Softly Calls the Serengeti (9 page)

He shrugged. ‘I don't know. I guess it depends. Where are you walking?'

‘Not far. From my hotel—our hotel—to the Fairview. I believe there's a nice garden restaurant there.'

They were in the corridor, paused at the door to the library.

‘It's probably safer to take a taxi,' he said, opening the door for her, but she hesitated, obviously still thinking about the restaurant. She frowned and tapped her fingernail against her teeth as he'd noticed her doing once before.

‘It's such a bore finding taxis at night,' she said.

He remained holding the door open. The silence grew.

‘Well, I guess I'll need to find a place to eat,' he said cautiously. ‘Would you like me to join you? I mean, I understand if…'

She brightened. ‘Would you? I mean, that would be good. I'll be fine once I know my way around, but…'

‘No problem. What time were you thinking?'

‘Eight would be perfect.'

She swept into the library ahead of him and was delving into the shelves before he had the door closed.

Now it was Riley's turn to frown. Had he just been asked on a date?

 

Charlotte stood at the mirror of the small vanity table, studying the faint touch of eye shadow she had just applied. It was all wrong.
What's the point of putting a vanity unit in a hotel room unless there's some decent lighting over it?
She took a deep breath and reminded herself it was just a business dinner. The make-up was merely to give her some much-needed confidence as she attempted to guide the conversation to the matter of her trip up country.

Her proposition was logical and she would explain it quite simply. Firstly, they both needed to travel outside Nairobi for research. Secondly, Mark's research for his novel could benefit from her knowledge of anthropology in general and Maasai customs in particular. Plus, there were savings in sharing travel costs. It all made sense.

There wasn't even any reason to tell him that her supervisor had refused to fund her field research if she went alone.

The tricky part was that Mark had already suggested the same thing and she had made several snide remarks while
rejecting it out of hand. She couldn't blame him if he laughed outright when she raised it. It would be a monumental climb-down, but she had no choice.

They had agreed to meet in the lobby. It was time to go.

She hastily applied a film of lipstick, but then thought it too much. He would notice how different she looked, and comment on it, and she would die of embarrassment. She smacked her lips together, spreading the thin coating of lipstick even thinner. Better.

The woman staring back at her from the dimly lit mirror did not look at all comfortable. It was a business meeting, but she was so nervous it felt like going on a first date.

 

The evening was more enjoyable than Riley had expected. He usually felt intimidated in French restaurants: he couldn't read the menu, and French waiters always seemed to hover, making it worse. But the waiter at the Fairview was a Kenyan and quite unpretentious. He had recommended the
saucisses à l'orange
—sausages in an orange sauce. They were surprisingly good.

Even more surprising, Charlotte had been friendly, even charming. She looked a little different too. Perhaps she'd changed her hair.

During the meal, Riley wondered if he should offer to pay for Charlotte. It was an awkward situation. They were neither lovers nor workmates; they weren't even acquaintances in the strictest sense. They were merely occupying the same space at the same time: she, researching her thesis; he, his novel.

‘I should thank you,' he said.

‘Thank me? Why?'

‘For inspiring me to begin to write again.'

‘Surely not.'

‘Well, that may be a little strong. But your book certainly got me motivated. How did you get into studying the Maasai?'

‘Oh, I don't know. Perhaps a novel I read as a teenager—it gave me the idea of being an anthropologist. Studying the Maasai for my Master's just seemed logical.'

‘Whose idea was it to have it published?' he asked, fiddling with his coffee spoon.

‘Professor Hornsby's. Actually, it was his friend, Dr Gilanga, who suggested it. He's very keen to have all the tribes' folklore and customs documented before they're lost in the rush to modern ways. It's only locally published. I'm surprised you found it. So far as I know, it's only available from the university bookshop. How it got to the Tsavo lodge I've no idea. I doubt it will find a market anywhere else.'

‘Anything published, or publishable, is good. Congratulations.'

