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THE MUTHAIGA COUNTRY Club stood a bumpy ten-minute drive north of the city center. Along the way, De Pauw spoke at length over the pompous atmosphere and boorish imbroglios standard for the institution, of which he was a proud member. It was the place for the elite to hold their soirées, gamble, keep a room, and engage in the favored elixir of socialite cliques—gossip. While many of the male members were reputable sorts of high political or social standing, Nairobi was evolving into a dissolute playground for the wayward offspring of aristocratic Europe, who, while born into privilege, were dealt a losing ticket in the primogeniture lottery. They came to flaunt their disdain for the ways of yore and squander their second-rate inheritances. Among the most notorious firebrands were members of the “Happy Valley Set” who spent much of their energy outdoing their reputations for hedonistic antics.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he reassured. “It’s mostly harmless fun.”
They’re English. How outlandish could it be? Alexandra told herself. She requested, “Just don’t leave me alone.”
Armistice Day had been celebrated days ago, solemnly, but the cessation of hostilities in Africa had not been agreed to until three days after the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. It had taken that long for the terms of surrender to reach German General Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck and his ragtag army in Northern Rhodesia. Over four years of warfare, the respectfully coined “Lion of Africa” had outwitted, outmaneuvered, and outfought the larger Allied forces sent to rid German influence from the continent.
He had made fools of them all.
Once De Pauw escorted Alexandra into the lavishly decorated dining hall, it was clear the Muthaiga Club marked this second date in a more waggish fashion of self-mockery. Some men wore field-gray German uniforms, with a few of the women outfitted in the khaki garb of the British irregulars: topi-hats, spine pads, cartridge belts, and all.
Not everyone was so attired, with linen jackets for the men and airy dresses for the ladies showing off an uppity frontier adherence to customary style. Amidst the room’s white pillars, they danced, milled about the champagne tower, or gathered to enjoy the music of a six-piece orchestra. Alexandra found it a bit suffocating but savored hearing the Jazz Age had made its way to Africa. No sooner had she shared a toast with De Pauw than he was off to the private lounge where the stodgier members sat reading the East African Standard, shooting pool, and discussing politics under the glassy-eyed gazes of the wildlife mounts along the walls.
Alexandra’s solo traveling circumstances had not improved. She now stood alone at another bar, offering an uncomfortable nod or a shy smile to those passing. A couple soon dropped by. They were in their late thirties and seemed full of good cheer.
“How I love German women!” The man grinned and took hold of Alexandra’s hand to kiss. “Baron Bror von Blixen-Finecke... and this, is my lovely Cockie.”
Though wearing a dented steel Brodie helmet and tipsy, Cockie seemed the more sophisticated. She said, “Jacqueline Harriet Alexander. Here by your lonesome?”
“Alexandra Bathenbrook of Montana.” She blushed. “I came with Jean-Luc De Pauw.”
“Montana! I have yet to shoot a grizzly bear,” Blixen pronounced with excitement. “I’m afraid Jean-Luc won’t soon return. He is a fine shot but a tiresome gambler, so he takes longer to lose his money. We must dance. You can share the wonders of America before others whisper what a terrible rogue Bror Blixen is reputed to be.”
He lent out his escort arm. “Komm, Fräulein.”
She said, “As long as it won’t stir an international incident.”
“One dance is a courtesy.” Cockie downed her champagne and elicited an annoyed smirk at her man. “A second, all the better.”
They settled into the pack, gliding arm-in-arm. Blixen had come from Sweden and earned a reputation as a daring white hunter. Despite his short stature and amicable banter, Alexandra sensed by his grip that he was a fearless sort, accustomed to taking what he desired. His opaque eyes were those of a tracker—cool enough to persuade a charging elephant to consider otherwise—and his imparted expertise in the ways of the bush was profound.
Overall, she found him to be a decent guy. No less, she needed to lift his hand back to her waistline. Once having an opening, she spoke of her dalliances with American beasts of the wild, refraining from mentioning upper-class fraternity boys at Montana State College.
“Did you know that the lead male in a lion pride mates with two lionesses at the same time?” Blixen inquired.
“I did not,” Alexandra said. She again lifted his drooping hand and tried to divert him off the persistent topic of animal sex customs. “Did you serve in the war, being from Sweden?”
“We all did our part.” He snorted. “What little it accomplished.”
Alexandra came to a sudden start; more so at hearing two shots of gunfire crackle just behind her than Blixen’s squeeze of her bum. Those on the dancefloor loosened their embraces as the band lowered their instruments. A man holding high a Webley revolver shouted, “After four years of folly, I bestow upon thee the ‘Löwe von Afrika!’” The crowd burst into applause and catcalls.
