In Memory of Paolo
It is now one of the driest months of the year at Laikipia, and the hot wind blowing from the east dries out everything in its wake, turning the land from green pastureland to a hot, arid dustbowl. It is during this month that we burn the land. I do not like the burning, it destroys much of the abundant animal life that finds refuge in the tall golden grass, but it is necessary, for when the rains come they will turn this blackened wasteland into a green sea of life.
If the rains come.
Here in the north life depends on the water that falls from the sky, and if the rain does not come, the rivers and dams will dwindle and dry out, and the animals will die.
Sitting on a top of a hill watching the dust-devils racing each other across a vast waterless plain, I marvel at the thought of the herds of elephant, buffalo and eland ambling through the early morning mist, at the rain bird who sings its song of a rain that may never come, at the golden majestic beauty of the sun setting behind the hills of the Mukutan, and at the vaster beauty of this land which belongs to us.
I wonder if our children will see this land as it is now, for can such beauty go unspoiled for long?
I hope that they may have the privilege of seeing it, that they in turn may tell their children the stories of the land of Laikipia and the tales of a beautiful garden of flowers on a small rise in the middle of the emptiness. A garden with a solitary thorn tree towering over it, whose roots dig deep into the earth, the same earth into which we lowered my father on his last safari, laying him down for ever in the land to which he belonged.
And with eyes that are the growing buds of the thorn tree, and with a voice that is the whispering of the wind in its branches, Paolo watches over his land, a land over which he shall reign for ever, and from which he shall never be separated.
His land – his home – LAIKIPIA…
FLY FOR ME, BIRD OF THE SUN. FLY HIGH.
Emanuele
29
Aidan
Round us was silence where only the winds played, and cleanness infinitely remote from the world of man.
Wilfred Thesiger, Desert, Marsh and Mountain: The world of a nomad
A life, like a concert, is made of high and low notes, of pauses in the elation and of peaks of reverberating, deafening heartbeats.
In my life, as in most, there have been emotions to fill gaps of solitude, voices I searched for to again chase the silence, and, once, a romantic flicker of flame which turned into a fresh temptation I did not try to resist. It was an encounter which for a time brought me back to the days of my earlier youth, to the fragile breath-lessness of relations which cannot have any future.
There had been a walk on the beach at sunset, pink crabs teasing the waves, dancing on frail long legs like ghosts of spiders. There had been curtains of wind and the colours of twilight, whispering palms, salt spray on lips and eyes, water skiing in the silvery wake of a speedboat in a creek at the coast. There had been restless hippos screaming at night, and early-morning sun filtering green through the canvas of a tent in the Mara. There had been nights of music, lights playing golden gleams on blond hair, and the exciting feeling of living ‘moment by moment’ with the knowledge there could be no tomorrow. There had been another sunset, of vibrant reds and molten golds, the treasured memories and the knowledge that the river of life keeps flowing, carrying away for ever our dreams and our regrets.
Many patterns are embroidered on the canvas of my life, but the thread of my relationship with Paolo was never interrupted – not even by his death – as our love ran deep like those rivers fed by secret springs, which appear and disappear again into the deep soil, to flow hidden, but never lost.
The account of my life in Africa would not be complete, or sincere, if I omitted to talk of the first man I loved after Paolo died, for he left a mark in my life which will last for as long as I live.
One of Jasper’s daughters was getting married, and I received an invitation to go to the wedding. Up to the last moment I was not sure I would attend, since it would mean driving back to Nairobi on my own with Wanjiru and little Sveva, and having to find from the sketchy map the place, somewhere near Gilgil.
Since Paolo’s death, about two years earlier, I had not driven from the ranch down to Nairobi. I chose always to fly, as I used to do with Paolo, to begin with because I was pregnant, and after Sveva was born, because it was easier. I used to pick up Emanuele at school every Friday, go to Wilson airport, and with some of my pilot friends and Paolo’s plane, which I had kept, I flew up to Ol Ari Nyiro. Occasionally Emanuele stayed with a friend for the weekend.
