The In-Between World of Vikram Lall

by M G Vassanji

  What was Uncle up to? Was that gun now in his bag really the one for which Papa had flown into a rage, for which poor Amini had been dismissed and was probably languishing in jail, for which the servant quarters had been subjected to yet another raid by the police? Was Mahesh Uncle the one who had stolen the gun? Why?

  My uncle went out; I heard the door click shut, a little too loudly, and I stepped out into the front room, peered through the window. He was not in sight.

  My foolhardy course of action is matched only by the outrageous and distressing nature of that entire episode. How did I pick up the courage to follow him, with such a calm persistence, such thoughtfulness that I turned back from the window, went to Deepa’s and my room, picked up my shoes, and closed the door after a glance at her? I put on the shoes in haste, came out the front door, closed it with a softer sound than Mahesh Uncle had made. As I began to walk, I was attacked by a savage cold—I was still clad in pyjamas—and my teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. I turned back and gently opened the door, pulled a shawl from a sofa and, wrapping it around my shoulders and waist, came out of the house as I’d done before. I wished for Njoroge at my side. And I worried lest my sister wake up in the dark with nobody in that alien house. My feet crunched on the hard earth. I breathed harshly the chilled outdoors air, my heart pounding, and I wondered if it could really be true what I had heard, that the heart could choke you from inside if you got too excited.

  It must have been not more than five minutes since Mahesh Uncle had stepped out, but there was no sight of him as I trotted along the path leading down toward the gate.

  Deep inside me now, for some unconscious reason, from having lived in the same house and having watched him and loved him, and for all the intangible ways by which we sense a person through our pores, so to speak, I knew my uncle to be up to something worthwhile, something secret and dangerous and utterly brave that no other adult in my family would understand. That was why I was here outside, beside the gate in the freezing cold, awaiting a clue to his whereabouts. I wanted to see what he did and whom he met. But I would have to keep my distance.

  He was not far. He had gone to mount a horse and soon I heard the clop-clop approaching, coming toward the gate, and I hid behind a bush. Normally it should not have been easy to see me, but the shawl I had picked up was beige and reflective even in that dark. Slowly and then with quickening steps I began to follow. He was not going fast, but even at a trot quite a deal faster than I could walk, and I found myself lagging farther and farther behind and so began a frantic jog. I was anxious to stay close to him now, purely out of a fear of being attacked by a wild animal—what better refuge than an uncle within shouting distance, close by on a horse, and carrying a gun! We were on a vehicle trail that extended a short distance from the sawmill and was used by lorries and tractors and carts to bring in the logs.

  All of a sudden a grey dawn had broken. I could see my uncle straight ahead, a couple of hundred yards away, the yellow of the jute bag behind him as distinct as a lamp. He was just then beginning to turn left, into the forest.

  I see a boy stooped to seek cover, running in the shadow of the overgrowth beside the road: to what end? To satisfy a savage, bursting curiosity about the adults’ world, to catch them with their guard down, see them as they are. Just as, some months before, one Sunday morning I had followed a sound from my mother, knowing inside me I was entering off bounds, and caught her and Papa in a grotesque togetherness and asked, grinning, What are you doing, Mother?

  In my uncle’s case now I wasn’t as innocent: he was trotting off into the forest with supplies at his back. And I knew what the jungle portended.

  When I reached the spot where my uncle had disappeared, I could see no sign of him, hear no sound. A path, roofed by a tall canopy of tree branches, led off from where I stood. I dared not venture inside that dark wood, follow that trail that could only lead to oblivion. I would never come out alive. Dejected and defeated, for the first time since I had set off after my uncle I was afraid of the consequences of my actions. What would he say if he found out I was spying on him? What would the others, especially my father, have to say about his nocturnal activities?