Blixen led Alexandra through the thicket of revelers. Cockie greeted them with glasses of bubbly. “I should take her prisoner. What a handsome threesome we would make.”
The band struck up a military march. Four men in ragged uniforms carried a filanzana onto the dancefloor. Upon this makeshift throne rested a stuffed lion’s head with a gold-marked pickelhaube atop its thick mane. Everyone found great humor in pelting the effigy with whatever was in hand.
Cockie leaned into Alexandra. “Do my breasts appeal to you?”
“Pardon?”
“There you are, Beryl. It’s good to—”
Alexandra stiffened at a touch on her shoulder and turned to the arriving man, who cut short his jauntier greeting.
Upon observing his error, the man espoused a pained grin, took a step back, and slightly dipped his head. “You look similar, but she would never wear a helmet.”
Blixen frowned. “Nice to see you, Denys. Don’t play the white knight this evening.”
As far as Alexandra was concerned, all was forgiven. She could not lift her eyes off this pleasing stranger. He was not overly handsome, twice her age, yet something inherent struck her fancy. She did her level best not to overreach and be the first to introduce herself.
Blixen stepped in before anyone started melting. “May I present Denys George Finch Hatton; my ex-wife’s lover and my best friend.”
“Alexandra Illyria Bathenbrook.” She could tell that Finch Hatton did not appreciate Blixen’s blunt introduction, nor the ignoble truth to it. He shook her hand and held it longer than usually called for. She asked, “Are you another renowned hunter?”
“Only in the bush. I’d be delighted if we might share a dance.”
Finch Hatton was more debonair on the dancefloor than his redoubtable Swedish colleague. Alexandra felt tongue-tied. It was easy for her to lose herself in the study of the boyish glint yet faded from his eyes: how his thin face balanced out his bent nose; his charming grin; the light brown hair neatly parted, with little call for comb or effort. Her thoughts kept pulling her away from enjoying the moment, however, and into a web of algebraic distraction. It was dangerous when Alexandra started thinking in numbers. She had an astute mind for mathematics, which aided in converting currencies or deciphering train schedules, but was otherwise a pitfall for torment.
She had met so many people with lengthy names that she felt as if fallen into a Tolstoy novel. Considering titles or nobiliary particles only accounted for half a name, it became ridiculously clear why the “Lion of Africa” had outwitted them. The sum of his moniker was an insurmountable FIVE, trumping their lesser numerical tallies, that, while impressive in Nairobi, had not cut the same mustard on the battlefield. Having only three names felt rather pedestrian. “Cockie” had needed to claim a beguiling sobriquet just to mix with this crowd.
Alexandra pondered if she’d need to add one to get on equal footing. It would have to be somewhat preposterous to match the times. “Bumsy” came under immediate consideration.
“Who is this woman you mistook me for?” she finally asked.
Finch Hatton riposted, “Beryl... I’m not sure of her last name. Last spring, she was engaged to one man and had married another by the end of summer. I’ve been off in Tanganyika, so I couldn’t say if it has changed once more. A rather spirited young lady.”
Alexandra peered at a tall, long-limbed woman leering at them from the bar. “Would she be the light-haired Amazon conversing with Baron Blixen and Cockie?”
He glanced over. “That’s her. They’re all chums.”
Alexandra deemed some likeness in appearance and age, but this woman’s face was narrower, the nose more aquiline, and the tight lips thinner than her own. Beryl’s hair was short and curled, giving off a sleek, tomboyish appeal. By the venom shooting from her tautened blue eyes, Alexandra surmised this blonde tearaway posed willful plans to one day add the surname Finch Hatton to her signature.
The band picked things up with “The Charleston.”
She asked, “Do you ragtime, Finch Hatton?”
He consented and started slowly, but she soon had him up to speed. By the time it ended, Alexandra agreed: the first dance was a courtesy, and this second one all the better. They retired to the bar to share a drink.
Alexandra was laughing at Finch Hatton’s claim he had once waltzed with a Kolb’s monkey when the champagne spattered her face. She remained stunned as bubbly dripped off her cheeks.
“We have no need for American trollops,” Beryl haughtily spewed, setting down upon the bar the guilty glass.
A pervasive hush swept across the ballroom, and a crowd gathered. Idle chatter over who was sleeping with whom still took a backseat to a visceral catfight. Any semblance of proper English decorum was about to pop off.
“Trollop?” Alexandra fumed. “My uncle happens to be Baron Niles Bartholomew Bathenbrook!”
“So your father is a chimney sweep in Leicester!”
“So says the tart of the town!”
Someone yelled, “Slosh the Yank already!”
