Mackenzie Ford Read online

  She sat up and her gaze took in Natalie and Jonas. “Well, I’m glad you two could help. Anything that brings blacks and whites closer is important right now. I’m told there’s been more oath-taking up north in Nakura, where a thousand Kikuyu were gathered in the bush for a bloodletting ceremony. And it’s the third time in the past two months. A curfew has been imposed and two newspapers closed for publishing coded notices telling people where the oath-taking would take place. It’s going to be like this in the runup to the independence conference in London in February, I am afraid.”

  There was a brief gloomy silence, until she suddenly turned in her seat. “Mutevu, what’s the matter? There’s something different about you tonight—I can’t put my finger on it?”

  He held his massive frame erect but grinned sheepishly. “Some monkeys got into the camp, ma’am. They stole one of my boots—”

  “That’s it!” cried Eleanor. “Of course! You’re not shuffling.” She peered round the edge of the table and inspected his footwear. “So your beloved Wellingtons have gone missing, eh? You’re reduced to plimsolls, I see.”

  “Just one boot was taken, Miss Eleanor.”

  “We can fix that, I’m sure. Don’t worry. I’ll have Jack buy some in Nairobi.” She smiled.

  “Thank you, Miss Eleanor, but the old ones were a gift from Sir Philip Sisley. He signed them. Don’t bother Mr. Jack, he’s busy, I’m sure.”

  And Mutevu was gone.

  Eleanor smiled as he left the room. “I should have guessed the boots had sentimental value … because they don’t fit.” Her grin took in the whole table. “Now, where was I? Yes, well done, Natalie, that was quick thinking, about the anthrax, I mean. But if this episode looks like it has a happy ending, we can get back to—”

  “Yes, yes, this paper on the knee joint needn’t be very long, isn’t that so?” interrupted Richard Sutton somewhat awkwardly. “And if you insist we need modern bones for a comparison, maybe I should go to Nairobi, or New York, find some bones, in a hospital or a morgue, and then come back.” He swigged his Coke from the bottle.

  “Don’t be silly, Richard.” Eleanor pushed her shirt more firmly into the top of her gabardine skirt. “No one wastes digging time like that. Just because you’ve made one discovery doesn’t mean you, or Russell here, or Christopher, or any of us, will not find something even more important in the days ahead.” She took off her spectacles and waved them at him. “Don’t be so impatient. No one’s going to ‘scoop’ you on a thing like this.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Sutton banged his Coke bottle down on the table. “This is a big breakthrough, Eleanor. Front-page news. The biggest coup of my career, and of Russell’s. Daniel’s greatest find. And it won’t do your reputation any harm, either. The Deacon legend will be glossier than ever. We should move fast. I feel it in my bones.” He looked around the table, from one face to another, daring them to disagree.

  Natalie met his gaze.

  He looked away first.

  Eleanor, who had been chewing one of the stems of her spectacles, enfolded them in her hand. “Richard, please. Please. I have been excavating in Africa for nearly forty years, and running digs for much of that time. They are collective affairs, as you well know. Now, I agree that Daniel, and Russell, and you have made an important discovery. Front-page news, as you put it. Or so we think. But what if Natalie here is right, and a comparison with modern bones does not support your theory? If you go rushing off to Nairobi, or New York, or somewhere else, you’ll have wasted days of valuable digging time, time that I have organized, raised money for, negotiated permissions for, with the government and the local tribes. That’s not been easy.”

  She leaned back as Mutevu Ndekei reappeared to remove the plates.

  “I won’t have it, Richard. No one is standing in the way of publication, or censoring what you have discovered. For pity’s sake, I, we, are just asking you to see sense, make a simple comparison first, and delay for a few weeks. It is perfectly normal behavior that happens all the time.” She reached up and removed the bandana from her head, folded it neatly, and laid it on the table next to her napkin. “And you are surely overlooking the fact that, if we have found a tibia and femur in this part of the gorge, there is an excellent chance that we will find some other pieces of the same skeleton, perhaps even a skull. That would be even more momentous than what we have already.”

