with Paolo in the early days, at the Roccos’ house in Naivasha. Oria was warm as the earth, artistic and inventive, with a positive, motherly energy, and, like a true Rocco, she was always up to something out of the ordinary. An excellent photographer, her mischievous, restless brown eyes were always alert to catch the unusual. She loved Africa, the land and its animals, with a passion. Over the years she had become like a sister to me. Iain, in those days, had long fair hair to his shoulders, and an absent smile which could suddenly spread to transform his face. He was deceptively vague, animated as he was by an unwavering determination to succeed in his campaign to save the elephant, about which he knew more than possibly anyone in Africa. A professional zoologist and a scientist of vast expertise and intuition, Iain was idealistic and chivalrous, with the charisma of the gentlemen adventurers of days past, and although much of his work had now to do with computers and office tasks, he shone in the bush, and I loved walking with him up to elephant in Laikipia and trying to spot animals from his aeroplane. As a bush pilot he had the reputation of taking risks, but I adored flying with him. Iain flew gallantly, as the first aviators must have done in their sturdy little biplanes. Like them, he could take off and land practically anywhere, on a beach or a road or a clearing in the bush, and quite often he did, sometimes for fun and sometimes of necessity. He was such a natural pilot that I always felt secure with him, as I knew instinctively that he could cope with any emergency in the air with clear-minded competence.
Among Emanuele’s favourite friends, although they were much younger – a few years’ difference is a lot at that age – were Saba and Dudu Douglas-Hami
lton, delightful, good-looking, vibrant girls whom I adored, and who often came to stay in Laikipia with their parents. A date they never missed was the anniversary of Paolo’s death.
The anniversary had become a special occasion, and a time to be together in remembrance ‘far from the madding crowd’ for a small group of caring friends. It was soothing and healing for all, a different party, the reason for which was not mundane but dictated by concern and love.
Paolo had often said that he wished to be remembered by his close friends with a party, so I gave him a party every year. About a dozen people drove or flew up, Tubby and Aino, Carol and Sam, the Dobies, the Douglas-Hamiltons, some friends of Ema. Colin and Rocky drove up from the Centre with their children, and in the evening we walked to the grave at the edge of the garden. It was covered with flowers, and carpets and bright kangas surrounded it, on which people sat. There were candles and incense, and bonfires of mutamayo – the wild olive abundant in Laikipia – brightened the night. The dogs sat close, Emanuele was at my side, and small Sveva in my arms. My family, my friends, my memories: what more could I want?
I said a few words, a small poem which I had prepared to commemorate Paolo, then ‘his’ music, the Quintettino of Bocch-erini, filled the night up to the silent stars. Elephants trumpeted at the water tank. Champagne corks popped, cups were filled. Emanuele stood, an extra-full glass in his hand. This was his task. We toasted Paolo.
The glass exploded on the tombstone in tiny crystal fragments. More corks shot up and goblets were refilled. Emanuele’s eyes were unreadable when he sat back, and unexpectedly he kissed my cheek with dry warm lips.
A year earlier, a few days before the 1982 anniversary, I had found one evening on my pillow a letter. It was from Emanuele and it was pervaded by a subtle pain and nostalgia. In his neat handwriting he had poured out his hope, his feeling of belonging, his love for Paolo whom he calls ‘my father’. It was to me a terribly sad letter in a way, as it had been generated by a pain and a desperate longing for which I had no cure. Sitting on my bed with all my memories, I had read it with a sinking heart:
I Dreamed of Africa Page 17