The Book of Secrets (12 page)

He was up in two days, weak but otherwise recovered, with an appetite that promised a quick return to his normal condition. But seven days later, fever struck again. Watching the mzungu turning into a yellow ghost of himself in her care, Mariamu called her uncle, who arrived with the dispenser. The two men, recognizing the symptoms of black water fever, at once raised the alarm. Voi was notified, the
MCA
station appealed to for help, and Mrs. Bailey arrived, taking over the household.

2 July, 1914

… all sorts of powers I am told were invoked to cure me … including brandy blessed by verses of the Koran …

At night the mukhi came, a little apologetically, with the maalim. The ancient exuded such an authority — Mrs. Bailey was practically pushed aside, though she managed to come back with force into the picture. He had said one day he would cure me, and here he was, book in hand. I did not believe in his powers, of course … it was disconcerting. He sat by the bed and started taking my pulse and so on — I don’t know what for except to disarm Mrs. Bailey, who stood by sternly, observing very closely. His face — the skin dull and wrinkled as old leather under the white kofia — was without expression, except for the eyes black and burning. He did not refer to our previous meetings. Presently he motioned to the mukhi, who produced several incense sticks, which he proceeded to set up all over the room. Mrs. Bailey was enraged.
“I will not have this!” But the maalim had put a very firm hand on my forehead and she was forced to take notice in case he did me harm. His other hand, palm downwards, was on the open book in his lap. The hand on my forehead felt heavy …

The maalim began to utter prayers in Arabic. As he finished he turned around to stare towards the mukhi. He looked distracted, distant. He began now to mutter in a dialect that even the mukhi did not understand. He spoke in harsh tones, stone-faced, his hand remaining pressed on Corbin’s forehead. Finally he came to himself, for the mukhi heard a familiar word, “maji,” water, and saw the maalim’s face relax, his hand lift from the mzungu’s forehead. Mrs. Bailey went to fetch water. As soon as she was gone the old man carefully laid the book aside, on the table next to the sick man’s head. He took the bottle of brandy which was on the table and, holding it in both hands, he muttered some verses and blew over it, then put the bottle back. Mrs. Bailey returned with the water, the maalim took it and prayed over it, then offered the water to Corbin. “Give it to me,” said Mrs. Bailey sharply. The maalim obliged without protest, and she took the glass and firmly put it away. “He doesn’t need it now,” she said.

As the mukhi and the maalim left, with one final glance at the patient, Mrs. Bailey proceeded to remove the incense sticks. Then she took the water and threw it out at the back of the house in the dark.

“Brandy!” groaned the
ADC
, stretching out a hand, when she returned.

And he drank the brandy, with its promise of alcohol and the maalim’s prayers for recovery.

Corbin’s illness had served to narrow the gulf between him and the two missionaries. Since he had refused to be carried on a stretcher to the Mission, first Mrs. Bailey then Miss Elliott had stayed to look after him. Mariamu had assisted them, staying a week longer in his service before going to stay with her uncle, the mukhi, to prepare for her wedding.

The Shamsis gave Mariamu a full wedding. She wore a dark green frock and green pachedi that was full of wonderful affects: needlework, sparkles, and sequins. Her hands and feet were covered with henna in detailed bridal patterns. She shimmered and jangled as she gracefully moved. The frock-pachedi was a gift from her people, the earrings, the bangles, the finely wrought necklace were all lent by them, in a collective gesture that Corbin found deeply touching. Only the sparkling little nose stud was actually hers, and it looked humbled by all the finery upon her. The pale, rouged face framed by the black hair — is this what an Eastern queen looks like — the full moon in the embraces of the night, he remembered reading somewhere, perhaps in
FitzGerald. There was an element of exaggeration, of unreality about the whole thing, but the mukhi said there had not yet been a wedding in the town, and so this was something special.

It was an evening ceremony at the Shamsi mosque. All sat on the floor facing the mukhi, except the
ADC
, who stood in the doorway. He knew he was not allowed in, yet he watched with an obstinacy they did not know how to handle. The Swahili sheikh read the nikaa in Arabic, and the bride and groom then signed the register, Mariamu writing her name as Miss Elliott of the Mission had taught her during her short stay there. When the marriage was announced by the mukhi, all stood up to congratulate the couple, wishing them a happy new life, and Corbin, seeing her husband looming large in turban and suit beside his fragile bride, yet looking humbled by the experience, thought perhaps there was something good in him; after all, the mukhi had praised his enterprise.

Later the couple sat on chairs outside, near but not quite under the little mbuyu tree, which had been decorated with coloured paper and from which hung a few lamps. On both sides of them were single rows of chairs for the elders and family. On the hard ground in front of them were geometric designs drawn earlier by the women using coloured flour, and beyond these auspicious markings the remaining guests sat facing the couple. The bride was presented gifts by a delegation of two men from Moshi, representing the groom’s family and community, and the groom received gifts from her family. It was an event that drew many from the neighbourhood, even the Englishwomen missionaries. Afterwards a meal was served and sherbet flowed freely. Music was provided first by Mr. Corbin’s gramophone, then a harmonium and tabla and dhol appeared, and an impromptu concert began.

