Keiti, who was very cheerful that Miss Mary was arriving, said we would use Bwana Mouse’s cot which was identical and I went back to my chair and the bird identification book and more tea. I felt like someone who had dressed for the party too early on this morning that felt like spring in a high alpine plateau and as I went over to the mess tent for breakfast I wondered what the day would bring. The first thing it brought was the Informer.
“Good morning, brother,” the Informer said. “How is your good health?”
“Never better, brother. What is new?”
“May I come in?”
“Of course. Have you had breakfast?”
“Hours before. I breakfasted on the Mountain.”
“Why?”
“The Widow was so difficult that I left her to wander alone in the night as you do, brother.”
I knew this was a lie and I said, “You mean you walked to the road and caught a ride up to Laitokitok with one of Benji’s boys in the lorry?”
“Something like that, brother.”
“Go on.”
“Brother, there are desperate things afoot.”
“Pour yourself your pleasure and tell me.”
“It is set for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, brother. I believe it is a massacre.”
I wanted to say, “By them or by us?” but I controlled myself.
“Tell me more,” I said, looking at the Informer’s proud, brown, guilt-lined face as he raised a shot glass of Canadian gin with a glow of bitters in it to his gray red lips.
“Why don’t you drink Gordon’s? You’ll live longer.”
“I know my place, brother.”
“And your place is in my heart,” I said quoting the late Fats Waller. Tears came into the Informer’s eyes.
“So this St. Bartholomew’s eve is for Christmas Eve,” I said. “Has no one any respect for the Baby Jesus?”
“It is a massacre.”
“Women and children too?”
“No one said so.”
“Who said what?”
“There was talk at Benji’s. There was much talk at the Masai stores and at the Tea Room.”
“Are the Masai to be put to death?”
“No. The Masai will all be here for your Ngoma for the Baby Jesus.”
“Is the Ngoma popular?” I said to change the subject and to show that news of impending massacres meant nothing to me, a man who had been through the Zulu War and whose ancestors had done away with George Armstrong Custer on the Little Big Horn. No man who went to Mecca not being a Moslem as another man might go to Brighton or Atlantic City should be moved by rumors of massacres.
“The Ngoma is the talk of the Mountain,” the Informer said. “Except for the massacre.”
“What did Mr. Singh say?”
“He was rude to me.”
“Is he participating in the massacre?”
“He is probably one of the ringleaders.”
The Informer unwrapped a package he had in his shawl. It was a bottle of White Heather whisky in a carton.
“A gift from Mr. Singh,” he said. “I advise you to examine it carefully before drinking, brother. I have never heard the name.”
“Too bad, brother. It may be a new name but it is good whisky. New brands of whisky are always good at the start.”
“I have information for you on Mr. Singh. He has undoubtedly performed military service.”
“It is hard to believe.”
“I am sure of it. No one could have cursed me as Mr. Singh did who had not served the Raj.”
“Do you think Mr. Singh and Mrs. Singh are subversives?”
“I will make inquiries.”
“The gen has been a little shadowy today, Informer.”
“Brother, it was a difficult night. The coldheartedness of the Widow, my wanderings on the Mountain.”
“Take another drink, brother. You sound like
“Was that a battle, brother?”
“In a way.”
“You must tell me about it someday.”
“Remind me. Now I want you to spend the night in Laitokitok, sober, and bring me some information that is not bullshit. Go to Brown’s Hotel and sleep there. No, sleep on the porch. Where did you sleep last night?”
“On the floor of the Tea Room under the billiard table.”
“Drunk or sober?”
“Drunk, brother.”
Mary would certainly wait for the bank to open so that she could get the mail. It was a good day for flying and there was no sign of anything building up and I did not think Willie would be in any hurry about getting out. I put a couple of cool bottles of beer in the hunting car and Ngui, Mthuka and I drove out to the airstrip with Arap Meina in the back. Meina would mount guard over the plane and he was smart and very sharp in his uniform and his .303 with the sling was freshly polished and oiled. We made a run around the meadow to put the birds to flight and then retired to the shade of a big tree where Mthuka killed the engine and we all sat back and were comfortable. Charo had come along at the last minute because he was Miss Mary’s gun bearer and it was only proper that he should meet her.
It was past noon and I opened one of the quarts of Tusker and Mthuka and Ngui and I drank from it. Arap Meina was under discipline for a recent drunkenness but he knew I would give him some later.
I told Ngui and Mthuka I had a dream last night that we should pray to the sun as it rose and again to the sun as it set.
Ngui said he would not kneel down like a camel driver or a Christian even for the religion.