Green City in the Sun (106 page)

     Who had bought it? Who lived there now?

     Then she saw someone emerge from the front door and pause for a moment on the veranda. She was a Catholic nun dressed in the blue habit of the order that had taken over Grace Mission.

     Was Bellatu a residence for sisters now? A convent perhaps?

     Deborah turned and walked across the road. She stood upon a grassy ridge and looked across the wide ravine that cradled the Chania. It was completely deforested now; the land was shaved and scarred and laid out with humble shambas. She saw the square mud huts and the women toiling in the fields.

     Forcing her eyes downward, Deborah saw the rugby field, which had once been a polo field, where two teams of African boys now played ball. She tried to imagine her grandfather, the dashing earl, on his pony, riding to a win.

     Abutting the chain link fence was a modest homestead consisting of neat little vegetable plots, a pen for goats, and four square mud huts with tin roofs. There were women with babies down there, working the land. Deborah wondered who they were.

     Finally she squinted at the slow-rolling Chania. She saw a ghost standing on the bank: young Christopher, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
Phantom laughter—the laughter of a softer, more innocent Sarah—seemed to ring out over the water.

     Deborah wanted to turn her back on the painful scene.

     But she was rooted to the spot, to the red earth that her bare feet had known so well as a child. Deborah shivered. Her hair, clasped behind her neck and hanging straight down her back, was whipped up. It stung her cheeks. It flicked in front of her eyes. She pushed it away and continued to stand on the grassy ridge.

     This land was still so beautiful, the air so crisp and pure and so full of the magic that had nurtured her at a tender age. Deborah felt like a little girl again, running free along the river, in love with Africa, her only company a family of colobus monkeys and a pair of otters. There had been no ugliness or poverty in that world;
that
Kenya had been sparkling and full of fantasy. And it was to that country Deborah had hoped to return, to find the beginning again and start over, hoping, along the way, to find herself as well.

     But that Kenya seemed no longer to exist, and Deborah was beginning to wonder if it ever had. How then, if she could not start again at the starting point, was she going to find her roots, the clues that would help her be at peace with herself?

     She looked lastly at the mission, where a dying old medicine woman lay.

T
O
D
EBORAH'S SURPRISE, THE MANAGEMENT OF THE
Outspan Hotel put her in Paxtu Cottage, the last home of Lord Baden-Powell, founder of the Boy Scouts.

     In this bungalow, consisting of bedroom, living room, two fireplaces, and two bathrooms, the Chief Scout had lived out his final years and had died. He was buried in Nyeri, in a grave facing Mount Kenya, in the same churchyard where Sir James Donald had been laid to rest. The hotel was filled to capacity, the manager had explained. Normally they let the Baden-Powell cottage stand empty, as it was a beloved national memorial. But there were no other rooms available. The manager's name was Mr. Che Che, and Deborah wondered if he was a descendant of that same Che Che who had guided her aunt's oxcarts up from Nairobi sixty-nine years ago.

     Paxtu was set among sloping green lawns with a perimeter of forest. It was isolated and quiet, and Deborah was glad to have it. As the porter brought in her suitcase and opened the drapes for her, revealing a spacious veranda and a view of Mount Kenya, she scanned the historical photos and
letters that were carefully preserved in frames on the walls. Baden-Powell had named this cottage after Pax, his ancestral home in England; Deborah wondered if he had borrowed the example of Bellatu, which was nearby.

     Since it was now past lunchtime, and the great busloads of tourists had come, eaten, and gone off up the mountain for an overnight at Treetops, the dining room and view terrace were quiet and nearly deserted. Deborah took a seat at a table and gazed at Mount Kenya, whose charcoal peaks against gunmetal clouds seemed to mock her return to East Africa. A soft-spoken waiter in black trousers and white jacket brought her a pot of tea and pointed to a table set out with afternoon pastries and tea sandwiches.

     Despite "Africanization" and "Kenyanization" as official government initiatives to obliterate colonial traces from the country, such traditions seemed to Deborah too deeply embedded. High tea, she had seen, was also served at the Hilton, and she didn't doubt that like many other British customs that were holdovers from the colonial days, afternoon tea and white-gloved waiters were going to stay.

     "Bugger me if it isn't Deborah Treverton!"

     She looked up, startled. A stranger was standing on the lawn, staring at her.

     She stared back. Then she said, "Terry?"

     He came up to her, hand outstretched.

     "Terry?" she said again, incredulous. Deborah thought she was seeing a ghost. But the hand that clasped hers belonged to a man very much alive.

     He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Is this ever a shock! I saw you sitting here and I thought,
Blow me if that woman doesn't look just like Deborah Treverton!
And then I thought,
It is her!"

     She continued to stare, speechless. He looked the same as she remembered him, except that there was an even stronger resemblance now to Uncle Geoffrey, in the sunburned face, the outrageous self-confidence. Terry Donald was quite an attractive man, Deborah found herself thinking, in his beige cotton shirt, olive green vest and shorts, and knee socks and boots. His dark brown hair was considerably lighter than she recalled, no doubt from years in the sun, and his eyes were bluer.

     "God, Deb! I can't believe it's you! How long's it been?"

     The waiter came up.
"Nataka tembo baridi, tafadhali,"
Terry said to him, ordering a beer.

     "How come you never wrote, Deb? Did you just get here or have you been in Kenya long?"

     "I thought you were dead" was all she could say.

     He laughed. "Not bloody likely! Seriously, Deb. I seem to recall your saying something at your aunt's funeral about not going to America after all. And then the next day you were gone. What happened?"

     She tried to remember. Grace's funeral. Deborah had decided not to accept the scholarship and must have told everyone. She forced a smile. "A woman's prerogative to change her mind. I went to California after all."

     "Is this your first time back to Kenya?"

