Kenyan Princess
“More gin, Madam?”
“Thanks. I'm good for today.”
“Thanks. I'm good for today.”
I watched the bloody African sunset, sitting on the terrace of my
favorite restaurant in Diani Beach. Only by being away from the daily errands,
craziness and chaos, could I allow myself to watch for a while as the sun sets.
Without blinking, I observed the red disk cooling down, sinking into the sleepy
waves of the Indian Ocean in a lazy manner.
Traveling gave me time to watch the people around me - tourists and
locals - and to notice those funny details that later formed my stories. My
observations were not simply a part of a meaningless pastime. They were the
tools of a master, my strong side, if I may.
At the time, I was writing stories for one local magazine. I loved my
job and the editor was constantly praising my short stories. But I always
dreamt of writing something worthy. A serious work that would become a book. I
was confident that I had enough skills and craft for it and outgrew writing two
pages between the ads of feminine care and food supplements.
I finished what was left from my Bombay and turned around. The
restaurant was crowded. The patrons were drinking, laughing and loudly
discussing something in a pretty animated manner. Tourists - sunburnt, rosy,
idly happy.
Something bright flashed in the background. I looked closer. My
attention caught a dark-skinned girl, dressed in yellow silk, seated at the
very corner table with an elderly man. She was light black, if I could say so.
Her skin tone significantly differed from the color of the waiters and
bartenders. Brown, velvety, glowing like a precious metal. Her manners were
amazingly gracious. What a curve of her back, proud chin, long skinny fingers,
holding the utensils. Unhurried grace of a woman, who knows for sure that she is
always being chased by the curious and voluptuous eyes. If she was ten shades
lighter, she would resemble a French aristocrat.
Kenyan Рrincess. That's what I called her
for the next seven days. I was watching her every step, studying the details of
her countless attires, trying to figure out the topics of sincere conversations
between the lady and her companion. At the table he would often squeeze her
hand so gently that it brought tears to my eyes. She was barely twenty. He was
way beyond forty. Sixty is beyond
forty, isn't it? It didn't bother me in any way and didn't diminish the vibe of
romanticism. I had to write a novel about this couple.
Even though I knew nothing about them, it was enough to observe the
princess and her companion during my vаcation. The story would be born
by itself.
All of it turned into a pleasant game, in which I was a little bit of an
author and a bit of a detective. I always had my notebook or my cellphone on
me, which I used for making notes. Starting from the early morning, I would
write down every detail about the Kenyan Princess. What she was wearing, what
she ate for breakfast, what swimsuit she had on before and after lunch. How she
arranged her hair for dinner, what color was her gown and what kind of jewelries
went well with it. By the way, her outfits accentuated her royal origin. Only
the best fabrics, best designers, impeccable taste and charm. No wonder the
elderly man couldn't take his eyes off his girlfriend. He admired how she would
bring the crystal glass with Perrier-Jouet to her eternally sensual lips. How
she held a white napkin, coquettishly spreading her pinkies to the sides. How
she was playing with her massive ruby earring that looked black at twilight.
In the mornings he would give her some freedom. After breakfast, the
Princess was resting by herself on the white Kenyan Beach. Not with the purpose
of getting tanned, but for a wonderful view. Incredibly white sand and black
woman.
What are such bodies made of? It's not flesh and blood. It's chocolate
and cinnamon. The most expensive high-end chocolate that is impossible to find
even in Switzerland.
Then she would spend two to three hours in the spa, improving something
that was already perfect. Every day а new hairdo, different color on
the nails of her tender hands and feet. Orange nail polish to match her orange
pareo. Red flowers in her hair, fitting the red suit. My head was spinning from
all the details I noticed.
Her English was perfect. A couple of times I heard her speak French. Her
companion was answering gently: "Oui, oui." I think they were
discussing the quality of the pasta. She spoke Italian with the chef, often
complementing him for a delicious dinner. Young, beautiful, educated.
I had no doubt her dynasty was noble and powerful. Royal calmness, power
in her eyes, and delicate features of her inspired face. What is this book going
to be about? About love, of course. A young Princess falls in love with an
older ambassador of England - let's say, who arrived to her native kingdom
Lesoto. Isn't it a modern interpretation of “Juno and Avos?” Royal Highness in
anger, the Princess is running away with her sweetheart... No, not running.
Flying first class to Tanzania, then to Kenya. After that, to Europe. It's not
the stone age. Who could forbid their daughter anything? Especially the
Princess.