  Just then I heard sounds—booming human voices in the distance, the shuffle of rapidly moving feet. Three men had suddenly become visible, where the road took a slight bend; they were jogging together and rapidly approaching. If they saw me, I was dead. In terror I crouched closer to the bushes by the roadside, but they could barely conceal me, unless I fell right into their creepy embrace. Instead, I ran onto the track.

  But not very far; quickly, I hid behind a fat tree trunk. And prayed: O Rama, save me and keep your Hanumans away—there might be monkeys around—and all the other wild animals who are your friends, even the mamba, but still…keep them away…Small flying insects tormented me, getting into my eyes and eyelashes, and I closed my eyes and waited, and supplicated, and the sounds drew closer and were upon me.

  The three men were on the track and walking in a single file. They all carried pangas; one had a rifle, another, a dirty gunny sack, the third, a torn rucksack…and they were Mau Mau.

  I recall a pair of black army boots, laces untied or absent, pounding the earth, sloshing through a carpet of dead leaves; a deep-tan leather jacket, like a fighter pilot’s, I thought; a mat of knotted hair on one head and a beard on the face; long carefully wrought plaits tumbling down and partly covering a thin and long face, belonging to the one who carried the rifle on his shoulder.

  Any moment during the yuga they took to pass me, they could have seen me, heard me breathe or shuffle my feet or moan in terror where I crouched. There was no single thought in my head, all was one big frightful moment.

  Then they were gone, and I waited, gulping, regaining my faculties. Finally I stood up, slowly came out onto the trail, then let go with my feet. The same moment some creature not far away but invisible also took off with a tremendous commotion. I ran without pause.

  Deepa was at the door, tearful, saying, Where have you been? I thought the lions had eaten you!

  Lions? I said bravely, Don’t be silly. When I didn’t see Uncle in the house, I simply walked outside to take a peek.

  Mahesh Uncle returned much later. Oh?—he said, in response to our questions—I was out in the forest marking trees for the cutters. They’ll go and chop them down now and bring them to the mill for sawing. That’s what I was doing so early while you two lay snoring!

  Was he telling the truth? Perhaps, in part. I knew that he had also delivered supplies in the forest. His yellow jute bag lay carelessly, gaping open on the table, where the three of us were sitting with our morning tea.

  I did not bring up the subject of his excursion and of that gun. I had been wrong in following him. He was my uncle whom I loved and trusted, who knew what he was doing. My raising the subject would only cause a quarrel between him and my father and make my mother unhappy as a result.

  There was a late and large family breakfast, after which Deepa and I went for a walk with our parents, so that Mahesh Uncle and Aruna Auntie could be by themselves to talk. Early in the afternoon we left for Nakuru.

  It’s how you feel, of course, Aruna, that matters. It is your life you have to think of, Mother said.

  Aruna nodded. Please don’t get offended, Didiji.

  Mother shook her head, put a hand on Aruna’s.

  It was night, Papa had gone to bed after the nine o’clock news. Mother and Aruna Auntie were on the long sofa in the sitting room, gathered by themselves to discuss Aruna’s decision regarding Mahesh Uncle. So they are not going to get married, I thought sadly. Aruna Auntie was a heartless Nairobi woman after all, who knew no better. The two of them glanced in my direction, where I sat at the dining room table, watching them. But they did not object to my presence. Mother was used to my listening in this way, in silence, sometimes at hours that were late for me, dismissing any concern with, He’s the recording angel, but he doesn’t say a word about what he h
ears.

  There were tears in Auntie’s eyes.

  Tell me why, Mother asked. You two seemed to get along as if you were made for each other.

  Something inside me says no. It says, Don’t do it, and I always listen to that voice, it’s always right.

  And you explained to Mahesh, and what did he say?

  He agreed, Didiji. He said we were two of a kind and too similar. For a marriage we need something of opposites.

  Mother nodded again. You go on to sleep now, she told Aruna, who stood up and went to Deepa’s room, which had been assigned to her. Mother sat by herself in that semi-darkness, her hands clasped in her lap. I got up and went to give her a hug.

