Black Mischief

by Carl Hancock

  But there was something else. Lydia had not been in Bertie’s guesthouse on that night of mayhem on Rusinga Farm. Those who had been there were now scattered and out of reach of each other. They could not know that their common experience still bound them in a way that only Maria understood fully. Tom would have seen something of it in an attack of the Celtic melancholy that his mother sometimes teased him with. Maura and Alex would have put it down to delayed reaction to the close call that hit them twice within a few hours. For Bertie and Sonya, it was a recurrence of the sadness of loss. Sonya had fought a losing battle in the delivery room when Anna had managed to present Bertie with a son at the cost of her own life. The happy hours with the four playmates at Rusinga were over and she was back to long nights in a room alone.

  But Maria saw that a euphoria which sprung from excitement and hope when they had all been together planning a great venture in Bertie’s home and raised to even greater heights when danger threatened them could not stay up in the heavens forever but must fade. In their aloneness, doubt would snake its way in and undermine their confidence, a variation on an old theme. United there is a glimmer of a chance, separated we see the raw truth of reality.

  * * *

  Sally Rubai was enjoying life. The arrival of the new Julius was not far away. The latest scan showed the little fellow perfectly formed and moving about. The attack on his mother seemed to have had no bad effect.

  ‘Now don’t be impatient down there. Your mama is taking good care of you and she wants you to herself just a while longer. This will surely be the last time, so let’s both enjoy ourselves.’

  Her portly curves were not shrinking. The idea that she was eating for two suited her just fine. She did not have any guilty thoughts when she took on board that extra scoop of ice-cream or another slice of cheesecake. Her sweet tooth had never been so indulged.

  Abel was more attentive to her than he had been for a long time. She thought that it was the excitement of having a new Julius in the family. After all, she was the vessel that was carrying the sacred cargo and it was only right that he should make a fuss of her. He was smiling, buying her presents, bringing her coffee from the table to her chair, just as he had done in their early days in Nairobi, before Julius had come along.

  And he was a man relieved beyond his expectations. Friday, May 25th, Abel recalled it several times a day, always in vivid detail. The passing of the weeks made the memory more painful. The litany of ‘if onlys’ grew longer, each time he revisited that fateful evening. He had experienced the two extremes of emotion in the space of a single half hour. The joy of sitting in the dining room of Muthaiga and watching his handsome son showing off his bride-to-be had been shattered by the shock of despair of seeing that same boy, stretched out, lifeless on the cold, damp grass.

  The coming of Alfredo Rossi lifted his spirits. This young American, himself just a little older than Julius, was about to exact punishment, to bring him the sweetness of revenge. The McCalls would have to pay in full. Several times a day Abel indulged himself in the pleasure of anticipating a new, cleansed world. At last he would have fulfilled his duty as a father and brought himself peace of mind.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  lfredo Rossi made an adjustment to the strategy he had worked out for the most lucrative job of his career so far. The day after the supper in Londiani, he had turned up early for his tour of the flower fields. Stephen Kamau had chosen Gideon Moyale to be his guide. Stephen was surprised that he did not see his young next-door neighbour for more than two hours.

  ‘Bwana Kamau, that man wanted to see everything. He made notes in a small green book. He asked so many questions, even about where the power points were placed. I think, perhaps, he is planning to grow flowers in his home in America. He is fond of roses, especially yellow ones.’

  ‘Is he gone, Gideon?’

  ‘I told him that he should speak to you. “Bwana Kamau knows more about flowers than anyone else in the country”.

  He said to thank you for your kindness, but he was returning to Nairobi. I think he said to the airport.’

  ‘He is a clever man, I think. You got on well with him?’

  ‘He said that he thought I could make much money in his country. “You grow the flowers and I will open a shop to sell them. Big prices”.’

  ‘Did he ask if you would go over to help him with this new farm?’

  ‘Bwana, if I had the money to go to this America, I would be going to see Rebecca singing. I told him that you are the man he needs over there.’

