Echoes From A Distant Land Part 46

'I'll be there.'

The tiered lecture room was almost full. Emerald arrived just as the lecturer began to speak and found a seat near the top row.

'Photojournalism,' he began, 'is a new art form and is distinguished from other forms of photography by the following attributes.'

As he began to scrawl his notes on the blackboard, Emerald looked around her cla.s.smates. Most were quite young, no more than her age, with a few grey heads scattered among them. Everyone was taking notes. Emerald pulled a sheet of paper from her handbag and began to copy from the board.

Timeliness, objectivity and newsworthiness, she scribbled.

She learned that photojournalism was not as new as she had thought. It had been recognised as a separate section of photography for a hundred years, but it wasn't until printing processes improved and the enabling technologies of the 35mm camera and flash photography arrived that photojournalism became such a part of news reporting.

Emerald was pleased she'd not skimped on her equipment. She'd bought a Ferrania Condor with a coated 50mm lens and built-in flash synchronisation in London for almost twenty pounds. It was money well spent if she was to sell her work, which was her ambition. The final section of the lecture on commercial opportunities was therefore of particular interest to her. She noted the names of the big magazines willing to pay for journalistic photography.

In his inspirational concluding remarks the lecturer described the qualities of a good photojournalist: 'You must first and foremost be a reporter, able to sniff out a story and make an instant decision to snap the shot. This means you must always carry your equipment with you, though you may be out in bad weather, crushed in crowds or even exposed to physical danger. The true photojournalist is always on the lookout for a story.'

Emerald filed out of the lecture theatre with her cla.s.smates, filled with enthusiasm. She couldn't wait to test her ability to find a story and capture it on film. It occurred to her that she had a perfect opportunity in the student demonstration the following day. What better way to test her skills?

She arrived at the Was.h.i.+ngton Square Arch just after two o'clock to find a ma.s.s of young people surrounding it. There were maybe five hundred or a thousand people there, all of them animated and noisy, many carrying placards. She had no idea how she would find Raph. Then she heard him. He stood on the plinth beside George Was.h.i.+ngton, holding on to the marble elbow, telling the crowd that they mustn't be intimidated by the police presence.

'We have every right to march,' he bellowed.

A roar of approval went up.

'And we will!'

He climbed down, and the next speaker took his place, imploring the crowd to show solidarity by marching to Times Square.

She met Raph at the foot of the arch.

'Emerald,' he said, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her firmly on the lips. 'Isn't this great?'

Breathless, she spluttered that it was.

'We'll show these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds that they can't stop the workers,' he added. 'What's that for?'

'I'm going to take some photographs,' she said, proudly brandis.h.i.+ng her Ferrania Condor.

'What for?'

'If I get something good, I'll sell it.'

He looked confused.

'To a newspaper or magazine,' she added. 'I've decided to become a photojournalist.'

He burst out laughing.

'Are you kidding? To be a journalist of any kind you've got to have some experience of life. Real life, not a day at the Henley Regatta, or at Royal Ascot.'

'Well, that's what you say, mister big-time photographer.' She put on a brave face, but his derision hurt. 'Everyone has to make a start, and mine is today.'

He stopped laughing. Although she didn't feel she'd convinced him of her sincerity, she was pleased she'd spoken out.

The crowd surged towards Fifth Avenue.

'C'mon,' he said, and dragged her by the hand.

By strength of numbers, the students brushed aside the thin line of police facing the arch. They had clearly underestimated the size of the rally.

The happy throng marched down Fifth Avenue and at 23rd Street were joined by a few hundred more who had gathered in Madison Square. These were older men carrying banners of the various trades unions. They were singing stirring songs about workers united and red revolution. It seemed to Emerald that once the marchers had defied the police confrontation back at Was.h.i.+ngton Square and n.o.body was arrested, it vindicated their cause. A euphoric camaraderie was in the air. Emerald wanted to hug everyone, even the crusty old wharf labourers coming in from Madison Square. She smiled at the imagined expression on her mother's face if she could see her now. Then she remembered her camera and began to snap photos at random.

