Beverly Hills Maasai (5 page)

“Yes, it is.” I paused. “And that’s where my friends are from.”

“Africa?”

I nodded my head. “They’re already here. How about if you come out and meet them?”

“I hope you haven’t insulted our guests by having them stay in the pool house instead of the main house,” my mother said.

It was encouraging to hear her call them
our
guests.

“I think they’ll be fine out here. It
is
a guest house, really,” I told her as we circled by the pool.

“Do you think so? It’s just that it’s not especially nice,” she said apologetically.

“They normally live in huts made of mud and cow dung,” I explained.

“Oh, my. I guess this will be fine, then.”

She knew there were three of them. She knew they were from Africa. I just hadn’t quite found a way to tell her that they were three Maasai warriors. I guess that would become pretty obvious, pretty soon. She’d taken the first two pieces of news remarkably well. Maybe
she’d take the third the same way. Maybe not. It might be better, I thought, if she heard it from me instead of finding it out for herself.

I understood now that giving somebody only
part
of the truth was pretty much the same as lying. Our family therapist had talked us through that. We’d been seeing her—my mother, my father, and I—ever since I’d returned from Africa. Sometimes it felt kind of pointless. But not always. Sometimes it was actually really helpful.

Before my trip to Kenya my parents had separated, then divorced, but even though my father didn’t live with us we’d worked things out so that I still spent a lot of time with him. It was only after I’d returned, though—after my life had been changed by that experience—that we’d all agreed to meet for therapy. My parents weren’t getting back together, but they were still both my parents, and we all had to live on the same planet, so it was best that we learned to get along. The biggest lesson I’d learned from therapy was that the truth can be painful, but it’s always better than the alternatives.

I grabbed my mother by the arm to stop her. I had to tell her. I just wasn’t sure what to say. Maybe a delay would give me time to think.

“Shouldn’t you get changed before you meet our guests?” I suggested.

“I’m very comfortable in my yoga clothing.”

“How about a shower? You were really working up a sweat in there.”

“I think of it as more of a glow.”

“I just want you to make the best possible first impression,” I argued.

“So do I, and not rushing right out to meet them would leave the impression that I’m not thrilled to have them here. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

I shrugged. She was making a pretty good point.

“I can’t wait to meet your friends.” She started walking again.

I reached out and grabbed her a second time. I put myself between her and the guest house.

“Actually, only one of them is really my friend. You know … from before,” I said.

“Is it Ruth?” she asked.

Ruth was the Maasai girl I’d become good friends with when I was in Kenya. I wished it were Ruth. I missed our time together, our conversations.

“Not Ruth, but from the same tribe as—”

“Oh, my goodness!” my mother gasped, her eyes widening in surprise, and all of the colour drained from her face.

I hardly needed to turn around because I knew what I was going to see. Slowly I looked over my shoulder. Olivia and the three Maasai had come out of the guest house.

“They … they … they’re …”

“They’re our guests.”

“But they’re … they’re …”

“Maasai. They’re Maasai, like Ruth.”

“But why are they here?”

I was impressed. She’d recovered enough to ask a full question.

“They’re going to run in the Beverly Hills Marathon.”

“And … and they’re going to stay
here?”

“They’re my friends. I want you to meet them.”

I took her by the hand and led her toward our guests. Koyati and Samuel had both squatted down at the edge of the pool and were talking so excitedly that they didn’t even seem to notice us. Nebala did. He offered a big, friendly smile in greeting.

“You are Alexandria’s mother?” he asked.

“Yes … I’m Rachel Hyatt.”

He turned to the other two and barked out something in Swahili. They both quickly got to their feet and flanked him, facing us.

“We have been asked to pass on the gratitude of our tribe for what you have done,” Nebala said. “It is a great thing.”

“It’s nothing … a few days in the guest house.”

He shook his head. “Not for now. For before. For the clinic.”

“Oh, the clinic!”

