“But I need to know the truth.”
“There is very little of it in books. But the great Carl Akeley was a great man.”
You could not break him away from scent of knowledge since you had sought it all your life and had to be content with facts, coordinates and statements vouchsafed in drunkenness or taken under duress. This boy, who had removed his shoes and rubbed his feet on the wooden floor of Mr. Singh’s back parlor and was so intent on knowledge that he did not know that Mr. Singh and I were embarrassed by his public foot hardening, moved in, as unshod as a hunting dog, from plane geometry to something far beyond calculus.
“Can you justify a European taking an African as his mistress?”
“We don’t justify. That is the function of the judiciary. Steps are taken by the police.”
“Please do not quibble,” he said. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Sir is a nicer word than Bwana. At one time it had a certain meaning.”
“Can you then condone, sir, such a relationship?”
“If a girl loves the man and there is no coercion, to me it is not a sin if adequate provision is made for the issue per stirpes and not per capita.”
This came like an unexpected block and I was as pleased as Mr. Singh that I could throw it with no change of pace. He fell back on the basic that he had been crammed on.
“It is a sin in the Eyes of God.”
“Do you carry Him with you and what type of drops do you use to ensure His clearest vision?”
“Please do not make fun of me, sir. I left everything behind me when I entered your service.”
“I have no service. We are the last free individuals in a country slightly larger than Connecticut and we believe in a very abused slogan.”
“May I hear the slogan?”
“Slogans are a bore, Mission boy…. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Then to take the curse off having offered a slogan and because Mr. Singh was becoming solemn and ready to reenlist I said, “Harden your feet well as you are doing. Keep your bowels open and remember that there is some corner of a foreign field that shall be forever England.”
He could not quit which might have been his Chagga blood or might have been the Masai strain and he said, “But you are an officer of the Crown.”
“Technically and temporarily. What do you want? The Queen’s shilling?”
“I would like to take it, sir.”
It was a little bit rough to do but knowledge is rougher and more poorly compensated. I took the hard shillingi out of my pocket and put it in the boy’s hand. Our Queen looked very beautiful and shining in silver and I said, “Now you are an informer; no that is wrong,” because I saw Mr. Singh had been hurt by the dirty word. “Now you are commissioned as a temporary interpreter for the Game Department and will be remunerated at the stipend of seventy shillings per month in so long as I hold the tenure of acting temporary Game Ranger. On the cessation of my tenure your appointment shall cease and you will receive a gratuity of seventy shillings from the date of ceasing of tenure. This gratuity will be paid from my own private funds and you hereby avow that you have no claims of any sort nor any possible future claims against the Game Department nor any other, etc., and may God have mercy on your soul. The gratuity shall be made in a single payment. What is your name, young man?”
“Nathaniel.”
“You will be known in the Game Department as Peter.”
“It is an honorable name, sir.”
“No one asked for your comments and your duties are strictly confined to accurate and complete interpretation when as and if you are called on. Your contact will be with Arap Meina, who will give you any further instructions. Do you wish to draw any advance?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you might go now and toughen your feet in the hills behind town.”
“Are you angry with me, sir?”
“Not at all. But when you grow up you may discover that the Socratic method of acquiring knowledge is overrated and if you ask people no questions they will tell you no lies.”
“Good day, Mr. Singh,” the former convert said, donning his shoes in case there was a spy from the Mission about. “Good day, sir.”
Mr. Singh nodded and I said, “Good day.”
When the young man had gone out of the back door and Mr. Singh had drifted toward the door almost absentmindedly and then returned to pour another drink of White Heather and pass me the water in the cooling jug, he settled himself comfortably and said, “Another bloody babu.”
“But not a shit.”
“No,” Mr. Singh said. “But you waste your time on him.”
“Why did we never speak English together before?”
“From respect,” Mr. Singh said.
“Did the original Singh, your ancestor, speak English?”
“I would not know,” Mr. Singh said. “That was before my time.”
“What was your rank, Mr. Singh?”
“Do you wish my serial number as well?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “And it is your whisky. But you put up with Unknown Tongue for a long time.”