True at First Light

by Ernest Hemingway

  Because I was awake now and I was not sure that I would ever sleep again, I thought about Debba and Miss Marlene and Miss Mary and another girl that I knew and, at that time, loved very much. She was a rangy-built American girl running to shoulders and with the usually American pneumatic bliss that is so admired by those who do not know a small, hard, well-formed breast is better. But this girl had good Negro legs and was very loving although always complaining about something. She was pleasant enough to think about at night though when you could not sleep and I listened to the night and thought about her a little and the cabin and Key West and the lodge and the different gambling places we used to frequent and the sharp cold mornings of the hunts we had made together with the wind rushing by in the dark and the taste of the air of the mountains and the smell of sage back in the days when she cared for hunting other things than money. No man is ever really alone and the supposed dark hours of the soul when it is always three o’clock in the morning are a man’s best hours if he is not an alcoholic nor afraid of the night and what the day will bring. I was as afraid as the next man in my time and maybe more so. But with the years, fear had come to be regarded as a form of stupidity to be classed with overdrafts, acquiring a venereal disease or eating candies. Fear is a child’s vice and while I loved to feel it approach, as one does with any vice, it was not for grown men and the only thing to be afraid of was the presence of true and imminent danger in a form that you should be aware of and not be a fool if you were responsible for others. This was the mechanical fear that made your scalp prickle at real danger and when you lost this reaction it was time to get into some other line of work.

  So I thought of Miss Mary and how brave she had been in the ninety-six days she had pursued her lion, not tall enough to see him properly ever; doing a new thing with imperfect knowledge and unsuitable tools; driving us all with her will so we would all be up an hour before daylight and sick of lions, especially at Magadi, and Charo, loyal and faithful to Miss Mary but an old man and tired of lions, had said to me, “Bwana kill the lion and get it over with. No woman ever kills a lion.”

  18

  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL day for flying and the Mountain was very close. I sat against the tree and watched the birds and the grazing game. Ngui came over for orders and I told him he and Charo should clean and oil all the weapons and sharpen and oil the spears. Keiti and Mwindi were removing the broken bed and taking it to Bwana Mouse’s empty tent. I got up to go over. It was not badly broken. One cross leg in the center had a long fracture and one of the main poles that held the canvas was broken. It was easily repairable and I said I would get some wood and have it sawed to measure and finished at Mr. Singh’s.

  Keiti, who was very cheerful that Miss Mary was arriving, said we would use Bwana Mouse’s cot which was identical and I went back to my chair and the bird identification book and more tea. I felt like someone who had dressed for the party too early on this morning that felt like spring in a high alpine plateau and as I went over to the mess tent for breakfast I wondered what the day would bring. The first thing it brought was the Informer.

  “Good morning, brother,” the Informer said. “How is your good health?”

  “Never better, brother. What is new?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Hours before. I breakfasted on the Mountain.”

  “Why?”

  “The Widow was so difficult that I left her to wander alone in the night as you do, brother.”

  I knew this was a lie and I said, “You mean you walked to the road and caught a ride up to Laitokitok with one of Benji’s boys in the lorry?”

  “Something like that, brother.”

  “Go on.”

  “Brother, there are desperate things afoot.”

  “Pour yourself your pleasure and tell me.”

  “It is set for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, brother. I believe it is a massacre.”

  I wanted to say, “By them or by us?” but I controlled myself.

  “Tell me more,” I said, looking at the Informer’s proud, brown, guilt-lined face as he raised a shot glass of Canadian gin with a glow of bitters in it to his gray red lips.

  “Why don’t you drink Gordon’s? You’ll live longer.”

  “I know my place, brother.”

  “And your place is in my heart,” I said quoting the late Fats Waller. Tears came into the Informer’s eyes.

  “So this St. Bartholomew’s eve is for Christmas Eve,” I said. “Has no one any respect for the Baby Jesus?”

  “It is a massacre.”

  “Women and children too?”

  “No one said so.”

  “Who said what?”

  “There was talk at Benji’s. There was much talk at the Masai stores and at the Tea Room.”

  “Are the Masai to be put to death?”

  “No. The Masai will all be here for your Ngoma for the Baby Jesus.”

  “Is the Ngoma popular?” I said to change the subject and to show that news of impending massacres meant nothing to me, a man who had been through the Zulu War and whose ancestors had done away with George Armstrong Custer on the Little Big Horn. No man who went to Mecca not being a Moslem as another man might go to Brighton or Atlantic City should be moved by rumors of massacres.

  “The Ngoma is the talk of the Mountain,” the Informer said. “Except for the massacre.”

  “What did Mr. Singh say?”

  “He was rude to me.”

  “Is he participating in the massacre?”

  “He is probably one of the ringleaders.”

  The Informer unwrapped a package he had in his shawl. It was a bottle of White Heather whisky in a carton.

  “A gift from Mr. Singh,” he said. “I advise you to examine it carefully before drinking, brother. I have never heard the name.”

  “Too bad, brother. It may be a new name but it is good whisky. New brands of whisky are always good at the start.”

