Everfair (30 page)

They had an even number of guests, but there were, unfortunately, far fewer women than men. Fwendi, of course, sat at the table's far end. To her left was Winthrop; opposite him, to her right, Albert. He depended on the restraints of polite usage to keep them from conversing with one another across the board, though it would be a hardship for the two engineers. Matty hadn't invited either so they could indulge in talk of technical matters.

Next to Albert, and thus on Matty's left, sat Nenzima. Perhaps it was as good to have gotten the queen's advisor to attend as receiving Josina herself. On Matty's right, beside Winthrop, was Loyiki. He had less confidence in either of the Africans' adherence to the etiquette of table conversation, but hoped the engineers would support him in his efforts to maintain standards.

Clapham served the wines, asking each guest which he preferred. Nenzima requested the sourest, and pronounced herself delighted to taste the herbs Fwendi's great-uncle Mkoi had earlier insisted on sprinkling into it.

During the first course—fried tilapia and boiled plantain balls—Matty accepted compliments on his authorship of
Wendi-La
. He turned them as skillfully as possible, effusing over Rima's debut. The second course, a stew whose oily red sauce made it nearly inedible, was served and eaten to more general remarks.

Finally, they came to the sweet—not a traditional pudding but a m
é
lange of fruits made ready to eat. Clapham was dismissed.

Without waiting for the women to withdraw—that would deprive him of Fwendi's much-needed support—Matty plunged into the business to be taken care of. “The play's last scene, you know, was written just a few weeks ago, with an eye to the looming shadows of world events,” he said, trying for a casual tone.

“It fits so well with the rest,” said Loyiki. “One wouldn't know it had been added on just lately.”

That wasn't the line.

“Events? What events?” Winthrop's question was more like it.

“War. War is coming.” A momentary cessation in the noise of the cast party toward the back of the house made his pronouncement more dramatic than he'd intended.

“Hah. There's always a war, somewhere,” said Albert, the first to recover. “The masters take care that'll be the case.”

“But this time, they say, there's no avoiding it,” said Fwendi. “The next war will be fought everywhere. Even here.”

Trust Fwendi. He thanked her with his eyes, meeting her steady gaze over the length of the table and the intervening lamp.

“But we've just finished up beating Leopold,” objected Nenzima. “They ought to leave us alone so we can recover.”

“I'm afraid it doesn't work like that,” said Matty. He tried to avoid a sarcastic tone, but without much success, judging from the Africans' expressions.

Again, Fwendi rescued him. “The Europeans think us too small to concern themselves with our well-being.” She chose a mangosteen from the fruit dish at her end of the table and pulled apart its scored shell. “Except as their allies. Or as the allies of their enemies.”

Winthrop cleared his throat. “Not even those who assisted us before? The Americans? The French?”

“The Brits?” asked Albert.

“We're regarded as an investment, mostly, especially by the Yankees—”

“And all of their governments, you see, are expecting to fight on the side of the Belgians.” These unwelcome words came from the mouth of Mademoiselle Toutournier, stationed at the silently opened door. She entered and walked toward Fwendi with her smooth actress's tread. Albert and Winthrop stood at once, reminding Matty he couldn't remain seated either. She ignored their offered chairs. “Their rulers are all such good friends.”

Nenzima made a face at the black plum she'd bitten into, as though it contained half a worm.

“But Leopold has been deposed in favor of his son,” Matty hastened to add.

“True.” The Frenchwoman smiled coolly. “And yet…” She left her sentence unfinished, her implications unchallengeable. Since Kalima, she'd changed toward him. If not for the influence she held over Fwendi, he'd have found a way, by now, to switch Lisette's accommodations to the palace or, better, to Daisy's—why wasn't she at her lover's apartments tonight?

“Some other African countries have declared they would desire to uphold the neutrality agreed on at the Berlin Conference: Urundi, and so forth.” It sounded like a statement. It was actually a challenge.

“German colonies,” said Matty.

“The Germans will wage war against Leopold?” Loyiki asked.

“No! Against the Belgian government!” Frustrated, Matty clenched his dessert fork. “Leopold's gone! Over! Done with!”