Someone in overalls thrust a pocket-sized bottle of whisky at Raph, who was shouting to the bemused pedestrians and making rude gestures to drivers who planted their hands on car horns to sound their disapproval of the disruption.

Raph befriended a young black man among the unionists, and was soon chatting excitedly with him, sharing the bottle. Emerald was on the other side of Raph, unable to hear much of the conversation as she snapped her pictures.

Raph turned to her. 'Emerald, meet Jelani. Jelani, this is Emerald.'

He had a handsome face and a pleasant smile. His accent was neither American nor British. She asked him where he came from.

'Kenya,' he said above the noise of the crowd. 'I am here on a study tour with the Longsh.o.r.emen's Union.'

He pa.s.sed her the whisky and, in the spirit of solidarity, Emerald took a swig. She almost choked. The fumes threatened to burst from her mouth in a fireball, but she held her breath until the burning sensation pa.s.sed and she could risk speaking again.

She caught snippets of his story in the din. He was on a study tour. He had arrived a week earlier. He was a member of a union in Nairobi. He conveyed all his information in the slightly awed voice of the newcomer to New York. He reminded Emerald of herself. It was an odd feeling, but she felt that she and this left-wing, black African unionist had something in common.

As they came to the corner of Broadway and Seventh Avenue, a solid wall of blue uniforms awaited them, spreading from sidewalk to sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder.

The rally stalled, s.h.i.+fted and changed shape as the battle-hardened union leaders at its head sized up the opposition.

The officer in charge read the Riot Act and ordered the crowd to disburse.

'The f.u.c.k we will!' shouted someone behind Emerald, and the crowd, roaring their defiance, pressed forwards.

Later, Emerald remembered the melee that immediately followed the defiant call from the unionist: the flurry of batons and the placards raised as weapons; a mounted policeman - appearing from nowhere - forcing his frightened animal into the crowd; the horse, cutting a swathe through everyone, towering above her. A section of the crowd fell, or were pushed down, but she remained among the protesters and joined in the shouted oaths and swearing. During all of this, she couldn't remember taking photographs, but someone came from the other side of the police lines, shoved a business card into her hands and shouted that he might be interested in taking a look at what she had, and then was lost in the crowd.

Then she was running as fast as her shoes would allow, with Raph and Jelani beside her. They dodged and dashed down streets and alleys until they were all thoroughly spent and dropped to a doorstep, laughing.

Emerald, who was thrilled to have stood her ground despite her terror, now looked at the business card in her hand. It had the New York Daily News banner on it. That was one of the magazines her lecturer had mentioned! She was elated and simply wanted to hug and kiss her friends for sharing the most exciting time of her twenty years.

Raph handed her the whisky and she took a mouthful. Even it tasted better than it had before the confrontation. For the first time she actually felt grown up - though now the fading light reminded her of her mother's warning not to be late home.

When they'd recovered their breath, Raph took them to a hamburger cafe where he and Emerald laughed at Jelani's rapture in describing what he called the best nyama choma he'd ever eaten.

Raph made a great show of concealing the whisky under the table as he added a shot to their c.o.kes. Emerald held her handbag so that his hands were concealed and instead of feeling guilt over this rule-breaking, she was happy. The photographer was certainly the most thrilling person she'd ever met.

'OK. Let's go,' Raph said after they'd eaten.

'Where?'

'I know a place with great music.'

It was getting late, as Emerald and Jelani followed Raph down a half-flight of stairs under a flas.h.i.+ng sign that said Dooby's Downstairs. Even before they opened the door she could feel rather than hear the drum beats.

The door swung open. The club was smoky and filled with a great deal of sound. On the small bandstand were a drummer, a saxophonist, two guitarists and a double ba.s.s. Most of the crowd were black, but one white couple were on the dance floor, making some great moves.

'It's African music,' Jelani said above the din.

'Rhythm and blues,' Raph added. 'Some people are calling it rock and roll.'

'It's fabulous,' Emerald said.

Raph took her hand and Emerald joined him on the dance floor.