  The next day in the afternoon when we returned from school, Aruna was gone. She had already hugged and kissed us goodbye in the morning before we left. Later in the morning my parents had dropped her off at the railway station and she went back to Nairobi.

  Those few days she stayed with us were among the most fun-filled in my life.

  I saw Aruna again in Nairobi, and more recently and very briefly in Toronto, where she lives, still single. That inner voice of hers may have been overly cautious. But that time perhaps she was right in following it; for in marrying my uncle she would have had to live with the grief and remorse that awaited like karma to haunt and burden his life.

  What’s wonderful about the summer here, in this northern latitude, are the long days that wane so gradually, reluctantly, hanging on to the last precious ray of the glorious setting sun. This afternoon after walking about for a while, I gardened and then climbed down the cliff to the lake’s edge for a swim—a somewhat risky enterprise, because I don’t know the water here too well. Seema has taken Joseph to the town’s midsummer festival. I declined to accompany them; my recent recollections seem to have dragged me down somewhat and I needed to be alone.

  ELEVEN.

  It comes to me always at night, this tableau, this creation of the mind; there is a sound in the darkness, a child’s whimper: No, no…Next, light has fallen on the scene and she is sitting on the floor, pathetic, knees drawn up, and looking up and begging for mercy…the assailant tall and invisible. Then darkness again—the light, the life snuffed out—and enough, I say, curtain. The mind’s demonic theatre abandoned mid-scene, I will take a walk in the dark, room to room, to distract myself. I will look out the window. I may even scribble a fragment of a poem, meagre as my skills are in that area. The trouble is that even though I choose to turn away from the conclusion of that scene, the general picture of the aftermath I carry vividly in the mind: the blood, the gore.

  For more than forty years I have been haunted by this image of her.

  There’s nothing as gut-wrenching, as irrationally tugging, as that plaintive, tragically heartbroken, throaty cry of a child.

  Some days ago, late in the afternoon, I heard a child’s guttural whine coming from the back porch outside; a girl’s plea, to my mind, a sobbing piteous supplication, and out I stormed in a rage. What are you doing to her—

  Joseph and his two young friends from the neighbourhood stared at me, the latter having taken fright at my outburst. They had begun to play soccer, and I had obviously overreacted to the sounds of what turned out to have been the spoiled machinations of the youngest of them, the boy; I turned sheepishly to go back inside before being invited kindly to stay and be goalkeeper.

  Joseph informed me today that he is ready to leave now, to go to Toronto, where he will spend the remaining four weeks of the summer with friends before joining the university. These are new acquaintances, politically kindred souls he has made contact with through the Internet. Perhaps finally he sees me now as an afflicted, weak man, not the cold, powerful, and corrupt monster I have been made out to be by the press back home and in various parts of Africa. Perhaps both he and Ms. Chatterjee—Seema—see me in that piteous manner: I’ve been stared at sufficiently and suggestively by the two of them the last few days. They have not been easy, these days, for I have recalled the end of that ultimately tragic year of my life.

  I have prevaricated enough.

  One morning, it was Wednesday, while our family was having breakfast, the telephone rang and Papa went to pick it up in the sitting room. After a few moments we heard a loud cry, Noooo! Noooo!

  He came back and he was crying. Like a child. Two tears were running down his cheeks. His mouth twitched uncontrollably.

  The most horrible thing, Sheila, the most horrible thing has happened—

  What? asked Mother, Arré what, but? Is it Bauji? Is it Biji?

  No. Send them away, children go to your rooms—please.

  Deepa and I didn’t budge from our seats. What is it, Papa? What has happened?

  He gave a loud moan: Oh my God. Then, to Mother: The Bruces, Sheila, the Bruces, all murdered. Butchered last night. Mister, Missis, children, all—butchered!

