'There are a hundred wives.' He chuckled. 'You can understand why he needs to have his virility renewed. And the nation identify themselves with their King - according to his strength is their strength - and they count their riches by the number of their progeny.'
'What perfect figures the younger wives have!'
'One wonders,' he said mockingly, 'whether your Mother Superior would approve of one of her innocents being exposed to such an array of bare bosoms.'
'I think they're beautiful!'
'My, my!' he taunted. 'Little Miss Prim is losing some of her primness. She must be growing up at last.'
'What fabulous costumes!' Gillian exclaimed, so engrossed in what was happening before her that his sarcasm went unheard. 'Why, look, some of the women are weeping.'
'With emotion, not sorrow,' Dirk assured her. 'The warriors stamping and dancing round the sacred enclosure in the cattle kraal are the men from the King's regiment. That's their ceremonial regalia.'
Gillian trained the binoculars on the sea of swaying, befeathered heads and the Contorting bodies in leopard skins and switches of cattle tails.
'What a magnificent spectacle!' Gillian enthused.
'The headdresses,' Dirk went on, 'are made of the black plumes of the widow-bird.'
'The birds we saw flapping around with the long tails?'
'The same, yes - remember, I told you about them when we saw them.'
The dancing and singing went on and on, but Gillian never tired of watching. After a while, Eve rejoined them and they sat down on a tree stump to drink the refreshing tea she poured from a flask. Instinctively, Gillian became aware of a sudden change in the proceedings and an intensified atmosphere among the people. She jumped up with the binoculars. 'Oh, look at that terrifying contortionist! He's just come out of the enclosure.'
'That's Ngwenyama, the Lion,' Dirk told her.
'The King himself?' Gillian's voice was awed. She stared at the painted face with the black plumes of his headdress hanging to his very shoulders. The King was shaking and contorting his body encased in green grass, whirling and leaping and stamping before his nation and his regiment in a magnificent display of strength and energy.
'Being in the clothing business, I'm interested in the belt around his loins,' Eve remarked.
'It's made of the skin of the silver monkey,' Dirk informed her.
'Is this a traditional dance?' Gillian asked. 'I mean, was it handed down by his forefathers?'
'He improvises as he goes along, I'm told,' said Dirk.
Gillian proffered the binoculars to Eve.
'Would you like to look, Eve?'
'No, thanks; I've seen it all so many times.'
'And you, Dirk? I don't want to be greedy.'
'You carry on,' he said.
Eve nestled against him as they sat on the stump and he put his arm round her to support her back. Gillian felt a pang of jealousy. The thought crossed her mind that Eve had planned this whole expedition just to be near Dirk and entice him into her spider's web. 'Miaouw!' Gillian admonished herself silently, and resolutely glued her eyes to the binoculars; but all the while she was very much aware of the light flirtation being carried on behind her back. Eve was all coquetry and Dirk was playing along.
The King was working himself into a frenzy; then suddenly the gyrations stopped. The warriors held out their black oxhide shields towards the Ngwenyama.
'He's eating a piece of raw pumpkin!' Gillian cried amazed, then tittered disrespectfully.
Dirk rose from the stump and came to stand next to her while Eve took the tea things to the car.
'Watch carefully,' he warned. 'This is the highlight, the climax of the whole festival.'
The King tossed what was left of the pumpkin on to a warrior's black shield and a cry went up from a thousand throats.
'By that ritual action, the King has given his subjects permission to eat of the first fruits of their crops.' Gillian detected a strange note in Dirk's voice. She looked up into his smouldering eyes. She felt again the old magnetism.
He bent his lips to her ear. 'When are you going to grant me a similar permission, my little queen?' he murmured.
Gillian felt her body freeze. 'Meaning?' she whispered through stiff lips.
'To eat of the first fruits of the Garden of Eden.' His voice was warm and seductive.
'The lady's name was Eve, remember?'- she said tartly.
Slowly he mulled over the words: 'The lady's name was Eve.' Then he heaved a great sigh. 'Maybe you're right,' he said.