Finch Hatton deflected Beryl’s swing.
She spat, “We should duel to settle this affair.”
“I’m an excellent shot,” warned Alexandra.
“I was thinking horses, you cretin,” sniped Beryl, still under Finch Hatton’s restraint.
“I am an even better shot when mounted!”
Their audience was in a blissful tizzy. Bror Blixen appeared to be nearing orgasm.
Beryl freed herself. “Tomorrow at the racecourse. Noon! Eight furloughs. No guns.”
“I’ll need breeches,” Alexandra said, twitching with agitation.
Beryl nodded. “After you’ve eaten my dust, your father can collect the horse droppings.”
The slap landed flush, leaving a nice red mark across Beryl’s cheek. It took two men to remove her from the area, cursing and swinging as she was. Alexandra wiped any guilt from her hands and removed her pickelhaube helmet. “Please return this to Jean-Luc De Pauw,” she asked Finch Hatton before fleeing the room.
The cars used in the Kenya Colony had canvas tops and only a front shield for a window, which allowed for ventilation and reduced heating from the sun. Parking lessons appeared optional, as those in front of the club were left haphazard along the grass.
Alexandra walked among them, smoking a cigarette she had bummed from a chap entering the pink stucco building, which pulsated a rosy hue from the torchlights impaled around the grounds. Odd noises filtered through the darkness: shrieks of hyraxes from the surrounding Ficus trees; the bark of a baboon, seated atop a safari wagon; and the sated moans of an English woman being fucked by a German soldier a few vehicles over. Alexandra waited to ask anyone exiting to give her a lift into town and was satisfied when Finch Hatton proved the man, though it had taken him long enough.
“Quite a kerfuffle you left in there.” He placed on his slouch hat. “Haven’t had that much excitement since Lord Delamere jumped his horse over three kneeling maidens in the lobby.”
“If you colonials keep up these antics, you’ll find yourself less English than the Australians.”
“Is that a bad thing?” he wondered aloud. “You have not caught us at our best, I admit, but we raised a lot of money at the door for the local health clinic. It’s not all about sin and sauce.”
“No offense intended,” she assured. “I can’t quite place you fitting in with it, however.”
“I don’t. And you? Montana? Your manner takes me back to fond moonlight walks along the Thames.”
Alexandra feared him correct. Just like Will, she was turning English! “I’m a bit of a chameleon. My mother tongue is American, but I adopt my father’s ways whence among the British species.”
“When,” he corrected. It was his wagon on which the baboon sat. He waved his hat. “Shoo!”
It scampered off. “You’ve taught the animals English,” she commented. “Using the loo must be next.”
Finch Hatton held the door as she climbed into the large open-air wagon, which could accommodate six tourists and had camping and survival gear strapped along its frame. He hopped aboard and they were off, circling several trees and one lazing giraffe. Complete mystery awaited ten yards beyond the headlights.
“What sort of dilemma have you shown me into?”
“I’m to blame?” he questioned. “We dance here without gunfire, from time to time.”
“This has nothing to do with me. It’s about this Beryl woman’s infatuation with you,” Alexandra said. “What do men see in a cultured huntress like that?”
He said, “I suppose they believe they can tame her. She was born here and grew up wild. As a child, she used to go hunting with youth of the Maasai with only a spear. A friend’s pet lion bit her once, and she bit it back. That has an appeal around these parts.”
Alexandra sighed and shrunk in her seat. She had slapped a real tigress, and perhaps the most formidable foes in life were those known by only one name.
“Does she ride well?”
Finch Hatton crunched his eyes. “She’s the best trainer in Kenya. Lived at the stables after her first marriage bottomed out. The natives call her ‘Memsahib wa farasi.’ In Swahili, it means ‘Lady of the horses.’ You’re likely in for a bit of humiliation.”
Alexandra shrugged. “Well, at least I didn’t challenge the Red Baron to aerial combat.”
In short order, they pulled into the rotary fronting the Norfolk. Finch Hatton opened the door for Alexandra, taking her hand as she stepped down. He escorted her to the lobby.
“Do you have a good thing going with Baron Blixen’s former wife?” she asked cautiously. “I would very much like if you would be my second tomorrow at the track, but don’t want to impose.”
“I do. No imposition. I’ll pick you up at ten.”
Alexandra liked he could be playful with no fret of infidelity. She flashed a coy smile. “Goodnight, Finch Hatton.”
—‡—
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Alexandra settled into a small changing closet at the stables, finding little fun in being an underdog at thirty to one. She had woken hours earlier, opened the morning edition of the East African Times, then everything had slid sour. According to the paper, the foremost world events were wire scoops that Leon Trotsky had been purged from the Communist Party, and some German rabble-rouser named Hitler would publicly speak for the first time since the failed Beer Hall Putsch.