She nodded, pleased.

‘It's been very useful in putting together a profile of the Maasai for my book,' he said. ‘By the way, I've been meaning to ask you about the Maasai's initiation ceremony. It seems to be a big deal. You made quite a mention of it in your book.'

‘It's an important ceremony for a young Maasai man. You see, unless circumcised, a Maasai can't be admitted to the brotherhood of warriors, the
moran
as they're called. Nor can they progress to become elders, which they do at the ripe old age of thirty-something.' She smiled mischievously. ‘So if you were a Maasai, Mr Mark Riley, I guess you'd be approaching elderhood.'

The comment surprised Riley, and the accompanying smile suited her. He noticed again that she looked different. Maybe it was a touch more make-up.

‘I'd rather call it my carnal equinox,' he said with mock seriousness.

‘Don't tell me you're over the hill?'

‘Not quite. But I may be halfway there.'

They both chuckled.

‘You were saying,' he said, ‘how important the initiation ceremony is. From what I know of anthropology, which isn't a
lot, circumcision isn't uncommon, but this Maasai ceremony…what's it called? Em…em…?'

‘
Emorata
.'

‘That's it. This
emorata
sounds like more than that.'

‘Perhaps the procedure is a little more elaborate, but essentially it's a similar rite of passage as occurs in many other cultures.'

‘Elaborate how?'

Charlotte dabbed at her lips with her napkin. ‘Oh, it's probably not all that interesting to someone who's not in my field.'

‘What do you mean, not in your field? My novel, remember?'

It was refreshing to be able to tease her a little. Previously, she would have become huffy if he'd attempted it. She seemed reluctant to take the conversation any further, but he persisted.

‘Come on,' he coaxed. ‘How am I ever going to become an expert in Maasai culture if you won't teach me?'

‘Well, if you must know. It's…well, unusual.'

‘Hell, I'm no expert, but I would have thought if you've seen one, you've seen 'em all. And I'm talking about a circumcision, of course.'

‘Yes, well…' She made a small noise, almost a cough, as if clearing her throat. ‘The Maasai do it differently. That's why it's so, um…interesting.'

‘Go on.'

She gave him a look as if to assess his seriousness before proceeding. ‘Well, it's called a buttonhole circumcision,' she said. ‘Particularly difficult when performed on a teenager. As you might imagine.'

She explained the intricacies of the slice along the sulcus at the top of the foreskin, the insertion of the glans through the new opening, and final trimming of the excess skin.

‘Hmm,' he said with a smile when she'd concluded. ‘I'm glad I've finished my
saucisses à l'orange
.'

This time she did see the humour. She tried to mask her smile
with her hand, but with no success. Finally, she gave in to it and laughed with him until her eyes watered.

 

As the dinner progressed, Charlotte began to lose some of the tension she'd felt at the outset. Mark was relaxed and charming, and although she hadn't managed to steer the conversation in the desired direction, she did get him to talk about his research, hoping to find an opening to raise the matter of accompanying him up country.

‘It's going okay,' Riley responded. Then added, ‘Actually, a bit slow.'

‘What are you up to?'

‘I like my Maasai story, but I need a character for my background story.'

‘I thought you were onto Trader Dick—the perfect protagonist?'

Dick had been a swashbuckling frontiersman whom Riley had thought ideal.

‘So did I. As it turns out, he was a cattle-thieving, marauding cutthroat.'

‘Oh.'

‘And very soon dead. It kinda makes for a short story rather than a novel.'

‘But as you said, it's a novel not a thesis. Why don't you build a fictional character around him, or better still, just create a purely fictitious character to carry your background story?'

He pondered it briefly, then shook his head. ‘Nup. It has to be the real thing. I like historical novels. It has to be as close to historically correct as I can make it.'

‘Oh, no.'

‘What do you mean,
oh, no
?'

‘Historical novels are such a pain. They simply muddy the waters. Who knows what's history and what's fiction? Historians just hate them.'

