The Book of Secrets Page 5

  As he stood watching, a garba dance got under way with much excitement: a whirling circle of joyous, brightly clad women, nose studs glinting, bangles jingling. The garba enacted the first conversions of the community from Hinduism, several centuries ago in Gujarat, he was told. Corbin saw in it a flower opening and closing. The women, bending forward, clapping hands, approached the centre, then with a snap of fingers stepped back into the spinning circle. Corbin wondered if it was appropriate to stare and turned away his gaze.

  A chair was produced for him and wearily he sat down and accepted a drink of sherbet. The men’s dance had wound down, and the din had reduced somewhat, though there were shouts of approval as the garba grew faster, the women now performing with brass pots which they would release and catch again with their hands, clanking their rings upon them to the beat. Momentarily Corbin let his eyes close, held the cold sherbet glass to his forehead, felt the pleasant restful sensation.

  When he opened his eyes again it was as if he had been transported, was in the midst of a vision. A striking young woman in white frock with a red pachedi around her shoulders was approaching, then receding, doing a rapid brass-pot dance with lithe movements of waist and hip and unconscious of the eyes upon her — envious, wondrous, angry — her own eyes large, black, and deep, on her lips an indifferent even arrogant smile. Her features were markedly distinct from the other women’s, so that she seemed an outsider of some sort: tall and thin, fair, with long face, pronounced nose, full lips. The circle of women had broken, a few of the younger ones were dancing solo, and in between them danced this siren. The tabalchi-drummer beat faster and the agile dancers kept time, feet thumping, hips gyrating without inhibition, breath drawn sharply, faces glistening with sweat.

  Embarrassed at what looked like exhibitionism for the sake of the white man, the mukhi turned towards Corbin, and the Englishman took his cue. Thanking the leaders, wishing them a good evening, he walked out of the tent and started up the path to his house, in the company of an askari, just as a group of boys came running into the tent breathing out kerosene-smelling flames from their mouths.

  This was the first of three long nights of celebrations, which lasted till dawn, followed by a few hours of slumbrous stillness before the next day’s festivities began anew. Many visitors were in town. There were processions with banners and ceremonial costumes. The police did a daily march-past, and there was neverending food for all and sundry. It was an occasion for kofias and kanzus, turbans, frocks, and pachedis. The ADC felt good that all this happened in his domain; under, so to speak, his benefaction.

  21 October, 1913

  … This I suppose is administration at its most rewarding, a vote of confidence and honour for the Government’s representative.

  Each afternoon of the festival there arrived for this lord an offering of the day’s food in a covered brass tray. The first offering produced an open altercation with his cook and personal servant.

  “Heathen food, your eminence,” said Thomas, shaking his head dismissively.

  “Let’s uncover it and see, shall we?” said Corbin indulgently.

  The aromas were strong, and his askaris hovered nearby in case the mzungu rejected the offering. But the mzungu was not going to let it go without a try.

  “All the same, sir, I will bring English food. Christian. I give this witchcraft to the police.”

  “Uncover it, man!”

  And so, for three nights Corbin went to bed satiated on unfamiliar cooking he quite took to in the circumstances, relieved of the dreadful “English” cuisine usually provided by his cook. Long into the night came the beat of the dhol and drums, the screeching of a harmonium, bringing visions of whirling circles, the girl in white.

  How would he replace Thomas? The man had become insufferable; from the deferential and unassuming small man Corbin had met in Mombasa, he had turned into an overprotective and domineering mother hen. His disapprovals were many and openly stated, especially concerning Corbin’s relations with the “heathen” townsfolk.

  Every Sunday, stuffed into a black suit and wearing a black hat on top of his glistening hair, Thomas made his way with much ceremony to attend service at the Mission station, where he had been welcomed, his Indianness notwithstanding. Corbin himself only paid short formal visits, but on several occasions Thomas brought for his ungrateful master scones that he had evidently pocketed.

