The Most Loved of All

Chapter 1 Egypt was hot, a hellhole, hotter even than German East Africa, and I’d always said if I never set foot on Egyptian soil again in my life, it would be too soon. So why was I back in Africa? Because someone asked me. I sat at the bar in the Hotel Duke of York, a seedy establishment in a seedier side of Nairobi, although it hadn’t always been so. I drew a lungful of smoke from the cigarette that dangled from my mouth, choked—I’d never been much of a smoker—stubbed out the cigarette, and reached for my pint. The last time I’d been there, ten years before, Charlie Pearson, the man I’d loved with every fibre of my being had been with me. We’d just arrived on Lake Tanganyika from the tiny village of Udjidji—things had happened on that journey, not the least of which was we’d gotten married. And incidentally, once we’d reached the lake, we’d succeeded in sinking the German steamship, Konigin Marie Christine. From there we’d travelled to Nairobi, and after we’d checked into the Hotel Duke of York, Charlie had taken me up to our rooms and made love to me as if it were the very first time, all in celebration of our marriage and in having thrown a spanner into the Hun’s works. Yes, we were two men. And we had married each other, in our eyes and God’s, if not in man’s. I looked down at the ring finger of my left hand. On it was a gold wedding ring, etched to look like river grass. It replaced the first ring Charlie had woven from actual grass and placed on my finger—I’d lost the original when a storm blew up and sank our boat, the Nile Goddess. I slid the ring up and down my finger, finally taking it off and placing it on the bar in front of me. I ordered another pint. Charlie would have laughed, remembering how tipsy I had gotten the first day he had introduced me to bitter. It had been an unbelievable ten years—so much lost, so much gained. I remembered our hot, sweaty lovemaking afterward in the dark that night, and I couldn’t help smiling. And then I couldn’t help the tears that burned behind my eyes. Until I’d sailed the Ruzizi with Charlie Pearson, back when the War to End All Wars had come to German East Africa, I’d never known what love could be like. Oh, I was certain Nanny liked me, and that meant a good deal, but it wasn’t love. Neither Brother nor my parents seemed to care tuppence for a little boy who wanted nothing more than to love and be loved. It had taken Charlie to show me that I was lovable…was worth loving. And that meant more to me than anything.