The road to Laikipia had been very rough, but it had recently been repaired and resurfaced. Sooner or later I would have to drive down again, and I suddenly decided in the morning that this festive occasion was as good as any. I felt well, and it was time for me to get out of my self-imposed exile and see people. Furthermore, I liked those country weddings, and I was fond of Jasper. Little did I know it was the plan of destiny that this decision should have an unexpected influence on my life. Because it was there that for the first time I met Aidan.
His name was often mentioned, but he was seldom seen. Although they actually never had the chance to meet, Paolo had described him with great respect as a model rancher who lived life as an adventure, a man whose property was so vast and scattered that he spent a great many hours in his aeroplane and socialized very little. Whenever he could – rumour said – he disappeared up north to the desert close to the Ethiopian border, where he walked for weeks with his camels, exploring new land, looking for rare plants and following the errant, solitary dreams of all nomads. They said he owed his name to an uncle who had been eaten by a lion in Iran; that he had for a time been a mercenary for the Sultan of Oman. There was about him a magnetic charisma, accentuated by his elusiveness.
He came from an unusual family of scholars and farmers, some members of which had come to Kenya in the early days, and had succeeded in establishing a large farming and ranching domain, at the same time managing to maintain a low public profile. After his studies in Europe and the freedom of an African unconfined youth, he had taken over work on the family estates, making such a success of this that he became a sort of living legend. After all I heard about him over the years, I had formed my own idea of what he must look like, and I was naturally curious to meet him one day. I guessed he would by now be in his early sixties, and imagined him as a weatherbeaten Kenya farmer, tall and lean, with a halo of white hair, eyes accustomed to look out at limitless distances of wilderness, and a discreet, solitary disposition.
At the farm where the wedding was to take place I found a crowd of people, mostly up-country landowners dressed in their festive clothes. As at all Kenya weddings, every age was represented: fair-haired and freckled children with their ayahs, women in flowered frocks, men used to khaki shorts now dressed in dark suits and ties, groups scattered on the lawn drinking, talking loudly, laughing.
I greeted friends here and there, stopped to chat with various people. Then someone said, ‘Have you met Aidan yet?’ There was a group of four or five men, holding mugs of beer. They turned to look at me, and I could not figure out which one he was: I already knew two of them, and the others seemed too young to be him.
‘I am Aidan,’ said the tallest, bowing slightly and tipping his wide-brimmed hat.
The sun caught a dark cornflower-blue gleam in his eyes, and I was taken totally by surprise. He seemed so much younger than I had imagined. Naive as it sounded, I could not help exclaiming: ‘I have heard so much about you, I thought you were much older!’
He could not have been more than forty. He focused on me, excluding for a moment the crowd, the place. ‘I have heard so much about you,’ he replied gallantly,‘and I thought you were much older!’ He laughed. I could see he did not laugh that often. A solemn note, with which he seemed familiar, shaded his deep voice: ‘I admire you,’ he said without smiling, ‘for having held on to your land after your h
usband’s death. You are a brave woman.’ I felt he meant it. His face was still and thoughtful. ‘We landowners should stick together.’
‘Landowners?’ I spoke from my heart. So often I had thought about that very point. ‘I do not feel like a landowner. I cannot believe that we really own the land. It was there before us, and it will be there after we pass. I believe we can only take care of it, as well as possible, as trustees, for our lifetime. I was not even born here. It is for me a great privilege to be responsible for a chunk of Africa.’
There was a silence, and in that pause I knew something had happened. It was that sentence, possibly, which singled me out for him there and then. His eyes took an intent, concentrated gaze, and many wrinkles appeared at their comers and on his forehead. ‘Yes. You are right,’ he said slowly, looking straight, searchingly, at me. ‘I had never thought about it in this way before. I like your philosophy. You have a lot to teach.’ He was not teasing. In the sunburnt face his serious eyes shone with an intense light, which reminded me, almost painfully, of other deep blue eyes I had loved and lost.
