by Nell Brien
“That is stunning!” she said. No gentle Jesus, meek and mild. This huge figure was a black Christ, arms bulging with muscle. “Who is the artist?”
“A native carver. I don’t know his name. I brought it with me from the Congo.”
“How did you become pastor of a British church?” she asked. “You’re a long way from France.”
“No, no, I am not French. I was born in Bruges. In Belgium.”
“Still a long way from home.”
“A Jesuit has no home but the church. We are the shock troops of Christ.” His voice rang through the silent church.
The militancy in his voice reduced her to silence. There seemed nothing to say.
Father Gaston smiled, ran a hand through his magnificent hair, then modified his voice. “Of course, we go where we are sent. Since most churches in Kenya were British, we do what we can for the few Catholics who are left and try to stem the tide of Islam.” He led her back up the nave, opened the door to the outside, allowing sunlight to flood into the building. “Now, I think some tea would be welcome.”
His small house was one-room deep, but half-a-dozen-rooms long, a design similar to Campbell’s office. A deep veranda ran the length of the building, sheltering a few battered wicker chairs, a couple of tables piled with shabby magazines, one that bore a loaded tea tray.
Father Gaston busied himself with the teapot.
“So, how are you enjoying your stay in Nairobi?” He glanced up, frowning. “Ah, stupid of me. This is a sad time for you, of course. Better to ask what you are doing with your days here.” He handed her a cup. “Have you found out anything more about your brother’s last days, his sad death?”
“No, and I’m leaving tomorrow, so I won’t have time to pursue it until I get back. I was hoping you could tell me something about Campbell Safaris. I am leaving with them tomorrow. Do you know them?”
“By reputation only.”
“He seems a hard man, Dan Campbell.”
“Yes, I have heard that. A famous hunter, as was his father before him. Jock Campbell.”
“It was Jock Campbell who made the arrangements about Joel. Sending him home, you know…” Her voice trailed.
“Ah. The Campbells have been a power in Kenya for a very long time,” Father Gaston said. “From the early days, a hundred years ago.”
“This must have been a paradise then.”
“For the Campbells, yes, most certainly. They fought at the head of their own troops in the Boer War, two world wars. They brought men in from their holdings upcountry, joined them up in the King’s African Rifles on condition they be kept together under Campbell command. Remarkable even then. Of course, nothing like that could be done now. Those days are over.”
“I imagine they are.”
“Yes. And at one time they were famous for their racehorses. Sent their bloodstock all over the world. Then they lost everything.” Father Gaston flung up his hands as if tossing treasure to the wind. An odd, almost joyful gesture. “Rinderpest. They lost everything. Many of the old colonial families did.”
“What is that, rinderpest?” Cat asked.
“Cattle plague. Highly contagious. But the Campbells have managed quite a financial recovery. Astonishing when you consider the political climate in this country.” He fumbled in a pocket of his cassock, produced a pack of Gauloise cigarettes and a lighter. He selected a cigarette and lit it. “I hope you don’t mind. A small indulgence.”
“One that will kill you, Father.”
“One way or another, something will. I would like to know the secret of the Campbells’ success. Perhaps I could use it to repair the fortunes of my poor church.” He laughed as if to show he wasn’t serious. “Of course, the Campbells’ power will never be what it was. That time has gone.”
She wanted to ask about Dan Campbell personally, find out about his young wife, but couldn’t bring herself to ask a Catholic priest to engage in idle gossip. And she sensed that she was about to outstay her welcome. She gathered her bag.
“You’ve been very kind. I’ve enjoyed my tea, but I mustn’t keep you any longer.”
Father Gaston rose to his feet without protest. “If I can help you with inquiries about your brother’s death, please, you must call upon me.”
“Thank you. I met a friend last night, and he believes that it was an accident. I wish I could agree with him.”
“A friend? I thought you knew no one here.”
“An old college friend of Joel’s and mine.”
“And who is he, this friend?”
“A lawyer in the Ministry of Justice.” As she said it, she wondered suddenly. Joel had said nothing was as it seemed. Maybe he meant Stephen N’toya, too. “Anyway, he said he can put me in touch with the policemen who investigated. At least then I can get a police report.”
