Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

“I cannot begin to express the damage done to my sense of self-esteem over the way she jilted me, Miss Tennant,” he confessed. “A man more sensible and experienced in matters of the heart would have no doubt moved on by now, but you see, Miss Tennant, I am not to easily forget such things: I am afraid it has left me in a bit of a shell these days still.” Then: “I hope I have not offended you by mentioning her, Miss Tennant.”

“You’ve only left me feeling a little jealous and regretful that I had not the chance to know you in those days.”

It happened that her mother had come in from the parlor: Gertrude had been reading in one of the papers about the life of General Gordon, a pious bachelor, like Stanley, who died at Khartoum without ever having experienced the comforts of love.

“A most interesting thing about Gordon,” she cheerfully said. “Seems that in his youth he once had some kind of love affair that ended badly; and as he’d never gotten over it, the rest of his life was spent in a lonely way: What could he have been thinking?”

Stanley had then looked over at Dorothy, their eyes meeting in mutual recognition of the relevance of her mother’s comment.

How I wish Alice had died while Stanley had gone to Africa, because then he could still remember her with love and would not be so mistrusting of the world. I feel so sorry for him, not only because of Alice but also because of the terrible loneliness that he is too stubborn to let go of… It is a funny thing, then, is it not, Father, to learn so much about someone whom, not so long before, one did not know and to wish to help and care for that person, as if it were the most important thing in the world?

Good night, and sleep well.

ONLY ONCE DID SHE SEEM SAD. They were walking in Regent’s Park, arm in arm, at dusk, several of Stanley’s Scotties on a leash before him.

“What troubles you? You’ve been very quiet.”

“Do you remember the first time you came to see me at Richmond Terrace? There were three or four children there, one of them a boy named William, the chimney sweep.”

“I do.”

“A few mornings ago a boy came knocking at our door; it was one of his little friends come to tell me that William had drowned in the Thames.”

“That is sad.”

“To the boy who brought me that news I gave some coins, for his family: But the fact remains that the innocent child is dead.”

They proceeded along in silence, then Stanley, knowing her mind somewhat, said: “Though he is gone, he has surely gone to a better place.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stanley; I sincerely hope it is so.”

They were heading out of the park when Dolly suddenly swooned and fell into Stanley’s arms. The explorer gently sat her down on a bench. “Forgive me, my dear,” she said. “I have not eaten for the two days since hearing about poor William.”

“Well, then, let us get you something to eat.”

And then, regaining her composure, her dizziness having left her, she said: “Would you be sad if I were to suddenly die?”

“That is a strange question, Dolly. But yes, I would be; very much so.”

And with that answer she smiled happily. “Ah, then I know that you do care for me; and I promise that I will live a long life, so as to always be by your side.”

At Madame Tussaud’s: The Story of Kalulu

ON ANOTHER AFTERNOON, while strolling in London with Dorothy, Stanley asked her if she had ever visited Madame Tussaud’s wax museum, and, as she had never done so, such a touristy attraction having escaped her attention, they made their way to Marylebone Road to see its exhibition rooms. Here and there were displayed the wax effigies of many a famous personage: Henry VIII, Napoléon Bonaparte, George III, among some several dozen others, including Livingstone himself, who was depicted seated at a desk with a Bible open before him. But the exhibit Stanley most wanted her to see, just across from Admiral Nelson, was of himself, with the wax effigy of his young rifle bearer, Kalulu, striding behind him. Stanley’s Winchester repeater was balanced on his shoulders.

“Now, Dolly, of all the manifestations of my fame, this display of myself as I once was, and of my dear boy Kalulu, has always struck me as the strangest; while I am very flattered to be included with so many other historical personages, I get a strong feeling of my own mortality, for there is something morbid about being included among the images of so many dead people. When I have visited this place in the past, mainly to look at Kalulu, of whom I was most fond, I get the strangest impression that one day, after I am long dead, visitors will be standing in this very spot, wondering about this version of myself, Henry Morton Stanley; it is akin to the very same sensation I get when sitting down in my parlor to write. The thought comes to mind that sometime, far into the future, when my books will be but dusty remnants of the past on some library shelf, my own life will be observed from afar, perhaps even written about, by some person whom I will have never met. Altogether, it is rather sobering to me.”

“And is that why you brought me here?”

“Well, Dolly, not really. I wanted you to get a good look at Kalulu, whom you see here as he once was: a most cheerful and good-spirited lad, of whom I will speak if you want me to.”

Shortly they were sitting on a bench, where Stanley began his narrative.

“I was on the march to find Livingstone in the spring of 1871, and heading toward Ujiji, when my expedition stopped at the town of Tabora, an Arab slave-trading center. Such African-Arab towns, stretching west into the interior from Bagamoyo at points along the slave-trading route, were refuges from the surrounding wilds, the Arabs having their mosques, their caravansaries, bustling markets, and their own villas and pleasure gardens with harems. Such outposts of Islamic civilization were marred only by the gross indecency by which these traders earned their livelihoods. There, in a souk, I met with an Arab merchant, and sitting cross-legged on a carpet opposite him, smoking a musky tobacco through the tube of a narghile, I spent several hours in congenial negotiations with him. By giving him several repeating rifles in exchange for some food supplies that would be vital to my expedition, I made such a good impression on the trader that he, in gratitude for my honest dealings, made me the gift of one of his slave boys, Kalulu. And this boy, an orphan with a winning smile, could not have been more affable or obedient in nature. His cheerfulness alone consoled me greatly, and as I much enjoyed his spirit and the boyishness with which he approached our adventure, I made him my rifle bearer. Kalulu, as you see him here, was always by my side or walking a few steps behind me.

“It was Kalulu who accompanied me and Dr. Livingstone on our explorations of Lake Tanganyika, and Kalulu who nursed me when I fell ill from fever. Such a good and cheerful boy was he, Miss Tennant, that when it was time for me to head back to Zanzibar, I could not bear the idea of leaving the little fellow behind. So I brought him back with me to London, where I had taken up residence at the Hotel Chatham. In Africa, we had mainly spoken Arabic, which I had studied and learned in my travels in the Middle East, or Swahili, but by the time we had arrived in London I had taught him to speak rudimentary English.

“I took him everywhere with me, to every banquet and luncheon in my honor, and often into the houses of some very important persons. I took him to the far reaches of England and even to America when I went there on tour. In fact, he made such a lasting impression on Samuel Clemens that years later, he named a character after Kalulu in one of his tales, ‘The Esquimau Maiden’s Romance.’”