  I cannot recall exactly how I felt in the days that immediately followed. I imagine a numbness of sorts, a dependence on parents for direction, for emotional shelter. I know that I did not shed a tear. We did not attend the funeral because my father had been informed that it would not be appropriate to do so, it was a family and a European affair. Mrs. Bruce’s father and brother were present, having flown from England, as was the Governor of the colony, Sir Evelyn Baring, and the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces, General Sir George Erskine.

  The particulars of the murders, which created an outrage throughout the country, were the following:

  The two dogs had been poisoned early in the evening, around dinnertime, and were found the next day at the back of the house. At a few minutes past nine o’clock, two shots were fired outside at the front gate, one of which hit the watchman, who survived. Before Mr. Bruce could get to his gun, some members of the gang were inside, having been let in through the back. The couple were beaten and hacked to death downstairs. Then the gang went upstairs to the children’s bedrooms. Bill had been brave, the newspapers said, and put up resistance. Annie had tried to hide…

  The details of the children’s deaths were too gruesome to describe, according to the papers. They printed a picture of Annie’s teddy bear, however. It had been cut to shreds.

  All the servants except Kihika were accounted for. The police were told by the servants who had been found that they had been locked up in a shed and guarded by two gang members. Kihika however had disappeared, and police were looking for him as a prime suspect. There was a picture of Kihika with Bill sitting on his shoulders at the age of three.

  Mother had Mwangi cut the roses from the plant Mrs. Bruce had given her, and she put four of the orange blooms, which had been christened Beautiful Elizabeth by Papa, in a vase in memory of the Bruces.

  I know, Joseph, these were only four of a handful of whites killed during the freedom struggle; what about the thousands of Africans who died, you will ask, what about the massacres at Lari, the killings by government forces at Hola? There were children there too, they were black, who remembers them?

  All I can say is, these two were my friends. Even bossy Bill. And Annie was my comrade, my secret, innocent little romance. One day they were my playmates, the next they had been cut up in pieces in the name of freedom, of retaliation.

  You say, Consider them as casualties of a war, then. To which I answer, reluctantly: Perhaps. The last time I saw them we were blowing soap bubbles and running around in the car park of that shopping centre. Alidina the greengrocer had treated us to New Zealand apples.

  Two days after the murders the police came and spoke with my father. The interview, in our sitting room, was grave in tone and lasted a half hour. Lieutenant Soames informed my father that the gun used by the gang at the Bruces’ was the one which had been stolen from him. This had been determined by matching a bullet recovered from the Bruces’ gate with one my father had fired at the Nakuru shooting range for practice soon after he bought his gun. The police had on file used bullets from all registered guns in the Nakuru area.

&nb
sp; Are you sure? Papa said desperately to the departing lieutenant.

  Lieutenant Soames nodded, without a word. He adjusted his peaked cap and left. It seemed as if my poor father was somehow implicated in the tragedy. He had not looked after his weapon, now it was in the hands of the very terrorists who had carried out that hellish attack on the Bruces. It was the carelessness of people like him that gave indirect support to those murderers.

  What a people, Papa muttered glumly at the lieutenant’s back. Every policeman a Sherlock Holmes.

  From what I had overheard, I was certain that the murderers of Annie and Bill and their parents were men known to my uncle. He was their friend. I had already seen him taking supplies, including a gun that I was sure had been my father’s, out into the jungle. But I said nothing about what I knew.

  Meanwhile, during my father’s interview, the police had descended upon the servant quarters. Now as the lieutenant left with his men, the trucks grinding away out of our street, a great hubbub began among the servants in the back. We were informed by our help Pedro that the police had taken away two men, one of them Mwangi. It had turned out—and this accounted for all the noisy excitement outside—that this time around Corporal Boniface had emerged triumphantly from a search of Mwangi’s room waving telltale evidence: two muddy and torn pairs of khaki trousers and an army-style green jacket copiously stained with blood on the sleeve, all of which had been hidden under the bed.