A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,51
into one of the planter’s chairs, his booted legs resting comfortably on the long arms of the chair.
“Good morning. I see you’ve been getting acquainted with the help.”
I shook my head. “I dislike that man, and those children look like they ought to have been drowned at birth. But I don’t want to talk about the walking farce that is the Gates family. You’re late. The Kikuyu have been and gone.”
He rose and pointed toward the tins of powdered milk stacked on the veranda. With them were a large bottle of castor oil and another of vitamins, and a fresh tin of antiseptic powder.
I prowled through the pile, happy to find sacks of dried beans and rice as well as a wide basket of fresh produce, onions and gourds mostly.
“Well done,” I told him, brushing back my fringe. “What do I owe you?”
He stood the barest inch too close. “Consider it a housewarming present.”
“I think I’ll pay my own way. What do I owe you?”
He smiled then and eased back a step. “I’ll tally it up later.”
“If you’re sure. I’d hate for you to lose any more money on my account,” I said sweetly.
He would have been a good poker player. I had beaten him at his own game, and he didn’t like it much, but there wasn’t a damned thing he could do but swallow it whole.
Just then Gideon appeared, carrying another tin of powdered milk. “Good morning, Bibi,” he said in his lightly accented English.
I raised my brows and he gave me a broad smile. “You would say ‘Habari za asubuhi.’”
He repeated it half a dozen times before I got the pronunciation right, but eventually I got my tongue around it. “Very good, Bibi. Now, I have heard that you would like to purchase a cow. Bwana Ryder and I will take you.”
“Gideon, I think Mr. Bell wouldn’t have bothered with the telephone if he’d had any experience with the marvels of the African bush. Yes, I would like to buy a cow, a very fine Masai cow.”
He shook his head. “This thing is not possible, Bibi. A Masai will not sell his cow.”
I thought of a peculiar Hindu gentleman I had met in London. We had spent the better part of an otherwise deadly dull dinner party chatting about India and his curious beliefs as I lapped up a steak and he pushed vegetables around his plate. The light came on.
“I understand. Cows are sacred to Masai.”
Gideon gave a hoot of laughter. “No. Cows are money, Bibi. They are worth far more than whatever you could think to exchange for them. But the Kikuyu keep cattle, too, and they do not respect the cattle as the Masai. They will take your money.”
“Lead on,” I told him.
He shouldered his spear and we walked together as Ryder fell in behind us. I remembered much of what he had told me the day before and I pointed out various plants to Gideon, trying out their Swahili names. A warthog ran across the path. “Ngiri,” I said triumphantly.
“Ngiri,” Gideon affirmed.
I smiled at him, and when he smiled back I felt a curious tug. It wasn’t just a smile from a handsome man. I collected those like other women collected air to breathe. This was something altogether different. There was a gentleness in Gideon, a simple way of looking at the world. He was unencumbered by the silly and the trivial. There was nothing petty about him. His world was bound by death and blood, and life itself was short and sharp as a thorn, cheap as dirt and as precious as diamonds. It is a rare thing to find a man who wears his pride without vanity, but Gideon was such a man. I wanted suddenly to know everything about him, to drink up everything he knew to the last drop. Fate had given him the gift of serenity, and I envied him bitterly.
I looked sharply away and he went on, reciting the musical words of Swahili for me as one might teach a child. “This is how you say ‘fire’...”
* * *
Cattle-dealing in Africa is the same as the world over. We found a Kikuyu willing to sell a few cows and their calves, and after poking into their mouths and feeling their udders, Gideon negotiated a price. There was much discussion I didn’t understand and much staring on the part of the Kikuyu children. They were a little awed by a Masai warrior, but a white woman in trousers