  ‘Better to wait till she comes home to sing, just like me and her mother. But if you are going you must hurry. In two days she will begin. Sure you got enough shillings for the trip?’

  * * *

  Alfredo was a smart thinker. ‘Killing two birds with one stone.’ His housemaster in Eton told him more than once that Americans had a gift for this remarkable feat.

  ‘But, sir, how come …’

  ‘It’s a metaphor, boy. And, in this case, it is a compliment. You’re just about the smartest operator I’ve ever come across. Have I got the lingo right, Rossi?’

  ‘Alfredo, we thought you were in Africa.’

  ‘Mama, in a strange way I am.’

  ‘I told your father that sending you to that school was a mistake. So you come back with this crazy voice which I like very much, but you talk like you have had an accident to your brain.’

  ‘Alibi, Mama. That is a very important word to the men of the Rossi family.’

  ‘Now, there is a word that I do understand. Do you need Papa to help you?’

  ‘Mmn, not this time. I will be here for two or three days.’

  ‘But you will come for supper.’

  ‘Tonight, no. I am going to a concert.’

  ‘With a girl? Constanza, the banker’s daughter, perhaps. She’s not yet got a husband. I know she is no beauty, but she is not very tall either.’

  ‘Thank you, Mama. No, not with a girl but to see a girl, to listen to a girl. All part of the alibi. I am being very careful.’

  He had a ticket for the second night of the new program of the Wajiru band at the Flamingo Hotel in Mid Town.

  * * *

  Paul Miller had an older brother who was also a lawyer, Barnie (only his wife Phoebe used his full name and that when Barnabas had committed some grave offence like being late in picking her up from a hair appointment). The family had lived in Boston for over fifteen years. Many times Barnie tried to persuade his brother to join him.

  ‘“Miller and Miller” on a polished brass plate. How does the idea grab you? When Tommy and Chris graduate from law school, we could be a big-time outfit.’

  The brothers were in weekly contact. Barnie had great admiration for Paul and there were occasional pangs of guilt when he saw how hard Paul was working to change some of the worst ills in the old country. But then it was easy to find good reasons not to break away from a pleasant and productive life and a seductive lifestyle. In the time since Paul and Daniel Komar had set up the Serena party, the situation had shifted.

  ‘Paul, the big men will be keeping an even closer watch on you.’

  ‘I know, man, but there’s no choice.’

  ‘Oh, but there is. And you’ve made the right one. Be patient with me, brother of mine. Give me time, give me time.’

  Barnie was excited to hear about the idea of building a hospital in Naivasha. As boys in Kenton, he and Paul had enjoyed many Sundays on school outings to the yacht club on the lake, learning how to sail, with the added thrill of watching out for the hippos who loved to wallow close to shore on sunny afternoons. When he heard that Rebecca Kamau was coming to sing with Toni Wajiru in New York to raise funds for the work, he was on the phone at once to the Flamingo Hotel. Toni and Paul had been scholarship boys together and the families had been friends ever since.

  ‘Barnie, come on the second night. Yeah, sometimes we can be a little nervous on opening night.’

  Two days later, three of the Am
erican branch of the Miller family took an early train out of Boston on their way to Grand Central Station. Debbie had passed up the chance to meet the famous Arnold Brookman to join her parents on this special outing.

  ‘Mom, I can always read his books, but Dad says we’ll get to speak to Rebecca after the show. No contest. And what’s this about some shopping?’

  After checking into the Flamingo, Barnie arranged to meet his two women in the late afternoon back in the hotel for an early dinner. At four, they were sitting together in the Kisumu Room. Harry Thuku had given his ground floor public rooms the names of Kenyan towns. ‘Makes me feel close to home and I think the customers like it’. The family swapped stories of their day over several cups of coffee.

  ‘Dad, was it the zoo or the lady with the lamp this time?’

  ‘Neither. I did a lot of walking, took in a couple of galleries, but, my dear child, my great achievement for the day was this. You missed the “great man” to come here, so, well, I hope you haven’t read it. Mister Brookman’s masterpiece, that’s what the lady in the shop told me.’