The top byline in the local section: Fracas at Muthaiga leads to International Horseplay.
All of Nairobi had been alerted that some two-name American hussy had slapped a local celebrity, and this threat to king and country would face a reckoning at noon today. Alexandra felt the outlandish article could have at least included her middle name to make her sound more respectable! That second dance no longer felt “all the better.”
As promised, Finch Hatton had arrived to drive her to Nairobi Racecourse. They were met by officials of the Kenya Jockey Club, who informed her of the official betting line and pointed her to the stables. The loaned riding breeches fit well. She tucked in her linen shirt, tightened her belt, and tied her hair back in a ponytail. Alexandra knew horses and could even lasso a wayward calf upon one, but nothing about the strategies to race them for a fast mile.
She reemerged outdoors.
The sun was beating down and sunstroke was never far off in places that hugged the Equator. She placed on her topi-hat and cussed. Half of Nairobi had shown up.
They sat on the bleachers and lined the fences: women shading themselves with parasols; farmers with kerchiefs around their necks; Kikuyu dressed in their colorful garb; and white-clad bureaucrats down from Government House, taking lunch to witness the spectacle. Alexandra headed for the safe harbor that was Finch Hatton, who was sharing laughs with the resurfaced De Pauw. A native stable boy stood close, holding the halter leads of two saddled horses.
“Sorry about last eve,” De Pauw quibbled. “Got caught up in a winning streak before losing it all at the end! I hope to make it up with a small bet on you at forty to one.”
“Bravo, Jean-Luc!” The odds were worsening, and now a proven loser was rallying to her side.
Beryl galloped by on her mount. She blew a kiss in their general direction; its target and sentiment undetermined. She broke her prize horse into a sprint to the applause of most gathered and thrilled the crowd with two jumps over oxer barriers along her loop of the track.
Alexandra grudgingly admitted her foe looked splendid and in her element on a saddle.
“Miss Bathenbrook! I’ve brought you lemonade.”
“You are sweet!”
Alexandra shuffled over to Simra. She felt guilty about keeping him away from his family and hoped his religious upbringing meant he did not wager on her. After a sip, she said, “I’m off tomorrow for Uganda and don’t expect passage back until late December. You may leave at your leisure. Thank you for such fine traveling company.”
Simra bowed his head. “As you see fit.”
“Pssst! That stallion of Beryl’s is the favorite in next year’s Kenya Derby,” a man idling nearby touted. “She likes to go overland. Don’t get pinched back.”
Alexandra thanked him for the advice, half-clear on what it meant, having to juggle enough dialects without adding track-talk to the list.
She emptied her glass. “Someone pray for me.”
“Let’s see if I can help with this,” Finch Hatton said to get her head back in the game. He led her to the first horse. It was a homebred, well-groomed three-year-old with a roan coloring. “Beryl says this is the safer option. Good potential, even temperament. As for—”
Alexandra was already running a hand over the lean, light bay colt. It had a silky black mane, lively eyes, and had been kicking up some when she had first come out. The British loved the sport of horseracing because it relied on bloodlines, but Alexandra thought the spirit of the beast a better gauge. Some animals clearly possessed souls: a good dog, a fine horse. She had heard that elephants held great wisdom and mourned their dead, no lesser pained than humans. It was why she could never fully fall for a big-game hunter such as Finch Hatton.
Not even for the man himself.
He could see she had made her choice. “An Abyssinian. Swift, but unruly. A known biter.”
“Me, too.”
“You’ll need to choose and show a knack for it,” one official noted, “or you’ll have no further takers. Plumb out of former husbands and scorned lovers... Haw-haw.”
Alexandra continued stroking the colt’s neck and peacefully meeting its eyes. They were kindred spirits. “Does he have a name?”
“Wanderlust,” Beryl informed. She raised her goggles and dismounted. Her white riding breeches matched her blouse. In her nasally, high-pitched voice, she scoffed, “It will be such a hoot when he tosses you. It’s your turn. We can get a block if needed. Otherwise, as you Americans say, ‘Monkey see, monkey do.’”
Beryl gracefully remounted.
Alexandra ignored the taunt. She took hold of the colt’s reins and effortlessly sprang into the saddle. She quickly discerned the differences between the English snaffle bridle from the western, to which she was accustomed. The offer of a whip was waved off, as she would hand ride.
In a measured trot, she directed Wanderlust onto the grass track to get a better feel for him before opening him up to cut the warm breeze. She liked his action and sensed he was on the bit.
