Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

As he said this half a dozen zebra ran across their line of sight, obviously fleeing from something.

“Do you miss Amsterdam, Kees?” said Natalie. “I’ve only been once. I loved it. The trees, the canals, the narrow houses …”

Kees smiled. “I don’t miss it because I know I’m going back. If I couldn’t go back I’d be very unhappy. The best thing about Amsterdam are the bicycles. Because of all the canals, the streets are narrow, so the traffic is slow, and everyone uses bicycles. The city is small so nowhere is more than fifteen minutes’ ride from anywhere else. That means you see more of your friends in Amsterdam than in other major cities. And because of that you have more friends than in other major cities.” He leaned forward and tapped Natalie on the shoulder. “Were you on holiday when you visited?”

“Yes and no. My parents were singing in a choir, in a choir competition, and they had reached the final. I was just a girl and was taken along. Their choir lost but I loved the city. The contest was part of a flower festival.”

Kees nodded. “Yes, I was going to say that, after the bicycles, the next best thing about Amsterdam are the flowers. There are endless flower festivals of one sort or another, and flower sellers at every corner. Do you sing, now you’re older?”

Natalie made a face. “Sore point. I do sing, yes, and not badly. My parents wanted me to have a musical career but I preferred science. We fought like mad about that, but they eventually gave way, when I got my place at Cambridge.”

“I went to a geological conference in Cambridge. Lots of bicycles there too. Do you live in college?”

“Yes, I do. You?”

“We don’t have colleges. I share one of those narrow houses you admired, with someone else, a wine merchant who plays the cello.”

Natalie colored. It was silly. Kees couldn’t know about her complicated relationship with the cello, but she couldn’t help herself. Would she ever be able to hear the cello again without thinking of Dominic, without rerunning rapidly the entire course of the affair, itself not unlike a piece of music, with a rousing opening, a serene middle, and a sad coda. How she fought with herself to prevent that loop in her brain from springing to life, like a wild animal disturbed in its sleep.

And must all conversation, from now on, carry a hidden menace, the possibility that it would lead, as this one had, in directions she would rather avoid? How long would she be a prisoner?

Thankfully, the camp came into view, across the gorge. Christopher slowed, the vehicle giving off a succession of creaks and groans as they descended the bank, scattering a troop of monkeys with the vehicle’s headlights.

“Which are the bigger nuisance in the camp,” said Kees, “monkeys or baboons?”

“Oh, monkeys,” said Christopher, “baboons are—”

“Stop!” cried Natalie. “Christopher, stop! Look!”—and she pointed.

“Where? At what?” he replied, braking hard, so that the Land Rover’s engine shuddered and stalled.

“Sorry,” breathed Natalie. “I didn’t mean to sound so excitable but isn’t that … doesn’t that look to you like a Wellington boot?”

Christopher leaned forward and peered to where she was pointing. “You know, I think you could be right,” he said slowly. “Do you want to get it?”

Natalie got down, while Christopher restarted the engine. She retrieved the boot and carried it back to the Land Rover. “It looks like it’s torn, ripped near the ankle,” she said, getting back in. “But it can be repaired.”

“Well done,” said Christopher. “We have to keep Mutevu sweet. He’s a good cook, but a bit temperamental.”

Darkness was now settling all around them as they traversed the gorge, climbed the bank opposite, and entered the camp.

Natalie got down and, taking her camera and the Wellington with her, returned to her tent. There were a couple of hours before dinner and she knew what she wanted to do. She had done some camping as a girl and had always had with her a bicycle tire repair kit, for repairing tears to the inflatable mattresses inevitably used in camps. She had brought the repair kit to Africa, not knowing what sort of beds were used on Eleanor Deacon’s digs.

She took the repair kit out now and, after cleaning the Wellington, applied gum around the tear and fixed a rubber patch that covered it more than adequately. She wedged the part of the boot where she had stuck the patch under the foot of the bed and sat there reading for half an hour. She judged that by then the patch would be stuck firmly to the boot.

It was now not much more than an hour to dinner and she knew that Mutevu would be in the kitchen.

But he wasn’t. Maybe he was in the storeroom, she thought, and went on through to the other side. As she came round the door, the first thing she saw was the gleam of his white T-shirt.

“Mutevu,” she said, “look what I—oh,” she breathed as she stepped further into the room. “Richard, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

Richard Sutton was also in the storeroom, standing next to Mutevu, and small by comparison.

“Natalie, hi,” he said. “Give me a minute, will you? I’ve a touch of indigestion and Mutevu was giving me some bicarbonate of soda to treat it.” He stepped back, and Mutevu turned and went to a cupboard, where he took down a white box. “Two teaspoonfuls,” he said, opening it to reveal the powder. “No more.”

“Thanks,” said Richard, patting his stomach. “This should do the trick.” He looked at Natalie. “Have you got there what I think you have?”

Natalie held up the boot and Mutevu suddenly beamed.

“Miss Natalie! Where did you find it?”

“In the gorge. We scattered some monkeys playing with it.” She showed him the patch. “It was torn, so I repaired it.”

Mutevu took the boot as she passed it across. “What is your favorite food, Miss Natalie? You must tell me. I must repay you this kindness.” He found the other Wellington, which he had kept in the storeroom, slipped off his plimsolls, and changed immediately.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mutevu. I’m just pleased we found it. Now, I’ll let you get on. Dinner isn’t far away.”

“And a good dinner it will be, Miss Natalie.” He grinned. “I cook much better with my boots on.”

Mutevu Ndekei leaned forward so that Eleanor Deacon, as always the last to be served, could be given her chops. Lunch, three days later. Lamb chops and chicken were the staple foods at the camp and that was fine by Natalie. The local deer meat she found too heavy, too dense, the fish—brought in frozen from Lake Victoria—too watery, too lacking in flavor. Not that she had voiced these views. Like a good team player she ate whatever was put in front of her.

Outside the refectory area, the sun bleached the ground, the deadwood of the spiky acacia branches that enclosed the camp, the washing which was stretched on lines between the tents, like flags. The Land Rovers, cooling under the trees, gave off mysterious metallic clicks and cracks.

Natalie was feeling famished today. While the rest of the crew was in the gorge, Jonas and she had visited Mgina’s brother Odnate again. They had found him much improved. He had stopped vomiting, his temperature was down, and the ulcers under his tongue were atrophying. He hadn’t regained his appetite yet but there was no doubt he had turned a corner. Natalie had been very cheered by what she had seen.

“Mutevu!” said Eleanor forcefully all of a sudden. “Can you please explain something to me?”

Everyone stopped eating and Mutevu stood up straight, holding the big serving plate.