When I’d returned from Africa I’d told my parents about how the people of the village had to travel long distances to get medical treatment, and how people were dying because of the distance. My parents decided to donate money to set up a clinic—money they’d set aside to buy me a very expensive car for my sixteenth birthday. I’d suggested they buy me a Mustang instead, so the villagers got their clinic.

Nebala and Koyati exchanged words and then Koyati stepped forward. My mother stumbled back slightly—his expression was so serious and so fierce. Didn’t this guy ever smile?

Koyati said something to my mother and then reached out and grabbed her hand in both of his. She looked terrified and tried desperately to pull her hand away, but he held her in place.

“He says his family owes you a great debt. Because of your gift, the life of one of his sons was spared.”

“It was nothing,” my mother said.

“No, no,” Nebala said. “It was everything. It was his
oldest
son.”

“I’m … I’m so glad … glad to hear that,” my mother sputtered. “What I meant was that the money wasn’t that much. It wasn’t much at all.”

Koyati said something else. He was still holding my mother’s hand in his.

“He says that he has to offer his thanks to your husband as well.”

“He’s not here right now,” I blurted out before my mother could answer.

“He doesn’t live here anymore,” my mother said icily.

Nebala looked confused.

“My parents are separated.”

He still looked confused.

“He’s gone.”

“He is dead?” Nebala asked.

“Not dead!”

“I wish,” my mother mumbled under her breath.

I shot her a dirty look.

“Sorry,” she added. “That wasn’t fair or kind.”

“My parents are divorced,” I said, trying to explain it further. “They are no longer married.”

He still looked confused. Maybe Maasai didn’t get divorced. Maybe he didn’t even know what it meant.

“When a husband and wife can’t get along anymore, when they fight too much, they decide to live in different houses. My father lives in a different house.”

Nebala nodded his head and then explained things to the other two. They became involved in an excited discussion, with Koyati being the most vocal.

Nebala turned to us. “Koyati said that if your mother would like it, he would take her as a wife.”

My mother giggled. “Thank him so much for his offer, but I think I’ve had enough of men for now.”

Nebala nodded and then translated, and they talked some more.

He turned to us again. “He said he understands, but there is always room if you change your mind. He said that you would like his other wives.”

“His
wives?
How many wives does he have?” my mother questioned.

“Only two. You would be his third.”

“Is it okay in your tribe to have a lot of wives?” I asked.

“My father has seven,” Nebala said.

“Seven! That’s unbelievable.”

“He told me that seven is too many,” Nebala said. “I think that’s why he spends so much time with his cattle, to get some quiet.”

I couldn’t help laughing. That was why my father had spent so much time in his office. Apparently, some things didn’t change from one culture to another.

“Alexandria tells me you’re here in Los Angeles to run in the Beverly Hills Marathon,” my mother said.

Nebala shook his head. “We did not come to run.”

I was startled. “But … but … you told me that’s why you came—to run in the marathon.”

“Yes, but we did not come just to run. We came to win.”

“Winning isn’t everything,” my mother said.

Now it was Nebala’s turn to look confused. My mother obviously didn’t understand the Maasai. Losing was a concept they did not take lightly.

“Oh, my heavens!” my mother gasped.

I turned around. Samuel and Koyati were squatting down on the deck and, with cupped hands, were drinking from the swimming pool.

“I can get them some water if they want!” my mother exclaimed.

“Is that water not for drinking? Is it for your animals?” Nebala asked.

“No, of course not!” my mother exclaimed. “That’s our pool … for swimming. That’s pool water. I can get them bottled water, sparkling, if they want something to drink.”

Nebala nodded his head. “Yes, water would be good.”

“Where are my manners?” my mother said. “Let me offer you all something to eat. There’s a recipe I’ve been dying to try out.”

“You’re going to cook?” I gasped. I didn’t know if I was more shocked or scared.

She laughed. “Of course not. It’s a recipe I want Carmella to make.”

That certainly made more sense.

“After such a long trip, you three must be famished,” my mother said.

