The Book of Secrets by M.G. Vassanji Page A

and jangled as she gracefully moved. The frock-pachedi was a gift from her people, the earrings, the bangles, the finely wrought necklace were all lent by them, in a collective gesture that Corbin found deeply touching. Only the sparkling little nose stud was actually hers, and it looked humbled by all the finery upon her. The pale, rouged face framed by the black hair — is this what an Eastern queen looks like — the full moon in the embraces of the night, he remembered reading somewhere, perhaps inFitzGerald. There was an element of exaggeration, of unreality about the whole thing, but the mukhi said there had not yet been a wedding in the town, and so this was something special.
    It was an evening ceremony at the Shamsi mosque. All sat on the floor facing the mukhi, except the ADC , who stood in the doorway. He knew he was not allowed in, yet he watched with an obstinacy they did not know how to handle. The Swahili sheikh read the nikaa in Arabic, and the bride and groom then signed the register, Mariamu writing her name as Miss Elliott of the Mission had taught her during her short stay there. When the marriage was announced by the mukhi, all stood up to congratulate the couple, wishing them a happy new life, and Corbin, seeing her husband looming large in turban and suit beside his fragile bride, yet looking humbled by the experience, thought perhaps there was something good in him; after all, the mukhi had praised his enterprise.
    Later the couple sat on chairs outside, near but not quite under the little mbuyu tree, which had been decorated with coloured paper and from which hung a few lamps. On both sides of them were single rows of chairs for the elders and family. On the hard ground in front of them were geometric designs drawn earlier by the women using coloured flour, and beyond these auspicious markings the remaining guests sat facing the couple. The bride was presented gifts by a delegation of two men from Moshi, representing the groom’s family and community, and the groom received gifts from her family. It was an event that drew many from the neighbourhood, even the Englishwomen missionaries. Afterwards a meal was served and sherbet flowed freely. Music was provided first by Mr. Corbin’s gramophone, then a harmonium and tabla and dhol appeared, and an impromptu concert began.
    Later that evening the Mission ladies sat with Corbin on his verandah and indulged in small talk and a little brandy. Thecouple had been escorted in a procession to the small house that had been arranged for them, and the guests had dispersed. But the festive air appeared to have lingered down below in the town. There were lamps still lighted in the shops, where the men were perhaps playing cards, and occasionally there came a snatch of chatter, a burst or two of laughter. A song began and broke off.
    Miss Elliott lamented the passing of the girl from her influence. “She was such perfect material for conversion,” she said. Over his pipe Corbin offered the opinion that perhaps she was best off with her own people. “Surely,” said Miss Elliott, “no one is better off for not accepting Our Lord.” Her companion agreed forcefully.
    Corbin had nothing to say to that, and they lapsed into silence. After a while he asked how Thomas was doing.
    At first the women did not respond. One looked towards the other, who was staring into the darkness.
    “I hope nothing’s the matter,” he said.
    Mrs. Bailey finally abandoned her contemplation of the night and turned to her companion. “Jane, we should tell him,” she said.
    “You tell him,” Miss Elliott replied.
    It turned out that Thomas had set covetous eyes upon Miss Elliott. The ladies became wary, but hoped the man would change. Then one morning, while Miss Elliott was arranging flowers inside the church, she was accosted by the Indian, who proposed to her in the most odious manner. And that was not all. He had been put in his place, of course, but later that limb of Satan had