The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (42 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN.

Mother had visited her homeland India twice since her father’s death, and there was little doubt, especially now with Mahesh Uncle’s decision not to return permanently to Kenya, that India was calling her, that she was ready to end her African sojourn and return finally home. What kept her in Kenya for the time being were her children, Deepa and I, and our own children. She had already been on a few religious pilgrimages in India, and the mother who had returned to us was one who had come to terms with her growing years. She still looked radiant and fair, still a little fleshy, and she had retained her thick long hair; age had blemished her only by the shadows round her eyes and by the tired look she sometimes carried. The years had not been as kind to Papa, however, who looked more visibly aged, having turned jowly and partly bald. He had kept his business going. He had his nights
out at the club, and Mother had her time at the temples and the women’s satsang meetings, where she would meet my wife Shobha, who was much in demand as a devotional singer. Our parents slept in separate rooms now. Deepa and I tried to bring them closer, by meeting at their home once a month in a family reunion, and inviting them to our homes. It was more than Mrs. Burton, however, who had pulled them apart; it seemed that Mother had become aware of all of Papa’s failings during their years of marriage. This seemed not quite fair, because my sister and I could recall the happy times we had had as a family together, especially in Nakuru, when we were young; and Papa’s stories of how she had bewitched him riding her bicycle in the streets of Peshawar, and how he followed her home and ultimately won her from her stern father, Inspector Verma, could charm a smile and a blush from her. He seemed bewildered and a little hurt by her recent manner toward him. See how he drinks, she would say, as Papa would appear with a glass of Scotch from his drinks cupboard, and Deepa would reply, And who has driven him to it? Mother would turn to me in protest.

It was Saturday afternoon after luncheon. Papa came into the living room with his drink and sat down. Mother turned to him and, continuing their discussion of before, said, You go with Vikram, I don’t mind. I have no desire to see London, anyway.

I had been asked by Paul Nderi to go to London on business and had offered to take my parents with me. Deepa and I had come over in a bid to convince Mother to change her mind and not act the spoilsport.

Mother, you must! Deepa protested.

Hanh-ji, Papa said, and you can see the best doctors there.

The doctors here are fine, Mother replied.

London had been Papa’s Mecca once, and she would have accompanied him there, or anywhere else, in another time. She was due for some medical tests, about which she was acting too nonchalant and secretive, and we were all a little
worried. Mother persisted, she did not want to go to London. She wanted to rest and go through with the tests in Nairobi.

Over the last year the political donations, as they were called, brought by Gerald and Jim from whichever organization had sent them, had become irregular and finally they stopped. The account with Narandas Hansraj of Muindi Mbingu Street was closed. In retrospect, the reason seems obvious: the sums I had handled were a mere pinch compared with those now moving more efficiently through other channels. The two Americans had become my friends, however, and I would meet them in the city sometimes. I had even done a small favour once for Gerald and the international school where he worked, helping them to obtain papers for an expatriate teacher. All I had to do was make a phone call. But it seemed evident to me that I was no longer required by Paul Nderi. He seemed distant and worried, and there continued the strong political undercurrents in the country, which, happily, did not involve me. It was no surprise when he asked me to go away on a trip that was more related to the work I had done earlier, in the Railways department.

An official from the British High Commission had approached Paul covertly, with a request from the railway authority of Rhodesia, with which country we had no diplomatic relations because its white government was not legal. The Rhodesians, because they had coal in the country, had decided not to dieselize their railways and now were proposing to buy some of our steam locomotives. They wanted a meeting.

Who else but you, Vic, the soul of discretion itself, Paul told me, ending my briefing with him, and when I looked flabbergasted in response, he added, Go to London and meet the Rhodesians, or their agents, and give yourself a holiday with your mistress.

That casual aside was unnerving; it was the first time he had mentioned Sophia. Was I being watched? I never found out.

But go to London I did, accompanied by my father. It was my first visit abroad. Papa had left the country only once
before, for India, where he had met and married my mother. But this was his first time on a plane. He was excited as a schoolboy on vacation, and he had come with a list of all the places he wanted to visit, and suggestions and advice from both Deepa and Shobha, who had lived in London. He had bought a black beret to cover his baldness and an army-type jacket for the autumn weather we would meet.

Remember, remember?—he told me on the plane—when those goras in Nakuru, the…the…our customers…they visited England—

The Bruces, Papa, I said gently.

Yes, they visited London and the children sent a postcard—

I remember, Papa.

He had kept the postcard, which had been addressed to me and Deepa, and stuck it next to his table in the grocery shop. I always wondered what happened to it when we closed the shop. Bill had written the card, and Annie had scrawled her message below his. It was curious that Papa had forgotten their name, that they seemed so distant to him.

There was a quiet hint of sadness, though, in Papa’s triumph, in this fulfilment of his dream to go to London, for his partner of a long time, his wife, was not with him. But he would not have missed London for the world. As soon as we landed he was taken in hand by the people he knew, friends, relatives, and the clients whose properties he had managed faithfully and sold in their absence, after the sudden Asian Exodus. He had already arranged to stay with a cousin in Greenwich and left me immediately upon our arrival. I did not see him until the last few days of our visit.