The cars were revving up. The show was over. All the way home Dirk drove with one hand only on the steering wheel. Eve's long, sensitive fingers lay curled up warmly in the other.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Early next morning, as was her custom, Gillian opened her bedroom window wide to start the day with a few deep breathing exercises. Despondent and disinclined to exert herself, she leaned her head against the window frame and allowed her thoughts to wander over yesterday's happenings. Her gaze rested unseeingly on the public road beyond her avenue of blue- gum trees, and she brooded over the man who had taken complete possession of her heart, mind and senses.
The more she strove to snap out of her hopeless obsession, the deeper grew the yearning for his crushing arms and ruthless kisses. If she had surrendered to his demanding embraces, she wondered, would he have renounced Eve in her favour?
With a jolt she recognized Eve's Jaguar on the road beyond the trees, as it flashed past on its Way to Mbabane. It could mean only one thing! Eve had again spent the night under Dirk's roof.
A feeling of desperation threatened to overwhelm Gillian - life without Dirk seemed almost unbearable. How- much she had changed since she had set foot upon African soil! She had arrived, an innocent, joyous child, whose inherent happiness even the tragic loss of a beloved father could not dim. In these few months she had matured into womanhood - a rather sorrowful womanhood, she thought ruefully - she was quite sure she would never again feel happy and carefree. She could not understand Dirk. At times it seemed that he was waiting for her to mature before he declared his love. She had even suspected that he tried to hasten the process and ripen her with' his passionate advances. By resisting him, had she sent him into Eve's arms?
With a sigh, she straightened up and turned towards the wardrobe. With a fresh set of underwear over her arm, she moved listlessly in the direction of the bathroom.
Yesterday while they were at the Incwala, Graham had returned with the drivers just in time for the new herd to pass through the cordon into the Impala Ranch. They were safely grazing now and settling in. He summoned Dabula, her father's former gardener, and tackled the lawns, hedges and weeds, while indoors, a listless Gillian assisted by the ever willing Madelisa, who had returned from her sad mission, hung the new curtains and polished and rearranged the magnificent old furniture.
At one moment she would walk through the spacious white-walled rooms, bright with oriental rugs and valuable paintings, and be filled with an almost joyous satisfaction at the beauty she had created, and the next she would be weeping behind the locked bathroom door.
The wise old Madelisa pretended not to see the slightly swollen eyes, and tried her best to distract her young mistress, suppressing all the while the sadness in her own heart at the loss of one of her grandchildren.
When she caught Gillian sitting dejectedly in an old tapestried armchair in the lounge, listening to the radio's melancholy music, her fat black finger pressed down the stop button. Clapping her hands above her head, she swayed this way and that in an old traditional dance, and cried: 'Nkosazana, in two days it will be Christmas!'
Gillian smiled palely.' What of it?'
'We have prepared nothing!'
'We're not celebrating Christmas this year,' tonelessly.
At that moment Graham entered from the terrace. 'What's this? Not celebrating Christmas? That'll be the day!' He caught her hands in his and pulled her out of the armchair. 'Listen, sweetie,' h
e said, giving her a brotherly bear-hug, 'what with the ritual murder, foot- and-mouth, Madelisa losing her grandchild, and all the hard work to complete the house, Christmas has stolen upon us unawares. We all need a little pleasurable distraction. Don't you think we deserve it?'
'Yes, yes!' Madelisa clapped. 'Nkosan is right! We'll give a party!'
'A house-warming-cum-Christmas party,' said Graham, waltzing Gillian round and round.
It was impossible not to be affected by this enthusiasm. She realized it would be utterly selfish to cloud their exuberance with her own secret trouble. Besides, Christmas was still a magic word to her. 'Will a last- minute invitation be accepted?' she asked dubiously.
'Of course! This is Swaziland. We don't stand on ceremony,' Graham assured her.
Shaking depression from her temporarily, she fell in with their plans.
'You'll have to ask the guests, Graham. I know only the few women who visited me in hospital. Do you think we could invite them too?'
'Of course.'
'Wait, I'll get the list.'
They decided upon an impromptu dance. Space would present no problem, because the two enlarged living rooms were divided only partially by a small bar counter which could be moved out.
