In the night I had decided what to do with the ostrich egg. There was no sense in leaving it there any more. Its message had to be read now, or never.
When the coffin was brought, and the body composed inside it, I asked for scissors. Carefully I climbed up to the beam, as Paolo must have done when he hung it there. I cut the nylon thread close to the knot which his slim fingers had once tied. I would never know what thoughts were in his mind, or what he had written. He had left it to me to choose what to do with it. His turquoise eyes had been inscrutable. Now I carried the egg in my cupped hands, like a ritual offering, and laid it down carefully in the coffin. I would not need to open it. The mystery in the egg would be buried with the mystery of death. Both shells were empty.
Emanuele’s soul had hatched.
Again the friends carried the coffin out to where Paolo’s coffin had been. Again I sat, my hand on Ema’s hand. He held his snaketongs, our photographs, our letters. Someone had sent gardenias. I looked at him.
Last time last time last time.
I nodded. The lid descended. His young friends carried the coffin, and I followed alone.
Across the lawn, to the graves, we walked in silence.
33
The Second Funeral
‘… Where has all this love gone?’
In the stillness of the afternoon no breeze moved my long white skirt, a gift from Paolo, the same that I had worn for his last goodbye. Oria stood at my side with a bewildered Livia. Poor, desperate Livia. She had grown up with him and loved him as a brother. Loved and worshipped him. She had been here on a holiday from Italy for a few months. She had come up to Nairobi from the coast, and phoned home, to find that Ema had died. Her adored Ema, after her mother and her father. She would never recover from this blow. Iain asked the crowd to come close. The coffin, shiny and new as only coffins are, rested on the trellis of banana leaves, suspended on ropes of sisal. Garlands of flowers were piled all round. On it, like a large inverted tear, was laid a heart of red carnations, and on the black ribbon rimmed with silver one could read: Ferina’.
Paolo’s three-year-old acacia spread a thin shade, and in his shade I stood. Mapengo, dressed in his best long trousers, his head bent, Angus behind him, was ready, a small round basket at his feet.
All the ranch people were there. Women in colourful shukas and rows of brass and bead necklaces, men in their festive clothes, all wearing masks of sadness and distress. The crowd stood in a half-circle. They all looked at me. I looked at them, and felt as if I, too, was a spectator. There is, I think, a threshold to pain, a limit beyond which a blissful numbness intervenes. Dazed, but aware of the smallest detail, I lived these moments, keeping my composure. Ema would have wished that. I could not yield. Not yet.
A go-away bird croaked from the treetops. The heat sent trembling waves vanishing like water into the sky. I looked around at all those young shocked faces. They had discovered that death could reach into their midst, youth did not shelter them, and they were confused. They had loved him, shared in fun, mischief, adventures. Now they shared the same anguish, and they stood together, like a flock of frightened birds, contemplating their memories and their loss. This experience would forever live with them, and make them grow, and make them better, wiser. Emanuele’s last gift had been his death.
I had thought about this moment. I had to keep my voice steady, and conduct the service without stopping to think. One word, another word, like steps in sequence. I could, I must, deal with a word at a time. I remembered my father and what he had taught me. Long gone Italian evenings, dogs running, a little curious girl dreaming of Africa. No one had known what she was meant to face.
Oria’s hand touched my elbow with hot fingers. I looked into her eyes, which swam with tears: there was such warmth, compassion in her eyes, such earthy wisdom, and the bonds of understanding which only grow out of maternal solidarity. Her white lace skirt matched mine. Many wore white: it looked as if a procession of mourners in a Greek bas-relief had come alive. The place, the occasion, the same expressions, the stifled sobs, the birds, the breeze, the sun: there was about this scene a dreamlike quality. Perhaps it was a dream, it had not happened … Ema would come running to me, now, any moment, he will embrace me, the dogs will bark their happiness, all will laugh, the macabre joke will be over, forgotten …
The coffin lay in front of me, suspended over the grave, with Ema inside. They waited for my words. I could not escape. Again, I split in two.
That other me spoke slowly, a tired voice. If the voice trembled, no one would notice, and nobody would care. I cleared my throat, swallowed my sorrow and spoke to Emanuele my last words of love.
‘Only yesterday morning
we were laughing together;
today I am here with your friends
to bury you, Emanuele.
To bury a husband was hard,
to bury my only son is against nature
and a pain which words cannot tell.
You were but seventeen,
yet you were a man already
and you could play with life
with a grown man’s confidence.
You died knowing you were dying
but you were not afraid.
You were brave, and you were handsome,
you were intelligent, and you were generous,
you gave love, and you gave friendship,
and you had love, and friends.
You shared with all your smile,
your charm, your help, your enthusiasm.