Later that evening the Mission ladies sat with Corbin on his verandah and indulged in small talk and a little brandy. The
couple had been escorted in a procession to the small house that had been arranged for them, and the guests had dispersed. But the festive air appeared to have lingered down below in the town. There were lamps still lighted in the shops, where the men were perhaps playing cards, and occasionally there came a snatch of chatter, a burst or two of laughter. A song began and broke off.

Miss Elliott lamented the passing of the girl from her influence. “She was such perfect material for conversion,” she said. Over his pipe Corbin offered the opinion that perhaps she was best off with her own people. “Surely,” said Miss Elliott, “no one is better off for not accepting Our Lord.” Her companion agreed forcefully.

Corbin had nothing to say to that, and they lapsed into silence. After a while he asked how Thomas was doing.

At first the women did not respond. One looked towards the other, who was staring into the darkness.

“I hope nothing’s the matter,” he said.

Mrs. Bailey finally abandoned her contemplation of the night and turned to her companion. “Jane, we should tell him,” she said.

“You tell him,” Miss Elliott replied.

It turned out that Thomas had set covetous eyes upon Miss Elliott. The ladies became wary, but hoped the man would change. Then one morning, while Miss Elliott was arranging flowers inside the church, she was accosted by the Indian, who proposed to her in the most odious manner. And that was not all. He had been put in his place, of course, but later that limb of Satan had seduced a girl convert, with the argument that only those women who had had intercourse with a real Christian man would be saved.

“Something about holy water,” murmured Mrs. Bailey.

Miss Elliott choked on her drink, turning very red.

“I’m sorry I ever let him attach himself to me,” said Corbin,
coming to the rescue. “He did have a way of ingratiating himself with one —”

“He’s been sent away, of course,” said Mrs. Bailey. “We are keeping eyes and ears open in case he’s done more damage.” She shuddered.

“Do you think there’s going to be a war in Europe?” said Miss Elliott, demonstrating her recovery.

There had been rumours in Mombasa and Nairobi, which had leaked out in Voi, about the worsening political climate in Europe.

“As likely now as any time before, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Bailey. “Nothing unusual is going on.”

“Oh, but it is,” said her companion. “Fighting in Serbia. Mobilization …”

“What mobilization?”

“There are rumours.”

“In any case,” offered the
ADC
, “we hardly have the armies to fight in Africa. I can assure you, there are no preparations afoot for war with our neighbours.”

They went back inside and prepared to retire.

The
ADC
had learned to gauge the depth of the night’s quiet by the clarity of its non-human sounds: the hoot of an owl, the bark of a hyena, the whisper of leaves. As he lay in his bed it seemed to him that the town which was his charge had now finally retired, had accepted once more the embrace of quietude.

Through this night there rang a shrill cry, all too human, then angry shouts half muffled as though coming through open doors, and sounds of thumping and shuffling feet, and at least one person as always during commotion approaching up the hill to make a report.

Corbin walked out on the verandah, taking the spare lamp with him. An askari approached in the darkness. “The girl,
bwana!” The
ADC
’s heart sank. He hurried down the path, following people already running to the scene, which presumably was the house near the Swahili mosque designated for the couple.

He walked through the small crowd that had gathered, until only a few men stood in front of him. He caught glimpses of the mukhi standing at the doorway, expostulating with someone inside, whom Corbin saw was Pipa. The bridegroom of a few hours ago was shaking his head from side to side in vehement denial. When he saw Corbin he took a threatening step towards him which the mukhi blocked. The young man, in loincloth and singlet, was sobbing; the mukhi gently pushed him back inside, and then said to Corbin, “Please, sir, go. Not now.” The door closed behind him. Slowly Corbin walked away, back up the hill to his house.

The mukhi came early the following morning. He stood with his fez in his hand, a pained, hesitant look on his face, his head tilted sideways questioningly.

The
ADC
was sitting at his table with a cup of tea. The Mission ladies were not around.

“Now tell me, mukhi. What was that matata about? Did the boy have a change of heart?” Corbin said.

“Bwana. Most unfortunate matter. Tragic.”

“What happened?”

“What to say, sir? Boy says girl not pure. She was touched.”

“How do you know …” Corbin began foolishly, then stopped and stared at the man.

“What to do?” said the mukhi.

The Englishman continued to stare.

“What to do? Now the stepfather, sir, he spreads poison, the boy is in grief … and your good name, sir …”

“What about my good name, mukhi?”

“Forgive me, bwana. But Rashid says the girl was in your bed one night.”

24 July, 1914

I have denied the stepfather’s accusation in the strongest possible terms. The man has to be watched for mischief. I told the mukhi as much. When the mukhi left, I saw Miss Elliott walking about on the verandah, having just returned from her walk. She came in as soon as we exchanged looks — I wonder how long she had been there. Mrs. Bailey soon came in from the spare room, and the two women discussed their needs at the station in a rather formal way.

No more was said about the accusation. The
ADC
kept a low profile and applied for leave. The girl and her husband would soon be on their way to Moshi in German East.

But the war came first.

From the personal notebook of Pius Fernandes
April 1988, Dar es Salaam

And so ends the diary, with more than four months of empty pages. As far as is known there is no record of any other diary of Alfred Corbin; no indication that the Englishman ever again committed his thoughts, his observations to paper (until, more than five decades later, he published his memoir entitled
Heart and Soul
, a terse — not to say soulless — account covering his several decades and posts in half a dozen colonies).