'Prepare for fifty people,' Graham warned, and went off to his cottage to telephone the prospective guests, while the two women, one black, one white, put their heads together to draw up the menu.
That day and the next, Gillian was wholly immersed in preparations and had not a spare moment in which to nurse the hurt in her heart. Gradually her excitement increased.
Graham helped with the tree, the decorations, the ordering of drinks and the slaughtering. He also employed a band of musicians, a professional barman and waiters from Mbabane.
. Graham took Gillian on a quick trip to the capital, to buy a few Christmas presents, baubles for the tree, crackers, sea-foods and other delicacies. She bought the most fascinating vermilion mahaya she had yet seen, for she intended dressing up as a typical Swazi maiden.
Graham introduced her to the famous local market of Swazi handicrafts and she thrilled to the colourful kaleidoscope of brightly-draped women, the exotic smells from the fruit stalls, the strident voices and the beating of tom-toms. Swazi men and women in. national dress squatted in the blazing sun and displayed their wares: handwoven maize leaf mats and baskets of every size and description, cowhide drums, curios, knobkerries and black clay pots.
Cheeky fat women stringing beads sat on boxes. In the background were the stalls with a conglomeration of shining white-fringed sisal table mats and hand- carved bowls, platters and spoons. Staring at her from the rafters hung hideous African masks and sinister images carved in wood.
There were peculiar curtains made from porcupine quills and lucky beans or short strips of elephant grass threaded together. Exquisite Swazi beadwork was strung out in rich display. Gillian selected for her own costume colourful beaded anklets, bracelets and' amulets.
Shrill-voiced women and boys crowded round her, pressing their wares upon her. 'Cheap! Cheap!' they cried. 'Missy! Buy from me! I make you cheap! Buy this pot for your proteas! Cheap!'
At last Graham took her arm and elbowed his way through the pressing throng of over-insistent bargainers.
One more call was made. Gillian dashed into the hairdressing salon and gave the Frenchman a breathless invitation to attend her party and bring his mother too. He accepted with profuse thanks and soon she was speeding homewards with Graham.
The inquisitive Madelisa had to be shown all the purchases. 'While you were away, Nkosazana, I aired the mattresses and blankets and made up the beds in the spare rooms.'
'Whatever for?'
'It is the custom.'
' I haven't invited anyone to stay.'
'The people travel far. Maybe they like to stay.'
'Well, thanks, Madelisa, I didn't realize.'
Together they made a tour of inspection of the house. Everything was in apple-pie order. Because of the new archways instead of doors, for better ventilation in the hot climate, the living-rooms were fresh and cool. The electric plant had been installed and Gillian revelled in switching the light on and off; little things that she had always taken for granted in the cities were now important.'
Madelisa was overjoyed at the prospect of filling the house with guests - 'like in your mother's day' - and of proving her mastery in the art of cooking. .'No one can roast a sucking pig like old Madelisa,' she gloated, 'nor stuff a turkey, nor bake a Christmas cake.'
In high spirits Gillian sang:
'Can you bake a cherry pie,
Madelisa, Madelisa?
Can you bake a cherry pie,
Charming Lisa?'
'Not a cherry pie, I can't, Nkosazana, but can I boil a Christmas pudding?' At this she rolled her great big eyeballs expressively towards the ceiling to make Gillian laugh.
'Isn't the climate too hot for a real English dinner?' Gillian asked.
'What you talking!' cried Madelisa. 'The whites here are too British to eat anything else.'
'Did my mother teach you to cook?'
'It was your mother, yes.'
'But surely in twelve years one forgets?'
'Didn't I tell you? I worked in the hotel at Mbabane until last year - assistant cook, then my feet gave in. They made me wear no-good shoes.'
Gillian laughed at her expression of disgust. 'Look!' she invited Madelisa, opening the parcel containing the mahaya cloth. 'For the party, I'm dressing up as a Swazi girl.'
Madelisa grunted disapprovingly.
'What's wrong with that?' Gillian wanted to know.
'A Swazi girl with yellow hair? Huh!'
'I see what you mean. Oh, Madelisa, what shall I do? I've no time before tomorrow to think up, let alone make, a costume.'