Father Gaston walked with her to the gate. On the other side were the teeming streets of a shantytown. She was reluctant to leave the peace of the small churchyard and Henrietta, the tiny English rose sacrificed to Empire. She took a last look around, noticed the gardener under a tree on the far side and waved to him, but he melted back into the shadow without response.
Again, he tugged at her memory. Someone at home, she thought. It had to be. She knew no one except Stephen in Nairobi.
Before turning in, she called Stephen again. There was no reply. By now, she was not surprised.
Eight
Awake long before dawn, Cat was ready, her bag packed and in the lobby by daybreak, determined to start out on the right foot, to give no opportunity for patronizing remarks about women in the bush. She sat in the poolside restaurant that was just gearing up for the morning rush, leafing idly through the East African Times. Few people were about, and she looked up, surprised at the throaty voice booming her name across the terrace. A hugely overweight figure was making his way purposefully toward her.
“Jambo, memsahib,” he called.
“Good morning.” She put down her coffee cup, returned the smile of the red-faced man looking down at her. “I’m sorry, I seem to have drawn a blank.”
“Brian Ward, Trackers, Ltd.” He placed a business card on the table in front of her, then thrust out a large hand. Cat found her own hand lost in its moist, cushiony folds. “Wanted to meet you before you go off.” He pulled out a chair, looked inquiringly at her. “May I?”
“Please.” In shock, Cat folded her newspaper and moved her coffee cup aside. Even in the cool of early morning he looked ripe for a heart attack. Out in the bush, this man would be a catastrophe waiting to happen. She’d had a lucky escape. “How did you know I’d be here?”
The chair creaked under his bulk as he sat. “Picked up the message from the old thorn tree.” He raised his eyebrows, looked playfully mysterious, an odd expression on such a large red face.
“I don’t think I’m following you.”
“The thorn tree. Messages.”
“A riddle,” she said. “I give up.”
“Thought everyone knew about Nairobi’s famous thorn tree. Our little bit of local color, don’t y’know.” He gave two curious, guttural barks of laughter. “One of East Africa’s traditions, left over from the days of the great white hunter of blessed memory. Used to leave messages for each other about game movements, where to trade their ivory, reports when anyone was killed. That sort of thing. Pinned to the thorn tree over at the New Stanley. The hotel, don’t y’know.”
Surreptitiously, Cat glanced at her watch. Not yet six, and already his safari jacket was damp with sweat.
“All that’s gone, of course.” He shrugged large, soft shoulders. “Tourists use it now. Train times.” He assumed a squeaky soprano that he seemed to think sounded like a female voice. “‘Jeremy, meet me in the museum at noon.’ ‘Amanda, let’s lunch at the Norfolk.”’ He resumed his own voice. “Seen better days, the old thorn tree.”
As had Brian Ward, Trackers, Ltd., Cat guessed. She noticed he hadn’t really said how he knew she’d be here. “I’m su
re you didn’t come out this early just to tell me about the thorn tree, Mr. Ward.”
“No, no. Wanted to make sure you had this before you went off.” He indicated his card. “And never pass up a chance to meet a pretty gel, don’t y’know.” He gave his two odd barks.
“Well. Thank you. Would you like some coffee?” They’d brought two cups with the pot she’d had with breakfast. “Not too hot, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you. No.”
Barely able to twist his girth in the small chair, Ward turned to beckon the waiter. Cat averted her eyes from the flash of white belly discernible through gaping jacket buttons barely holding together under the strain.
“Fresh coffee. Right away,” he said to the waiter. He turned back to her. “Speak better English than I do, these fellers, nowadays. Time was when only Swahili would do.” He shook his head. “Times change, I suppose. Got to change with them. They say it’s a good thing, but I don’t know. They don’t seem any happier now than they were when we ran the show. At least things got done then, and done right, by God.”
The waiter placed a large white cup in front of him, filled it with coffee, smiled as he placed the pot of coffee on the table. “You order now, bwana?”