Your future was a promise
of challenge and adventure.
You were but seventeen
but wise beyond your age,
and now you know already
the answer to all questions.
I am asking: where are you really
as this is but your body?
are you now the hot sun of Africa?
are you the clouds and the rain?
are you this wind, Emanuele,
or are you the sky overhead?
I will look for you always
and I will see you in every flower,
in every bird, in every red sunset,
in every crawling snake:
as everything of beauty
will forever be you.
Anything young and proud,
anything good and strong.
You were an extraordinary person,
your short life was extraordinary
and extraordinary was
your cruel, sudden death.
For us – who are left – remains
just to wonder
the reason for such a waste:
Where has all this love gone?
I hope your journey has been good
as you have already arrived.
Just one more thing Paolo wrote to you
one long-gone day:
“Fly for me, bird of the sun.
Fly high”:
I love you.’
A gentle breeze was lifting. Sounds of weeping. A few times my voice had almost failed, but now I had finished. I closed my eyes, trying to be elsewhere. Livia’s face, wet with hot tears, rested on my shoulder. A hand squeezed mine. Iain kept his word, approached and spoke, keeping his strong voice steady. Just. The verses of the poet from Wales joined the sobs of the people and the singing African birds.
‘And Death shall have no Dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the Man in the Wind and the West Moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane
Though they sink through the sea, they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost Love shall not;
And Death shall have no Dominion.’
Then, starting in a hoarse whisper which gained strength word by word, her deep beautiful voice veiled with sadness, Oria came forward, took
my hand, and said:
‘Kuki, you asked me what you and I were doing here:
we come from the seed of wild men
we married wild men
wild children we bore
“Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.”
And the mother stands so still
her clothing seems to have settled into stone.
In the boy’s memory she stands.
Nothing to animate her face now:
only the sculpting of the clouds drifting over the brown
red bush.
She stands that way for a long long time
and the sky ponders her with his great African eye.
Two pools of blue in a child’s face
will look at you, Kuki.
In the boy’s memory she will live and grow.
The snake glides down from its slab
the eagles soar
the sun will rise forever.’
From the corner of the grave where she was crouching on her knees, face buried in her hands, came the broken, desperate sobs of Ferina. Ricky tried to steady her, and her cries slowly subsided into a low moan.
Now it was Colin’s turn. I had asked him to make his speech in Swahili, so that everyone could understand and share in this last ceremony. His words were simple, and they touched my heart.
‘We have come here today, in the place we well know, – Paolo’s grave, which is close to us – to bury Emanuele, our kijana.’
His voice failed a moment, and he continued:
‘… our kijana. This young man has left the world.
From the hill of Enghelesha, to the springs of Ol Ari Nyiro, to the mountain of Ol Donyo Orio, it all belonged to him: it was he who led us in our shamba even if he was still a youth, and no one could resent him as he was a man of good heart.
We all knew him, and I say there was not a man in this shamba who did not like him, as his heart was clean, and he followed the customs of his heart.
A youth is a youth and luck is luck: today is a day of bad luck: our kijana has fallen.
All youths have their ways. There is the one who passes and goes and becomes wise. There is the one who falls and we mourn for him. But, people of this place, Ema lived with us.
Since he was a little boy this tall he lived with us and we all knew him, and we all loved him because he was, as I say, a man of good heart and we all agree on this.
We must then praise our God, because He let him fall here with us, not far away, not across the sea. He fell here with us and we will keep him here, close to us in the land he loved, as this was his wish, and it is our wish, and we shall not forget him.’
Ravel’s Bolero started haltingly, progressing gradually to its glorious crescendo. The friends took the ropes, and slowly, inch by inch, lowered the coffin with my baby inside into the deep brown earth, where it landed with a soft and final thud. A murmur ran through the crowd, a baby cried. The music now grew splendid and exalting, absorbing sounds of weeping, sounds of birds, leaving only the mute rising tide of anguish.
Mapengo looked at me, and I briefly nodded. The basket was lowered into the grave to rest close to the coffin. His last snake.
Colin passed me the spade. It was a new one. The shining blade had not yet cut the soil. In the same place I had stood for Paolo. Exactly the same gesture. I dug it in the red earth at my feet. The soil fell on the wood at the bottom. I passed the spade to Livia. The spade went round until the hole was filled.
Mapengo brought me a yellow fever tree, a young one Rocky had dug up from the river. As I had for Paolo, I planted it for Ema. One day, its roots too would reach the body, which would nourish the tree and become part of the landscape.
They now stood in line, Mirimuk, Luka, a chosen group of seven. They pointed the rifles to the sky, and fired their salute to Emanuele. It echoed on the hills. A flight of starlings took off from the thorn trees, circling high. Faces turned up as if all expected to see him there, looking down at us. I had buried only the shell. His soul was soaring. I put my flower gently on the grave. I would go now. I could come back later, today, tomorrow, for the rest of my life.
