Finally Deborah said softly, "It's about Christopher."
"What about him?"
Deborah stirred her tea with the look of someone searching for the right words.
"You two haven't had a row, have you?" Grace asked. "Is that why he went off to Nairobi the day he got back from England?" She was remembering the little boy Deborah had brought home for tea one day, a boy whom Grace had recognized instantly as a reincarnation of David Mathenge. From that day until the day he left for Oxford, Deborah and Christopher had been inseparable.
"I don't know why he went to Nairobi, Aunt Grace. I don't know why he's staying away."
"Well, he isn't away now. You must patch up your quarrel tomorrow.
Deborah brought her head up. "What do you mean, he isn't away now? Is Christopher home?"
"I saw him this afternoon. He had his suitcase, and he was going into his hut."
"He's back!"
When Grace saw the look in her niece's eyes and heard the excitement in her voice, she suddenly understood.
"I have to see him," Deborah said, standing up. "I have to talk to him."
"Not now, Deborah. Wait until tomorrow."
"It can't wait, Aunt Grace. I have to know something. And I have to know it now."
Grace shook her head. The impatience of youth! "What is so important that you have to run over there now?"
"Because," Deborah said softly, "I'm in love with him. And I need to know how he feels about me."
Grace was not surprised. Twenty years ago, she thought sadly, your mother followed the same path. But you are lucky. Today there is no color bar. Mona and David were born too soon. Their love was doomed.
"You shouldn't go to him now, Deborah. You should wait until morning."
"Why?"
"Because when an unmarried girl goes into a man's bachelor hut, she is there for only one reason. The Kikuyu call it ngweko. It's an old custom which the missionaries have tried to stamp out, but I'm sure it is still practiced secretly in many places."
"What is ngweko?"
"It's a form of courtship, with rules and taboos governing it. If you were to visit Christopher's hut tonight, Deborah, it would mean only one thing to anyone who saw you."
"I don't care what people think."
"Then consider what Christopher might think. Does he feel about you the way you do for him?"
"I don't know," Deborah said unhappily.
Grace laid a hand on the girl's arm and said gently, "I know what you are going through. I was in love myself, many years ago, and was just as troubled by it as you are now. But you must go slowly and carefully, Deborah. We have to live by certain rules. Christopher is just as governed by Kikuyu tradition as we are by our European morals. If you visit him in his bachelor hut, you risk spoiling your reputation. And he might lose respect for you. Wait until tomorrow. Invite him here for tea."
Grace rose up from the table and, massaging her arm, said, "I'd better get back to the children's ward. I'm watching a little boy who I fear has meningitis."
"Can't someone else watch him, Aunt Grace? You work too hard. You look tired."
Grace smiled reassuringly. "In fifty-four years, Deborah, except for those few occasions when I was away from the mission, I have never missed a night of making rounds. Don't worry about me, dear. You get some rest and think about your exciting trip to California."
When her aunt had gone, Deborah sat glumly by the cold fireplace, torn in indecision: to wait or to go to him now?
She looked around the living room. One wall was lined with books, many of them quite old, dating from Grace's early days in East Africa. Deborah went to them and scanned the titles. She found what she was looking for: Facing Mount Kenya, by Jomo Kenyatta.
A description of ngweko was on page 155.
SHE LAY AWAKE, listening to the night. The mission slept; the coffee plantation up on the hill was empty of workers and machines. Deborah was in the bed she had occupied for ten years, the same bed, in fact, that her mother had slept in during the emergency and in the very bedroom where David Mathenge and Sir James had died—although Deborah didn't know this. A wind was blowing, and there was a full moon. Patterns moved on the whitewashed walls of the bedroom: the crooked branches of jacaranda; the graceful wands of alder and poplar. The wind stirred the trees, and the shadows on the wall by Deborah's bed resembled an underwater scene. She felt as if she were floating among seaweed and ocean grasses that waved and swayed with deep oceanic currents. The silence, too, was like the silence of the sea.