Ward waved him away. “I’ll take the buffet, later.” He spooned sugar into his coffee, followed it with a liberal amount of cream, gulped eagerly, then leaned back. “Aah. New man. Well, now, Miss Stanton, so you’re off this morning.”
“Yes, I’m waiting for Campbell Safaris now. I’m sorry our plans didn’t work out. Perhaps next time.”
“Yes. Campbell called me yesterday, professional courtesy and all that. Guessed you’d be off very early. Must say, Miss Stanton, bit surprised you decided to go off into the bush with a man like that.”
Cat was taken aback. “A man like what?”
“Unpredictable chap, Campbell. Tough, though. Give him that.” Ward opened the napkin wrapped around the basket of warm rolls brought with Cat’s breakfast of juice and poached egg on dry toast, squeezing each one with fat fingers. “Cold.” He reached for her unused knife. “D’you mind?”
Cat shook her head, and he tore a roll apart, slathering butter onto each piece before popping it into his mouth.
“You don’t seem to like Dan Campbell,” she prodded. She’d be willing to bet what she couldn’t bring herself to pry from Father Gaston would be food and drink to Brian Ward.
“Wouldn’t say that. Not at all. Tough as nails. But just you watch yourself, m’dear. Word to the wise.” He looked around, then tapped a forefinger greasy with butter against his nose. “Word to the wise.”
“What do you mean?”
Looking virtuous, Ward held up a hand. “I’ll say no more. Just be warned.”
“You can’t say something like that then just drop it.”
“Campbell’s got a reputation, m’dear. That’s all.” He slid his eyes significantly toward a group of black businessmen waiting to be seated. “He’s close to the right people. You know what I mean.” Spite lingered in his voice.
“I’m not sure that I do.”
“Oh, knows what palms to grease, among other things.” Ward held up a hand again. “Enough said. Hate to gossip, don’t y’know.” He reached over and patted her hand. “Tragic business, the young man who was killed. Knew he was a relation of yours immediately when you said your name. To be killed like that…”
He seemed to be repeating the word, rolling the word around in his mouth. Killed. Killed. Cat looked into tiny, stupid eyes sunk in layers of fat.
“What do you know about his death?”
“Caused quite a to-do here in Nairobi, you can imagine,” Ward said. “Bad for the safari business, I can tell you, that kind of thing. Frightens off paying customers.”
“What did you hear, Mr. Ward? What were the rumors?”
“Well, of course, they said it was buffalo.” He smirked.
Cat stared at him. Her heart lurched in uneven beats. “Is that what you mean by greasing palms? Did you hear that Campbell paid someone to cover up something about Joel’s death?”
Ward seemed suddenly alarmed. “Now I didn’t say that, m’dear. Not at all. No way to prove…” He stumbled over his words. “I’m just saying that might be why Campbell’s taking you out—”
“That isn’t what you said.”
“I’m saying he feels he owes it to you. He never works with women, don’t y’know. Not since that old business years ago—”
“Old business, Ward?” a voice said softly. “What old business would that be?”
Cat turned. With his noiseless tread, Campbell had entered the terrace from another door and stood behind her. Both hands grasped the back of her chair. She could feel the hostility radiating from him.
“Just telling Miss Stanton here how competent you are, Campbell, don’t y’know. Filling her in, you might say.” Malice sparkled from Ward’s small blue eyes. He stood, drew himself up to his full height. Cat could see the effort he made to pull in his stomach. He glanced at the buffet where waiters clattered with chafing dishes. “Ah, my pancakes. Been waiting for them. Excellent, excellent. You’ll join me for breakfast, Campbell?”
“No, thanks,” Campbell said. “Ready to push off, Miss Stanton?”
“Yes, my luggage is in the lobby.”
“Right.” He picked up the soft leather jacket hung over the back of her chair, held it while she slipped it on.
Brian Ward leaned forward, picked up the business card still on the table and handed it to her. “Tuck this away,” he said. “You never know, you might decide you need it one day.” He patted her hand, nodded to Campbell and turned away.
Cat watched his retreating figure waddling off to the buffet table and again sent up thanks. She felt the stillness behind her and turned to look at Campbell over her shoulder.