  23 October

  I feel sorry for poor Thomas … but to forgo saffroned lamb “biryani” for a curried shepherd’s pie and a kedgeree he calls trifle.… He has sulked mightily, exaggerating his attentions to increase my guilt all the more. Once he read in my presence a letter from home, whose details he refused to divulge, becoming resentful and aggressive at my questions, and I wondered if the missive was genuine at all. I recall how he insinuated himself into my patronage the first time we met. I did not question who he was, not very deeply that is, assuming Mombasa, like all large ports, to have all sorts of characters washing upon its shores whose backgrounds are not worth the trouble of inquiry. He has even punished me, I fear, with curried concoctions that have done my stomach no good at all.

  27 October

  We have made up, and I have dutifully swallowed Thomas’s shepherd’s pie, nothing less. And I have learned something about his life. He was born Hari, and was brought up, he told me, in a mission centre outside Bombay, and recalled two ladies not unlike the two stalwarts of the MCA, one of whom he spoke of rather fondly. He has left a wife and child there. He joined me in Mombasa, he says, at an impulse, when he thought he had been recognized by a priest who had known him in India. How much of the story is true I dare not conjecture. East is East …

  Yesterday, an astounding event from which only now I sit down to recover.

  The “happiness” had been over for two days, the last of the visitors were leaving. The local Indians dutifully went about their business. It was approaching noon, and I began drafting a reply to a query regarding our police contingent. (It seems Government House wants assurance of the preparedness of administrative centres for emergencies such as sudden attacks by the natives.) Suddenly there came shouts, sounds of scuffling and violent quarrelling outside. At first I only momentarily looked up. The askaris know their job (as I was in the process of saying in my memo). But something, the significance of which I was about to discover, made me get up and step out onto the verandah. What I saw was a brawl in progress outside the post office, involving none other than my servant, Thomas, an utterance from whom must have drawn me out. The sounds of the scuffle, with promise of general excitement and diversion, had travelled sufficiently far by now — the first spectators were already racing up the hill. I might have been amused, telling the askaris to get on with it, but this time I was irritated and walked down to the scene, barely beating the crowd to it.

  Of the five men involved in the brawl, two were askaris barely holding on to a burly young Indian man, who stopped struggling at the sight of me. As if on cue, Thomas turned and saw me approach, which having done, he quite unnecessarily took hold of one of the Indian’s ears and said rather ridiculously, “German spy, eminence.”

  “Enough,” I said, and curtly asked the postmaster, who made up the fifth, why he wasn’t at his job, and what this childish matata was about.

  “Wasn’t I on duty when this pig teased me?” he said.

  “Mfalme!” roared the Indian at this provocation. “My lord, it was they who insulted me.” He would have charged at someone had he not been under restraint by the askaris.

  There followed an exchange, the foulness of which did not endear this Indian to my heart at all. He is called Pipa, I learned, and is a most surly sort. He has short-cropped hair on a large round head that gives him the appearance somewhat of a dolt. His clothes — shirt, trousers, and shoes — are quite respectable, so he appears to be a man of some means.

  Pipa, it seemed, had come from German East for the celebrations. The morning after they ended he took to the post office a
sack of mail, which he had brought with him from across the border. The postmaster showed annoyance, naturally, at this unusual quantity of mail. Thomas, hovering nearby, started scolding and abusing Pipa, who gave him a box on the ears.

  I gave orders for Pipa to be put away in the lockup for the day, asked Thomas to go about his duties, and accompanied by two askaris proceeded to examine the mail in the office.

  Letters by Indians of German East to kinsfolk in Bombay and Porbandar and assorted villages in India — “Desh,” as they call the home country — were understandable; as were letters to relations in Voi and Mombasa and Nairobi. They are, after all, subjects of the King, and their reliance on the British government for this most important service was touching. But most irregular were 3 letters from the Oberleutnant of Moshi Fort to Germans on our side. I opened all the letters. Most of them were in Gujarati or Swahili; a handful were in English and there was one in Greek. I allowed them to go with the regular mail. They were, of course, correctly stamped. I will send the German letters, appended with my translations, to Voi, though they seem harmless. One was for hand delivery to a Herr Lenz in Mbuyuni, through which Pipa would pass on his way to Voi. He has to be watched, but I cannot hold him.

