1931 June 29 | On the SS Njassa, Sailing Home
Then – The evening before Europe
There was a wrinkle on the tablecloth, just there, next to her glass. How had it been missed? The crew was normally so… exact. Deutsche Gründlichkeit! Being called Frau Dulière once again had its cachet, even if it was still far second to memsahib, but it came with some advantages. They were back on the SS Njassa, 2 years later, this time back home. Everything felt as if it had just stood still all these months, waiting for them.
She keeps smoothening the small crease. Disappointing.
The conversations around her drone on, so she drifts for a moment; the countdown she kept in her head when they left is winding down. François looks at her quizzically. Yes? She imperceptibly tilts her head: later darling dear. He continues enthusiastically rattling on some sort of weather formation of other. She makes herself smile.
The evening menu stands in the middle of the table: Erste Klasse Abschiedessen, Farewell Dinner. Cannot wait.
He kept most of the menus, of course, even the 1929 ones. Lugged them around in the trunks, on every trail, in the deepest jungles. Why? Because, one day, they would find it fun to remember what they ate on the … 11th of June 1931? He had produced the menu like a card sharp. The Chicken Albuféra, of course! She doubted very much that it would ever catch on. And now, the oversized, gilded last menu, a litany of dishes the overwrought names: Consommé à la Yvette, Sole façon Otéro… Anyhow, Suzanne was here for one thing and one thing only: the desserts. All of them.
And as each dish and its patron saint was trolleyed past, the end of the leisurely trip was nearer; a new life would wait for them at the foot of the drawbridge.
Again.
It had been a month-long social warm-up, strolling and lounging. And tonight was the final dress rehearsal before being truly back. Even the weather was playing its expected part: the fine spray on the deck was finally chilling. And, duly, this had fuelled every conversation so far, broadening up to seasons and culminating with climates. Oh, how they all missed winter, the table was currently chorusing, bursting with anticipated cheer. She did.
Seasons, the one true glue of any tropical conversation.
The social arrangements in the Erste Klasse were to mix seating arrangements at least once a week, not so subtly prodding the guests into some minimal socialisation. Introductions were made, business and/or families discussed; wit and entertainment were optional, of course. Suzanne liked that. A few days and she was already spinning a small planetary system of sensible and like-minded people. François followed at a distance, ready to feed information or entertainment as and when primed.
On the way down, it had been a sphere of eager young couples, lives brimming with futures waiting for them leaving the ship.
On the way back, she had spun a ball of women eager to go home. And their husbands.
The energy, the drive, were there, not to create, but to thread, knit and sew yourself into a set canvas of Society. International news, politics and business were men’s clubs topics. Kids? No thanks. Maybe Africa, Congo? Everyone aboard had lived there after all. But, huts and trails and tipoyes, that sounded so much like An Adventure! Africa was already bungalows half an hour away from a railway station, streets lined with rhododendrons, the next governor’s ball and a Tennis Club membership. So, talking about the weather allowed you to tactfully assess, gauge, measure.
And weave yourself back in. So, yes, your favourite season and the different types of drizzle were fine conversation pieces.
Dar Es Salaam had been a decompression chamber, an Acclimatization Garden to ease them back in: gigantic turtles, parks, mangrove seafront, palm tree alleys. A curated, idyllic, unreal resort. A pause to allow Suzanne to slowly morph back into herself. They had practised it by waving everyone home: the French on the Jean Laborde to Marseille, the Brits on the Llandgibby Castle to London. And on the 28th of May, they were ready when they sailed away.
Once again tourists. No more residents.
They had walked the streets of Zanzibar, haggled in Suez for tat and junk… they saw the exact same sights 2 millennia of tourists visited before and since: Capri, the Stromboli, the Columns of Hercules, … She had stood smiling at all the best shooting spots of all the best monuments, and François had taken all the expected photos.
That was fortunate: they had taken no pictures of any of it on the way down.
The conversations stop, guests stand, tables are folded: the room re-arranges itself into a ballroom. The school in Fizi, the Kiymbi river, even the sweaty Albertville docks fade and fold themselves into another dimension: memories. Soon, François will sort, glue and title photos in albums, and delicately push them at the back of a drawer: Mars 1929 à Avril 1931, in black marker. Already, only the animals feel truly alive to her. All, except the chickens though. She will never remember them.
The long intermezzo on the ship has delicately blurred the last 2 years: she is ready.
The next stage is set, the dance floor cleared, the orchestra waits for the signal. The lights are dimmed, warm and golden. The tall Schiffskapitän stands at the ready in his most braided uniform. Suzanne dusts off her best outfit; François nods his appreciation. She beams. The Kapitän clicks his heels, lends his arm, points to the dance floor, and she swirls to the next waltz.
François is at a porthole, smoking a filter-less Camel. Around the room, the Germans smoke Ernte 23, the Belgians Belga and the French Gauloises.
The orchestra changes tune: Danse Macabre. She loves that one.
Outside the temperature drops further.
Europe creeps back in.
Now – New Delhi Pullman Aerocity, Republic Day International Dinner
Scraping chairs echo on the cream marble of the cavernous reception hall. Tables are set, guests sit, the waiters wait. The air shimmers like pixy dust falling from the chandeliers, the fog of Delhi catches in throats and eyes. The formal suits and cocktail dresses look faded and worn.
Music is usually this side of bearable; not tonight. And in the silence, everyone soldiers on, leans to his left or to her right, canned smiles stretching.
Laughter stabs like a shriek on a cold day; the silence of the Damned.
Republic day is a dry day. No alcohol: the social stress test of a middle-aged International Society.
You read part 20 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.
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