I looked at him, trying to steady the sudden irrational quickening of my heart. The hair was tightly curled, almost like an African’s, but golden brown. This and a handsome Etruscan nose and well-cut mouth over a chiselled chin, straight neck and proud head, gave him the classic appearance of a sunburnt living statue. He was a man of contrasts. The tallest person around, there was an air about him of easy aristocratic grace, a masculinity tempered with gentleness. A patrician quality, which intrigued me, emanated from his slender figure, broad shoulders, long legs, slight wrists, strong hands with tapered but calloused fingers used to hard work. His direct eyes bore deep into mine, and I felt my legs grow weak, and a crazy butterfly trapped in my stomach. Only one thought came to me to drown all the rest: ‘He looks like Paolo.’ I was caught. Nothing had changed, the crowd was still there, but I had his undivided attention as he had mine. The rest of the people no longer mattered.
For the first time in over two years, since Paolo had died, I felt attracted by another man. I had been unprepared for these sensations and instinctively I knew that I was going to fall seriously in love.
He seemed to have everything I find most attractive in a man: a presence, an aura of adventure and of times now past, of wild remote places where time still follows the sun and the seasons. I perceived him as one who could deal with the unexpected, and be fearless and in charge, fulfilled and happy far away from town or people, under the unending concave sky of the African night. He was a man who was used to taking responsibility and leadership. He had a curious way of talking in staccato sentences, as people do who speak little and are unaccustomed to social conversation; I found his low, grave voice stirring, the old-fashioned turn of phrase beguiling, and I felt that he meant every word he said. He was chivalrous, attentive, yet there was this elusive quality about him, a halo of mystery … a strength … a weakness? And immediately I wanted to know more, to explore the depths of this other human being, while his uncanny physical resemblance to Paolo made him totally irresistible. I did not resist.
When I said goodbye at the party, I heard myself inviting him to call by for a drink when he was next in Nairobi. He might never have come. A week later, he did.
After that he came often, always unexpectedly, for months and months. I loved him as the image of the man I had always looked for. He loved me as he loved his desert: with me he could be totally at ease, totally himself, and as relaxed as when he was alone up north with his favourite camels.
It was a secret relationship, as he was not free, and a difficult situation. He cared for his family, and I well understood that he was tom apart by his honesty and sense of duty. This was the only shadow in the harmony of our time together.
He came in the night, bringing with him the feeling of the open spaces, and whenever he came it was a reunion. I was fascinated by the intriguing combination of wildness and sophistication. He often carried a small, worn book of poetry. He read to me until the small hours of the morning in his deep masculine voice, verses of Tennyson, Kipling or Wordsworth which appealed to the romantic side of his adventurous nature, and which brought me back to the times of my youth and the poems I had shared with my father. Often, I read my own stories to him, and he liked to listen. I used to treasure those hours. The candle burned and a low music played in the background. The fire created new lines in the classic features I had grown to know so well, and time ceased to exist. When he went, quiet in the first light of the morning, it was as if he had been part of another dream, and going back to sleep I often asked myself how long this unusual situation would last, and how much would I suffer again when I woke up to reality.
I missed him when he went. I never knew and never asked when – even if – I would see him again. Days would go by and a book would arrive in the post for me, often a rare book out of print, or one with a special meaning. Weeks would go by and again he materialized at my door, bringing with him his magic, a Somali shawl which smelt of spices, the warmth of the desert wind. I had learnt not to expect anything from him, as I knew he gave me what he could. I accepted his presence as a gift, an unprecedented fact for my proud and independent nature. But he had touched in me a deep chord, a flicker of recognition which went far beyond the time and limit of our encounter, and its quality compensated for its rarity.
