I was beginning to feel somewhat righteous and I wished that Pop was with us to make a diversion. But Pop was not with us anymore.
“We are going back through the gerenuk country at least aren’t we?”
“Yes,” I said. “We turn to the right at those big stones up ahead across the mud flat at the edge of the high tree bush those baboons are crossing into now and we proceed across the flat to the east until we come to that other rhino drop. Then we go southeast to the old Manyatta and we are in the gerenuk country.”
“It will be nice to be there,” she said. “But I certainly miss Pop.”
“So do I,” I said.
There are always mystical countries that are a part of one’s childhood. Those we remember and visit sometimes when we are asleep and dreaming. They are as lovely at night as they were when we were children. If you ever go back to see them they are not there. But they are as fine in the night as they ever were if you have the luck to dream of them.
In Africa when we lived on the small plain in the shade of the big thorn trees near the river at the edge of the swamp at the foot of the great mountain we had such countries. We were no longer, technically, children although in many ways I am quite sure that we were. Childish has become a term of contempt.
“Don’t be childish, darling.”
“I hope to Christ I am. Don’t be childish yourself.”
It is possible to be grateful that no one that you would willingly associate with would say, “Be mature. Be well-balanced, be well-adjusted.”
Africa, being as old as it is, makes all people except the professional invaders and spoilers into children. No one says to anyone in Africa, “Why don’t you grow up?” All men and animals acquire a year more of age each year and some acquire a year more of knowledge. The animals that die the soonest learn the fastest. A young gazelle is mature, well-balanced and well-adjusted at the age of two years. He is well-balanced and well-adjusted at the age of four weeks. Men know that they are children in relation to the country and, as in armies, seniority and senility ride close together. But to have the heart of a child is not a disgrace. It is an honor. A man must comport himself as a man. He must fight always preferably and soundly with the odds in his favor but on necessity against any sort of odds and with no thought of the outcome. He should follow his tribal laws and customs insofar as he can and accept the tribal discipline when he cannot. But it is never a reproach that he has kept a child’s heart, a child’s honesty and a child’s freshness and nobility.
No one knew why Mary needed to kill a gerenuk. They were a strange long-necked gazelle and the bucks had heavy short curved horns set far forward on their heads. They were excellent to eat in this particular country. But Tommy and impala were better to eat. The boys thought that it had something to do with Mary’s religion.
Everyone understood why Mary must kill her lion. It was hard for some of the elders who had been on many hundreds of safaris to understand why she must kill it in the old straight way. But all of the bad element were sure it had something to do with her religion like the necessity to kill the gerenuk at approximately high noon. It evidently meant nothing to Miss Mary to kill the gerenuk in an ordinary and simple way.
At the end of the morning’s hunt, or patrol, the gerenuk would be in the thick bush. If we sighted any by unlucky chance Mary and Charo would get out of the car and make their stalk. The gerenuk would sneak, run or bound away. Ngui and I would follow the two stalkers from duty and our presence would ensure the gerenuk would keep on moving. Finally it would be too hot to keep on moving the gerenuk about and Charo and Mary would come back to the car. As far as I know no shot was ever fired in this type of gerenuk hunting.
“Damn those gerenuk,” Mary said. “I saw the buck looking directly at me. But all I could see was his face and his horns. Then he was behind another bush and I couldn’t tell he was not a doe. Then he kept moving off out of sight. I could have shot him but I might have wounded him.”
“You’ll get him another day. I thought you hunted him very well.”
“If you and your friend didn’t have to come.”
“We have to, honey.”
“I’m sick of it. Now I suppose you all want to go to the Shamba.”
“No. I think we’ll cut straight home to camp and have a cool drink.”
“I don’t know why I like this crazy part of the country,” she said. “I don’t have anything against the gerenuk either.”
“It’s sort of an island of desert here. It’s like the big desert we have to cross to get here. Any desert is fine.”
“I wish I could shoot well and fast and as quick as I see to shoot. I wish I wasn’t short. I couldn’t see the lion that time when you could see him and everybody else could see him.”
“He was in an awful place.”
“I know where he was and it wasn’t so far from here either.”
“No,” I said and to the driver, “Kwenda na campi.”
“Thank you for not going to the Shamba,” Mary said. “You’re good about the Shamba sometimes.”
“You’re who is good about it.”
“No, I’m not. I like you to go there and I like you to learn everything you should learn.”
“I’m not going there now until they send for me about something.”
“They’ll send for you all right,” she said. “Don’t worry about that.”
When we did not go to the Shamba the drive back to camp was very beautiful. There was one long open glade after another. They were linked together like lakes and the green trees and the brush made their shores. There were always the square white rumps of the Grant’s gazelle and their brown-and-white bodies as they trotted, the does moving fast and lightly and the bucks with their proud heavy horns swung back. Then we would round a long curve of green bushy trees and there would be the green tents of the camp with the yellow trees and the Mountain behind them.
