And Then Dawn Broke Over The Hills

The girl had been given something to help her sleep.

He came out of the long, dim house and went down the street into the air of the Kenyan night. The dogs played around his legs and a sad stray came up grovelling and wagging his tail with a lowered head.

"Run along," Charles said to the stray. He patted him and the dog fawned. The dogs were cheery and prancing in the excitement of the cold and the wind. One was going graywith age, her tail curled over her back, her feet and legs almost brittle as she stood, her muzzle resembling a fox terrier and her eyes loving and tired.

He remained still, outside, as he heard Hadebe talk to one of the older women. One of them had handed Charles some soap earlier, and pointed him in the direction of the basin.

Charles closed his eyes, another stab of exhaustion welling within him. He breathed. Charles then dropped down behind the wheel, regarding the stars above with a numb kind of detachment and then jumped as Hadebe opened the passenger door. She looked worse than he felt.

He marshalled the scraps of energy remaining to him, and said, "I'll have us going in five."

❧

When Charles pulled the car under the acacia, it was early morning. They got out without saying anything.

At the main house, Bakari was seen carrying dried linen from the porch. A young girl was seen coming up the street and Bakari called to her and the girl grinned and shook her head.

"She is a younger sister of Daudi." Bakari said.

"I know," Charles Graves said.

As he talked, irritated and short as always with the kid as Hadebe had let him go twice already but had taken him back each time when his father had come and pled for him, Daudi came over carrying a bidon and a telegram. He was smiling cautiously.

"How was the voyage?" Daudi asked.

"A little rough."

Once they ascended the steps of the patio, Hadebe sighed and turned round. "Why do you not go and clean up? A change of clothes. Not uncalled for," she added delicately.

It did sound tempting. Everything ached, not just his muscles.

"Go," the woman said.

Ten minutes, Charles decided. Ten minutes to pull himself back together. "Alright."

Charles Graves went up the hallway to his bedroom. Like the rest of the house, it was decorated in a stripped, simplistic style. He unclipped his belt and left it on the bed, then stripped out of his clothes, adding to the heap at the foot of the bed. There were towels on the top shelf of the wardrobe; he tied one around his waist and padded barefoot out to the shared bathroom at the very end of the hall.

The door had a bolt, but Charles chose not to slide it across. It was rusted. Hadebe was the only one around, and she wouldn't be walking in. Groaning, Charles removed the towel and draped it over a rail. There was an oddly shaped tub above the granite tiles. Charles stood before it and looked down at the water. Before the inception of the clinic, the house had been the residence of an elder couple from the '04 English generation that migrated to the Turkana region. It had base pluming. But the water always took on a troubled hue when leaving the pipes.

It had been the same when he'd resided at Cambridge. The little studio appartement with the broken pipes and the white lace curtains and little ornate balcony looking over the bridge.

He'd once watched Jean Varga walk over the square and pass over the bridge. Charles had been a first-year at the time, and not even brave enough to put on a big mouth when he went down to The Mundi that was but a few streets from where he and Isaac Hyman — a classmate — rented a studio apartment together.

During one of those evenings, Charles remembered, when he'd finished his last exams and was relieved to finally become a second-year, something strange had happened at The Mundi. One of the fourth-years, Jean Varga, had come to their table and shouted: "Everyone shut up! Which one of you fools ever heard of Sarajevo?"

Nobody had answered. Charles and his classmates pushed each other and looked uncomfortably around the room. This had nothing to do with the July Crisis, they were constantly looking around uncomfortably at The Mundi these days. Officially they were no longer freshmen, but only Charles and his fellow classmates seemed to realize this. And they were still the youngest here until the new academic year started. They had split up into five year clubs, each sitting around their own table, on top of each other in a circle, and the seniors showed them the respect usually imparted to a nest of pests.

No news there.

"Answer me, people! Which ones of you has heard of Sarajevo? Show of hands!"

It had been 1914. Asquith was first minister, Dorothea Lambert Chambers had won the Wimbledon Championships for the seventh time, cricket had been in full swing, and Cambridge had been the fastest on water; Heidelberg sang 'By the Beautiful Sea' and Vernon and Irene Castle danced the foxtrot. Austria was still Austria-Hungary, and for the Dutch there seemed to be nothing going wrong; at The Schamton, their faculty held an annual dinner, and a few hundred miles east, Austria-Hungary issued an ultimatum to Serbia. You could have been living in a cave, it was impossible, even for Charles, to pretend that you hadn't heard of it yet. And at first, there was a slight hesitation felt in the air, but ultimately, they all raised their hands.

Varga hummed contently. "Now, pay attention! What do you think of it?"

This caused consternation. What did this guy want? Where they going to walk into something? The question itself was strange. They considered themselves apolitical and took pride in it. Political discussions were not rare at The Mundi, but certainly not more important than the results of sports competitions.

"Big forehead," somebody shouted.

"Shits bricks." Someone else joined him.

"Creepy bugger."

"I'd steal his car, though."

"I'd steal his wife!"

A cheer rose from the group of students gathered around the tables. Everyone agreed on that, at least. Personally, Charles didn't care for the whole situation that much. Sure, he still had family living on the continent mainland, but he'd heard from them only this week, and his little sister had visited him at Christmas.

"Shut up!" Jean Varga shouted. He shook his head. A sombre gleam to his eyes. "Which ones of you know that on the other side of the canal, they're laughing at your English roots? Do any of you know?"

Charles and his table began to shuffle restlessly in their seats. It had been approaching two in the morning, traditionally The Mundi's busiest hour. They looked around the room.

"Pay attention!" Varga shouted. "Which ones of you fools knew that? Raise of hands!"

They had heard something about it, by rumour, but it was of little importance to them. Who truly cared about the indecisiveness of the French government or the eternal famine in India? Who cared about the strikes in Hungary and the talks in Serbia? What happened here at The Mundi was important. The fact that they'd finished their first year was important. No one had raised a hand. They'd grown tired of Varga's games.

"Do you see?" Exclaimed Varga, turning to the group of his fellow fourth-years behind him. "They don't believe it. They simply don't believe it." But there had no longer been any spectators. They had since long moved on and were drinking beer somewhere, and only the background din of the pub had greeted Varga.

"What did he really want?" Charles had asked Isaac Hyman on their way home. It was nearly six o'clock, but it was still night. In the dark, the taps of horseshoes against cobbles came at them. Law enforcement. They quickly made way for them and crossed the street.

"Jean Varga? Hungarian himself, I think. Or at least a little. Dad's a diplomat attaché."

Jean Varga, Hungarian? That had never been discussed. Why should it have been? What did it matter? Who had cared about Sarajevo and Serbia and some Austro-Hungarian heir?

Now, Charles looked at his own reflection in the old mirror that showed slight silvering already and thought of the war and the assassination and young, young Jean Varga at The Mundi and how he'd seen Varga march over the square and over the bridge in military uniform and how that'd been the last any of the people at The Mundi had ever seen anything of him.

The window of the bathroom stood adroit and carried the din. Outside, in the orchard beside the yard, children had arrived to chase each other under the trees. And Charles smiled.