The Clouds Beneath the Sun (40 page)

“Yes, come on, Eleanor, if I can accept, why can’t you?” Sandys laid his hand on Eleanor’s arm.

Slowly, she withdrew it. “I think the whole idea stinks. No.”

“What idea stinks?” said Jack affably.

Eleanor, the minister, and Sandys looked sheepish.

“We can’t really talk about it,” said Jeavons in a low voice. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Come
on
, mother, out with it. What’s got Max here all hot and bothered? What has he accepted that you haven’t—oh, I know, I get it.
Of course
. It’s that time of year. Am I right?” He grinned. “Am I right?”

Eleanor nodded.

“Is someone going to tell the rest of us what the mystery is?” said Natalie, transferring her gaze from the minister to Sandys to Eleanor. When neither of them replied, she turned in her seat. “Come on, then, Jack, what’s the answer to the riddle?”

Jack nodded, drinking a slug of wine. “What Max has that our mother doesn’t is a knighthood.” He wiped his lips with his hand. “My guess is that she has been offered a damehood in the New Year’s honors list and she, bless her, has turned it down.”

All eyes turned on Eleanor.

“Eleanor,” said Natalie, “is it true?”

“Well, I’ve had a letter from the palace, yes. They never say you’re getting anything definitely, just that Her Majesty ‘has it in mind’ to consider you for an honor and, if granted, would you accept?” She fixed her gaze on Natalie and shook her head. “I said no. I think all the wrong people are rewarded in Britain, all the attention seekers and snobs, rather than real achievers. Your work should speak for itself. Added to which, in this case, there’s a political element. I was chosen because of the upcoming independence conference and that’s not right.”

“But Eleanor,” said Jeavons, “you’re very deserving—I’m surprised you haven’t been asked before.”

“But I
have!
Three years ago. I said no then, too. That’s how Jack could read between the lines.” She leaned forward. “And I tell you, Minister, there are lots of deserving people, unknown people who give their lives to good causes, who never get honored. Who gets honored? I’ll tell you who gets honored—well-paid, overweight businessmen who aren’t satisfied with being well paid, but who want a gong to hide the fact that they are, most of them, very ordinary human beings. It’s a rotten system, Mr. Jeavons, and I want nothing to do with it.”

She wiped her lipstick off her glass with her napkin.

“Normally, if you are offered something and turn it down, you must wait at least five years for another offer. The fact that they’ve waited only three years in my case shows this is politically motivated. So I want it even less. You can tell the prime minister from me that—”

“Eleanor!” Sandys again put his hand on her arm. This time she did not remove it. “Calm down. Think for a minute. We all know, around this table, the threat you face. If you were to be honored, it would be much more difficult for the authorities—whoever they are—to close you down.”

That thought had occurred to Natalie at precisely the same moment.

Now Eleanor took back her arm. “Maybe so, maybe so. But I don’t like it—it’s wrong. The work should speak for itself.”

“I wish everyone felt like you, but I fear they do not.” The minister spoke quietly. “You’d be surprised how a title attracts attention, even these days. Why not sleep on it—”

“No!” She softened her tone. “No. My mind’s made up.” She looked up and scraped back her chair. “Jack, how about some music to go with the wine? Let’s spoil the minister with all our luxuries at once.”

“Sure,” said Jack. “What’s your taste, Minister, Beethoven, Brahms, Basie?”

“Oh, Basie, please.”

“‘Shoe Shine Boy’ suit you?”

“I never thought I’d hear ‘Shoe Shine Boy’ in the bush—amazing.” Jeavons beamed.

“The Count Basie Orchestra coming up!” said Jack as he got to his feet.

Suddenly he stopped, winked at Natalie, and then looked at his mother. “Having a title worked for Basie—it worked big time.”

He left the tent grinning as his mother threw her napkin at him.

•   •   •

Natalie didn’t mind jazz, but she didn’t find it moved her anywhere near as much as classical music. She didn’t like the endless repetition and the heavy syncopation, which she found intrusive. Classical music let you think.

Still, as she sat near the fire, listening to “Shoe Shine Boy,” she could see that the minister was extremely relaxed and nodding his head—his very fine head—in time to the beat. He had a sharp, legally trained mind, and seemed to see the point of jazz, so maybe she was missing something. But she had in particular been fascinated by what he had to say about politics in Britain, especially race.
Could
it become as important an issue as in Africa or the United States? Surely not. But Jeavons seemed to know his own mind, and he was a minister after all.