  “I have information for you on Mr. Singh. He has undoubtedly performed military service.”

  “It is hard to believe.”

  “I am sure of it. No one could have cursed me as Mr. Singh did who had not served the Raj.”

  “Do you think Mr. Singh and Mrs. Singh are subversives?”

  “I will make inquiries.”

  “The gen has been a little shadowy today, Informer.”

  “Brother, it was a difficult night. The coldheartedness of the Widow, my wanderings on the Mountain.”

  “Take another drink, brother. You sound like Wuthering Heights.”

  “Was that a battle, brother?”

  “In a way.”

  “You must tell me about it someday.”

  “Remind me. Now I want you to spend the night in Laitokitok, sober, and bring me some information that is not bullshit. Go to Brown’s Hotel and sleep there. No, sleep on the porch. Where did you sleep last night?”

  “On the floor of the Tea Room under the billiard table.”

  “Drunk or sober?”

  “Drunk, brother.”

  * * *

  Mary would certainly wait for the bank to open so that she could get the mail. It was a good day for flying and there was no sign of anything building up and I did not think Willie would be in any hurry about getting out. I put a couple of cool bottles of beer in the hunting car and Ngui, Mthuka and I drove out to the airstrip with Arap Meina in the back. Meina would mount guard over the plane and he was smart and very sharp in his uniform and his .303 with the sling was freshly polished and oiled. We made a run around the meadow to put the birds to flight and then retired to the shade of a big tree where Mthuka killed the engine and we all sat back and were comfortable. Charo had come along at the last minute because he was Miss Mary’s gun bearer and it was only proper that he should meet her.

  It was past noon and I opened one of the quarts of Tusker and Mthuka and Ngui and I drank from it. Arap Meina was under discipline for a recent drunke
nness but he knew I would give him some later.

  I told Ngui and Mthuka I had a dream last night that we should pray to the sun as it rose and again to the sun as it set.

  Ngui said he would not kneel down like a camel driver or a Christian even for the religion.

  “You don’t have to kneel down. You turn and look at the sun and pray.”

  “What do we pray in the dream?”

  “To live bravely, to die bravely and to go directly to the Happy Hunting Grounds.”

  “We are brave already,” Ngui said. “Why do we have to pray about it?”

  “Pray for anything you like, if it is for the good of us all.”

  “I pray for beer, for meat and for a new wife with hard hands. You can share the wife.”

  “That’s a good prayer. What do you pray for, Mthuka?”

  “We keep this car.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Beer. You not get killed. Rain good in Machakos. Happy Hunting Grounds.”

  “What you pray for?” Ngui asked me.

  “Africa for Africans. Kwisha Mau Mau. Kwisha all sickness. Rain good everywhere. Happy Hunting Grounds.”

  “Pray to have fun,” Mthuka offered.

  “Pray sleep with wife of Mr. Singh.”

  “Must pray good.”

  “Take wife of Mr. Singh to Happy Hunting Grounds.”

  “Too many people want to be in religion,” Ngui said. “How many people we take?”

  “We start with a squad. Maybe make a section, maybe a company.”

  “Company very big for Happy Hunting Grounds.”

  “I think so too.”

  “You command Happy Hunting Grounds. We make a council but you command. No Great Spirit. No Gitchi Manitou. Hapana King. Hapana Queen’s Road. Hapana H.E. Hapana D.C. Hapana Baby Jesus. Hapana Police. Hapana Black Watch. Hapana Game Department.”

  “Hapana,” I said.

  “Hapana,” Mthuka said.

  I passed the bottle of beer to Arap Meina.

  “Are you a religious man, Meina?”

  “Very,” said Meina.

  “Do you drink?”

  “Only beer, wine and gin. I can also drink whisky and all clear or colored alcohols.”

  “Are you ever drunk, Meina?”

  “You should know, my father.”

  “What religions have you held?”

  “I am now a Moslem.” Charo leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “What were you before?”

  “Lumbwa,” Meina said. Mthuka’s shoulders were shaking. “I have never been a Christian,” Meina said with dignity.

  “We speak too much of religion and I am still acting for Bwana Game and we celebrate the Birthday of the Baby Jesus in four days.” I looked at the watch on my wrist. “Let us clear the field of birds and drink the beer before the plane comes.”

  “The plane is coming now,” Mthuka said. He started the motor and I passed him the beer and he drank a third of what was left. Ngui drank a third and I drank half of a third and passed what was left back to Meina. We were already putting up storks at full speed at the approach and seeing them, after the running rush, straighten their legs as though they were pulling up their undercarriage and commence their reluctant flight.

  We saw the plane come over blue and silvery and spindle-legged and buzz the camp and then we were barreling down along the side of the clearing and she was opposite us, with the big flaps down, passing us to land without a bounce and circling now, her nose high and arrogant, throwing dust in the knee-deep white flowers.

  Miss Mary was on the near side now and she came out in a great, small rush. I held her tight and kissed her and then she shook hands with everyone, Charo first.

  “Morning, Papa,” Willie said. “Let me have Ngui to pass some of this out. She’s a bit laden!”

