Trade Wind (22 page)

If Hero had had any qualms as to the efficiency of her disguise they were soon proved groundless, for no one paid the least attention to her. No heads turned, and it was plain that shuffling, shrouded women were a common sight in Zanzibar. But she was not tempted to linger and look about her. She could see nothing in the least attractive in diese narrow odiferous streets or in the colourful crowds that filled them, and as she picked her way between the dirt and garbage and past the loitering, chattering citizens, her only emotions were disgust and indignation.

It was a crying disgrace that the public should be permitted to throw their refuse into the streets—and with no proper gutters, and flies everywhere! What were the foreign community thinking of to allow it? Surely they must be able to see, even if the unenlightened heathen could not, that such a degree of filth could only lead to disease and epidemics? Why did they not bring pressure to bear on the Sultan’s Government, and see to it that half these squalid houses were pulled down and the tortuously narrow streets widened? It was their plain duty to do so, and she would speak to Uncle Nat about it. ‘
Romantic Island
’ indeed! What was romantic about dirt and ignorance? It was all very well for writers of fiction, or unthinking little sentimentalists like Cressy, to pronounce palm trees and unhygienic Eastern towns “picturesque’ and “romantic’, but anyone who could describe Zanzibar city as either must be lacking both eyes and a sense of smell!

Hero had been too occupied in looking where she stepped to pay much attention to where she was going, but now at last they had left the shops behind them and were in a quieter part of the town where the old Arab houses, three and four storeys high, towered up on either side of streets so narrow that friends living opposite each other must surely have been able to lean from their windows and touch hands above the heads of the passers-by.

The sun had long since left these man-made canyons, but the heat still lingered in them, and high overhead innumerable wooden shutters, closed throughout the hot day, were being thrown open to catch the first cool of the evening. From somewhere on the far side of the houses came a dry rustic of coconut palms in the sea wind and the sound of waves on an unseen beach, and presently the road bent and widened, and Hero could smell salt water.

A single dark patch of greenery broke the line of close-packed houses: rain trees, a flamboyant, a frangipani white with blossom, and a tangle of weeds and creepers fenced in by what had once been iron railings. There was a rusty wrought-iron gate in the railing, flanked by crumbling stone pillars carved with the arms of Portugal; and behind it, among the shadows and the encroaching creepers, half-a-dozen weather-worn tombstones lifted their heads through the weeds.

It was the little graveyard that Fattûma had spoken of, and facing it stood an old, pink-washed Arab house, four storeys high and boasting an imposing door studded with the big conical bronze nail-heads that were a relic of the long-ago days when Arabs of the coast protected their doors from the assaults of war elephants. A frieze of carved dolphins gambolled above it, and the door itself stood wide, showing an open courtyard in which a fountain played and idling men lolled and chattered.

Hero recognized several members of the
Virago
’s crew, unfamiliar in their shore-going splendour of flowing white robes, gorgeously embroidered waistcloths and freshly laundered turbans; and looking upward she saw that the house stood four-square about the courtyard, rising up in tiers of shaded verandahs. The sound of women’s voices and the tinkle of a mandolin drifting down from them suggested that not only privileged members of Captain Frost’s crew, but their families as well occupied quarters in the big rambling house, and in response to a call by the elderly doorkeeper a small stout negress trotted out and looked at the visitors enquiringly.

Hero turned to Fattûma and said: “Tell them what I am here for, and ask this woman if there is a looking-glass anywhere. And a room where I can take these things off and make myself tidy.”

The little negress smiled widely and led the way up a curving flight of stairs to a long verandah, and through a curtained archway into a room furnished with Persian rugs, small inlaid tables, a pair of richly carved brass-bound chests and orange lines in glazed earthenware pots. A vast looking-glass in an ornate gilded frame covered most of one wall, and although it was stained and spotted from the heat of many summers and the damp of many monsoons, the dim, silvery image that it reflected was still clear enough to show Hero that a short walk in a
Schele
was not calculated to improve any lady’s appearance.

