effectively ended the discussion. Patrick could not respond as he might have, that James lived the bleakest of lives, cut off from his wife and children fifty-one weeks a year in order to serve another family and live in a concrete box. Such a person, Patrick might have argued, could be forgiven for wondering what the Mau Mau Rebellion had been about and what exactly
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meant. Not freedom for James, surely. Patrick sipped his wine, unwilling or unable to use another example to prove a point that the British and possibly the Dutch would never concede anyway.
“Finch Hatton is buried here somewhere,” Saartje said, gesturing in a vague direction toward the grave site of Karen Blixen’s lover. “We must be sure to visit the obelisk.”
“Arrogant philanderer,” Arthur pronounced with a moue of disdain. “Bloody awful to Tanne while she was here.” He spoke as though he had personal knowledge of Karen Blixen’s bloody awful treatment, even though he was a long generation removed from her.
“I, for one, would love to see the grave,” Margaret said.
“Women,” Arthur said. “Hopeless romantics. Well, if one goes, we all go,” he said with reasonably good cheer. “Have to stay together. Can’t break up the team.”
“I’d like to see the spot, too,” Patrick said, rising. “But I hope I’m allowed to take a leak without the team,” he added, walking toward the nearest stand of trees.
“We’ll send the girls to watch,” Willem called, and chuckled at his own joke.
Girls,
Margaret thought.
No one seemed eager to leave the picnic. When Patrick returned, he took from his backpack a kite of teal and yellow and red. He tied on the tail and let out a bit of string from a spool. He started to run sideways to give the kite a lift, and within seconds, the wind from the Rift caught it and took it aloft. It stuttered wildly as it tried to stabilize itself, but then it lifted into a different altitude and settled in with long, lazy swoops. They all watched, necks straining. Patrick returned and hitched the string to a leg of his stool.
“Marvelous,” Arthur said. “The children would love it. Wouldn’t they, Diana?”
“Love it,” she repeated.
For fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty, Margaret photographed the kite, the landscape, the assembled. Around them, there was an easy silence. Patrick watched the kite, occasionally letting out string. Arthur sat, staring out into space, his elbows resting on his knees. Willem, who was slightly too big for his canvas chair, appeared nevertheless to be in the same trance as the rest of the group. He picked up a wine bottle and poured the dregs into his glass. Saartje, chin resting on hand, seemed to be trying to take in the Rift in one glance, which couldn’t be done. Diana was simply resting, her posture loose and gentle.
A moment of perfect compatibility and ease. The last the six of them would have together.
Without warning, Diana stood. “Leave nothing. No food, no utensils, no trash.”
Patrick reluctantly reeled in his kite.
“We’ll do it again,” Margaret said, reflecting, not for the first time, that Patrick would make a great father. He genuinely liked to play.
Margaret’s backpack was considerably lighter; the bottle empty, the bread gone. She carried her own canteen now, not having realized that Patrick had carried it for her on the way up. Prior to the big climb, she vowed, she would spend the entire day drinking water. She might have to pee constantly, but she didn’t ever want to experience that kind of urgent thirst again.
The oilcloth removed, Margaret stood, ready to carry on, while Willem and Arthur collapsed the stools and then tried to return them to their backpacks, an activity that proved more difficult than taking them out. As Margaret let her eyes roam over the Rift, she felt the first sting on her leg, the initial bite followed within seconds by dozens of others, as if she were being pricked hard by needles.
“Oh,” she
uhuru
meant. Not freedom for James, surely. Patrick sipped his wine, unwilling or unable to use another example to prove a point that the British and possibly the Dutch would never concede anyway.
“Finch Hatton is buried here somewhere,” Saartje said, gesturing in a vague direction toward the grave site of Karen Blixen’s lover. “We must be sure to visit the obelisk.”
“Arrogant philanderer,” Arthur pronounced with a moue of disdain. “Bloody awful to Tanne while she was here.” He spoke as though he had personal knowledge of Karen Blixen’s bloody awful treatment, even though he was a long generation removed from her.
“I, for one, would love to see the grave,” Margaret said.
“Women,” Arthur said. “Hopeless romantics. Well, if one goes, we all go,” he said with reasonably good cheer. “Have to stay together. Can’t break up the team.”
“I’d like to see the spot, too,” Patrick said, rising. “But I hope I’m allowed to take a leak without the team,” he added, walking toward the nearest stand of trees.
“We’ll send the girls to watch,” Willem called, and chuckled at his own joke.
Girls,
Margaret thought.
No one seemed eager to leave the picnic. When Patrick returned, he took from his backpack a kite of teal and yellow and red. He tied on the tail and let out a bit of string from a spool. He started to run sideways to give the kite a lift, and within seconds, the wind from the Rift caught it and took it aloft. It stuttered wildly as it tried to stabilize itself, but then it lifted into a different altitude and settled in with long, lazy swoops. They all watched, necks straining. Patrick returned and hitched the string to a leg of his stool.
“Marvelous,” Arthur said. “The children would love it. Wouldn’t they, Diana?”
“Love it,” she repeated.
For fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty, Margaret photographed the kite, the landscape, the assembled. Around them, there was an easy silence. Patrick watched the kite, occasionally letting out string. Arthur sat, staring out into space, his elbows resting on his knees. Willem, who was slightly too big for his canvas chair, appeared nevertheless to be in the same trance as the rest of the group. He picked up a wine bottle and poured the dregs into his glass. Saartje, chin resting on hand, seemed to be trying to take in the Rift in one glance, which couldn’t be done. Diana was simply resting, her posture loose and gentle.
A moment of perfect compatibility and ease. The last the six of them would have together.
Without warning, Diana stood. “Leave nothing. No food, no utensils, no trash.”
Patrick reluctantly reeled in his kite.
“We’ll do it again,” Margaret said, reflecting, not for the first time, that Patrick would make a great father. He genuinely liked to play.
Margaret’s backpack was considerably lighter; the bottle empty, the bread gone. She carried her own canteen now, not having realized that Patrick had carried it for her on the way up. Prior to the big climb, she vowed, she would spend the entire day drinking water. She might have to pee constantly, but she didn’t ever want to experience that kind of urgent thirst again.
The oilcloth removed, Margaret stood, ready to carry on, while Willem and Arthur collapsed the stools and then tried to return them to their backpacks, an activity that proved more difficult than taking them out. As Margaret let her eyes roam over the Rift, she felt the first sting on her leg, the initial bite followed within seconds by dozens of others, as if she were being pricked hard by needles.
“Oh,” she
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