I met two white Rhodesians in London, both engineers in their thirties, friendly athletic-looking fellows who seemed to have taken the opportunity for a brief respite from troubles back home. We spoke a lot about our respective countries. They both loved Rhodesia and did not support Ian Smith’s unilateral declaration of independence, which had made their
country a pariah in the world. As a student in Dar es Salaam, I had had to go along in the loud student demonstrations against both Rhodesia and Britain. But there was an affinity between these two Rhodesians and myself in a way there wasn’t between them and the people of their race in England. Our business discussions were at an elementary level. I had been told to sound them out and provide them with a list of locomotives we expected to sell and at what price. The sale would have to be accomplished through a British intermediary. Little did I realize that this dialogue with the two engineers would count as espionage when I returned home.

I spent two of my evenings in the company of a large extended family of in-laws belonging to two of Shobha’s uncles, where in traditional manner I was accorded royal treatment and presented with a gold watch and a gold chain. It took some struggle to maintain my independence from their well-meaning but grasping intentions. I also met with old classmates from the Duke of Gloucester School, during a very nostalgic evening that turned emotional and tearful, as the drinks began to have effect. Kenya was in their hearts, they would never become British. And yet, even as this was evident in their nostalgia and their tears, they found it odd, and even an insult to their integrity, that I was still in Kenya, with no plans to leave.

Sophia did not visit me in London. Instead, she instructed me to make the best of my time with my father; I would always remain thankful to her for that consideration. We would meet in Nairobi anyway, though not as freely as London would have afforded. And so my father and I spent our final two days together walking the streets of London, seeing places which once had carried powerful meaning in our lives. This is where the Queen was crowned, he said emotionally, as we stood upon the cold stony floors of Westminster Abbey, and I recalled the holiday when he had stayed glued to the radio, giving us a running commentary on the proceedings of the coronation. He stared wistfully at Big Ben, the statue of Sir Winston
Churchill outside Parliament, the guards at Buckingham Palace, Number 10 Downing Street, Scotland Yard. He had arrived on the scene a decade and half too late; everything we saw seemed almost immaterial now, devoid of the charge it had once carried in a British colony far away and long ago. I felt that if she had known about him, the Queen would surely have granted this man, this admirer for so long, an audience, to discuss with him the passage of time and the end of empire, and how they both had aged. I took a lot of pictures. We did a lot of shopping.

During those two days we spoke intimately in a manner we had never done before, would never do again. Our happiness was complete in this one manner, and yet in another it was a one-winged bird in awkward flight; we both missed Mother, she belonged here with us. We called her in Nairobi and told her we missed her. She was touched and, much to my surprise, told me to take care of my father.

It was Sunday, after dinner, and we had just finished that call. Mother had been alone in Nairobi and Papa and I both felt a little depressed. We were exhausted too from touring the city all day, having changed trains, ridden taxis and double-decker buses, and hiked; it was now time for a quiet drink, a final filial-paternal moment of closeness, before we departed the next day to resume our normal lives. We had been ten days in London. I noticed that Papa had discovered the subtle pleasure of drinking wine during this trip; back home, like most men, he would head straight for the quick knockout punch of hard liquor.

So your business is finished here, he said.

Yes.

Satisfactorily?

Sort of.

There was a long silence between us, during which he attempted a couple of fruitless discussions about nothing important; finally, looking me straight in the face, he spoke his heart.

Listen, Vic…About your mother—I want to tell you something. I’ve not been perfect but I have always loved her and my children. I want you to know that. I have been a fool in some ways, but still—don’t forget that.

I know, Papa, you have always loved us.

I recalled him preparing to go out on Home Guard duty in Nakuru in the dead of night, instructing Mother yet one more time what to do in case the Mau Mau attacked and where everything was kept, especially the police whistle and that fateful gun.

I don’t know why, but at that moment I told him what I had resolved before never to reveal to my family, had revealed only to one other soul, Njoroge. I told him what I had seen that morning at the sawmill: Mahesh Uncle with that missing gun.

His mouth fell open. Really—he uttered, and he grasped my hand across the table. Slowly he said, Then at that killing, at the—

At the Bruces, Papa.

Yes. The same gun, he whispered, shook his head briefly. And what a scolding that inspector and the judge gave me…You must have suffered, keeping that secret, Vic, all bottled up.

And we sat there momentarily, our hands clasped together.

When we reached Nairobi, late in the night, we were met by the family. Deepa embraced Papa and then me, and I hugged my mother. Shobha came and stood beside me; we were not in the habit of hugging. Dilip shook hands all around. Papa went toward Mother, and quite suddenly he took her in his arms and they embraced emotionally.

On the way home with my wife it occurred to me that the whole scene minutes before at the airport had been rather strange, as if it had been staged. After all, Papa and I had been away only ten days. We did not need to be welcomed home by a family retinue. Now on the dark airport road, the street-lamps few and far between, the occasional factory dimly lit
and moribund as a graveyard, my wife sat quiet and grim beside me in her car. No news of the home, the children. No questions about London or the flight back. I turned and gave her a long stare. Only then did she break her silence.

About Ma—I have to tell you something.

What about Ma? I asked, my throat suddenly constricting, my voice giving.

She told me that Mother’s medical secret was in fact a lump she had discovered on her body a few weeks before. It had been diagnosed malignant in my absence and she would need a mastectomy.

That night Shobha and I became the closest we had been in a long time, as we sat together and talked about assorted subjects, including the options for my mother. She also told me that Paul Nderi had sent word that I should see him first thing in the morning.

It is espionage, all right, said Paul Nderi to me. You know that black Africa is in a de facto war with Rhodesia and South Africa. Our friends the Tanzanians are training guerrillas and there is always a threat of South Africa sending its bombers up north.