His eyes were fixed on Ward’s back, and the muscles in his face seemed to have flattened, smoothing all expression. He caught her glance and bent to pick up her kidskin carryall. Without comment, he led the way through the empty tables.
Nine
The mud had been cleaned off, but the Land Rover looked exactly like the one she’d seen intimidating traffic in the square the day before. A winch was mounted on the reinforced front bumper, and behind the driver’s seat was a gun rack loaded with weapons. Large gas cans were built into the back, and she guessed it was also fitted with an auxiliary tank.
Tom M’Bala, standing beside an identical vehicle, waved a greeting. “Good morning, Miss Stanton.”
“Good morning, Tom. Is it okay if we go to first names?”
Tom smiled. “Good morning, Cat.”
She glanced at Campbell, but he did not look up from stowing her two bags among the gear in the back of M’Bala’s Land Rover.
“You’ll travel with Tom,” he said curtly when he’d finished. “I’ll be ahead of you. When you get tired, Tom will let me know and we’ll stop.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Cat said. “I can keep up.”
“Don’t try to prove anything. This is your first day. We can stop when you need to.”
“I won’t need any concessions, thanks.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, relax.” Campbell put a hand under her elbow and almost tossed her into the passenger seat.
Without comment, Tom M’Bala slid behind the wheel, turned on the ignition, and her irritation melted into a thrill of excitement. The country was unknown, the future uncertain, but whatever happened during the next couple of weeks, she was committed.
They left Nairobi on the main road to Uganda. The heavy traffic seemed to be mostly gasoline tankers and enormous trucks loaded with Tusker beer. Small, open-sided vehicles overflowing with brightly dressed men and women recklessly opened up space for themselves, slipping in and out like tropical fish between whales.
Cat craned to read the names painted in brilliant colors in both English and Swahili on the sides of the little vehicles.
“‘Prince of Darkness’,”
she read aloud. “‘Heaven’s Helper,’ ‘Gateway to Paradise.”’ She turned to Tom. “‘Gateway to Paradise’?”
He laughed. “They’re called matatus, they’re a sort of rogue bus service. They’ve got a deadly accident rate.”
Cat laughed, turned to watch the passing scene. The landscape became increasingly African as Nairobi was left behind them. Tiny villages encircled by thornbrush stockades, small round huts thatched with straw. Children tending goats and skinny cattle ambled along by the side of the road.
And the women. More and more, the heavily laden women.
Cat caught her breath. “My God!” Ahead, Campbell had just swerved to avoid three women, babies bound to their chests with bright cloth, loads of firewood on their backs. “Where are the men? Women shouldn’t be carrying stuff like that. They must be worn-out before they’re thirty.”
“Men don’t carry firewood.”
“Why not?”
“It is not in our tradition.” Tom’s face was tight, lips pressed together, nostrils flared. “These women do not consider themselves exploited. They cling to the old ways as much as the men.”
“Really? Did anyone ask them?”
He was silent, eyes fixed on the road. Cat closed her mouth. She expected him to be an American, and he wasn’t. She had to remember she was the stranger here.
The Land Rovers emerged from a belt of thin forest, and the road hugged the edge of an escarpment.
“The Great Rift Valley,” Tom said.
Cat stared in awe. A checkerboard of sparse cultivation merged into a distance dappled by soft patches of green forest. A changing pattern of light and shade faded to a nebulous rim of purple lining the horizon.
“I never dreamed it would be so beautiful.”
“The Great Rift splits Africa from the Dead Sea to the Indian Ocean. It’s two thousand feet deep, thirty miles to that far rim.” Tom changed to a lower gear, slowing their pace to give her time to appreciate what she saw. Campbell was lost to sight ahead of them. “The first true humans were African. Before you leave Kenya, you should pay the museum in Nairobi a visit. They’ve got a number of skulls recovered from the Rift.” The grade of the road flattened, he accelerated and they swept down the escarpment. “The oldest, Lucy, is from Olduvai in Tanzania. Females, apparently, last longest, in spite of their burdens.”