Green City in the Sun (56 page)

     Mona had shown the headmen the first few written orders sent down from Ethiopia, where her father had been fighting—orders regarding pruning, mulching, boreholes, and irrigation. But then circumstances had started to change. Kenya's troops demanded to be fed. And there were the thousands of Italian POWs whom her father was sending down to the camps, also needing food. The government had requested that farmers utilize their land to the best practical advantage, and that had meant to Mona less coffee growing and more mixed farming.

     Again she had written to her father and had explained; again he would
not heed her, insisting they continue with coffee only. So Mona had embarked upon a plan of her own. In her father's study was a large collection of books on agriculture, gathered over the years. Mona had read and studied them, had listened to the advice of other farmers, had gone into Nairobi to see what was needed, and then had returned and commenced to forge a new set of "orders" from her father. The first crop to go into the newly cleared acres had been maize, and she had been very successful at it.

     Mona received help from Sir James and from Tim, who walked the furrows with her and pointed out this, that, and guided her along. Too, her headmen were good farmers. They could feel when the rain was coming, when the soil was too poor, when locusts threatened, how to defend against army worms. As a result, Mona's deception was a small victory over her father.

     She dreaded his return after the war. There would be a terrible row, she knew, over what she had done, and then he would take charge again, forbidding any further interference on her part. That she knew she would not be able to bear. In these four years Mona had come, for the first time in her life, to feel as though Bellatu were really
home.
She had never before felt so belonging, so a part of these five thousand acres of green trees. She had come home on school holidays like a guest, sleeping in a room that could have belonged to anyone, eating with parents who were practically strangers. But
now
—

     Bellatu was hers. And she was going to keep it.

     The third letter was from Geoffrey.

     Mona poured herself a second cup of tea before opening it, putting off the moment to savor it. She looked forward to his letters; lately she lived for them.

     Geoffrey Donald was in Palestine, doing "police work." He couldn't say much about what he was doing, but Mona had pieced together from news accounts the dangerous situation he was in: With so many European Jews fleeing the Nazis and finding refuge in Palestine, the indigenous Arabs were feeling pushed and therefore were fighting back. In retaliation, certain secret Jewish groups were launching counterattacks to remind the British of their commitment to Zionism. It was not the safest corner of the world to be
in, but Mona was glad Geoffrey was there instead of somewhere like Burma, where Kenyan troops were suffering heavy losses. He wrote now:

     
The war can't last forever, and when it's over, we'll see a new world come from it. You mark my words, Mona. Things will be different. It will be a Modern Age, and I intend to be part of it. I've got it in mind to do something drastically new when I get home.
Tourism,
Mona. This war has opened up the world. It's made people move around and see other places. It's sparked interest in travel. In the past tourism was a sport for the rich, but I believe that the ordinary man, once he's gone back to his ordinary life after fighting in exotic places, is going to want to see more. And I aim to put Kenya on the sightseeing map. Let me know what your thoughts are on this; you know how I value your opinion.

     
I picked up a marvelous trinket for you the other day. An old Arab brought it round to the garrison, wanted too much money for it, but I got him down. He claims it's a genuine antiquity. It's a bit of old scroll, no doubt manufactured in his backyard, but it
looks
like the real thing. Might make a nice decoration over the fireplace at Bellatu. Hope you're in good health, Mona. Thank you for the chocolates. You're a darling.

     She carefully folded the letter and slipped it in her pocket. She would read it several more times during the day, as she drove around the estate overseeing the field hands, and then that night, she would lie in bed and think about Geoffrey.

     It had come to her at last—love. Mona had heard that wartime did that, that the threat of danger and death made people turn to one another. Wasn't there an old family story about Aunt Grace and a shipboard romance during the first war? Mona marveled now, as she left the kitchen to start her day's rounds, at how easily love had come to her. Seven years ago, as she had stood in Sir James's sickroom in Uganda, she had looked at Geoffrey and had wondered if perhaps she could someday love him the way her aunt loved his father. And so she had decided to wait and see. "I'm not refusing you," she had said to Geoffrey on their return to Kenya when he again asked her to marry him. "But I'm only just out of school. Let me get used to the idea." He
had agreed, and they had spent the next two years as a "couple," making the rounds of parties together, being part of the young smart set. They had even kissed; but Mona had not been able to allow further intimacy, and Geoffrey, respecting her wish, had not pressed.

     And then war had broken out, and everything had changed. Suddenly the world was upside down. All the young men of Kenya got into uniform and began leaving for mysterious parts of the world—Geoffrey to garrison duty in Palestine, where he commanded a "colored" regiment. The letters had started coming from him after that, and Mona had begun to miss him more and more until she felt stirrings of desire—her first—and she realized with great relief that she was not, after all, like her mother: incapable of love.

     When Geoffrey came home for good, Mona decided, she was going to say yes to him.

     ROSE PAUSED BEFORE the door of the greenhouse. She saw that the padlock had been wrenched off and was lying in the dirt.

     
Another break-in!
she thought in alarm.
The fourth this year!

