Beverly Hills Maasai (4 page)

“I know, I know.” This was getting old fast. “It’s just that if I have to stop suddenly he’ll fly right out of the car!”

Nebala translated again and Samuel answered. More laughter, but he continued to stand.

“What? What did he say?”

“I told him you could make him fly like a bird, and he wanted you to show him because he has always wanted to be a bird.”

That wasn’t the plan. But I knew one way to make him sit.

“I’m surprised that he doesn’t listen to you. I thought that because you’re King Nebala’s son, a very respected Maasai, he would listen to you … especially since he is practically just a boy.”

Nebala barked out something, and Samuel dropped down to the seat as if he’d been shot. He sat there meekly, looking down at his feet. Maybe he wasn’t smiling anymore, but I was.

We slowed as we came up to the entrance to my house. I pushed a button on the remote and the gate glided open. We passed through and onto the grounds.

There was a burst of Swahili from the back seat and I turned slightly. Samuel was pointing at the gates as they closed behind us. I hadn’t even considered what they might think. If Samuel had never been in a car before, he’d certainly never seen an automatic gate.

“It works with this,” I said, holding up the remote.

“I explained,” Nebala said. “There are gates like that in Nairobi for big houses and hotels.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Nairobi was a big city, I remembered—it had as many people as Los Angeles.

We drove up the driveway past the rows of sprinklers watering the lawns. I didn’t want to go right up to
the house—I wanted to tell my mother about our guests before she saw them. I pulled up and parked.

“This is your house?” Nebala asked.

Olivia laughed. “This is their
garage.”

“Garage?”

“Where they keep their cars.”

Nebala pointed to the guest house. “There. Is that your house?”

“That’s
your
house while you’re here,” I said.

“And your house?”

“That’s the big one you saw as we drove up,” Olivia explained.

“That is where your tribe all lives?” Nebala asked.

“Just my family.”

“I did not know you had such a big family,” Nebala said. “How many brothers and sisters?”

“Just me.”

He looked shocked. “None? No others?”

I shook my head. “I’m the only child.”

“In such a big house?”

“It’s not that big,” Olivia said.

It was certainly bigger than
her
house, I almost snapped—but I kept my mouth closed. She wasn’t trying to be snotty; it was just a fact. Compared to some of the monster mansions in the neighbourhood my house was almost modest. Everybody living here had money, but some people had
real
money. There was a big difference between rich and super-rich. We were somewhere in the middle.

“A house so big for only a few,” Nebala said. “It would be so … so … lonely.”

“It’s okay. I have friends, and of course Carmella and Carlos are always here.”

“They are friends?”

Olivia scoffed. “They’re the maid and the gardener.”

“What is this …
gardener?”
Nebala asked.

“It’s somebody who cares for the grounds.”

“The ground?” he asked, still looking confused.

“Not the
ground
, the
grounds.
Plants and flowers and the grass and trees—things growing outside the house.”

“Ah, yes,” Nebala said. “This man, this
gardener
, he must be very wise.”

“Um … I’ve never really thought about that,” I admitted.

“Do you know about such things?” Nebala asked. “About the earth and how things grow?”

“Of course not!” I protested. I didn’t have time for this discussion right now. “Olivia, could you settle them in while I talk to my mother?”

“For sure,” she replied.

Samuel jumped out of the car, over the trunk, as the rest of us climbed out through the two doors. Nebala carried their one bag.

“The door to the guest house should be open,” I said. “I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

They started off, and I couldn’t help watching. Olivia, all blonde and tanned and perfectly coiffed, wearing her Gucci sunglasses, led the three red-robed Maasai, shields in hand, across the perfectly manicured grounds. It was a bizarre sight, and I certainly understood why so many people had stared.

I’d made the decision to put them in the guest
house and not the main house while we were coming up the driveway. The guest house had three bedrooms, a kitchen, a full bathroom, and a simply
wonderful
view of the pool and gardens.

It also had the advantage that it would keep them a little bit farther away from my mother. This was going to be more than just a surprise for her. It would be bordering on shock. I knew she wasn’t going to say no to their staying with us, but I was still a little nervous about how she might react. With my mother there could be a wide range of responses—everything from just smiling and agreeing to something approaching a full-fledged anxiety attack, complete with having to breathe into a paper bag to stop hyperventilating, taking a little blue pill, and having to lie down. If it went that way, I was going to end up feeling pretty guilty.

Although, come to think about it, I couldn’t remember her having one of those anxiety attacks for quite a while. Either she wasn’t having them anymore or she was having them when I wasn’t around.

For a split second I played around with the idea of not telling her at all. She was out a lot, and when she was home she hardly ever went to the guest house … No, I couldn’t do that. If she did wander out and discover them by accident she’d have a
heart
attack instead of an anxiety attack. I’d have to tell her, but I’d have to tell her gently.

I opened the front door. The house was completely quiet. And big and sterile and empty. I felt a tinge of loneliness. It really was a big house for just two of us. In Nebala’s village there would have been lots of little
huts, with five or six or ten people in each one—each about a fifth of the size of our foyer—and the huts would all be clustered together, in a little circle, with a big open space in the middle for the cattle to be safe at night.

“Hello!” I yelled out.

My voice echoing off the walls was the only response I got. Maybe my mother wasn’t even home yet. I walked through the foyer toward her “studio.” Well, that’s what she was calling it now. It used to be my father’s office—the place where he spent more of his time than any other place in whole house. Now that he wasn’t living here anymore he certainly didn’t need an office. That was one of the reasons my mother had given for choosing that room—that and the fact that it had a lovely view of the garden. I thought there might be more to it than that.

