Karen Blixen’s farm lay twelve miles west of Nairobi, along a rutted road that climbed steadily. The altitude was thousands of feet higher than Delamere’s or Jock’s, and the climbing forest cut sharp ridges into the pale sky. A long valley swung to one side of the road, strung through with carpets of orange lilies, the kind that grew up wild everywhere after it rained. The air was sweet with them, and also the white-flowering coffee plants, which smelled like jasmine. Everything seemed to sparkle, just like champagne. Denys had been right about that.
Though I was fairly sure the baroness would at least consider letting the house to my mother—it was sitting empty, after all—I felt a twinge or two about coming unannounced. Settlers were spread out so widely in Kenya that visitors were generally welcomed however and whenever they popped up. But I didn’t know if Denys had yet mentioned me to her, or what their relationship was exactly. My curiosity had been simmering about them both, and I felt a sense of anticipation—of being on the verge of something interesting.
The substantial bungalow was built of grey stone with a pitched and tiled roof, and sturdy-looking gables. A long porch swept all the way around the house, as did a wide, groomed lawn. Two large deerhounds sunned in the grass as I rode up, blue-grey and whiskered, with lovely pointed muzzles. They didn’t bark or seem troubled by me, so I dismounted and let them have my hands to smell.
I looked up as a woman came out of the house. She wore a simple white housedress and was slenderly built, with very fair skin and dark hair. Her face was most striking for its angles, and for her eyes, deep set under feathery brows. Her gaze and her sharp fine nose gave her the look of a pretty hawk. I felt myself squirm, suddenly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, I should have wired you,” I said, giving her my name. “Is Denys around?”
“He’s out on safari, actually. I don’t expect him for at least a month.”
A month? But before I could feel deflated or more awkward about where to begin, she went on to say that Denys had spoken of me, and that she’d been keen for some company. “I haven’t spoken to anyone but the dogs for days, it seems.” She smiled and her features softened. “I’ve just got some new records for my phonograph, too. Do you like music?”
“I do, though I’m not very educated about it.”
“I’m trying to learn more myself. My friends tell me my taste is too old-fashioned.” She pulled a small face and sighed. “Let’s see to your horse then.”
—
Karen’s house reminded me of my childhood visits to Lady D at Equator Ranch. It was the quality of her things, the civility in the smallest details. Inside the broad front door, richly coloured carpets ran over the mahogany parquet, connecting the rooms and warming them. There were silky wood tables, plump chintz-covered sofas and overstuffed chairs, thick draperies at every window, flowers in vases and flowers in bowls. She had shelves and shelves of finely bound books. As I looked at them, I felt very aware of my spotty education. I ran my hand along a row of their spines. My fingertips came away with no dust. “Have you really read them all?” I asked.
“Of course. They’ve saved my life many times over. Nights can drip like molasses here, especially when good friends have gone away.”
I wondered if she meant Denys, but she didn’t elaborate. Instead, she showed me to a small guest room so I could wash, and then we met again on the veranda for tea. Her houseboy, Juma, held the china pot and poured for us, white gloves flapping around his thin black wrists. He passed a plate of biscuits and sweets with a formality I hadn’t seen in many servants, not in these parts.
“I’ve come to ask a favour,” I told her when Juma had gone. “But maybe you’ve already guessed that.”
“You’ve come to stay then?” Her accent rolled and swooped. Her dark eyes were pretty, but I found myself squirming under them a bit. She seemed to watch rather than simply look at things.
“Not exactly. My mother is returning to Kenya after many years away. I thought your house might do if it’s still empty. She’ll pay you a fair price, of course.”
“Why, yes. There hasn’t been anyone in it for so long. It will be nice to have her here, and for you, too.”
“She’s not actually…” I had no idea how to explain it all. “We don’t know each other that well.”
“I see.” Again her dark eyes fixed on me, making me want to fidget in my chair. “It’s very kind of you to help her in that case.”
“I suppose so,” I said, not wanting to say more. Above her house on the ridge, five deeply blue hills cut a rising and falling line. They drew my eye back and forth.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” Karen said. “I love them indecently.” She held up her fist to model how the shape of the ridge was like the knuckles of her hand. “There’s nothing like them in Denmark. Nothing like any of what I have here.” She drew a slim silver case from her pocket and lit a cigarette, shaking out the match and plucking a thread of tobacco from her tongue, all without taking her eyes from my face. “Your browned skin looks so wonderful with your hair, you know,” she finally said. “You really are one of the most beautiful girls I’ve seen in these parts. And I read about your racing successes in the Nairobi paper. That can’t be an easy life for a woman, and the society isn’t terribly gentle here, is it?”