“That is the way Val is,” says Padmini. “I have the bizarre feeling she is not telling the truth because she told me in the same breath that she had packed her suitcases and booked a cab to the airport for five tomorrow morning.”
They bring out the food on large platters and put them on a side table in the dining table with plates, cutlery, and napkins. It’s quite a spread: Bella’s arrabbiata and arugula salad and Padmini’s chicken tandoori, plus a fish curry and a rich array of vegetarian dishes, including lentils, chickpeas, and an assortment of Indian finger foods. Everyone is seated except for Zubair, who is taking pictures. Mahdi is presiding at the adults’ table, Catherine having assigned him the duty “because you are the oldest man present.” The children are at their own table.
The guests serve themselves, and the dinner seems to be a hit. Catherine, Mahdi, and all the children help themselves to seconds, and Padmini and Bella receive the guests’ compliments gracefully. Fatima and Padmini are the only ones except for Bella who eat the arugula, however; Padmini asks for the recipe for the dressing. Meanwhile, wine, water, and soft drinks flow like nobody’s business, with Catherine emptying her glass as soon as it is topped up.
“How would you describe Kenyan cuisine, Mrs. Kariuki?” asks Mahdi. “No offense intended, but would you agree with the sentiments expressed by a Kenyan chef I once met who said that it is nothing more than bland peasant cooking?”
“The coastal cooking in Kenya is definitely not bland,” says Catherine, “but then you may not consider the coastal cooking as representative of the indigenous food we used to eat before all these foreign influences came in. Kenyan coastal cooking is more like Yemeni food, with a touch of Indian cuisine. I love it.”
“I would consider it Kenyan, but it is only a small area of the country,” says Mahdi.
Catherine is mulling over what Mahdi has said. “Could you define what you mean by peasant cooking?”
“A cuisine lacking cosmopolitan influence, where the main purpose is to satiate hunger,” says Mahdi. “I am thinking that in a place, a city, a country, or a region where there is a crosscurrent of cultures feeding off one another the kitchen becomes an amalgam of tastes. Like India.” He turns to look at Padmini as if to seek her support.
Catherine appeals to her as well. “What do you think about this assertion?”
“India has suffered a great number of invasions,” says Padmini. “It is a subcontinent with an ancient civilization, a huge population, and diverse cultures and faiths. I would say the cuisine reflects this multiculturalism. India boasts a cosmopolitanism far beyond that of many countries in Europe, including England.”
“But both India and Kenya were British colonies,” says Catherine.
“That’s taking hold of the wrong end of the stick,” Mahdi says. “In my visit to that island, I’ve found traditional British cooking rather bland and uninteresting, but more recently, Britain has benefited from the large influx of immigrants, especially from India and Italy, and British taste buds and cooking habits have benefited similarly.”
“What is Somali cooking like?” Catherine asks Mahdi.
“The cultural crosscurrents passing through the Somali peninsula have altered the way we cook in the urban areas of the country, but they seem not to have penetrated beyond the cities and the towns,” he replies. “I would say that we have borrowed freely from Arabia, India, and Italy, influences that set urban Somali cooking apart from peasant cooking. Our indigenous cooking rarely uses spices, and with its reliance on local grains, it sits heavy on the stomach. An ingredient like garlic is almost unknown. In cosmopolitan cooking, there is a variety of ways you can use the same ingredients to prepare a meal; peasants tend to eat the same food day in and day out. A Frenchman who taught at our school once complained that he had to come to Nairobi for his spices, even his garlic and lemon.”
Catherine’s mobile rings, and before answering it, she looks at her watch. Then she listens, nods her head, and get up from her chair with the suddenness of someone stung by an insect. Then she says, with equal abruptness, “It is my husband telling me that the chauffeur is ready to pick me up and that I must go.” As if her abruptness has dawned on her only now, she adds, “I didn’t realize it was so late, and I don’t want my husband to worry.”
She calls out to the children, who come round to perform what Bella refers to as their “salutations.” They take one last photo with “Madame Principal,” after which she pats them on either the head or the shoulders as if she were a pontiff delivering benedictions. Bella escorts her to the waiting car outside and thanks her for coming, sending her best regards to James. As the car moves toward the gate, which the guard opens, Bella notices that another car that is just arriving is blocking the exit.
This being Nairobi at night, the arrival of this unexpected car gives Bella a momentary worry. But then she recognizes the occupant of the vehicle, and in a moment, Valerie steps out, shielding her eyes against the headlights of Catherine’s car. I’ll be damned, thinks Bella to herself, the madwoman is here. But is she alone? Bella moves forward to greet Valerie, glad that Valerie’s path and Catherine’s have not crossed.
For the third time, the group dynamics change. It is like cards being reshuffled; there is no knowing how they will fall. It takes Bella less than a moment to determine that she won’t ask Valerie about Ulrika because she is undoubtedly not supposed to be in the know, and in any event, this is a matter between Valerie and Padmini, no matter how much the outcome might affect her. With Valerie right on her heels, Bella walks into the living room, and a hush descends, broken by a squeal of joy from Dahaba, who runs toward her mother and hugs and kisses her. Salif stops taking pictures long enough to say, “Hi, Mum,” from where he stands. Bella watches Padmini in nervous anticipation; she can tell that Padmini is as anxious as she is, neither of them knowing the outcome of the incident involving Ulrika. If Padmini, like Bella, has taken a gamble in coming to Africa, it appears that hers hasn’t paid off.
Valerie acknowledges Dahaba’s enthusiastic welcome then detours into a brief huddle with Padmini. Bella regrets that she doesn’t have a clear sight line to both of them or the ability to read lips, but from Padmini’s expression, she surmises that l’affaire Ulrika has been positively resolved.
Bella takes Valerie’s elbow and steers her over to Fatima and Mahdi, and then, as soon as there is an opportune moment, brings her before Gunilla. She has to give Valerie credit: she remains composed and unflustered as she shakes Gunilla’s hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she says, smiling warmly. They chat a bit, only glancingly acknowledging that they have spoken before on the phone, and Valerie slips away before the conversation can turn to anything substantial. Bella is relieved that neither opens a can of worms in public, and she is in her own way grateful to them both, especially to the unpredictable and volatile Valerie.
Bella asks Valerie if she has eaten.
“I’m starving,” she says.
“Come to the kitchen,” says Padmini, “and see what Bella and I cooked. There is plenty left.”
Bella keeps the children occupied with a spiel on photography so that Valerie and Padmini can have some time alone in the kitchen. She talks about what you need to produce photographs that can be sold to magazines and newspapers.
“I want to become a cameraman,” says Salif, “and maybe a filmmaker. I’ll be Somalia’s best filmmaker, Auntie, thanks to you.”
Bella asks what the others dream of becoming, and Qamar replies that she wants to become a literature professor while Zubair hopes to have a career in law. “What about you, honey?” she says to Dahaba.