She listened to the steady rhythm of her heart. She felt its pulse at her neck, in her fingertips, in her thighs. It was a cold night, but she felt hot. She kicked the blankets off. She lay stretched out on her back, staring up at the ceiling. The wind moaned. A cloud covered the moon, plunging her into darkness. Then the light came out again, and the world was bleached in an eerie glow.
Deborah couldn't sleep because she was thinking of what she had read in Kenyatta's book, his description of ngweko. "The Kikuyu do not kiss girls on the lips as Europeans do; therefore, ngweko, fondling, takes the place of kissing. The girl brings the boy his favorite food as a token of affection. The boy removes all his clothing. The girl removes her upper garment and retains her skirt. The lovers lie together facing each other, with their legs interwoven. They fondle each other and engage in love-making conversation. This is the enjoyment of the warmth of the breast."
Deborah sighed with the wind.
From the living room came the soft chime of the mantel clock. It was midnight.
Finally, unable to lie in bed any longer, Deborah got up and quickly changed into a skirt and blouse. She crept past her aunt's bedroom and went into the kitchen, where she put together a basket of food—two bottles of Tusker beer, a wedge of cheese, and a whole spice cake, Christopher's favorite. She hesitated for only a moment at the back door—long enough to consider what she was about to do and to decide that she would gladly risk anything to know, before she went to America, how Christopher felt about her.
She knew there was no danger on the path that followed the river; the wild animals had long since vanished from this area and were now found only deep in the mountain forests.
Shivering, she walked through the moon-kissed wind. Deborah went around Mama Wachera's hut, which was dark and silent, past Sarah's, and came to the doorway of Christopher's.
She stared into the interior darkness in fear and rising excitement. She felt as if her body were part of the wind, as if she had come from the whispering trees, or as if the river had created her and delivered her here on a wave. She moved on a compulsion that she could not control, that she had no desire to control. When she called his name, the wind carried it away from her lips and up into the night. She waited for a lull. Then she said, "Christopher? May I come in?"
It seemed to her that an eon passed before he appeared suddenly out of the darkness—a tall, lean warrior dressed only in soccer shorts.
"Deborah!" he said.
"May I come in? It's cold out here."
He stared at her for a moment, then stepped aside.
The inside of the hut was familiar to Deborah; she and Christopher had played in it as children. The walls were made of sun-baked mud; the roof was a thatch of elephant grass. The only furniture was a bed, constructed of a wooden frame and leather webbing and covered with blankets.
"Deborah," he said again, "it's late. What are you doing here?"
She turned to face him. Moonglow spilled into the hut, delineating the contours of Christopher's long, muscled limbs. Deborah felt as if she were gazing upon a ghost from his past. Give him a shield and a spear, she thought.
"What are you doing here, Deb?" he said more quietly.
"Why did you go to Nairobi, Christopher? Why have you stayed away?"
His expression became troubled. He looked away.
"Are you angry with me?" she whispered.
"No, Deb! No ..."
"Then why?"
"It w
as because—"
Her heart pounded. There was but a short distance between them. She knew she had only to raise her hand and she would touch him.
"It was such a shock, Deb," he said in a tight voice, "to come home after four years and find out that you are going to America. I thought it would be best if I stayed away until you were gone. That would have made your leaving more bearable."
"But you came back too soon. I don't leave until next week."
He looked at her, at the way the moonlight whitened her skin. "I know," he said. "I couldn't stay away any longer."
They listened to the wind whistle through the thatch overhead; they felt cold drafts play about their ankles. Finally Christopher said softly, "Why did you come here, Deb?"
She held out the basket.
"What is it?"
"Take it," she said.
He took the basket, and when he opened it and saw what it contained, he knew why she had come.
When Christopher didn't say anything, Deborah turned away from him. With her back to him, she removed her blouse and carefully set it aside. Then she went to the bed and lay down on it, on her side, facing him. She kept her arm modestly across her breasts; she trembled. "Is this the way?" she whispered.