Her hair clung to her forehead in damp tendrils and her dress was not only shockingly creased but stuck moistly to her back, while as for the curling toes of those Eastern slippers, they were as incongruous as jackboots at a ball. She should have thought to bring her own shoes with her—and a comb. But it was no good regretting that now. She would just have to face Captain Frost as she was and since he had never seen her looking anything but dishevelled he was not likely to find fault with her present appearance.

Hero brushed the sweat from her forehead and shook out her crumpled skirts, and telling Fattûma to wait there for her, returned to the verandah and followed the fat little negress up yet another flight of stairs, along another verandah, and finally into a long, high-ceilinged room where a line of arched windows looked out above the tops of palm trees and casuarinas onto the open sea.

The room was furnished in much the same fashion as the one she had just left, but contained in addition several divans, a great many flat, silk-covered cushions, a white cockatoo with a sulphur-yellow crest, and a dark-eyed, golden-skinned woman who wore a loose green tunic, full trousers of lilac-coloured silk, a spangled head veil and a great deal of silver jewellery. There was also a child, similarly dressed and apparently about three or four years of age, and Hero checked uncertainly, realizing that she had been brought in error to the women’s quarters and that this must be the family of Hajji Ralub or some other member of the
Virago
’s crew.

It had obviously never occurred to the negress, or to Fattûma either, that she could possibly wish to be ushered, unveiled and unattended, into the presence of a man. The woman appeared equally disconcerted, and the child abandoned its pursuit of a small Persian kitten to stare at the visitor in wide-eyed interest.

Hero said hastily, and in English: “I am afraid there has been a mistake, Mrs—er—is it Ralub?”

She turned enquiringly to the negress who nodded vigorously and said something that Hero took, correctly, to mean that the Hajji was from home, and the woman moved forward doubtfully and said in halting English:

“You—you wish—to speak with me?”

Her voice was soft and hesitant and as charming as her face, and for the first time in her life Hero was conscious of feeling clumsy and oversized. The pretty creature was so small and slim, and so delicately formed! As exquisite as a portrait of a Sultan’s favourite painted on ivory.

“No. That is…It was Captain Frost I really wished to see, but I am afraid my maid misunderstood. I am so sorry.”

“There is no sorrow. He will come soon. You will wait—perhaps?”

She gestured gracefully towards a cushioned divan, inviting her unexpected guest to be seated, and turned to give a brief order to the negress, who scurried away and returned almost immediately accompanied by two women carrying a selection of refreshments that included glasses of sherbet, assorted sweetmeats and coffee in tiny cups of egg-shell china enclosed in filigree holders.

Hero accepted the coffee and instantly wished that she had taken sherbet instead, for the coffee was sickly sweet and so full of grounds that she found some difficulty in swallowing it without choking. The sweetmeats looked to be equally exotic and she refused them with what she hoped was a polite smile, and cautiously nibbled a blanched almond while her hostess saw the trays conveniently disposed on various tables and dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand. The curtain fell behind them and Hero, searching for conversation, said: “You speak very good English.”

The woman smiled and made a pretty, deprecating gesture: “No, no. Amrah speak well. Not me.”

“Amrah?”

“My daughter. I am Zorah.”

“Mama,” said the child firmly, removing its finger from its mouth and pointing.

The woman smiled and said something in murmured Arabic that Hero did not catch, and the child came forward and made a solemn little obeisance. It did not look like the child of such a mother, for its rose-petal skin was almost as fair as Hero’s own and the dark eyes and curly hair were brown rather than black. It might almost have been a European child in fancy dress, and for a moment Hero wondered if the negress had misinterpreted her question, and it was not Hajji Ralub but the bigamous Mr Potter who was the head of this particular family. But that was surely impossible! Batty was elderly and grey-headed, and this woman was so young and so lovely And yet,
Arabs!
…Hero remembered being told that the late Sultan had had children born to him long after he had become a grandfather.

She returned the child’s bow with suitable gravity and said: “So you speak English, Amrah? That’s very clever of you.”

“Yes,” agreed the child complacently. “What’s your name?”

“Hero. Hero Hollis.”

“That ain’t a proper name.”

“It’s mine,” Hero assured her. “It’s a Greek name.”

“Are you a Greek lady?”

“No, I’m an American.”

“What’s a Na’merican?”