     It had never happened before the war, when Valentine was always around. But since the bwana had been gone for so long, some of the local people were starting to disregard the laws. Usually they stole only the tools—things they could sell—but one time they had taken some valuable plants. Worried, Rose rushed inside.

     A hand shot out from behind the door and seized her. She was pulled back, her arm was twisted up behind her, and a man's voice said close to her ear, "Do not move, signora."

     Rose stared at her rows of silent flowers as she felt the sharp edge of a knife blade touch her throat.

R
OSE STOOD FROZEN, WITH THE KNIFE AT HER THROAT AND THE
man against her back, holding her in a painful grip. She looked at the half-opened door and thought of Njeri a few yards away, setting up the tapestry frame. Rose opened her mouth; the knife bit into her neck.

     "No sound!" he whispered.

     She closed her eyes.

     "Do not move, signora. Listen to me."

     She listened; she waited. He was having difficulty breathing. She felt his body shudder. The hand that clutched her bare arm was hot and damp.

     
"Per favore . . . mi aiuti
... "The grip started to slip. "Please," he whispered, "help me ..."

     Suddenly the knife fell away, and Rose was free. She jumped back as the stranger sank to his knees. The knife clattered to the stone floor.

     "Please," he said again, clutching his chest, his head bowed, "I need—"

     Rose stared down at him. There was blood on her arm—
his
blood.

     She watched him crumple to the floor, where he lay on his side. His eyes were closed; his face was distorted in pain.

     
"Ascolti,"
he breathed.
"Chiami un prete.
Bring me—" Rose fell back against the wall.

     "Please," he groaned. "I beg of you, bring me
un prete."

     She started to shake. She saw the blood on his shirt and the grass stains and grime of his having fled through the bush. He was barefoot; his feet were cut and bleeding. And his face was streaked with dirt and sweat.

     "A priest," he said. "I am dying. Please, signora. Bring me a priest." Rose moved away, terrified. She stumbled over a clay pot; she groped for the door. Mona's voice echoed in her mind:
They butchered a guard.
And then she saw something that made her stop.

     Red stripes of blood were soaking through the back of his shirt.

     She stared down. She was confused; she tried to think.

     "Who—" she began. "Who are you?"

     He didn't answer.

     "I'm going for a policeman," she said. Rose shook so badly that she was afraid her legs were going to give way.

     But he didn't respond, didn't move.

     She continued to stare at the bloody stripes on his shirt. Then, cautiously, as if approaching a dangerous, injured animal, Rose took a step toward him. She paused, watching him. Then she took another step, and another, until she stood over him.

     The stranger lay curled on his side, his eyes closed, gasping for breath.

     "You're one of the escaped prisoners, aren't you?" she said in a shaky voice.

     He lay moaning.

     Rose wrung her hands. "Why did you come
here?
I can't help you!" Her eyes were fixed on the stripes on his back; blood continued to seep through the fabric of his shirt.

     She was filled with terror.

     "You're the enemy," she said. "How dare you ask me for help? I'll send word to the men who are searching for you. They'll know what to do with you."

     He whispered one word: "Priest..."

     "You're mad to think I'll help you!" she cried. "Dear God—" Rose could see that he was in terrible pain. And she thought:
He's dying.

     When she realized that he couldn't hurt her now and that he had probably never intended to, she slowly knelt and looked at the stripes on his shirt. She was overcome. "They whipped you ..." she murmured.

     His eyes opened briefly. They were dark and damp; they reminded her of the eyes of a wounded antelope. His body shook. He moaned.

     "Help me," he whispered. "In the name of God ..." His eyes closed. His body grew still.

     Rose chewed her lip.

     And then suddenly she was on her feet. "Njeri!" she called, going through the door of the greenhouse.

     The African girl looked up, startled.

     "Go back to the house," Rose said breathlessly. "And fetch me some soap and water and towels. Bring them back here."

     Njeri looked puzzled.

     "Hurry!"

     "Yes, memsaab."

     "And blankets," Rose called as she hurried down the path that led from the glade.

     As she ran down the steps that led to the mission area below the forest, Rose tried to think of where her sister-in-law would be at this hour. Grace would know what to do for the man; she would take care of him.

     But when Rose turned onto the gravel drive that led to Grace's house, she remembered in dismay that Grace was in Nairobi!

     Rose stopped at the intersection of three dirt roads and looked around. She twisted her hands. Seeing the smear of blood on her arm, she thought of the infirmary, a small cinder-block building where minor injuries were treated.

     She approached it uncertainly, afraid to be seen and having no idea what she was going to do when she got inside. But when Rose went up the steps and walked through the door, an idea came to her.

     There was a new "miracle" drug Grace had spoken of recently, something
that stopped infection and saved lives in even the most extreme cases and that was going to revolutionize medicine. But what was it called?

     Rose couldn't remember.

     The infirmary was unattended. Its one room sat in sunlight, clean and shining and waiting for patients. Rose looked around. The attendant would no doubt be arriving any minute, coming from his breakfast. Rose would have to hurry.