She tried listening to the jazz with her eyes closed, as Arnold Pryce liked to do. It didn’t help. When she opened her eyes, she happened to notice, in the distance, in the gloom, Mgina slipping out of her tent. Natalie frowned. What was Mgina doing in her tent at this time of night? The laundry was usually brought back in the afternoon. Maybe it was a late delivery.

As soon as was decent, she got up from her seat, said good night to everyone, and retreated to her own quarters. There was no sign of any laundry on her bed so it was a mystery why Mgina had been there. Then she noticed there were some fresh flowers on the writing table. Normally the flowers were changed twice a week, and the next change wasn’t due yet. But maybe, just now, fresh flowers were plentiful—she’d have to ask Mgina. For now, Natalie had Russell’s letter to answer, and she wanted a smoke. Given that tonight they’d had wine at dinner, she didn’t bother with whiskey.

Jack played “Shoe Shine Boy” three or four times, then the camp fell silent. One by one, the people around the fire got up and returned to their tents. The minister was one of them—he and Sandys were using the two guest tents at the far end of the row, well away from Natalie’s own quarters. Soon only Jack, Eleanor, and Sandys were left but as Natalie watched, she saw Jack get up and kick some sand onto the fire to kill it, and then he retired to bed.

Sandys and Eleanor both stood and kissed on the cheek, and then Eleanor went back to her tent and Sandys strolled to the guest tent he had been allocated.

Natalie finished her cigarette, put out her own lamp, moved the chair and table inside the tent, and then sat, looking out.

The camp had closed down for the night and all was quiet, save for the noises of the Serengeti—shrieks high in the trees, a rush of hoofs as a herd of something tried to escape a predator, the flap of wings from a large unseen bird, slow and rhythmical.

She sat on. She had set herself to wait for half an hour, to see whether something might happen, something that she thought
would
happen, and she had a bet with herself that, if her instincts were right, she would treat herself to another cigarette.

Ten minutes passed, fifteen. Just on twenty she saw a figure walk quickly from the area of the guest tents towards Eleanor’s tent. Sandys. He didn’t look round and he certainly didn’t shuffle, as Ndekei had done. When he reached Eleanor’s tent he went straight in and disappeared.

Natalie reached for her packet of cigarettes.

•   •   •

“Over to your left,” said Daniel, pointing. “Remember, Miss Natalie? That’s what we call a sausage tree.” He slowed the Land Rover.

Natalie was sitting next to him, with Kees in the back. It was a week later.

She looked to where Daniel was pointing.

“Isn’t that a leopard?” said Kees.

“Your eyes are good,” breathed Natalie. “I can’t see it. I’ll never get the hang of spotting things in the bush.”

“Well done, Mr. Kees,” said Daniel. He pointed again, for Natalie’s benefit. “About ten feet off the ground. I told you, leopards like sausage trees.”

With difficulty, Natalie located the leopard. “They are so graceful, leopards. But so well camouflaged.”

“Hmm,” growled Kees. “I’m long-sighted. I need specs for my work, and for writing.” He added, “Look, I see Maasai ahead, over to the left. Do you think they want a lift somewhere?”

“What are they carrying?” said Daniel, lowering his voice.

“Something glinting in the sun,” replied Kees.

Daniel turned off the track and drove through some scrub thorn bushes.

“They are a long way off the road, aren’t they?” said Kees softly.

“Why does that matter?” Natalie was itching to get back to camp.

“Well,” said Kees. “If you are on foot you can go anywhere, of course. But if you stick to the tracks and roads, and we come along, or someone like us, in a vehicle, you can get a lift. It’s odd that these two are in open country.”

They all watched in silence as they approached the Maasai, who stood still as the Land Rover came near.

Daniel pulled up close.

The two Maasai were tall, grown men rather than boys, and they had their red cloaks pulled around them. He turned off the engine, leaned out, and spoke to them in Swahili. They shook their heads so he switched to Maasai.

They replied, but briefly.

“They say they are looking for lost cattle but I don’t believe them.”

“Why ever not?” Natalie looked at Daniel. “Why would they lie?”

