Alexandra Fuller - Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness

Table of Contents

ALSO BY ALEXANDRA FULLER

The Legend of Colton H. Bryant
Scribbling the Cat: Travels with an African Soldier
Dont Lets Go to the Dogs Tonight: An African Childhood

THE PENGUIN PRESS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephens Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in 2011 by The Penguin Press,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright Alexandra Fuller, 2011

All rights reserved

Authors note: The story presented in this book is true. However, in some cases names
and other identifying information have been altered to protect the privacy
of the individuals involved.

Photographs on pages 199, 216, 219, and 229 by Ian Murphy.
Other photographs courtesy of the author and her family.

Pages 237238 constitute an extension of this copyright page.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Fuller, Alexandra.
Cocktail hour under the tree of forgetfulness / Alexandra Fuller.
p. cm.

ISBN : 978-1-101-51770-3

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For Charlieguide extraordinairewith my love

CAST OF MAIN CHARACTERS

Nicola Christine Victoria Fuller ne Huntingfordthe authors mother, also known as Nicola Fuller of Central Africa, Mum or Tub

Timothy Donald Fullerthe authors father, also known as Dad

Vanessa Margaret Fullerthe authors sister, also known as Van

Edith Margaret Belfinley Huntingford ne Macdonaldthe authors maternal grandmother, also known as Granny or Donnie or Mrs. Huntingford

Roger Lowther Huntingfordthe authors maternal grandfather, also known as Hodge

Glennis Duthiethe authors maternal aunt, also known as Auntie Glug or Glug

Sandy Duthiethe authors maternal uncle by marriage

Donald Hamilton Connell-Fullerthe authors paternal grandfather

Ruth Henrietta Fullerthe authors paternal grandmother, also known as Boofy

Tony Fullerthe authors paternal uncle, also known as Uncle Toe

Alexandra Fullerthe author, also known as Bo or Bobo

PART ONE

The mind I love must have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobodys fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind.

KATHERINE MANSFIELD

Nicola Fuller of Central Africa Learns to Fly

Mkushi, Zambia, circa 1986

Mum in an Eldoret theatrical production. Kenya, circa 1963.

O ur Mumor Nicola Fuller of Central Africa, as she has on occasion preferred to introduce herselfhas wanted a writer in the family as long as either of us can remember, not only because she loves books and has therefore always wanted to appear in them (the way she likes large, expensive hats, and likes to appear in them ) but also because she has always wanted to live a fabulously romantic life for which she needed a reasonably pliable witness as scribe.

At least she didnt read you Shakespeare in the womb, my sister says. I think thats what gave me brain damage.

You do not have brain damage, I say.

Thats what Mum says.

Well, I wouldnt listen to her. You know what shes like, I say.

I know, Vanessa says.

For example, I say, lately, shes been telling me that I must have been switched at birth.

Really? Vanessa tilts her head this way and that to get a better view of my features. Let me have a look at your nose from the other side.

Stop it, I cover my nose.

Well, you brought it on yourself, Vanessa says, lighting a cigarette. You should never have written that Awful Book about her.

I count the ways that Vanessa is wrong, For the millionth time, its not awful and it wasnt about her.

Vanessa blows smoke at the sky placidly, Thats not what Mum says. Anyway, I wouldnt know. I havent read it. I wont. I cant. Im brain damaged. Ask Mum.

Were sitting outside Vanessas rock house near the town of Kafue. Wisely, Vanessa has grown up to be an inscrutable artistfabric, graphics and exuberant, tropical canvases all expressed with a kind of noncommittal chaosso no one can really pin anything on her. And anyway, no matter what happens, Vanessa always behaves as if everything will resolve itself in time as long as no one panics. Her bathroom, for example, has a tree growing through the middle of its thatched roofvery romantic and picturesque but a pitiful defense against rain and reptiles. Vanessa says vaguely, Oh, just keep your shoes on and have a good look before you sit anywhere and you should be all right.

The rest of the house, attached to the wildly impractical bathroom, has a total of three tiny rooms for Vanessa, her husband and their several children, but it is built on the summit of a kopje, so it has a sense of possibility, like a closet with cathedral ceilings. We sit outside where the air smells of miombo woodland and we smoke cigarettes and look at the comforting lights from the scores of cooking fires smoldering from the kitchens in the surrounding village. Occasionally we hear a dog barking from the taverns on the Kafue Road and soldiers in the nearby army camp shouting to one another or letting off the odd stray bullet. Its all very peaceful.

Have another glass of wine, Vanessa suggests by way of comforting me. You never know, Mum might forgive you eventually.

In my defense, the Awful Book, whose full and proper title can never be mentioned in the company of my family, was not all my fault. I had felt more than a little encouraged to write itdirected, evenby Nicola Fuller of Central Africa herself. Having given up on my older sister as a potential writer on account of Vanessas stubborn refusal to learn how to read or write, Mum settled her literary ambitions on me. I was five when she abandoned the arithmetic section of our weekly Rhodesia Correspondence School packet. Look Bobo, she reasoned, numbers are boring. Anyway, you can always pay someone to count for you, but you can never pay anyone to write for you. Now, Mum paused and gave me one of her terrifying smiles. What do you think youre going to write about? Then she took a long sip of tea, brushed a couple of dogs off her lap and began to live a life Worthy of Fabulous Literature.

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