     "Yes." She regarded him, still shocked. The memories he triggered! "Terry, I don't understand. I really thought you were dead. At the agency they said your family had been killed in a car accident."

     His handsome smile faded. "Yes, they were."

     Terry's beer came. He opened the bottle and poured it into a tall glass. Then he took out a cigarette and lit it with the lighter that hung in a leather pouch on a thong about his neck. He puffed, inhaled deeply, and then considerately turned his head away to blow the smoke. "Dad, Mum, Uncle Ralph, and my two sisters," he said, "all at one go. It happened on the bloody Nanyuki Road. They were on their way to the Safari Club. One of those bloody
matatus
bashed right into them, trying to pass another
matatu.
Twelve people in the other vehicle were killed." He released a short, bitter laugh. "What blows me is I was supposed to have been with them, but I had a flat tire on the way up from Nairobi, so they went off without me. I was on the road to the Safari Club when I came upon the accident. They were just being put into the ambulance."

     "Oh, Terry, I'm so sorry."

     "These bloody roads," he said, turning his glass around and around on the tabletop. "They don't maintain them, you know. The roads get worse every year. Soon there won't be any left."

     "So you sold the agency?"

     "Sold it! Not on your Nellie! Donald Tours is one of the most profitable operations in East Africa! Why would I sell it?"

     "I went into the agency this morning and was told that a Mr. Mugambi now owned it."

     "Oh, that." Terry reddened and laughed a little.
"I'm
Mr. Mugambi. I changed my name. It isn't Donald anymore." "Why did you do that?"

     He looked up from his beer and made a discreet search of the terrace. "Tell you what, Deb," he said quietly. "Are you busy right now? Why don't you come over to the house with me? I'd like you to meet my wife. My home is here in Nyeri; it's not far."

     Deborah, following his line of sight, looked over her shoulder and saw two Africans in casual linen suits drinking tea at a corner table and talking softly. "Who are they?" she asked.

     Terry tossed a shilling on the table and pushed his chair back. "Come on, love. My Rover's out front."

     When they were alone on a path crossing the hotel grounds, Terry said, "Those men were from Special Branch. You've got to watch what you say in Kenya these days."

     As the Rover pulled out onto the main road, Terry said, "So how did you get up here? You're not driving yourself, I hope!"

     "I rented a car and driver. I gave him the rest of the day off."

     "So what is this for you then? A holiday? Come back to see the old places? You'll find that an awful lot's changed. Oh, maybe not on the outside, but underneath Kenya has changed."

     She grew pensive as they passed the church where Terry's grandfather, Sir James, was buried. His grandmother, Lucille, whom neither of them had known, was buried in Uganda, as was his aunt Gretchen. Was Terry, then, the last of the Donalds?

     "Do you have children?" she asked, suddenly needing to know.

     "I have a boy and a girl. But you didn't answer my question. What brought you to Kenya?"

     "Do you remember Mama Wachera, the medicine woman who lived in that hut by the polo field?"

     "That queer old bird! Yes, I remember her. Is she still alive? My God,
but I'd swear she was the last holdout of the older generation!"

     Deborah told him about the letter from the nuns.

     "What do you suppose she wants with you?" Terry asked as the Rover bounced along the track.

     "I have no idea. I plan to go to the mission in the morning and find out."

     "Are you in Kenya to stay, Deb?" he asked, casting her a cautious sideways glance.

     His question surprised her. And then suddenly she thought: Am
I here to stay?
"I don't know, Terry," she replied honestly. They pulled up to a chain link fence where signs read HATARI! DANGER! KALI DOGS! STAY IN YOUR CAR AND HONK YOUR HORN.

     "Even here?" Deborah said as an askari opened the gate for them.

     "Crime is bad all over Kenya, Deb. And it's on the rise. It's the population problem, you see. Kenya has the highest birthrate in the world. Did you know that?"

     "No, I didn't."

     "There isn't enough land to support everyone, not enough jobs to go around. And it's becoming a nation of youngsters. You've seen them, no doubt, young Africans in Nairobi, with nothing to do. You wouldn't believe the scams that are pulled on innocent tourists! I'm forever warning my people not to have anything to do with strangers they meet up with. So many of my female clients have their purses stolen."

     "Are the police ineffectual then?"

     "Ineffectual! Only if you don't pay them enough
magendo.
But I have a better system for keeping my chaps honest. If any of my clients come up missing something, I simply put the word out that I'm calling in a witch doctor. It never fails. The next morning there it is, whatever was nicked, quietly restored to the owner."

     "Is such superstition so prevalent still?"

     "Worse than ever, I suspect."

     They pulled into a dusty compound where surly dogs were rounded up by Africans. The house was very old; Deborah recognized the original pioneer construction of whitewashed mud walls and thatch roof. It was large,
long, and low and sagging-looking, but it was in good repair and appeared to be neatly kept.

     "I have three residences," Terry explained as they went inside. "One in Nairobi, another on the coast. But this is where I keep my family. It's the safest place. So far."

     The inside was cool and dark, with a low-beamed ceiling and polished wooden floor, leather sofas, and animal trophies everywhere. An African wearing khaki trousers and pullover sweater was setting the table for tea.

     "We'll have that in here, Augustus," Terry called to the man, then guided Deborah to the arrangement of sofas around the biggest fireplace she had ever seen.

     When they were seated, Terry lit another cigarette and said, "So when did you leave, Deb? Fourteen, fifteen years ago? You haven't come back to the old Kenya you once knew. For one thing, the government's a joke! Look how it's trying to put a lid on the population growth. Women who have no husbands, which is to say just about all the women in the bloody country, receive some sort of financial support for each child they have. As a birth control measure Moi's government has said that from now on only the first
four
babies receive aid; any after that are on their own. Now what bloody good is that?"