“Look around. The soil is undisturbed. Nothing has been this way.” He nodded his head to the left, to the south. “They are coming from Olinkawa.”

“Why is that significant?”

“It’s inside Tanganyika.”

“So?”

Daniel turned in his seat. “Do you have any cigarettes?”

“Not on me, no.” Natalie shook her head.

“I do,” said Kees. “But I thought we weren’t allowed to give Maasai cigarettes?”

It was true enough. Cigarettes were very popular among the Maasai but they were a fire risk.

“Give me your pack,” said Daniel, still speaking softly.

Mystified, Kees took the cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

Daniel undid the pack, leaned out of the Land Rover window again, and held out the pack to the two Maasai.

Their faces broke into grins and they both stepped forward.

As they did so, the cloak worn by the taller of the two men fell open—and Natalie gasped.

Under the cloak, something shiny was revealed, something metallic.

A gun.

The Maasai, embarrassed by what had happened, angry at being tricked by Daniel, took a step back, shouted at him, pulled their cloaks more tightly around them and, spurning the offer of cigarettes, started walking away from the vehicle.

Natalie, Daniel, and Kees watched them go.

“What was that all about?” she said at length.

“It’s a Russian gun,” breathed Daniel. “A Kalashnikov. They got it in Tanganyika. I’ve been hearing rumors for days now, weeks. Some Tanganyikans were trained in Russia, and the Russians were invited back to train more Tanganyikans. To train the army, I mean, special forces. And they bring Russian guns. These men will have got that Kalashnikov in Olinkawa—that’s about twenty-five miles from here. They will have left in the dark and crossed the border in the dark. That’s why they are off the tracks.”

“How will they have paid?” said Kees. “Those guns don’t look cheap.”

“Cattle maybe. Precious stones. The Russians are trying to sow trouble, so the guns may not be as expensive as they look.”

“And what’s it
for?”
Natalie suddenly had a craving for a cigarette herself.

“Let’s ask them,” said Daniel. He started the engine and caught up quickly with the two Maasai.

There was another exchange, though this time they didn’t stop walking and Daniel was forced to keep the Land Rover trundling along. Eventually, he braked and let them go on.

He looked across to Natalie. “They say that, in the first instance, the gun is to guard the burial ground. So there is no repeat of the break-in.” He put the Land Rover in gear. “And then, when the time comes, it will be used to defend the gorge.”

•   •   •

The strains of Sibelius’s
Karelia Suite
filled the night air, the strings offering a cooling image of a near-frozen fjord—clean, compact, crisp. Natalie stared into the scarlet and crimson embers of the campfire. She was thinking about Christopher and Jack. This evening at dinner they hadn’t fought, exactly, but there had been niggles throughout. Eleanor had been away for a few days in Nairobi, visiting the bank, picking up money with which to pay the ancillary staff, and doing other chores. In fact, she had only just returned, as they were finishing dinner, having driven there and back. It turned out she hated flying and, when she could, took the Land Rover, even if it meant driving through many hours of darkness on dirt roads.

At one point during the evening, the conversation had turned—as it inevitably did turn, most nights—to the trial, and what might happen to the gorge. Everyone was even more gloomy now, now that the Maasai had increased the pressure by acquiring a gun. Jack had tried to lighten the mood by explaining that the practice of burying the dead was not only a Christian idea, but had been taken over from the Datoga tribespeople, who had been conquered by the Maasai in the early nineteenth century.

“The Datoga buried their famous warriors and, it seems, fig trees, which can grow to massive proportions, like the soil where humans are buried. That’s why you have the tradition, in this part of the world, of worshipping fig trees. They are sacred because they are infused with the spirit, the blood, of powerful ancestors. Because the fig trees that grow over the graves of past chiefs are especially vast, that proves how powerful their spirit is.”

“Nonsense!” Christopher had cried. “Romantic rubbish.”

Jack had fallen silent.

“Look around,” said Christopher. “There are fig trees all over the Serengeti—small, large, massive. Their size has nothing to do with who’s buried where, but how close they are to rivers, how deep the soil is, how exposed to the wind they are. Like all plant life.”

“I was just explaining Datoga and Maasai beliefs—”

“Why do only men worship the fig trees, then? The women worship those shifting sand dunes. That has nothing to do with the Datoga.”