“All are well except the third boy, who has a cut on the hand from the sawmill.”
“You want me to look at it?”
“They treated him at the Mission. With sulfa.”
“Excellent for children. But it destroys the kidneys of old men like you and me.”
Mrs. Singh laughed her honest Turkana laugh and Mr. Singh said, “I hope your Memsahib is well. That your children are well and all the aircraft are well.”
The Interpreter said, in good condition, in the reference to aircraft and I asked him not to be pedantic.
“The Memsahib, Miss Mary, is in Nairobi. She has gone in the aircraft and will return with the aircraft. All of my children are well. God permitting all aircraft are well.”
“We have heard the news,” Mr. Singh said. “The lion and the leopard.”
“Anyone can kill a lion and a leopard.”
“But the lion was from Miss Mary.”
“Naturally,” I said; pride rising in me of beautifully sculptured, compact, irascible and lovely Miss Mary with the head like an Egyptian coin, the breasts from Rubens and the heart from Bemidji, or Walker or Thief River Falls, any town where it was forty-five below zero in the winter. It was a temperature to make warm hearts that also could be cold.
“With Miss Mary there is no problem with a lion.”
“But it was a difficult lion. Many have suffered from this lion.”
“The Great Singh strangled them with either hand,” I said. “Miss Mary was using a 6.5 Mannlicher.”
“That is a small gun for such a lion,” said Mr. Singh and I knew then he had done his military service. So I waited for him to lead.
He was too smart to lead and Madame Singh said, “And the leopard?”
“Any man should be able to kill a leopard before breakfast.”
“You will eat something?”
“With Madame’s permission.”
“Please eat,” she said. “It is nothing.”
“We will go in the back room. You have drunk nothing.”
“We can drink together now if you wish.”
The Interpreter came in the back room and Mr. Singh brought a bottle of White Heather and a jug of water. The Interpreter took off his Mission shoes to show me his feet.
“I have only worn the shoes when we were in sight of the informers of religion,” he explained. “I have never spoken of the Baby Jesus except with contempt. I have not said my morning prayers nor my evening prayers.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“You rank as a negative convert,” I said. He pushed his head hard against my belly as the Widow’s son did.
“Think of the Mountain and of the Happy Hunting Grounds. We may need the Baby Jesus. Never speak of him with disrespect. What tribe are you?”
“The same as you.”
“No. What are you written as?”
“Masai-Chagga. We are the border.”
“There have been good men from the borders.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Never say sir in our religion or our tribe.”
“No.”
“How were you when you were circumcised?”
“Not the best, but good.”
“Why did you become a Christian?”
“Through ignorance.”
“You could be worse.”
“I would never be a Moslem,” and started to add sir but I checked him.
“It is a long strange road and maybe you had better throw the shoes away. I will give you a good old pair and you can mold them to your feet.”
“Thank you. Can I fly in the aircraft?”
“Of course. But it is not for children nor Mission boys.”
Then I would have said I am sorry but there is no such word in Swahili nor in Kamba and it is a just way of conducting a language since you are warned not to make errors.
The Interpreter asked me about the scratches and I said that they were from thorn trees and Mr. Singh nodded and showed the Interpreter where his thumb had been cut by the saw in September. It was an impressive cut and I remembered when it had happened.
“But you also fought with a leopard today,” the Interpreter said.
“There was no fight. It was a medium-sized leopard who had killed sixteen goats at the Kamba Shamba. He died without making a fight.”
“Everyone said you had fought him with your hands and killed him with the pistol.”
“Everyone is a liar. We killed the leopard first with a rifle and then with a shotgun.”
“But a shotgun is for birds.”
Mr. Singh laughed at this and I wondered some more about him.
“You are a very good Mission boy,” I said to the Interpreter. “But shotguns are not always for birds.”
“But in principle. That is why you say gun instead of rifle.”
“And what would a fucking babu say?” I asked Mr. Singh in English.
“A babu would be in a tree,” Mr. Singh said, speaking English for the first time.
“I am very fond of you Mr. Singh,” I said. “And I respect your great ancestor.”
“I respect all of your great ancestors although you have not named them.”
“They were nothing.”
“I shall hear of them at the proper time,” Mr. Singh said. “Should we drink? The woman, the Turkana, brings more food.”
The Interpreter now was avid for knowledge and the scent of it was breast high and he was half Chagga and had a low but strong chest.
“In the library at the Mission there is a book which says the great Carl Akeley killed a leopard with his bare hands. Can I believe that?”
“If you like.”
“I ask truly as a boy who wishes to know.”
“It was before my time. Many men have asked the same question.”