The sound was like nothing she'd heard before, but she loved the primitive feel of it. Raph was a marvellous dancer, sending her easily into a spin and a slide recovery - drawing her back, close to his body. She found the music easy to dance to, listening to the constant back beat of the drums. Each time he pulled her to him, her heart raced.

When she'd mastered the basic steps, she dragged Jelani to the dance floor with them. Although not as accomplished as Raph, Jelani had a natural rhythm and his body seemed to fuse with the beat of the drums.

'Hey, I want my girl back,' Raph said as Jelani copied the close-in steps he'd seen Raph do.

Raph swept her away into the crush of dancing partners, and kissed her - right in the centre of the crowded dance floor. When she opened her eyes he was grinning at her.

n.o.body took a shred of notice.

Emerald loved New York! And she thought she might love this wild, blond-headed communist even more.

CHAPTER 51.

Jelani awoke next morning, Sat.u.r.day, with the memories of the previous day still vivid in his mind. The whole day had been one long adventure. Firstly, there was the march with the Longsh.o.r.emen, then meeting his new friends, Raph and Emerald, and finally dancing to the music in the nightclub. There'd been nothing in his life to compare with it.

It brought comparisons between New York and Nairobi into sharp focus and, as he lay in bed staring at the fly-specked hotel room ceiling, his thoughts went to Beth. He could tolerate being apart for a week while he worked in Nairobi and she in Lari, but somehow the vast distances that now separated them made the week since they'd seen one another appear so much longer. He missed her.

To lift his spirits he tried to imagine what he and Beth might be doing on a Sat.u.r.day back in Nairobi. They would go to Jeevanjee Gardens for lunch as usual, then maybe they'd take a matatu to the markets at Dagoretti Corner. Or there was the Impala Club oval where they could spend an hour lying together on the gra.s.s, watching a soccer match.

He couldn't shake his mood and decided to get out of bed and write to her.

Dear Beth, he began, then tore the page from the pad to start again.

Dearest Beth, How are you? I am fine. I am enjoying things here in New York. Everything is so big in America. The buildings are very tall. One place must be a hundred floors high. And there is a park here called Central Park, but it is not like our Central Park in Nairobi. No, this one is much much bigger. Even me, I haven't been able to see all of it yet. I have heard there are animals in this New York Central Park. They keep them in a zoo. Can you imagine?

Yesterday I joined the men from the union office, and we marched to Times Square.

He paused to consider how much he should tell her about his union activities. He wasn't sure if she approved of his work. He certainly didn't want to go into the details of his training with the International Longsh.o.r.emen's a.s.sociation, much of which covered methods of disrupting government business and organising strikes. Beth wouldn't understand why he needed to learn such things. Also, the longsh.o.r.emen were accused of being communists by some, and Christians seemed to have a lot of problems with communism. He decided to leave out further reference to the longsh.o.r.emen; and he also chose to omit the highlight of his day, which was his visit to the nightclub. Dancing with a white girl would be just too much for Beth to understand.

The march was very successful and I have made new friends. Everyone in New York is very friendly to me.

How are you going with your work at Lari?

It troubled him that she thought the Mau Mau were causing trouble for the people around Lari. It was obviously a misunderstanding - they were Kikuyus. He would talk to her some more when he returned home.

I miss you.

Love

Jelani

Emerald sat on the edge of her chair. Across the desk sat the New York Daily News reporter who had thrust his card into her hand at the rally, and in front of him was her folio of photographs taken on the day. He opened it and flicked through her prints.

'Nope,' he said of the first - her best, she thought.

'Really? What's wrong with it? I mean, look at the drama. The policeman standing over the fallen student, his baton raised.'

'Too dark. It won't print well.'

'Oh.'

He flicked to the next.

'Nope. Out of focus.'

He paused over the next shot for a while.

'Not bad. Pity you chopped his head off.'

Another.

'Nope.'

And another.

'Nope.'

He shrugged as he stuffed the stack back into the folio.

'Sorry I wasted your time, Miss Middlebridge. You've got nothing I can use here.'