Christopher gazed down at her for a moment, with the basket in his arms; then he set it aside, removed his shorts, and went to lie next to her.
They faced each other in the darkness. He moved her arm and placed his hand on her breast.
"If you tell me," she murmured, "not to go to America, then I won't go.
He laid a hand on her cheek; he moved his fingers through her hair. "I can't tell you that, Deb. But, God, I don't want you to go!" He took her into his arms and pressed his face against her neck. "I want you to marry me, Deb! I love you."
"Then I'll stay. I won't go to America."
He drew back and gently put his hand on her mouth. He looked at her in the silver light of the moon, which made her skin almost luminescent, and he was certain that he was dreaming. Surely Deborah wasn't in his arms at last, he wasn't holding her and making love to her as he had done so often in his dreams! But here she was, her firm body pressed against his, her naked breast warming his chest, her mouth lifting up, seeking his.
He kissed her. He put his hand on her thigh and slowly lifted her skirt.
"Yes," she whispered.
GRACE OPENED HER eyes and looked at the ceiling. The wind and the trees were forming strange shapes on the walls of her bedroom. She lay for a long time, thinking.
She had heard Deborah go out, and she knew where she was going. Grace had not tried to stop her; she knew it was futile to try to keep Deborah from Christopher. Deborah could not be kept from him, Grace knew, any more than her mother could have been kept from David, or her grandmother from her Italian duke. The Treverton women, she told herself, were very strong-minded when it came to love.
Grace, who had always been a good sleeper, couldn't understand why she was so wide-awake now. Perhaps it was because of Deborah; perhaps it was only because of the wind. Getting up and going into the kitchen to warm some milk, Grace thought about her niece, and she found herself curiously untroubled by what Deborah was doing. Christopher was a good man, Grace knew, and would not harm Deborah. If he loved her as much as Grace hoped he did, then they would be very happy together in this new, interracial Kenya.
What will Mona think, Grace wondered as she poured the milk, when she hears about it?
Grace suspected that Mona wouldn't care. She and Tim had washed their hands of their "mistake" years ago.
Realizing that the milk was not doing any good and that sleep, for some inexplicable reason, was eluding her tonight, Grace decided to pay a visit to the children's ward and look in on her suspected meningitis case.
She hugged her sweater about her as she hurried down the dark, deserted road. Strange to think that at one time this was all dense forest and that she could not have set out at night without a rifle or an askari. As she went up the steps of the hospital bungalow, Grace glanced up at the night sky. Strangely, the moon, because of clouds, was heart-shaped.
The ward was dimly lit, with a nurse at the desk at one end, and Sister Perpetua sitting at the boy's bedside. She wasn't surprised to see Memsaab Daktari suddenly appear. Dr. Treverton was known for her devotion to patients, and she sometimes held long vigils at their bedsides. After receiving a report on the child's condition, Grace told the nun to get herself some tea, that she would watch for a while.
As Grace settled into the chair that the sister had vacated, she realized that she had an upset stomach. This is why I could not sleep.
She thought of what she and Deborah had had for supper: veal cutlets with mashed potatoes and gravy.
It was too much for a woman her age, Grace decided, and reminded herself that she should draw up a modified diet.
She looked down at the sleeping face and thought of all the sleeping faces she had watched down through the years. Was it only yesterday that she had supervised the construction of four poles and a thatch roof? And then there was little Birdsong Cottage.
Grace rubbed her stomach. The upset was getting worse.
The wind seemed to be stirring up more than leaves and dust tonight; it was whipping up old, forgotten memories. Images came into Grace's mind, and the faces of people whose names she no longer knew. She even saw Albert Schweitzer, whom she had visited in his jungle clinic years ago.