  28 October, 7 A.M.

  About the Pipa affair —

  Last night the Shamsis had mosque (as usual). Considerably less singing, much discussion, the purport of which I had no doubt. I was resolved to be firm — the young man had to be taught a lesson. He had after all assaulted my servant — for whom … I have no great love but who after all is of my household. Later I heard a commotion outside, approaching up the hill, then coming to a halt not far off. The booted steps of the watchman outside on the verandah were reassuring. Suddenly the door was flung open. A young woman, head covered, walked in and fell at my feet. Behind her stood the helpless askari.

  (Later)

  “Mheshimiwa,” she said, “Great Sir,” and looked at me with pleading eyes. (I was on my feet in surprise.)

  She was the girl I had seen dancing at the celebrations. Even in everyday, simple attire she was striking in her looks. Her head-cover had fallen back and there was a wild look about her. She was speaking in Swahili and I could not wholly understand her, but I surmised that she was the betrothed of the lout Pipa whom I had locked up. She was at my feet yet had had the nerve to burst in past my askari, for which she had not even apologized. I was not seeking her apology, though, and reassured her about her young man. She smiled a little, in thanks, and left. As I watched her from a window I observed a man come out from the shadows and follow her.

  I stood reflecting on the inscrutability of the alien — how there must be matters of which one will never have an inkling — when there was a gentle knock on the door. Now the whole community picks up courage, I thought. I called out, and the mukhi walked in, fez in hand. I took a chair, and offered him one. “Bwana Corbin,” he said.

  He is a man of the world, his position involves travel. In spite of his humble and respectful approaches, he no doubt knows the place of an Assistant District Commissioner in the government’s hierarchy. Powerless though the individual Indian is beside a European, as a community they have a voice that is heard. In Nairobi, as the Herald regularly reports, they are making a lot of noise; more than three-quarters of the country’s business passes through their hands, in towns just as small as this one. And no less a personage than Mr. Churchill has supported their cause publicly. I reassured him, as I had the girl. The sergeant had been instructed to release the prisoner at ten o’clock. He thanked me. I offered him tea. My guardian angel Thomas showed displeasure, but hastened to the kitchen. The mukhi, having gone outside to pacify his community members, returned. Over tea I asked him in a friendly way if his community held themselves above government punishment even if they violated the law.

  “Ah, Mr. Corbin.… But this was a small thing …”

  “But your man could be charged with spying,” I said.

  At this he was genuinely agitated. “Mr. Corbin! He was given those letters. What could he have done? We are a subject people …”

  I laughed, and he joined me. I asked him what his people sought in this country, in the wilderness, so far from their own country and culture. “Peace and prosperity,” he said. I repeated his words. “Yes, sir,” he asserted, “with your protection. We seek but little. Already we have contributed to the Uganda Railway.”

  He did not remind me that he had an African wife, and children from her, of his commitment to Africa, or of the troubles in India from which his community was running. His discretion and reserve impressed me. In him his people have a good leader, I told him. The British government was pleased with his community, I said.

  I asked him about the girl. Her name was Mariamu, he said. She lived with her mother and stepfather. She was his niece, moreover; her mother was his own sister Kulsa.

  “Who is the stepfather?” I asked.

  “Simba,” he answered.

  The word means “lion” and was obviously a nickname. I asked him who this “lion” was and he laughed. “Rashid the transporter,” he said.

  Apparently this man Rashid was a former railway coolie (therefore strictly speaking not one of the Shamsis) who like many others deserted his job when the man-eating lions at Tsavo seemed invincible, picking off the labourers at will. To the terrified Indians, their tormentors were not real lions at all but the spirits of those who had perished in the desert. How to explain, the mukhi said, when one minute a man is sitting next to you by a fire, inside a four-foot-high protective stockade, and the next minute you see his place empty and hear his screams in the distance? Or when a companion is snatched from the top of a tree where he’s taken his bed, and lions are not supposed to climb?