Some people lingered, some followed me. The music had died down.
The second day went on and on and on. I must confess that I do not remember. I had concentrated my efforts in going through the ceremony with dignity, without collapsing, keeping all my wits. Now I crouched in a comer of the sitting-room, my friends all round, and talked, and talked, and talked. Carol said later she wished she had recorded my words. I do not know. I just sat there with all my love, feeling useless, lost, empty. I spoke of days now past, of never more. A fire burned orange at the graves. At some point I stood up and walked out of the room, towards its light.
I fell without a sound into oblivion, and never knew who carried me to bed.
34
The Last Snake
… y hablaran otras cosas con tu voz:
los caballos perdidos del Otono.*
Pablo Neruda, Cien Sonetos de Amor, XCIX ‘Noche’
Smouldering embers of last night’s fire sent up a fine gossamer smoke in the cold early-morning air.
On Emanuele’s fresh grave the flowers were beginning to fade. The feathery leaves of his frail young acacia were opening tentatively to the light and sun, like live things stirring. Wrapped in sleeping-bags and blankets, some huddled together for warmth and comfort, his friends still lay asleep on the damp earth and grass around the grave. I approached on soft feet, not to disturb them.
I had woken up in my bed still dressed, no recollection of how I had been put there. In the previous two days I had not eaten, or slept. Now I woke up fresh, and for a moment my mind was numb. Then I saw that the egg was no longer hanging light before my eyes. The thin nylon thread had been cut short. It had really happened. I stayed in bed, wondering why I should ever get up and what should I dress for. I contemplated days and days stretching ahead and I felt no desire to see what the future had again in store for me. No curiosity. A sort of apathy.
On the carpet at the side of the bed, something moved. I looked for Gordon. But it was Livia. Her long brown hair half-covered her face, which rested on a pillow on the floor. She had thrown on a fur blanket and she had slept with me, to keep me company and not to be alone with all her misery. Poor Livia. The pale pink light filtering through the curtains announced another sunny day, but it was still very early, just past sunrise. The birds were waking up with busy morning chatter. I folded my clothes neatly and washed my face. I put on a pair of khaki shorts which had been Emanuele’s and one of Paolo’s khaki shirts and slipped out of the room. Gordon greeted me, and Nditu, their cold noses sniffed my bare legs, tails wagged uncertainly.
Emanuele’s room was as he had left it. His green wind-jacket was slung on the back of his chair. His diary was on his desk, the bookmark at the last day of his life, 11 April. I sat on his chair and looked around. His room was always tidy. Books lined the bookshelves, snake instruments hung shining in a row, the snakeskins stretched on the walls – that enormous seven-foot puff-adder. The sweetish smell of snakes lingered. The page of 12 April was blank. He always wrote in the evening. I took his pen and I wrote in it carefully: Today, bitten by one of his puff-adders, Emanuele has died. He was seventeen.’ On 13 April I added: ‘Emanuele’s burial.’ I put the pen down, and looked at the bookmark. I was mildly surprised to see it was a letter I had written to him for his birthday, last January. I read it again for the first time since I had written it. It was in Italian:
‘… I wish you happy days and full of adventure … mostly I wish you to learn the lesson of Acceptance … as only through Acceptance you will find the secret of existence … and you will be happy in a crowd or sitting alone … and you will use all that happens in your life, your joys and your sorrows, to become a better person, so that even death at the end will be good, because it
is part of the game.’
I stared at my words for a long time. I had forgotten them. But I had been right. The game of life and death. I flipped through the unwritten pages. A note fell out, addressed to Michael Werikhe, the man who loved snakes, and walked for rhinos he had never seen. It was an invitation to come to Laikipia to stay. I registered it in my mind. It was possibly the last thing Emanuele had written.
Blank page after blank page stretched ahead, like the days of my life. Blank pages to fill with what? With whom? All my men gone … and Aidan? What had happened to Aidan? Yesterday, he had not come to the funeral of his young friend. Certainly there was a reason. Perhaps he was now walking somewhere up north where news could not reach him. I longed for his presence, for his shoulder on which to rest my head.
Alone … with Paolo’s baby.
Emanuele was no longer there, but I still was. If the pages were blank, they could not remain empty and wasted. I knew it was up to me to fill them, and the quality and value of what I filled them with was again, as ever, up to me. Another chapter of my life was closed, but as I was still alive, I had to go ahead and make the most of the time I had left. Because of Sveva. Because of Paolo. Because of Ema, and because of me. I had to begin with something new and positive.
I Dreamed of Africa Page 21