  “You must have bought all Nairobi,” I said to Mary.

  “All I could afford. They wouldn’t sell the Muthaiga Club.”

  “She bought the New Stanley and Torr’s,” Willie said. “So we’re always sure of a room, Papa.”

  “What else did you buy?”

  “She wanted to buy me a Comet,” Willie said. “You can pick up quite good bargains in them now, you know.”

  We drove to camp with Miss Mary and me sitting close together in front. Willie was talking with Ngui and Charo. At camp Mary wanted the stuff unloaded into Bwana Mouse’s empty tent and I was to stay away and not watch it. I had been told not to watch anything in detail at the aircraft either and I had not watched. There was a big bundle of letters, papers and magazines and some cables and I had taken them into the mess tent and Willie and I were drinking a beer.

  “Good trip?”

  “Not lumpy. The ground doesn’t really heat up anymore with these cold nights. Mary saw her elephants at Salengai and a very big pack of wild dogs.”

  Miss Mary came in. She had received all the official visits and was beaming. She was well-beloved, well-received, and people had been formal about it. She loved the designation of Memsahib.

  “I didn’t know Mousie’s bed was broken.”

  “Is it?”

  “And I haven’t said a thing about the leopard. Let me kiss you. G.C. laughed at your cable about him.”

  “They’ve got their leopard. They don’t have to worry. Nobody has to worry. Not even the leopard.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “No. Sometime when we are coming home I’ll show you the place.”

  “Can I see any mail you’re finished with?”

  “Open it all.”

  “What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you glad to have me back? I was having a wonderful time in Nairobi or at least I was going out every night and everyone was nice to me.”

  “We’ll all practice up and be nice to you and pretty soon it will be just like Nairobi.”

  “Please be good, Papa. This is what I love. I only went to Nairobi to be cured and to buy presents for Christmas and I know you wanted me to have fun.”

  “Good, and now you’re back. Give me a hold hard and a good anti-Nairobi kiss.”

  She was slim and shiny in her khakis and hard inside them and she smelled very good and her hair was silver gold, cropped close, and I rejoined the white or European race as easily as a mercenary of Henry IV saying Paris was worth a mass.

  Willie was happy to see the rejoining and he said, “Papa, any news beside the chui?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No troubles?”

  “The road at night is a scandal.”

  “It seems to me they rely a little too much on the desert as being impassable.”

  I sent for the saddle of meat for Willie and Mary went to our tent for her letters. We rode out and Willie took off. Everyone’s face shone at the angle he pulled her into and then, when he was a distant silver speck, we went on our way home.

  Mary was loving and lovely and Ngui was feeling badly because I had not taken him. It would soon be evening and there would be Time and the British airmail papers and for the bright receding light and the fire and a tall drink.

  The hell with it, I thought. I have complicated my life too much and the complications are extending. Now I’ll read whichever Time Miss Mary doesn’t want and I have her back and I will enjoy the fire and we’ll enjoy our drink and the dinner afterwards. Mwindi was fixing her bath in the canvas tub and mine was the second bath. I thought that I would wash everything away and soak it out with the bathi and when the canvas tub had been emptied and washed out and filled again with former petrol tins of hot water from the fire, I lay back in the water and soaked and soaped with the Lifebuoy soap.

  I rubbed dry with my towel and put on pajamas and my old mosquito boots from China and a bathrobe. It was the first time since Mary had been gone that I had taken a hot bath. The British took one every night when it was possible. But I preferred to scrub every morning in the washbowl when I dressed, again when we came in from hunting and in the evening.

  Pop hated this as the
bathi ritual was one of the few surviving rites of the old safari. So when he was with us I made a point of taking the hot bathi. But in the other kind of washing yourself clean you found the ticks you’d picked up in the day and had either Mwindi or Ngui remove those that you could not reach. In the old days, when I had hunted alone with Mkola, we had burrowing chiggers that dug into the toes under the toenails and every night we would sit down in the lantern flare and he would remove mine and I would remove his. No bathi would have taken these out, but we had no bathi.

  I was thinking about the old days and how hard we used to hunt, or rather, how simply. On those days when you sent for an aircraft, it meant you were insufferably rich and could not be bored by any part of Africa where it was at all difficult to travel or it meant that you were dying.

  “How are you really, honey, after your bath and did you have a good time?”

  “I’m well and fine. The doctor gave me the same stuff I was taking and some bismuth. People were very nice to me. But I missed you all the time.”

  “You look wonderful,” I said. “How did you get such a fine Kamba haircut?”

  “I cut it square at the sides some more this afternoon,” she said. “Do you like it?”

  “Tell me about Nairobi.”

  “The first night I ran into a very nice man and he took me to the Traveler’s Club and it wasn’t so bad and he brought me home to the hotel.”

  “What was he like?”

  “I don’t remember him terribly well, but he was quite nice.”

  “What about the second night?”

  “I went out with Alec and his girl and we went someplace that was terribly crowded. You had to be dressed and Alec wasn’t dressed. I don’t remember if we stayed there or went somewhere else.”