  “According to the coolies,” the mukhi said, “the spirits of the desert were offended by the railway of the mzungu, and came to attack them as lions.”

  “Then this Rashid must be called Simba in jest,” I offered.

  The mukhi smiled assent. “Now he handles mules. That’s what he knows. But he’s a good provider … and a very protective father. He’s fond of the girl — perhaps too fond.”

  “Would he take to following the girl about?” I asked.

  To which he responded, “Bwana Corbin is a keen observer.”

  “The girl is wild,” the mukhi said. “She’s inclined to go away by herself and the family is worried.”

  I wondered if it was she whom I had seen running in the distance the day I came here to take up my post. She had been coming from the direction of the river.

  “And she is this young man Pipa’s betrothed?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. He came to set the wedding date. He, too, has problems, but inshallah, God willing, they can give happiness to each other.”

  “And when is the wedding to take place?”

  “In a few months, Bwana Corbin.”

  Pipa, meanwhile, will return to Moshi, where he has his shop and his mother.

  The Indians were grateful for the lenient treatment of the young man, and they showed their gratitude in abundance. Crates of tinned milk, a bottle of whisky, socks, underwear, soap, landed in Corbin’s home. One result of the whole incident was his discovery of Thomas’s practice of extorting favours from the businessmen using threats of influencing the ADC against them. After receiving a severe dressing down, Thomas fled.

  It was some days later that Corbin found out that his servant had gone and joined the Mission station. Word got around that Bwana Corbin was looking for a new cook, and one day a plate of fresh chapatti arrived at his doorstep, which he ate with much relish. The askari told him it had been left by the girl Mariamu. The offering was repeated every Thursday, the eve of Juma, an auspicious day when orphans and beggars were fed.

  4

  The nights were cold and dry, the blackness so absolute, so palpably dense he felt that if he reached out a hand from where he slept he could pull it aside and let in the lighted world of London, Paris, and Ha
mburg. The mbuyu tree rustled outside, in the distance was the cackle of hyenas, the grunt of a leopard or hog, the constant crick-crick of insects. Sometimes there would be the maddening, eerie pelting of rain on the roof, a sound which should have been welcome in this semi-desert. He had heard of spirits resident in mbuyu trees and naturally had ridiculed the idea, but in this menace-filled darkness, in this loneliness, all one’s scientific objectivism seemed vulnerable. He knew it to be four o’clock when the rich and rising cry of the brave muezzin rallied against the thick darkness. Such a desolate cry of the human soul in the vast universe. Was there an answer, a response? And then the Shamsis preparing for their mosque. They were a hardy lot, who could match the early Christians in their zealousness. First the mosque caretaker got up and went around the village knocking on doors. Gradually those who felt inclined would make their way to the mosque. Then for a space of half an hour there would be silence — while they meditated, so he was told.

  He had read accounts of the explorers, the great travellers, read reports of their lectures, including one at the Geographical Society of Hamburg given by Krapf. As a boy in England he might have heard Stanley. Didn’t they ever spend sleepless nights, these men, or waver from their purpose? Maynard, the seemingly indomitable Maynard, who had stalked the length and breadth of the country subduing intransigent natives, had confessed to him to bouts of sleeplessness, depression, doubt, taking to his diary to kill time and tire the brain, taking a local woman to kill loneliness. And also he had admitted to that snapping of nerves, an outbreak of savagery.

  That irregular journal for the junior official, The View from Down Here, had recently carried an article on the dreaded “disease” that often struck the lonely administrator in Africa, and dubbed the Furore africanus. “The thing to watch out for,” said the writer, “is a welling up of uncontrollable anger. Before the storm breaks out in a bayonet charge against a tax-evader or witchdoctor, it is a good idea to go out on safari.” An official in German East Africa, he read further, had hanged eight mothers in a row for infanticide. This was in the Pare region, not even a hundred miles away.