  Richard went to say something but she waved him down, slapping the table with the open palm of her hand and rattling the cutlery.

  “You force me to say this, Richard, by your … your refusal to back off, see sense, acknowledge that you are part of a team … But if you leave now, I’m warning you—officially warning you—that you can’t come back.” She took a deep breath. “We have achieved what we have on our digs by discipline. Not by being authoritarian—I’m not an ogre, as you well know—but by having a few rules, for the benefit of all, and sticking to them.”

  She swallowed some water. No one else around the table was about to say anything. Most of them kept their eyes fixed firmly in front of them.

  “Now look,” she went on, more amenably, “let’s not argue. I want this paper to be published as quickly as possible, just like you do. But I have other responsibilities and you, in my view, are being unreasonable.”

  Richard said nothing. But only with great difficulty.

  • • •

  “Is there anything else like this in the world?” Natalie asked. “It’s extraordinary.” She held her camera to her eye and took more photographs.

  “I don’t know if it’s unique,” replied Christopher, “but it’s certainly very unusual. You can see why the local Maasai, who are theoretically Christians, still worship these sands.”

  Natalie, Christopher, and Kees van Schelde were standing in front of a small sand dune on the Serengeti plain, about eight miles or so from the camp. It was not far off dusk and Christopher had brought them here to show them one of the “local sights,” as he put it, Natalie and Kees being the two newest members of the dig.

  Kees was also taking photographs. “Explain it to me again, will you? I’m still not sure I understand completely.” Kees was the youngest of the team, a twenty-five-year-old Dutchman from the University of Amsterdam who had yet to complete his Ph.D., but he had already been on several digs, making him considerably more experienced than Natalie, if less qualified, formally speaking.

  “Sure,” said Christopher. He leaned against the bonnet of the Land Rover. “This being a flat plain, the winds can be quite strong, with very little to impede them. Notice that the edge of the dune that is facing the wind is fairly steep, whereas the trailing edge—on the lee side if you like—is quite shallow. When the wind blows, what happens is that grains of sand on the leading edge, the steep edge, are blown up into the air, and then fall and settle on the trailing edge. When the wind is very strong, like it is now, that process is magnified, it happens much more quickly, with the result that, over a matter of days, the entire sand dune can move, maybe as much as five feet a day. Over the months, the dune can move miles—and then, when the wind changes, move back again. Because it moves so much, the local Maasai think the dune is mysteriously alive, which is why they worship it.”

  He slid into the driving seat of the Land Rover, the others finished taking their photos, and then Natalie got in alongside him and Kees climbed in the back.

  The light was fading fast as they headed home. They looked about them, as the animals began to appear.

  “Have you ever been to Italy?” Kees asked.

  Christopher shook his head.

  “No,” said Natalie. “I’d love to go, but why do you ask?”

  “They have this thing called a passeggiato when, in the early evening, everyone walks up and down the main street of town, looking at everyone else, who they are with, what they are wearing … it’s just like that here in the bush. The animals come out and are on a sort of parade.”

  “Hmm,” growled Christopher. �
��With one big difference. Here, one half of the animals are trying to eat the other half.”

  As he said this half a dozen zebra ran across their line of sight, obviously fleeing from something.

  “Do you miss Amsterdam, Kees?” said Natalie. “I’ve only been once. I loved it. The trees, the canals, the narrow houses …”

  Kees smiled. “I don’t miss it because I know I’m going back. If I couldn’t go back I’d be very unhappy. The best thing about Amsterdam are the bicycles. Because of all the canals, the streets are narrow, so the traffic is slow, and everyone uses bicycles. The city is small so nowhere is more than fifteen minutes’ ride from anywhere else. That means you see more of your friends in Amsterdam than in other major cities. And because of that you have more friends than in other major cities.” He leaned forward and tapped Natalie on the shoulder. “Were you on holiday when you visited?”

  “Yes and no. My parents were singing in a choir, in a choir competition, and they had reached the final. I was just a girl and was taken along. Their choir lost but I loved the city. The contest was part of a flower festival.”