When the nausea grew and a mild perspiration suddenly came to her hands and face, Grace began to wonder if the food had somehow been tainted. Phoebe, her Meru cook, was normally quite fastidious in the kitchen. Grace hadn't had to worry about food since the days of Mario, who had been known to be lax.
Then her breath came short, and Grace's worry turned to alarm.
This was more than an ordinary stomach upset.
Finally, when a sharp pain sprang from her chest and shot down her left arm, she knew.
Not yet! I still have so much to do
She tried to stand but fell back into the chair, clutching her chest. She tried to call out, but she had no breath. She looked down the long ward at the desk at the end. The sisters weren't there.
"Help," she whispered.
Grace attempted to get to her feet, but the pain pressed her back down. It seemed to pin her to the chair, as if a spear had pierced her heart. The ward tilted and swam around her. She fought for air. An incredible weakness flooded her, as if her bones had suddenly melted. And the pain was immense.
She heard voices—distant and sounding tinny, as if played on an old Victrola.
"Che Che, can't you make these wagons go any faster?"
"Do you mean to tell me, Valentine, that the house isn't even built yet?"
"Grace, please meet Sir James Donald."
"Thahu! A curse upon you and your descendants until this land is returned to the Children of Mumbi!"
The pathetic scream of a young girl, Njeri, at the irua ceremony.
"Help me," Grace whispered again.
She clutched the arms of the chair. The pain seemed to be cleaving her in two. She imagined her heart bursting. Not yet. Let me finish my work....
But her only company was voices from the past.
"I'm sorry to have to report that His Lordship drove out in his car sometime during the night and committed suicide with a pistol."
"I'm going to have a baby, Aunt Grace. David Mathenge's baby."
"We all must pull together in our new Kenya. Harambee! Harambee!"
Grace felt the light around her grow dim; darkness encroached upon the edges of her vision. She felt all feeling, except for the intense coronary pain, ebb from her body. She was helpless to move, helpless to call out. A strange, floating sensation engulfed her. And then Grace felt a worried, loving presence swirl around her, like a warm mist.
She bowed her head. "James" was the last word she spoke.
59
T
HE EULOGY WAS DELIVERED IN THE CHAPEL OF GRAC
E Mission, where, fifty-one years ago, Grace Treverton had marched up to the Reverend Thomas Masters, who had been sent by the Mission Society to take over her mission, and said, "I want you to leave, sir, and I don't want you ever to come back. You are an unlikable, narrow-minded, un-Christian man, and you are doing my people more harm than good. You may also report to your superiors in Suffolk that I no longer need their support."
No one attending the funeral today knew of that event; no one, except for a few non-English-speaking Kikuyu, had witnessed it. But it had been a monumental hour in Grace's life.
The Lord Mayor of Nairobi was telling the enormous crowd now of Dr. Grace Treverton's life, and although the dismissal of the self-righteous reverend was not numbered among Grace's achievements, many others were.
Deborah, her eyes red and swollen, sat in the front pew with Geoffrey and Ralph Donald. In the simple casket lay the woman whom Deborah had thought of as mother, a source of love and protection and understanding for as far back as she could recall. Although it caused her pain to do so, Deborah allowed herself to think of how Aunt Grace had so lovingly taken her in when Deborah's mother had left Kenya. A bedroom had been converted to suit a child; Grace had bought toys and dolls; she had read stories at night to an unhappy, abandoned Deborah, had played "tea set" with her, and listened to a little girl's fears and dreams. Deborah remembered her aunt's tenderness, the cool and gentle hand on her forehead during a bout of measles, her patience at teaching, her plainly spoken explanation of Deborah's confusing emergence into adolescence, her laughter that was sometimes so hard that tears ran down Grace's cheeks. And then there had been the days spent in the mission's various health facilities, Aunt Grace showing Deborah how to use a stethoscope, letting her attend the morning dispensary hours, placing her first hypodermic syringe in her hand, explaining vital signs, quietly instructing Deborah in the mysterious secrets of healing and medicine.
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