‘Who cares what historians think? Let them buy a history book if they don't like the idea of historical novels.
I
happen to
love
historical novels.'

She decided to let the matter pass. It wasn't a good tactic to antagonise him if she hoped to get him to agree to letting her travel with him.

‘Where does that leave you?' she asked.

‘That leaves me stuck with Commissioner Eliot,' he said with a sigh.

‘You don't like him, do you?'

He thought about it for a moment. ‘No. Don't suppose I do.'

‘Why not?'

‘I don't know…He seems to be a manipulative sort. I really have a problem with manipulative people. You know the type—they appear to be considerate but in the end they're just looking out for themselves.'

Charlotte fidgeted with her napkin, her confidence flagging.

‘Are you okay?' Riley asked.

‘Yes. Absolutely.' She gave a soft cough to clear her throat. ‘Either way, I imagine you're anxious to get up country as soon as possible.'

‘Not so sure now,' he said.

‘Oh…why not? I mean…I thought you were keen to get started on your research.'

‘I think there might be something interesting coming out of the UNICEF inquiry,' he said. ‘It could be a bankable piece. I also want to follow up on Jafari and the orphanage.'

This wasn't helping her cause.

‘How are you placed for time?' she asked. ‘Are you able to delay your research into the novel?'

He looked thoughtful. ‘You're right. My budget
is
tight.
I could cover the newspaper article in my spare time, if any. I should just jump in the Land Rover and get on with it.'

‘Hmm…' she said.

‘What?'

‘Nothing. It's just that at Oxford we were warned about researchers charging off into the bush only to get lost, so to speak.'

‘Lost?'

‘In pointless pursuit of facts rather than the real story. I assume you'll arrange a guide?' she asked, trying not to sound too manipulative.

‘Why would I need a guide? I have a Land Rover and a map.'

She shook her head and smiled. ‘I'm not talking about geography, Mark. Although finding a local to help with the languages would be useful. But…try to think
anthropology
.'

‘Anthropology. You're suggesting I might need someone to help me with the Maasai?'

‘That would be a good idea, I think.'

‘I'm sure. But I asked you—the best person available—and you declined.'

‘Did I? I'm not sure I understood your request. It so happens that I might have to do some research of my own in the area. I suppose I could give you a hand…if you think it would be helpful?'

He looked stunned. ‘That would be great!'

She felt such a sense of relief at his agreement that she realised she must have been more concerned about the security situation than she had admitted to herself.

‘Very well then,' she said brightly. ‘Coffee?'

 

During the drive back to the Panafric Hotel, Riley felt a vague sense of unreality. How could he have misread their earlier discussions about travelling together so comprehensively?

He pulled up outside the foyer of the Panafric and met Charlotte on her side of the Land Rover as she stepped down.

‘Thank you,' she said, as he closed the door for her.

At the hotel entrance, the doorman swept open the double glass doors, wearing his customary wide smile. ‘Good evening, Mr Riley,' he said, snapping a salute.

‘Evening, Henry.'

‘Have you found a suitable car park, sir?'

‘Yes, thank you, Henry. I have.'

‘Very well, sir.' The doorman saluted again and stepped back outside.

‘Are you going to the archives again tomorrow?' Riley asked Charlotte.

‘Yes, maybe.'

‘Me too. Plenty to do before we leave.'

‘Yes. Exactly.'

‘Would you like a nightcap?' He indicated the door to the bar.

‘Oh, thank you, but I won't.'

‘In that case, I'll have a small one for the road and say good night.'

‘Yes, good night, Mark.'

He waited for her to leave. When she paused, he felt she had something to add but seemed to change her mind.

‘So…good night,' she said again.

‘Good night.'

‘Oh, and, Mark…thanks for dinner. It was very nice of you to pay.'

‘No problem. It was good to have some company for a change.'

‘My treat next time. Well…I'll see you in the morning, shall I?' she said, and finally left.