Changing the office into a studio had involved a
massive
renovation. The room had been stripped down completely, with the floors and walls and even the ceiling ripped out. There was nothing left that gave even a hint of my father’s having been there. It was as if the whole room had been cleansed of his presence. I guess my mother needed that. But I missed the office—the familiar furniture, the smell of my father’s cigars and cologne.

As I got closer I heard some kind of dreamy New Age music. That had to be my mother. Carmella’s music was loud and Latino.

The door was open and I peeked in. While the rest of the house was clean and organized, this room was
nothing more than a big jumble. It was filled with paintings and statues and pots and vases and quilts. Some were finished, but many had simply been abandoned. There was a potter’s wheel, two easels, boxes of paints, a loom, and mounds of fabric and wool. All the equipment was the best money could buy, bought brand new and discarded even before the warranties could lapse. They were like the orphans of my mother’s previous hobbies, ventures, and plans.

She started each new project with such enthusiasm—at first, it would be all she could talk about. She’d spend hours and hours, excitedly occupied, fascinated and focused. Then, time after time, all of that would be replaced by apathy, disappointment, despair, and finally … nothing.

I knew what she was doing. Since the divorce she’d lost her way, lost her role. She was no longer a wife, and that was about all she seemed to know how to be. She used to say that she and my father were kind of a team—she would take care of everything at home, including me, so he could devote himself full time to his business. And she would arrange dinner parties with clients, organize fundraisers for worthy causes, and do all the other social things that helped give him status in this status-crazy city. Now, without that part to play, she was trying to “find herself.” But all she’d found out so far was that she wasn’t a painter, or a sculptor, or a quilter, or a potter. She needed to find out who she was.

My greatest fear was that she was going to start dating again … dating younger guys. Beverly Hills
really was becoming Cougar Town. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than what happened to a friend of mine—running into her mother while she was out clubbing, bumping into her at the bar. How incredibly embarrassing! And to make it worse, they were dressed almost identically! I figured there should seriously be a law against people over thirty wearing stilettos and spandex.

I was startled out of my thoughts when something moved, catching my eye. It was my mother, down on the floor in her black exercise clothing, stretching on her little exercise mat. She was in the enthusiastic stage of one of her latest passions—yoga.

“Hey, Mom,” I said.

She inhaled deeply and then released her position and slowly rose to standing. I had to admit she was doing it pretty well, sort of gracefully, like a cat or a ballet dancer.

“Hello, my darling,” she said. “Would you like to join me?”

“Thanks, but not right now,” I replied.

She raised her hands above her head, touching her palms together, then raised one foot until it rested against the thigh of her other leg.

“Standing Tree,” she said.

“What?”

“This position is called Standing Tree.”

That name at least made sense. There were so many terms she’d thrown at me over the past month—the Cobra, the Bridge, the Lotus, and of course my favourite, Downward-facing Dog. My dog, Sprout, was
very
good at that last position. On occasion my friends and I had done “hot yoga.” It was like regular yoga but in a room only slightly less hot than an oven. Talk about feeling the burn! It was good exercise, but I really didn’t like working up that much of a sweat, nor did I have time to learn all those silly names for positions. Just tell me to lie down, touch my palms to the floor, whatever.

But at least I could appreciate yoga … well, I appreciated all the clothing associated with yoga. There were some wonderful outfits by some of my favourite designers. Of course, just as with stilettos and spandex, I figured there should be a “best before” age limit on yoga clothing.

My mother said that yoga was making her feel younger. I don’t know how many times over the years I’d heard her say that “forty is the new thirty,” or “fifty is the new forty.” By that logic, dead must be the new eighty.

“This is
so
relaxing,” she said.

She did sound relaxed. Calm. That might be helpful right now.

“You really should try this,” she urged me.

“That’s okay. I just wanted to ask you something,” I said.

“You could ask while assuming this position.” She lowered her leg and came over to me. “Here, let me show you.”

I knew there was no point in arguing. Soon this latest craze would pass and we could file yoga under painting in the “past hobby” category. Although this little obsession had been going on for a while. That
and computers. What a strange combination: something from ancient times and computers. And of course she had the most up-to-date, modern, expensive computer that money could buy—that my
father’s
money could buy. She was taking a course. It was almost amusing to hear her talking about the Internet as if it had just been invented.

I tried to mimic her yoga position. She helped move my leg up and shifted my hands a little so they were in the right position.

“Now isn’t that restful?” she asked.

“Sitting is restful. Lying down is even more restful.”

“Just hold the position, and you’ll see.”

I found myself working hard to maintain my balance and not topple over.

“You wanted to ask me a question?” she said.

“Yeah, right.” I wanted to word this just right. “I was wondering if you’d mind if I had some friends over.”

“You know your friends are always welcome in our home,” she said. Her voice was very calm, and I noticed her eyes were closed.

“I was actually hoping they could stay with us for a few days.”

“How many of your friends will be with us?” she asked without looking at me, eyes closed, lost in her Standing Tree.

“Three friends.”

“Are their parents out of town?”

“Yes, they are.” That wasn’t a lie. Africa was definitely out of town.

“And for how many days, exactly?”

I thought about the date on the flyer. The marathon was in four days, so it wouldn’t be much more than that. “Four, possibly five days.”

“It will certainly make for a busy house.”

I lost my balance and stumbled as I put my foot back down to stop myself from tumbling over.

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” she said.

“I never thought it looked that easy.”

My mother exhaled deeply and lowered her foot to the ground. She looked at me and tilted her head slightly to one side.

“You look very tense,” my mother said. “Nervous … as if there’s something that needs to be released.”

I felt a little unnerved. Of course there was something else. I just wasn’t used to my mother noticing.

“Well, my friends … they’re not really from around here,” I said.

“Oh, are they from the Valley?”

“Well, you could say that. They’re sort of from the
Rift
Valley.”

“The Rift Valley? Isn’t that in Africa?” she asked.