  ‘“Public Buildings Right and Wrong”. Dad, this must have cost a fortune!’

  ‘And such a boring title. When I said this as I was paying, I was put in my place. “Only a philistine would make a remark like that!” and no hint of a smile on her face.’

  ‘And, of course a cookbook for your beloved wife.’

  ‘No cash left in the wallet.’

  Debbie had been flicking through a few of the pages of the heavy volume. ‘Dad, I really am grateful. In college, I looked at this book so many times, but to actually own a copy, it’s a wow! moment.’

  Later Barnie and family had their first experience of Harry Thuku’s ‘Spiritual Space’.

  At great expense, and at some risk to the whole structure, he brought in contractors who had gutted the third and fourth floors and converted them into a single theatre, concert hall. The investment paid off. The combination of a restaurant serving the best African food in Manhattan and a showcase for top-class music of many kinds was a winner.

  Rebecca Kamau was back for a short season and this was the best of the best. Earlier in the year, the unknown amateur from the African bush had won over audiences. She had a voice, she was a beauty, but most of all she had a remarkable presence. Her movement was sinuously rhythmic and there was what one critic described as ‘a spiritual force in her delivery’. Another saw her singing voice as a combination of Ella Fitzgerald and Jesse Norman. Rebecca ignored all the attempts to portray her as a singing sensation.

  ‘Crazy talk.’ She enjoyed the applause but, most of all, she was intoxicated by a feeling of ecstasy when her voice rose up inside her. For those minutes of performance she was possessed. God was willing her to take new risks with His gift and she was ready to push herself to her limit. And, when it was over and she returned to her dressing room, she was happy to be the wash girl of Londiani again, the future wife of Thomas McCall. She understood her truth and there was no danger of addiction to the powerful drug of fame.

  Her joy was to be back on stage with Mary and the band.

  Tom had seen Rebecca on stage many times, but for Lydia, being in the heart of a great city, in the company of so many smart, sophisticated and rich concert-goers was overwhelming. It could not be happening. What would it be like when her new friend actually appeared on the stage?

  For Lydia and for many others who sat entranced as they looked up at the ‘black angel’, as the woman in the next seat described Rebecca, the sounds they heard from the mouths and instruments of those supercharged Africans were almost otherworldly. Audience and performers inspired each other to undreamed of heights. After all, this was just another concert in a city where there were a hundred concerts happening on any given night.

  A standing audience drowned out the sound of much of the final encore. Toni and his boys were considered to be the best of the African bands seen in New York for years. Toni himself was a gifted composer and in his lyrics he captured the heart and soul of his beloved homeland, a spiritual experience for a spiritual space. But when Rebecca Kamau stood up in front of a packed house, those ten men and Mary, Rebecca’s best friend, who shared their duets, reached levels of brilliance that had them in awe of themselves. They had broken through to the place where, for a few moments, they tasted the pure essence of what music can mean.

  Not far away from Tom and an emotional Lydia, Debbie Miller was sitting, head down and weeping. What she had seen and heard had disturbed her. She was a proud American and loved her New England life, but the foundations of her confidence in the rightness of these privileges were rocked. Africa, Kenya, Nairobi. What had she lost?

  At last, the audience began to move away. Barnie and Phoebe smiled at each other. Mama held her daughter’s hand while Papa leaned back and looked around. He and Tom recognised each other. Barnie cupped his hands to his lips and said quietly, with a smile, ‘Look what your girl has done to our girl. Musical dynamite! But hey, it’s still on to meet Rebecca?’

  ‘Yep. Give me five minutes and I’ll come and fetch you.’

  Two long sobs and Debbie was sitting upright. She shook her head and laughed gently.

  ‘Okay, I’m coming back. Sorry about that, folks.’

  ‘Sweetheart, I envy you.’