The woman, Zorah, intervened with a gentle reproof, but was ignored: “Where’s Na’merica?” demanded Amrah.

“It’s a big country a long way away across the sea.”

“How long ‘way?”

“Oh—miles and miles. Hundreds of miles. On the other side of the world.”

“Did you come in a ship, n’see sharks n’whales n’a mermaid?”

“Sharks and whales, yes. But no mermaids. Have you ever seen a mermaid?”

The child shook her head, and coming a little closer to Hero lowered her voice and said confidentially: “I thought I done once, but Unker Batty said it were only a fish.”

“That’s the trouble with mermaids,” agreed Hero gravely.

Amrah took another step forward and looked up into Hero’s face, studying her with earnest intentness and frowning a little. “I like you,” she announced abruptly.

The candid tribute brought a surprised flush to Hero’s cheeks and she was astonished to find herself feeling as gratified as though she had been given an unexpected and delightful present. It was not that she was unused to compliments, but she had never before received one quite like this. She had not had much to do with young children, and had never been able to gush over them in the pretty feminine manner that was fashionable among her contemporaries. And yet this small sturdy person in fancy-dress had disarmed her with three short words. Feeling warmed and foolishly flattered, she blushed and smiled, and said: “Thank you. I like you too.”

She held out her hand a little diffidently, and her youthful admirer took it confidently and said: “Why’s your hair all short n’ funny?”

“Amrah!“deprecated her mother softly, but Hero only laughed and said: “Because it got into such a bad tangle that I had it all cut off.’ “How did it got a bad tangle?”

“Well, it’s a long story—”

But it was a story that was to remain untold, for quick footsteps sounded in the verandah outside, the curtain was brushed aside, and Hero turned—the child’s hand still in hers—and for a moment imagined herself to be facing a stranger.

Captain Frost’s shore-going clothes, like those of his crew, were very different from the salt-stained and workmanlike attire he had worn on the
Virago
. They were not even of European manufacture or design, but consisted of a long white robe sashed about the waist with scarlet, under a loose coat of some dark material that was decorated and bordered with elaborate embroidery in gold and silver thread. Except that his head was uncovered he might have been blood-brother to any of the better dressed Arabs that Hero had passed in the streets, for taken in conjunction with that Eastern attire even his sun-bleached blondness and the colour of his eyes suggested an Albino rather than a European.

The momentary surprise on his face changed to the more familiar look of amusement, and he bowed and said formally: “This is a most unexpected pleasure. Miss Hollis.”

His voice contained no trace of sarcasm, but his expression failed to match it, and Hero resisted an impulse to reply sharply. She said instead, and with equal formality: “I have only called, sir, to bring you my aunt’s and uncle’s thanks, and my own, for all you did for me in the matter of my rescue, and for bringing me safely to Zanzibar. We are most grateful.’ Captain Frost remained in the doorway and regarded her steadily for a full half minute. Then he bowed again, with
empressement
, the laughter back in his eyes: “It was a privilege, Miss Hollis. Is your aunt here with you? Or did Mr Mayo accompany you? Surely you did not come alone?”

Hero was angrily conscious of her rising colour, but she managed to say composedly enough: “No; one of the house servants accompanied me, for my aunt was unfortunately unable to come this evening, and my uncle and Mr Mayo have an official appointment that could not be cancelled. But as I did not wish to delay any longer in calling upon you to express my—our—thanks, I decided not to wait. You cannot be surprised to see me, since I told you that I intended to call.”

“So you did,” grinned Captain Frost. “No, I am not surprised to see you. And may I say that you relieve me, Miss Hollis? I had put you down as incurably truthful, but I should be surprised indeed to discover that your uncle and aunt, or Mr Clayton Mayo either, knew anything of your intention or have the least idea where you are at this moment.”

“My aunt and uncle,” said Hero frigidly, “are well aware what they owe you, but it happens that they—they—”

“Were unfortunately unable to spare the time to accompany you this evening,” finished Captain Frost glibly. “I quite understand. All the same, now that you have discharged your errand I do not think that you should waste any time in returning to the Consulate. This is not Boston, and your visit here might give rise to the sort of comment that I am sure your relations would not approve of They should have considered that before sending you to convey their thanks.”