Those of Nairobi were getting a first take on her.
Alexandra noticed many Kikuyu looking on with broad smiles, perhaps tacit fans of the American memsahib. At the head of the final stretch, she finished in hand and eased Wanderlust back to their starting point. By the time she dismounted, the bookmakers were breaking into a fresh sweat and the odds leveled off at twenty-to-one. She smiled at Finch Hatton and handed him her topi-hat to hold.
Beryl looked on, unpleasantly. “We should make a private wager to raise the spoils. Once I win, you will return to Muthaiga, place your silly German helmet on, and drink two mugs of beer and eat a large bowl of sauerkraut in front of any who may wish to observe.”
De Pauw said, “She broke me under interrogation.”
Alexandra eased her glare and bent her lips. “And if I win?” She leaned forward and whispered in Beryl’s ear.
“You slay me!” Beryl brayed. “What does it matter?” She took her horse to the post and set up wide to leave a place for her rival to claim the rail position.
Alexandra didn’t bite and directed Wanderlust even wider. Beryl said, “Any further, you’ll be starting in Uganda.”
“Soon enough.”
“We both know you’ll lose, and Denys will be mine.”
The snappish banter ended. Alexandra could sense Wanderlust was tight and struggled to hold him still.
The starter’s revolver pointed high in the air.
It was race time.
Boom!
Alexandra found herself two lengths back before the ringing in her ears subsided, taking on turf kicked up by Beryl’s stallion.
She leaned forward and pressed Wanderlust to close the lead by half, and then ran him under control along the stallion’s right flank. All she could hear was the thumping of the two beasts over the grass, though she detected in fleeting blurs onlookers waving their hats and other hooplas that usually entailed a boisterous soundtrack.
Wanderlust fell back, taking the first quarter pole wide. Alexandra kept her hold snug and let him even out on Beryl’s off-side as they approached the backstretch. Face to the sun, Alexandra’s jockeyship fell pitch-perfect with the powerful strides of Wanderlust. It felt like the rhythmic pumping of a vigorous heart.
She knew he wanted to break loose and plotted her strategy to let him have his way.
Entering the far turn, Beryl was brash enough to look back. She scowled and brought the whip into play across the stallion’s rump.
It opened the distance, but also a pathway to finally run the rail. Alexandra noticed and guided her mount hard to the left. Wanderlust darted to a lead so fast that Beryl had no time to check him to the rail.
Down the homestretch they thundered, cutting a tremendous speed, with Beryl’s stallion under punishment.
Wanderlust opened a half-length lead. Alexandra drove him home, shouting encouragement.
Spectators filled the track, jumping and shouting.
Beryl made her victory run to close within a neck.
The stronger stretch runner would be the victor—it was Beryl’s stallion—lending it ever more gratuitous when a final swing of her whip tore a crease along the thigh of Alexandra’s breeches.
Wanderlust crossed the finish line a head back.
Alexandra continued along the track at a relaxed pace to cool off Wanderlust. The colt had run a spirited race, and it had been her poor start that had cost them. She looked back as Beryl turned her mount to trot along the grandstand and bask in the laurels of those gathered. Alexandra gave her nemesis time to soak it all up.
In her solemn loop of the course, she found consolation in the joyous smiles of the Kikuyu youth as they ran alongside Wanderlust, singing some cheerful tribal song. Most of the fanfare had ended by the time she dismounted where it had all started.
Alexandra patted Wanderlust’s neck a final time and released him to the stable boy. She wiped dirt from her eyes and walked over to Finch Hatton to reclaim her topi-hat. She curtsied to his applause. “I hope I didn’t cost you money.”
“A few shillings.” He shrugged and smiled. “De Pauw mentioned that you’re heading to the Sanga district.”
“Yes. We’re meeting a hunter named Big Jim Gustin. Have you heard of him?”
Finch Hatton nodded. “If you have any doubts how great he is, just ask him. He’ll be happy to tell you.”
Beryl took a brief stance between them. “See you at the club!”
“I’m pinched for time,” Finch Hatton stated as Beryl set off and the last of the crowd dispersed. “De Pauw said he can drive you up to the club, but I’ll be free to bring you back.”
Alexandra blushed. “I think it best we say goodbye. I wish you well, Finch Hatton. May I write now and then to check in on you?”
“I’d like that.” He took off his slouch hat and placed it on her head. It was olive with a dark brown band, and while a tad large, it suited her perfectly. Flashing a clever smile, he said, “For the bush. I’ve yet to be eaten while wearing it. Are you sure about the ride?”
“Quite sure, thank you. A solemn walk in the fresh air will do me some good.”