Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

Natalie put the cigarette to her lips and drew the smoke into her lungs. At moments like this she felt a long way from that courtroom in Nairobi. She could tell herself that this was her life, the relative solitude of the bush. And that she had made a good start—she could look forward to decades of quiet evenings like this, after a productive day excavating.

Dinner, for once, had been a lighthearted affair, the conversation a million miles from the excavation or the trial. Arnold Pryce had received a letter from his lawyer in London. His last wife had decided she was unhappy with the settlement that had been agreed on and was threatening to go back to court to have their arrangement revoked.

“I may have to live here forever, Eleanor,” he had complained, in mock seriousness. “I can’t afford to return to England.”

“What if she comes looking for you?” said Jack, grinning.

“Unlikely. It’s too far from the hairdresser’s.” His face shaped itself into a rueful grin. “Or the shoe shops.”

“Tell us about your wives, Arnold,” Natalie had said. “What’s it like, being married four times?”

He had needed no second bidding. In fact, he seemed happy to get it all off his chest and, for three quarters of an hour, had regaled them with details of his four courtships, four weddings, four honeymoons, four betrayals and divorces, each of the latter seemingly more hostile than the last. Arnold Pryce, it was clear, to Natalie at any rate, loved women but tired of them all too soon and invariably became convinced that the grass was greener … He didn’t have Jock Deacon’s ability to infuse his women with a passion that would last a lifetime, but he told his story with a self-deprecating wit that suggested to Natalie at least that he knew his mind and that his fourth wife wouldn’t get very far.

Jonas had teased Kees. “It’s your turn next.”

Kees had colored. “I haven’t been married once, let alone four times.”

“You can tell us all about Amsterdam’s red-light district, then. It’s famous.”

“What makes you—?”

“Enough!” Eleanor had hissed, standing up, to indicate the end of dinner. She had again motioned Natalie to sit next to her at the campfire.

Not more talk about her father, Natalie hoped.

When the two women were settled, Eleanor whispered, “Russell’s made his first move.”

Natalie wiped her clammy hands on her trousers. “What do you mean?”

“Christopher went into Karatu this morning, shopping for supplies and to collect the post. There was a copy of a solicitor’s letter, from Russell to the secretary general of the foundation that funds the dig, formally complaining about me, and my allegedly ‘high-handed authoritarian behavior’ in insisting he leave the excavation after his ‘seminal’ discovery. He sent me a copy and he sent the foundation a copy of the paper that has gone to Nature , on the knee joint. A paper that, of course, ignores the whole burial-ground business.”

“What will the foundation do?”

“I don’t know for sure but they won’t like it.” She stopped and fixed Natalie with a stare. “Russell writes to you … he seemed —fond of you. Can you …? He needs to be softened.”

Natalie bit her lip. “He’s written me one letter, yes, but that’s all. He’s still as raw and as sore as the day he left. I can try to … to calm him down, but I’m not sure it will have any effect.”

“Give it a go, please. I can’t believe he won’t listen to you.” She gripped her spectacles in her fingers. “I’ve also heard from the Maasai elders. Their next ‘propitious’ date, when they feel able to see outsiders, is ten days from now. The fact that they’ve agreed to see us is a good sign, but they are unpredictable.” She tapped her chin with her spectacles. “You’ve never wavered, have you?”

“No.”

“And you’re not going to waver now, even after all the new discoveries?”

Natalie shook her head and kept looking into the fire. “I think I have right on my side, Eleanor, but there’s something else, too. In the war, my mother’s family—who were French, as I think I told you—were part of the Resistance, and one of them was betrayed, trahit , that’s a French word I can’t forget. He was killed. So my mother was always very patriotic, very anti- collabo , as the French call it. That’s why I’m like I am, I suppose. Or one reason.” She didn’t mention the anger within her, the fire which now, as often as not, was directed against her mother.

That had all happened earlier. Now, sitting outside her tent, Natalie reached for her whiskey. Had she told Eleanor too much? Was her mother’s influence too strong? What was the difference between resistance and stubbornness? Was there one? Once upon a time, Dominic would have helped her.

She heard a footfall and half turned. It was Jack.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, standing over her. “I haven’t come to disturb your precious late-night privacy. Or not for long anyway.”

She smiled and held out the cigarette. “But I’ll bet you’d like to taste this.”

He took the cigarette from her and drew on it before handing it back. “Can it be good for you, all that smoke in your lungs?”

She shrugged. “It’s very relaxing, don’t you find?”

He nodded. “Did you see that article in Nature? About the link between smoking and lung cancer?”

“Yes. But it hasn’t been confirmed.”

“It has,” said Jack. “In Germany and in America. But I agree—the experiments weren’t very well designed.”

He pointed to the whiskey on the table. “I don’t like to intrude on your evenings, but… but, what I came to say is this: as it’s Sunday tomorrow and my mother’s going to Nairobi, and there’s no digging, I wondered if you wanted to go flying. There’s somewhere near here—a mystery destination that I’d like to show you. Interesting geology, masses of animals, perfect picnic spot …”

“Are there any hairdressers or shoe shops?”

“There’s a lake where you could wash your hair. Other than that, no.”

“Then I’d love to.”

“Good. I’ll say good night then.” He waved and was gone.

“That’s the Bololedi River—it’s like a dry ditch from up here.” Jack leaned across Natalie and pointed. “We’re now just entering Tanganyika airspace, about sixty miles to go.”

“To where? Or is it still a secret?”

He nodded. “You’ll see why.”

He identified himself to air-traffic control at Kilimanjaro Airport and, on their instructions, climbed the plane by a couple of thousand feet. “I prefer to fly low,” he said. “You get a much better view, but there are some Tanganyika air-force planes in the vicinity. We have to keep out of their way.”

She nodded. She liked flying, she had decided. It put everything into perspective, she thought. She had always been good at reading maps and she had one on her knee now. It was fascinating to see how the map related to the actual topography of the land.

“Over to the left!” Jack shouted, to make himself heard above the engine noise. “Lake Natron. It looks pink because it’s a soda lake.”

“Meaning?”

“There’s no inflow of water, or outflow. So it tends to evaporate, and there’s a buildup of sodium carbonate and that encourages a special bacteria, called halophilic bacteria, which are pink. It’s that pink which gives flamingos their color. Lesson over.” He grinned.

They crossed some low hills, the shadow of the plane rising to meet them.

“Loliondo,” shouted Jack. “Look out for elephant and the wildebeest migration route.”