The only person who knew of Aidan’s existence in my life was Emanuele. I had confided in him, and I could count on his discretion and quiet support. There was a certain similarity in their characters. The rapport between them was of mutual respect and instinctive liking, as from man to man. I could well imagine them walking together silently on some forgotten track up north.
One day, I loved to dream, one day this might well happen.
30
The Snake of Good Luck
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
W. B. Yeats, An Irish Airman Foresees His Death,
quoted in Emanuele’s diary
We had a wonderful time at Easter, with all the Douglas-Hamiltons staying. We went for early-morning walks with Oria and Iain and Luka, rhino-tracking, and we watched elephants drinking at the treetop tank and at Paolo’s Dam at Kuti.
The treetop was a simple look-out which I had built on the top of a large gerardia, in a favourite site for elephant. One could climb the tree and hide high among the branches like a bird in a nest, looking out unseen from the concealing leaves at the animals coming to drink at the water tank just below. So close were the elephants that one could smell them, and the sucking of their trunks in the silted water and the low stomach rumbles were the only noise in the high silence of noon.
Emanuele took off on his motorbike one morning to visit Ferina, who was staying with her family for a few days down at Baringo, and on his way back in the evening he ran out of petrol just inside the ranch. He called us on the hand-set radio, and I went to look for him with Saba, bringing a full jerrycan of fuel. We found the bike in the middle of a path, but no sign of Ema. I could not even find his tracks in the dust, as if he had vanished into the air. It was by now evening, and there were signs of elephant everywhere, and leopard spoor. We searched for him, calling, and just as I was beginning to get worried, a stifled giggle attracted our attention. Emanuele was perched on the very top of a large Acacia gerardia drinking a beer, laughing down at us. Saba jumped on the back of the bike and I drove behind them.
In the car lights, eyes of secret creatures shone phosphorescent. Hair windblown, talking and laughing to each other in the majestic African night with its shapes and shadows, they were a picture of youth, privilege and freedom which I shall not forget.
For lunch the next day I made a gigantic Easter egg for Sveva, and chocolate bunnies for everybody. Oria took photographs of Emanuele sitting at the head of the table in the place wh
ich had been Paolo’s, Sveva on his lap and Saba and Dudu each holding an assorted handful of harmless green grass snakes and sand snakes, each girl with a snake or two coiled around her neck.
We went for a barbecue picnic down the river at Mukutan Spring. On our way we saw many vultures gathering at a spot just close to the road, where we found a young eland just killed by lion. Emanuele and Luka carved the fillet out for us and we left the rest to the lion. Emanuele had come with his blue-and-yellow Yamaha, and Oria took photographs of him overtaking the car. In the evening, I noticed the youngsters plotting something, and Kipiego and Rachel came in grinning and served me a round chocolate flan on a silver platter, which turned out to be a large elephant turd covered in cocoa and coloured sugar, and decorated with flowers.
The evening had ended with Emanuele and the girls, who looked beautiful in tight leopard- and tiger-patterned leotards, dancing on the cedar beams of the sitting-room roof to the music of ‘Cat’s People’, and of Ema’s favourite tape of the time, ‘Heat of the Moment’. Iain, Oria and I, the older generation at floor level, dressed in ample caftans, laughed and took photographs of the sleek young ones dancing above. Moments of happiness forever frozen in memory.
The news came as a shock at breakfast on Easter Monday, passed on through the Laikipia Security network. Jack Block had died while trout-fishing in a river in Chile, where Jeremy now lived. The body had not been found, and it was not clear whether he had drowned, or whether he had had a stroke. Jack’s brother Tubby and his wife Aino had been up in Laikipia only a few days before for Paolo’s anniversary. Involved in wildlife conservation and in tourism. Jack was a popular figure in the country, respected and admired by African and European alike. Lively and interesting, compassionate and loyal, it was hard to believe he had met such an odd, dramatic death in a far-away country.
I Dreamed of Africa Page 18