  Kees nodded. “Yes, I was going to say that, after the bicycles, the next best thing about Amsterdam are the flowers. There are endless flower festivals of one sort or another, and flower sellers at every corner. Do you sing, now you’re older?”

  Natalie made a face. “Sore point. I do sing, yes, and not badly. My parents wanted me to have a musical career but I preferred science. We fought like mad about that, but they eventually gave way, when I got my place at Cambridge.”

  “I went to a geological conference in Cambridge. Lots of bicycles there too. Do you live in college?”

  “Yes, I do. You?”

  “We don’t have colleges. I share one of those narrow houses you admired, with someone else, a wine merchant who plays the cello.”

  Natalie colored. It was silly. Kees couldn’t know about her complicated relationship with the cello, but she couldn’t help herself. Would she ever be able to hear the cello again without thinking of Dominic, without rerunning rapidly the entire course of the affair, itself not unlike a piece of music, with a rousing opening, a serene middle, and a sad coda. How she fought with herself to prevent that loop in her brain from springing to life, like a wild animal disturbed in its sleep.

  And must all conversation, from now on, carry a hidden menace, the possibility that it would lead, as this one had, in directions she would rather avoid? How long would she be a prisoner?

  Thankfully, the camp came into view, across the gorge. Christopher slowed, the vehicle giving off a succession of creaks and groans as they descended the bank, scattering a troop of monkeys with the vehicle’s headlights.

  “Which are the bigger nuisance in the camp,” said Kees, “monkeys or baboons?”

  “Oh, monkeys,” said Christopher, “baboons are—”

  “Stop!” cried Natalie. “Christopher, stop! Look!”—and she pointed.

  “Where? At what?” he replied, braking hard, so that the Land Rover’s engine shuddered and stalled.

  “Sorry,” breathed Natalie. “I didn’t mean to sound so excitable but isn’t that … doesn’t that look to you like a Wellington boot?”

  Christopher leaned forward and peered to where she was pointing. “You know, I think you could be right,” he said slowly. “Do you want to get it?”

  Natalie got down, while Christopher restarted the engine. She retrieved the boot and carried it back to the Land Rover. “It looks like it’s torn, ripped near the ankle,” she said, getting back in. “But it can be repaired.”

  “Well done,” said Christopher. “We have to keep Mutevu sweet. He’s a good cook, but a bit temperamental.”

  Darkness was now settling all around them as they traversed the gorge, climbed the bank opposite, and entered the camp.

  Natalie got down and, taking her camera and the Wellington with her, returned to her tent. There were a couple of hours before dinner and she knew what she wanted to do. She had done some camping as a girl and had always had with her a bicycle tire repair kit, for repairing tears to the inflatable mattresses inevitably used in camps. She had brought the repair kit to Africa, not knowing what sort of beds were used on Eleanor Deacon’s digs.

  She took the repair kit out now and, after cleaning the Wellington, applied gum around the tear and fixed a rubber patch that covered it more than adequately. She wedged the part of the boot where she had stuck the patch under the foot of the bed and sat there reading for half an hour. She judged that by then the patch would be stuck firmly to the boot.

  It was now not much more than an hour to dinner and she knew that Mutevu would be in the kitchen.

  But he wasn’t. Maybe he was in the storeroom, she thought, and went on through to the other side. As she came round the door, the first thing she saw was the gleam of his white T-shirt.

  “Mutevu,” she said, “look what I—oh,” she breathed as she stepped further into the room. “Richard, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  Richard Sutton was also in the storeroom, standing next to Mutevu, and small by comparison.

  “Natalie, hi,” he said. “Give me a minute, will you? I’ve a touch of indigestion and Mutevu was giving me some bicarbonate of soda to treat it.” He stepped back, and Mutevu turned and went to a cupboard, where he took down a white box. “Two teaspoonfuls,” he said, opening it to reveal the powder. “No more.”

  “Thanks,” said Richard, patting his stomach. “This should do the trick.” He looked at Natalie. “Have you got there what I think you have?”