Love, nature, travels, amazing Africa, and Old World. When I get home, I
will put all my notes and details together. Nothing could escape my keen and
curious writer's vision. I wanted to know everything about the Kenyan Princess.
Good that my persistent and sweet companion was with me. Writing my
first novel, I would forget to look around and enjoy the view. He organized the
tours, fishing, safari, during which I put down the notes with new details for
the future novel. At first, I was trying to skip the travels. But then decided
that describing the nature I saw would add a special note to this novel about
incredible love.
Sometimes I would get distracted by the fresh octopuses, fire-grilled on
the shore. The local fisherman was not very thorough and simply washed them
with the salty ocean water. Sitting on the small branch in front of the big one
that served as the table and chair with the glass of hotel white wine and
surprised looks of the stand-offish Germans, I was tearing off huge chunks of
burnt, stiff flesh with my teeth. And at this moment, I had more fun than in
any other place, marked by the Michelin star. The princess, passing by,
playfully winked at me. She probably knew what it meant to have fun.
I had to leave my observation post for two days. We went on safari in
the Masai Mara Park. From the little charter plane I saw а snowy mountain peak. Оn my phone, I reread "The
Snows of Kilimanjaro" by Hemingway. I cried. No, I wept. Once again. The
passenger to the right of me, a cute, chubby African girl, would ask me every
now and then: "Are you ok?" I nodded in silence, trying to smile.
All those cheetahs, leopards, lions and unicorns distracted me a little
bit from writing my book and from its main characters. The curious giraffe
tried to shove his head in the Jeep, but couldn't do it at that angle. The
hyena came to meet us and brought her cubs. Or her puppies, I don't know the
proper word. I took my eyes off the buffalo staring at me, and couldn't even
take a vivid photo of it. The nature was resembling such dear, but lacking the
vegetation, Ukrainian prairies. They were filled with roes, antelopes, baboons,
lizards and unstoppable wild boar Pumba.
Africa amazed me with its naturalness, originality and ruthlessness.
Cattle peacefully coexisting with predators during the day, were eaten by them
at night, leaving everywhere sad headstones in the shape of horns. And we were
the witnesses of their untimely death. During our last night in the park, under
one of the tents near ours, appeared the evidence of a previous night’s sad
meal. All that was left from the buffаlo trying to escape were its
blood, leftovers of intestines, and a leg. The tourists that stayed in that
tent, whose hair turned gray overnight, claim that the buffalo was dying
slowly.
The trip back to the shore was filled with an exchange of experiences,
the most memorable ones, and a rush to finish the love story that would
definitely shake the world.
Our last evening before departure, we relished that very same gin and
the same (but always different) sunset. The feelings of delight and thrill were
overwhelming me, the anticipation of something new and important in my life.
Everything was possible thanks to the Kenyan Princess I met.
“How incredibly beautiful she is,” I finally decided to open up to my companion
about the feelings of admiration and creative plans that filled me up.
“Africa? Yes! It's awesome!” He replied with the same admiration.
“Africa too. And that black beauty. Her elderly companion is so gallant!
Wonderful couple. I've been watching them closely during our trip.”
“Which gentleman, exactly? The one from today? She has a new one every
morning. Local prostitute.”
I choked on the iced Bombay.
Well.
So what if this lady is a prostitute? The world is prosaic and cruel indeed. And it always tries to disappoint - if we allow it, if we consider it with cynical eyes and never leave space for fairy-tales.
So what if this lady is a prostitute? The world is prosaic and cruel indeed. And it always tries to disappoint - if we allow it, if we consider it with cynical eyes and never leave space for fairy-tales.
When I was thinking about it, my eyes were clouded
with dreaminess, not broken by reality, and went off into the distance, over
their heads, over the princess -- I still insist on this word; today she was in
a blue silk dress -- over her companion in a white linen jacket that made him
younger than his age, over waiters, tourists, and the sun disappearing in the
waves. Up to the stars.
“Look! Look!”
My friend hit me on the shoulder. I shuddered with
surprise, and he indecently pointed a finger at my princess. I forgive him for
it, otherwise I might miss such a moment. Her companion gently took her left
hand, and with his right hand, carefully put a ring with a huge stone on her
ring finger. Then he kissed her with a smile of adoration.
My man was searching for a dirty trick:
“It's not a
diamond! Just tanzanite!”
“It does not matter! Just a happy end!” And I said at
the passing waiter: “More gin for me, please.”
Elena Andreychykova
Tags:
Short Fiction