Madelisa shut her eyes tightly and puckered her brows. With a podgy finger she tapped against her temple. Then the inspiration came. She held up a pale palm. 'Wait here!' She disappeared into the pantry and reappeared with a key wired to a piece of wood labelled 'boxroom'. 'Come with me,' she commanded.
In the boxroom adjoining the garage, she pulled forward a black trunk and opened the dusty lid. A dank, musty smell rose to Gillian's nostrils.
On top lay a frame, face downwards, which Madelisa placed carefully on the cement floor. Then she rummaged amongst the contents of the trunk: It was obvious to Gillian that she was looking at her mother's clothes.
'Aha!' cried Madelisa triumphantly and raised herself painfully from her knees. She held aloft a little black cape made of the peppercorn fur of an unborn karakul lamb. For all the world it looked like the fuzzy hair of an African.
'You wonderful woman!' Gillian exulted, hugging her. 'You're a magician. This is ideal!'
Madelisa chuckled happily and stooped to replace the frame.
'Let me see that,' begged Gillian.
Madelisa turned the frame round and Gillian caught her breath sharply. Except for the clothes, she could have been looking at her own mirrored image. 'Is - is it my mother?' Madelisa nodded sadly. 'I shall hang it in the house. Quick, find me another picture hanger.'
With the portrait and the cape she dashed into the house, Madelisa waddling clumsily after her. Reverently the young girl dusted the painting and hung it in the place of honour above the hearth in the lounge. For a long while she stood staring at it till she heard Madelisa snivelling in her apron behind her. 'Did you love her?' she asked softly.
'Y-yes, Nkosazana.'
'I think I would have loved her too,' Gillian mused. With a heavy sigh she went to cut and stitch her black beehive peppercorn wig.
The sun was sinking when she finished it and the lowing of the herd returning from the watering place at the river reached her ears. A sudden idea occurred to her. Calling Ntombi, she ran down towards the water to seek the young cowherd.
'Please,' she answered his slightly startled gaze, 'mina, funa ... I want...' and she pointed to the red feather stuck above his ear
. He shook his head slowly and followed after the moving herd. She fell into step with him. 'Please!' she repeated more urgently, placing her palms together in a gesture of supplication.
He gazed at her with his beautiful fawn's eyes and put a black forefinger reverently to the feather. 'This, no!' Again he shook his head. 'Tomorrow, yes, I bring.'
With that she had to be satisfied. She was glad she had not thought to bribe him, and felt a little ashamed at having asked from him that which he could not give. How insensitive one could be to the feelings of others, she mused, and that, without meaning to hurt. It is all a lack of understanding of one's fellow man's values. This young man-in-the-making had so few possessions, and I would take the little he had from him - something, which he prides, the emblem of his heritage of royal blood. She was conscience-stricken as she walked slowly back along the emergency road Dirk had provided for her.
She remembered again how he had slaved to help her. Impulsively, she turned to Ntombi and touched, for comfort, the head which the master's hand had so often caressed. Ntombi reared up, brought her front paws down heavily on Gillian's shoulders, and began licking her face. It was as if the dog understood and tried to comfort her.
The track she followed led her to the front of the house. Here she was surprised to find a long cream-coloured taxi parked in the drive. Behind the wheel the driver sat smoking. She walked up to him.
'What is it?' she inquired.
'I have brought a guest.'
'Why are you waiting?'
'The lady wants to make sure she is welcome, before I off-load her suitcases.'
'Who is it?'
'I don't know.'
A puzzled Gillian hastened into the house. From the direction of the kitchen came the sound of Madelisa's loud sobbing.
Flabbergasted, Gillian ran to the door and froze at the sight that met her eyes. With arms striving ineffectually to encompass the large, lachrymose Madelisa stood the slight figure of a woman, dressed in a smartly-tailored cerise suit with a cerise toque perched on platinum hair cut in monk style. She had her back to Gillian. Madelisa half-stumbled towards Gillian and the woman turned. Gillian was in no doubt as to who she was, for she gazed into the slightly jaded features of her second self . Madelisa's intention was to drag them together, but there was no need. With a cry of 'Mother!' Gillian was in her mother's arms.
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