  Natalie held up the boot and Mutevu suddenly beamed.

  “Miss Natalie! Where did you find it?”

  “In the gorge. We scattered some monkeys playing with it.” She showed him the patch. “It was torn, so I repaired it.”

  Mutevu took the boot as she passed it across. “What is your favorite food, Miss Natalie? You must tell me. I must repay you this kindness.” He found the other Wellington, which he had kept in the storeroom, slipped off his plimsolls, and changed immediately.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Mutevu. I’m just pleased we found it. Now, I’ll let you get on. Dinner isn’t far away.”

  “And a good dinner it will be, Miss Natalie.” He grinned. “I cook much better with my boots on.”

  2

  THE BURIAL GROUND

  Mutevu Ndekei leaned forward so that Eleanor Deacon, as always the last to be served, could be given her chops. Lunch, three days later. Lamb chops and chicken were the staple foods at the camp and that was fine by Natalie. The local deer meat she found too heavy, too dense, the fish—brought in frozen from Lake Victoria—too watery, too lacking in flavor. Not that she had voiced these views. Like a good team player she ate whatever was put in front of her.

  Outside the refectory area, the sun bleached the ground, the deadwood of the spiky acacia branches that enclosed the camp, the washing which was stretched on lines between the tents, like flags. The Land Rovers, cooling under the trees, gave off mysterious metallic clicks and cracks.

  Natalie was feeling famished today. While the rest of the crew was in the gorge, Jonas and she had visited Mgina’s brother Odnate again. They had found him much improved. He had stopped vomiting, his temperature was down, and the ulcers under his tongue were atrophying. He hadn’t regained his appetite yet but there was no doubt he had turned a corner. Natalie had been very cheered by what she had seen.

  “Mutevu!” said Eleanor forcefully all of a sudden. “Can you please explain something to me?”

  Everyone stopped eating and Mutevu stood up straight, holding the big serving plate.

  “Yes, Miss Eleanor?”

  “Why is it … why is it that each of us is given two chops, while Natalie here is given three? This is not the first time I have noted your—what shall we call it?—generosity in her direction. I know she’s new, I know she’s pretty, but is there some other reason for it? I’d just like to know, that’s all.”

  Nata
lie blushed. She had begged Mutevu not to single her out but he wasn’t deterred; he kept piling her plate high.

  Mutevu stood back from the table.

  “Miss Natalie found my boot three days ago, Miss Eleanor.” He lifted his leg, to show her. “And she repair it where the monkeys tear it.”

  Eleanor Deacon smiled. “So that’s it.” She nodded at Natalie. “Well done, my dear. I can’t complain, I suppose.” And she smiled at Mutevu. “And I have to say the food has been exceptionally good these past few days. You did say that you cooked better with your boots on, and it seems to be true.”

  Smiling to herself, she went back to her own food. “Now,” she said, slicing into her chicken. “Although we need to be as thorough as possible, I feel we should finish surveying JDK as soon as possible, by the end of the week, certainly.” JDK stood for “Jock Deacon’s Korongo,” the name the local Maasai had given a cul-de-sac off the main gorge since digging started there years ago. “There is still a chance that we will find the rest of the skeleton to which the tibia and femur belong, but we have a lot to get through this season. Richard, Russell, how long do you think you’ll need?”

  Russell North sat across the table from Natalie. Two evenings before, he had again joined her during her late-night smoke. They had again talked about their work and he had impressed her with his knowledge. And when she had produced the whiskey, he had presented her with some chocolate. Twice during their conversation, he had laid his hand on her arm. When he had taken his leave, he had once more stood very close, looking down at her.

  And that was close enough, Natalie now knew. Someday, someday soon, she hoped, she could move beyond Dominic. But not with Russell, not here, not now. Physically, there was nothing wrong with him, but that wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. Russell was too raw, too … straightforward, even. That wasn’t a bad thing in itself but … Dominic had been so, so playful when they had met, so full of allusion, so light in his touch, so ambiguous in a gentle, soft way. Russell was pulling her in too quickly. Or trying to.