This was the first day we had been alone in this camp and as I sat under the flap of the dining tent in the shade of a big tree and waited for Mary to come from washing up so we could have our drink together before lunch I hoped that there would be no problems and that it would be an easy day. Bad news came in quickly enough but I had seen no harbingers waiting around the cooking fires. The wood truck was still out. They would be bringing water too and when they came in they would probably bring news of the Shamba. I had washed and changed my shirt and changed into shorts and a pair of moccasins and felt cool and comfortable in the shade.
The rear of the tent was open and a breeze blew through off the Mountain that was cool with the freshness of the snow.
Mary came into the tent and said, “Why, you haven’t had a drink. I’ll make one for us both.”
She was fresh looking in her freshly ironed, faded safari slacks and shirt and beautiful and as she poured the Campari and gin into the tall glasses and looked for a cold siphon in the canvas water bucket she said, “I’m so glad we’re alone really. It will be just like Magadi but nicer.” She made the drinks and gave me mine and we touched glasses. “I love Mr. Percival so much and I love to have him. But with you and me alone it’s wonderful. I won’t be bad about you taking care of me and I won’t be irascible. I’ll do everything but like the Informer.”
“You’re awfully good,” I said. “We always do have the most fun alone together too. But you be patient with me when I’m stupid.”
“You’re not stupid and we’re going to have a lovely time. This is so much nicer a place than Magadi and we live here and have it all to our own. It is going to be lovely. You’ll see.”
There was a cough outside the tent. I recognized it and thought something that I had better not write down.
“All right,” I said. “Come in.” It was the Game Department Informer. He was a tall dignified man who wore full-length trousers, a clean dark blue sport shirt with thin white lateral strips, a shawl around his shoulders and a porkpie hat. All of these articles of clothing looked as though they had been
gifts. The shawl I had recognized as being made from trade goods sold in one of the Hindu general stores at Laitokitok. His dark brown face was distinguished and must once have been handsome. He spoke accurate English slowly and with a mixture of accents.
“Sir,” he said, “I am happy to report that I have captured a murderer.”
“What kind of a murderer?”
“A Masai murderer. He is badly wounded and his father and uncle are with him.”
“Who did he murder?”
“His cousin. Don’t you remember? You dressed his wounds.”
“That man’s not dead. He’s in the hospital.”
“Then he is only an attempted murderer. But I captured him. You will mention it in your report, brother, I know. Please, sir, the attempted murderer is feeling very badly and he would like you to dress his wounds.”
“OK,” I said. “I’ll go out and see him. I’m sorry, honey.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mary said. “It doesn’t matter at all.”
“May I have a drink, brother?” the Informer asked. “I am tired from the struggle.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s all right,” Miss Mary said. “I don’t know any better word for it.”
“I did not mean an alcoholic drink,” the Informer said nobly. “I meant only a sip of water.”
“We’ll get some,” I said.
The attempted murderer, his father and his uncle all looked very depressed. I greeted them and we all shook hands. The attempted murderer was a young moran, or warrior, and he and another moran had been playing together making mock fighting with their spears. It had not been about anything, his father explained. They were only playing and he had wounded the other young man accidentally. His friend had thrust back at him and he had received a wound. Then they had lost their heads and fought but never seriously; never to kill. But when he saw his friend’s wounds he was frightened that he might have killed him and had gone off into the brush and hidden. Now he had come back with his father and his uncle and he wished to surrender. The father explained all this and the boy nodded his assent.
I told the father through the interpreter that the other boy was in the hospital and was doing well and that I had heard neither he nor his male relatives had made any charges against this boy. The father said he had heard the same thing.
The medical chest had been brought from the dining tent and I dressed the boy’s wounds. They were in the neck, the chest and the upper arm and back and were all suppurating badly. I cleaned them out, poured peroxide into them for the magic bubbling effect and to kill any grubs, cleaned them again, especially the neck wound, painted the edges with Mercurochrome, which gave a much admired and serious color effect, and then sifted them full of sulfa and put a gauze dressing and plaster across each wound.
Through the Informer, who was acting as interpreter, I told the elders that as far as I was concerned it was better for the young men to exercise at the use of their spears than to drink Golden Jeep sherry in Laitokitok. But that I was not the law and the father must take his son and present him to the police in that village. He should also have the wounds checked there and should be given penicillin.
After receiving this message the two elders spoke together and then to me and I grunted knowingly throughout their speech with that peculiar rising inflection grunt that means you are giving the matter your deepest attention.
“They say, sir, that they wish you to give a judgment on the case and they will abide by your judgment. They say all that they say is true and that you have already spoken with the other Mzees.”
“Tell them that they must present the warrior to the police. It is possible that the police will do nothing since no complaint has been made. They must go to the Police Boma and the wound must be checked and the boy receive penicillin. It must be done.”
I shook hands with the two elders and with the young warrior. He was a good-looking boy, thin and very straight but he was tired and his wounds hurt him although he had never flinched when they were cleaned out.