La Toutournier seemed to ignore him. “The Germans will go to war, yes. But no one else will do so if they can help it. Nor should we.”

“The Mote has discussed this matter,” said Nenzima, lifting her eyes from her wine cup. “We're undecided.”

“It must be decided soon,” said Matty.

Mademoiselle didn't even turn to face him. “It must be decided correctly. With the head and the heart both.

“Everyone knows Portugal hasn't picked a side yet,” she added. “Their colonies, too, are uncommitted. They may remain so, despite efforts by members of the Entente to drag them into such a mess.” And then she
did
look at him, long and pointedly.

He managed to lead the conversation onto safer ground. They moved out to the courtyard, where, under the shelter of mats stretched between the branches of the baobab, crew and cast sang and drank and praised and embraced each other. “Hey, Author-La!” one cried, their pet name for Matty. “Success! We'll go on tour to Cape Town, won't we?” He endured their congratulations and produced his own. He applauded The Lion Ambassador's dance, even gave in to the urging and joined her in a dignified measure or two. It was much like a strathspey.

Somehow, the evening ended. The Elephant Doctor and The Giraffe Ambassador escorted Albert and Winthrop to their quarters; Loyiki, Nenzima, and Josina's offspring Ilunga and Mwadi returned to the palace in the company of the Elephant Queen and King, who also lodged there.

It was late before he could creep down the finally deserted passageway to Fwendi's room. They had agreed to trade visits; tonight was his turn.

She was already abed. But not asleep. As he pulled aside the sheet covering her, she blinked in the light of the little lamp he'd carried. Her many tiny braids, freed from the chignon in which she normally confined them, formed a dark mass on the white pillowcase like a night-blooming flower's rough shadow.

They shared intercourse. Gently, as if there would always be time. As if he were not twice her age. As if he'd never die.

Afterward he helped her remove her hand and kissed the naked stump goodnight. Then he lay by her side, their shoulders pressing close together.

“Is it truly inevitable it will come to us, this war?” she asked.

Drowsing, he told the truth: “As inevitable as our love.”

 

Kisangani, Everfair, August 1914

Now that they no longer hid in caves, now that they'd adopted Kisangani as their capital, Everfair's Grand Mote met in a proper building. Daisy wished they'd been able to build something of their own; instead, they used the abandoned billiards room in the former hotel King Mwenda now designated his palace. The implications of this location were not lost on anyone.

The game tables had been taken out and chairs from the lobby brought in. An unused chandelier dangled over the room's center; below it Daisy had placed a plant stand to hold their Lamp.

For once she was the first to arrive. She lifted the Lamp's globe-shaped shade and struck a light with the tinder box set out beside it, touched the flame to the wick. Then she took her usual seat and waited.

She didn't have long. The king and Queen Josina entered together, their bearing formal. Yet, in some indescribable way, the air around them seemed filled with their affection for one another. That had been a trend for the last few Motes.

Next came her oldest son and his wife. His wife. At least they hadn't had any children to date, and that became less likely with every passing month. Daisy nodded and smiled, held out her hands for George to take or ignore. With a glance at Martha Albin, he gathered his mother's hands in his own and gave them each a brief kiss.

Old Kanna came in the door leaning on Nenzima's arm, with Loyiki bustling in before them, carrying the elder's beloved chocolate in a covered gourd. The fragrance of it leaked out and filled the room. Winthrop and Albert, closely followed by Mr. Ho, were the last to arrive, each with an arm draped on the other's shoulder. They were apparently engrossed in reading a piece of paper, each clutching it by a corner. Just as well that she had no new poem to offer this time.

“Please be seated, gentlemen,” Daisy suggested.

But they remained standing. Albert said, “Oh! This is—this changes everything! We can't put it off now!”

“Put what off? What changes every—”

Mr. Ho interrupted her. “Great Britain has declared war on Germany. It's not just the French angry over Belgium. It's Russia and Turkey and soon—soon—it's going to be everyone.”

“Everyone but us.” But even as she said it, Daisy knew.

Her lyrics and lamentations had had no effect.

They voted. Finally. During previous Motes it seemed discussion on the matter would never end. Now it had.