“What is ‘famished’?” Nebala asked. “What does that mean?”

“Hungry,” I explained.

“Yes. Hungry, yes.”

“Did you have a meal on the plane?” my mother asked.

“No. Not on the plane. We ate before we got on the plane.”

“You haven’t eaten since New York?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Kenya. We ate in Nairobi before we got on the plane.”

“But … but … that was yesterday.”

“No. Two days ago.”

“You haven’t eaten in two days?” I was shocked.

He shrugged. “Two days is not long.”

That might explain why they were drinking from the pool.

“We’ll get you something to drink and eat immediately,” my mother said. “You must be starving!”

“It would take many more than two days to starve,” he said. “Much longer.”

I knew that wasn’t an innocent statement. Where he came from, “starving to death” wasn’t just an expression; it was something that could really happen.

“All of you come to the house right now, and while supper is being prepared we’ll serve some appetizers,” my mother said. “And of course, water.”

I motioned for the Maasai to sit down. They all seemed very unsure about what I was asking.

“Please,” I said. I pulled out my chair and sat, and then they did the same, settling in at the dining-room table.

I had to hand it to my mother: she had gone all out on the table. The tablecloth was white linen—Italian linen—and she’d set out the bone china, crystal glasses, our best silver, all arranged around a beautiful floral centrepiece. The table looked perfect. It would have impressed the Queen of England. Unfortunately, the Queen wasn’t sitting at the table.

“What would our guests like to drink?” my mother asked.

Nobody answered.

“We have tea, coffee, juice, wine, sparkling water, and—”

“Water,” Nebala said. “We would like water, please.”

My mother picked up a little bell and rang it. Carmella poked her head into the room.

“Could we please have water for everybody,” my mother said.

Carmella nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. When she came back out, she filled all the crystal glasses from a bottle of sparkling water.

“So you’re all runners,” my mother said.

“Yes,” Nebala answered.

“I myself am into yoga.”

“What is yoga?” Nebala asked.

She looked surprised that he didn’t know, but pleased that she’d have the opportunity to tell him. She had become, over the past few months, the Yoga Queen.

“It’s an ancient Hindu philosophy that allows the integration of body, mind, and spirit,” she began.

Nebala looked completely lost.

“It is a way for a person to seek inner contentment through the—”

“It’s exercise,” I said, cutting her off.

“It’s so much more than that,” my mother said with a laugh. “It’s more like a form of meditation.”

“That’s not going to help,” I said. I turned to Nebala. “Do you know what meditation is?”

He shook his head.

“It’s a way to create a kind of inner peace.” She paused. “Actually, I have friends who run, and they tell me that running can produce that same sense of peace. Do you find running peaceful?”

Nebala didn’t know what to answer to that question either. It was obvious, even to my mother, that this wasn’t clearing up his confusion.

“It gives them time to think,” she continued. “What do you think about when you run?”

“I think about when I can stop running and walk again,” he answered.

I laughed.

“Or if I can catch what I run after … or get away from what is chasing me,” he continued.

I laughed again. There was a twinkle in his eyes, so I knew he was just joking.

“Surely you must get something more out of running?” she questioned.

“It’s just how they get around,” I said, trying to explain. “It’s not like they all have cars or can hop on to the subway. Maasai run because it gets them where they have to go.”

“But there has to be more to it than that,” my mother protested.

“I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head. “They just run to move, either to get something or somewhere, or to get away from something or somewhere.”

“But if that’s the only reason, why are they here now to run in the marathon?”

I hadn’t thought about that. That was a good question.

“If it’s simply running to get around, they wouldn’t have come halfway across the world to run in Beverly Hills,” my mother said. “There has to be more.”

“Nebala,” I said, turning to him. “Why
did
you come to Beverly Hills to run in the marathon?”

“To win,” he said.

“Yes, yes, I know you want to win, but why did you come all this way, to Beverly Hills, to run in this particular marathon?”