The Informer followed me to the front of our sleeping tent where I washed up carefully with blue soap. “Listen,” I said to him. “I want you to tell the police exactly what I said and what the Mzee said to me. If you try anything fancy you know what will happen.”
“How can my brother think I would not be faithful and do my duty? How can my brother doubt me? Will my brother loan me ten shillings? I will pay it back the first of the month.”
“Ten shillings will never get you out of the trouble you are in.”
“I know it. But it is ten shillings.”
“Here is ten.”
“Do you not want to send any presents to the Shamba?”
“I will do that myself.”
“You are quite right, brother. You are always right and doubly generous.”
“Bullshit to you. Go along now and wait with the Masai to go in the truck. I hope you find the Widow and don’t get drunk.”
I went in the tent and Mary was waiting. She was reading the last New Yorker and was sipping at her gin and Campari.
“Was he badly hurt?”
“No. But the wounds were infected. One pretty badly.”
“I don’t wonder after being in the Manyatta that day. The flies were really something awful.”
“They say the fly blows keep a wound clean,” I said. “But the maggots always give me the creeps. I think while they keep it clean they enlarge the wound greatly. This kid has one in the neck that can’t stand much enlarging.”
“The other boy was hurt worse though, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. But he had prompt treatment.”
“You’re getting quite a lot of practice as an amateur doctor. Do you think you can cure yourself?”
“Of what?”
“Of whatever you get sometimes. I don’t mean just physical things.”
“Like what?”
“I couldn’t help hearing you and that Informer talking about the Shamba. I wasn’t overhearing. But you were right outside the tent and because he is a little deaf you talk a little loud.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did I say anything bad?”
“No. Just about presents. Do you send her many presents?”
“No. Mafuta always for the family and sugar and things they need. Medicines and soap. I buy her good chocolate.”
“The same as you buy me.”
“I don’t know. Probably. There’s only about three kinds and they are all good.”
“Don’t you give her any big presents?”
“No. The dress.”
“It’s a pretty dress.”
“Do we have to do this, honey?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll stop it. But it interests me.”
“If you say so I’ll never see her.”
“I don’t want that,” she said. “I think it’s wonderful that you have a girl that can’t read nor write so you can’t get letters from her. I think it’s wonderful that she doesn’t know that you are a writer or even that there are such things as writers. But you don’t love her do you?”
“I like her because she has such a lovely impudence.”
“I have too,” Miss Mary said. “Maybe you like her because she’s like me. It could be possible.”
“I like you more and I love you.”
“What does she think of me?”
“She respects you very much and she is very much afraid of you.”
“Why?”
“I asked her. She said because you have a gun.”
“So I have,” said Miss Mary. “What does she give you for presents?”
“Mealies, mostly. Ceremonial beer. You know everything is based on exchanges of beer.”
“What do you have in common, really?”
“Africa, I guess, and a sort of not too simple trust and something else. It’s hard to say it.”
“You’re sort of nice together,” she said. “I think I’d better call
for lunch. Do you eat better here or there?”
“Here. Much better.”
“But you eat better than here up at Mr. Singh’s in Laitokitok.”
“Much better. But you’re never there. You’re always busy.”
“I have my friends there too. But I like to come into the back room and see you sitting there happily with Mr. Singh eating in the back room and reading the paper and listening to the sawmill.”
I loved it at Mr. Singh’s too and I was fond of all the Singh children and of Mrs. Singh, who was said to be a Turkana woman. She was beautiful and very kind and understanding and extremely clean and neat. Arap Meina, who was my closest friend and associate after Ngui and Mthuka, was a great admirer of Mrs. Singh. He had reached the age when his principal enjoyment of women was in looking at them and he told me many times that Mrs. Singh was probably the most beautiful woman in the world after Miss Mary. Arap Meina, who for many months I had called Arab Minor by mistake thinking it was an English public school type name, was a Lumbwa, which is a tribe related to the Masai, or perhaps a branch tribe of the Masai, and they are great hunters and poachers. Arap Meina was said to have been a very successful ivory poacher, or at least a widely traveled and little arrested ivory poacher, before he had become a Game Scout. Neither he, nor I, had any idea of his age but it was probably between sixty-five and seventy. He was a very brave and skillful elephant hunter and when G.C. his commanding officer was away he did the elephant control in this district. Everyone loved him very much and when he was sober, or unusually drunk, he had an extremely sharp military bearing. I have rarely been saluted with such violence as Arap Meina could put into a salute when he would announce that he loved both Miss Mary and myself and no one else and too much for him to stand it. But before he had reached this state of alcoholic consumption with its attendant declarations of undying heterosexual devotion he used to like to sit with me in the back room of Mr. Singh’s bar and look at Mrs. Singh waiting on the customers and going about her household duties. He preferred to observe Mrs. Singh in profile and I was quite happy observing Arap Meina observing Mrs. Singh and with studying the oleographs and paintings on the wall of the original Singh, who was usually depicted in the act of strangling a lion and a lioness; one in either hand.
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