The votes were officially tallied. They were not remaining neutral. Only she and Albert had wanted that—and Lisette, who wasn't a Mote member. Lisette, who had grown strangely distant from Daisy at Kalima, and after. Who hadn't responded to Daisy's offers of private recitations of her poems and speeches. Who, by watching her practice, might have helped Daisy frame the Mote's choices in such a way that their policy could have prevailed. Or at least not been quite so badly defeated.

The count was nine to two.

So, Everfair, also, would enter the all-engulfing war, and of course on the side opposite Belgium and France. And England, her England.

So be it.

Albert shook her hand as he and the others filed out. First to arrive, last to leave. Almost last. George had stayed behind. He must want to speak with her—surely not to gloat?

They were alone. The Mote had ended. Daisy raised the Lamp's brass shade and pinched out the burning wick. Twilight spilled in through the door to the wraparound balcony.

“Are you finished?”

Daisy looked up. He was standing, his face in shadow. “Finished? With what—the Mote? Everfair?”

“Yes. Finished here. Now that you've been defeated and we're going to fight Britain. You could go back. Father's dead. You could try to see Laurie.”

Daisy shook her head and returned her gaze to the floor. “Ellen wouldn't like—”

“Bloody Ellen!”

Shocked, Daisy half-rose from her seat. “George—”

“Who cares what Ellen ‘likes'! Doesn't Laurie get—doesn't he deserve you at least making some sort of effort to be with him? Doesn't—”

“He's twenty-five, George. He's a young man now. He doesn't need—”

“Listen to me!” George turned to go. For a second she saw the flash of tears on his face. “
I'm
a young man.” He strode out. “Young men feel things!” he shouted into the passageway's dimness. “Think things! Young men are—are
people
!”

“At that age, one's loyalties are so easily confused,” Daisy said, remembering. But it was too late. He'd left.

Walking home in the rain and the deepening darkness, Daisy turned the question over in her mind. To give up now didn't seem cricket. It smacked of temper, as if she were a spoiled child sulking.

Rosalie opened the flat's door for her. The one child left. Though not, at twenty-seven, such a child. But she'd been the baby so long, ever since Laurie Junior's abduction. Perhaps that was why Daisy'd cherished her so. Or it might be because of that ancient bout of malaria … But despite that close bond, oughtn't Rosalie to have formed an attachment to one of the other colonists and married by now? Had Daisy sheltered her too stringently? Well, when she journeyed to England to stay with Laurie Junior there'd be an end to close parental supervision. Soon enough.

“How was it, Mama?” Rosalie shut the door and went back to the middle room. Drills and materials for her current project covered the table's tray top; she was making beads from bits of bone and glass.

“Rotten.” Daisy crossed the entry and middle rooms. In the bath she continued talking. “We're going to war.”

“Again?”

“Again. And fighting on the wrong side.” She stripped off her tunic and threw it over the rope zigzagging along the inner wall. “Only because Belgium's on the other.”

Daisy had kicked off her sandals in the entry room. Now barefoot, she stepped carefully onto the smooth planks of the drain surface. Palm oil–coated leaves, loosely stitched into a privacy screen, protected her from view from the shoulders down. The boiler in the yard furnished pressure and hot water. She turned that tap to only a dribble, opening wide the sluice for cool rainwater.

Black soap lathered up brown. The soap had been Josina's gift; she had explained it as having sacred properties. It rinsed off, leaving no more trace on Daisy's skin than, apparently, her arguments had left on the queen's mind.

She dried herself and donned a fresh tunic, shorter, for sleeping. When she emerged from the bath, Rosalie had stored away her work, collapsed and moved aside the table, and strung up their beds in their customary locations. The lamp, too, was suspended.

“There's fruit if you're hungry, Mama. Melon and papaya.”

“No thank you, dearest. Save it for breakfast.” Daisy sat on the edge of her hammock and waited for Rosalie to clamber into her own before extinguishing the light. She dreamt, as she often did, of Lisette, who these days lodged only a quarter of a mile off, in a tiny cottage on the second block of Bafwaboli Street. With her American prot
é
g
é
e.