  ‘Strange thing, I’ve heard most of those songs a dozen times and more, but being here, well, I wish life could stay like this. No, I don’t! My heart couldn’t cope. Tell you something. I’m not sure if I want to meet her.’

  ‘And break the spell?’

  ‘No, Mom. I wonder what I could say.’

  Barnie soon sorted his daughter’s dilemma. ‘Okay, it’s getting late. Let’s go straight to bed.’

  ‘No, no!’

  ‘So when you meet the Queen of the Night, just tell her that you think she has a very pretty voice and curtsy. Debbie, I think you may be in for a surprise.’

  When Tom returned, a voice called out from the back of the hall. ‘Thomas McCall, remember me?!’

  Fred Ross, in evening dress, with his black hair swept back, skipped down the steps towards the little group who had, by now, all turned in the direction of not the expected tall, fair Englishman with the cultured voice but the swarthy, bustling figure, small but with the build of a middle-weight boxing champion. As he moved towards them, he was smiling and whispering repeatedly under his breath the single word, ‘Alibi’.

  There was a party. Harry Thuku had specially dressed up his Nakuru Room, his favourite venue for celebrating with invited guests. Alfredo was surprised to be invited. He had made his point. He had been seen and noticed. He was back in his hometown. Toni and the band were still in their working clothes and the other twenty or more guests were hoping that sometime in the next few hours, there would be more night music.

  While Rebecca and Mary were showering and sprucing, everyone else busied themselves in pleasant circulating and chatting and checking on where they were sitting on the very large round dining table. An extra place had been set for latecomer, Fred, between Lydia and Monica, the bubbly, handsome wife of Charlie, the drummer. Tom was holding a place next to Debbie for Rebecca.

  ‘You know Paul Miller, my father’s brother.’

  ‘Yep, changed my life. Made a big mistake. Got me to be a candidate for Serena. Wrong choice, of course. Rebecca, she would have been a winner.’

  ‘But Rebecca’s got such a talent for music. Why would she want to spend her time …?

  ‘Because it might just help turn a dream into a reality. Talk to her about the hospital.’

  ‘Hospital?’

  ‘That’s why she’s over here, to raise money. Hospitals don’t come cheap. We’ve got the land …’

  ‘What about an architect?’

  ‘Another expensive item? No, not yet.’

  ‘Not if I did it. Wouldn’t cost a shilling. Don’t look so amazed. I’m qualified and I’m good.’

  ‘Hang on. I’ll make a slight adjustment to the se
ating on this table.’

  Monica Mgoya loved meeting new people. This one intrigued her. She fixed her dark eyes on her table companion. Fred Ross was also intrigued, discomfited to have this chunky African lady, with the sexy laugh, the heavily lipsticked mouth scrutinising him closely. He was on his guard.

  ‘Toni used to have a fellow called Henry working for the band. Spoke just like you. English, and, I’m sorry to say, a very bad person. In the penitentiary just now. I never trusted him.’

  Alfredo cleared his throat. ‘It can be a problem sometimes. I’m Italian. New York. When the family is having a big party, it’s the same old jokes.’

  ‘Could be they envy you, having a voice that makes you sound like what some folks think has to be a gentleman. No doubt your young lady doesn’t make jokes.’

  ‘Young lady? Ah, yes, no, not my … young lady. This is Lydia. We met in Kenya, at the McCalls’, just a few days ago.’

  It became a three-way conversation. ‘Do you sing, dear?’

  ‘Sometimes, when I feel happy.’

  ‘Hmm. When you’re working …’

  ‘No, never when I’m working. I don’t think the customers would like that.’

  ‘Customers? No, I don’t suppose. Do you work in a bank? I was working in a bank when I met Charlie.’

  Alfredo was enjoying the contest going on between his dining companions. This Lydia was in control. The band lady obviously liked checking newcomers out in her friendly way. She was always on the lookout for a good story that she could share later with the rest of the girls. Abel Rubai had told him enough about Lydia Smith to understand that she could have given Monica her most sensational story ever. Monica had not finished.