Binstead's Safari (5 page)

As soon as they were seated, Millie whispered, “I wish I’d had the nerve to go for something like that in London. Something really bright, instead of restrained good taste.”

“It would look silly.”

“No, it wouldn’t. It looks great. It looks terrific.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s inappropriate.”

“It’s only inappropriate in a way that makes you wish everybody in the room had dressed up like that. A dress like that makes its own occasion.”

“You sound like fifty wise sayings from Coco Chanel. A dress like that is an anachronism.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. The study of palaeontology is an anachronism.”

Stan said, “Look, Millie, a study of the past is not the same as a fashion that’s out of date.”

“This fashion may be just coming back. You may not have read the right magazines. This woman may be the ace trend-setter of a jet-set you’ve never even heard of. She may at this very moment have a bluebird
tattooed on her instep.”

He started to say something else, when he realized that she was joking, and enjoying herself.

They skipped the dancing, which was still going on at the hotel when they returned, and made it an early night. That was what Stan called it; early to sleep, rather than early to bed. In the morning he showered and dressed quickly, before Millie was up.

They passed each other at the reception desk as she was on her way to the dining room for breakfast and he was waiting for Colonel Armstrong’s driver.

“Have a nice time,” she said.

*

Over breakfast she made friends with an old woman named Miller, whose son was doing research on sleeping sickness. Mrs Miller walked with a cane and had dropped a large handbag on entering the room. Millie, right behind her, had retrieved it and suggested that they sit together, since her husband had had to leave early.

“Unless your family—”

“Oh no, that’s quite all right. My son is going to visit me for tea later today. By all means let’s sit together. How kind of you to suggest it.”

The rescued bag contained a great deal of knitting—for the most part children’s sweaters in fine yarn and
criss-crossed
by complicated designs. Mrs Miller mentioned grandchildren.

Millie wondered why the son wasn’t offering his mother a place to stay. She even asked if there was a
daughter-in-law
and was told yes, but always very busy, poor thing. So, either the younger woman didn’t want Mama horning in on their life, or perhaps the son himself didn’t. The old
woman was so placid when she spoke of her relatives that it was hard to tell what she was thinking, nor did she act like someone on vacation. Millie suddenly imagined that she might have come out to the country without warning, because she had found out she was ill or dying and didn’t want to be alone.

They talked about Africa, about the weather and trees and flowers, what they’d seen so far, and about knitting. They introduced themselves. And Mrs Miller told a story about a cat she had once owned, that could do tricks without being taught. It used to scramble up the curtains and hang there upside-down in order to tease her. She said that even here, or especially here, one was aware of the insoluble bond between man and animal.

“Man and the plant world too, of course. We all live on the same earth.”

“Yes,” Millie said, “and we sometimes seem to take on each other’s characteristics, it’s true.”

Mrs Miller leaned forward. She said, “The planet, I am firmly convinced, is a single cell. Otherwise, it doesn’t make sense. Any of it. Indeed, the universe itself is
one.
Hence the name, universe.” She spoke the last phrase with an air of great seriousness, like a player on the stage who is about to reveal the secret of the lost treasure or the real name of the criminal mastermind.

Millie smiled. She handed Mrs Miller the sugar and said she’d never thought of it that way before, but it was an interesting idea.

*

After breakfast, she went for a walk. She looked in store windows, passed on, returned down the other side of the street and worked her way through the modern business
section of town and into the jumble of Indian shops, where she dawdled over bright displays of scarves, statuettes, rugs, blouses, beaded purses and painted boxes.

She was leaning over a basket full of more small carved wooden animals, when a voice beside her said, “Don’t bother with those. They’ve got better ones down the road.” She looked up and again found herself staring straight into the face of the man she had seen the day before, but this time there was no pane of glass between them. He had shaved and was wearing a light summer suit and a white shirt. He smiled.

“Are you with Rollo, or with Ian Foster?” he asked.

“Oh. With Ian Foster.”

“Good. You can’t go far wrong with Ian. There are a couple of others that are okay, but two of them are out working at the moment. How long do you have in town?”

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

His expression changed very slightly and only for an instant, then he said, “My name’s Henry Lewis. I hope you don’t mind my coming up and talking to you. We all know each other here.”

It was said in such a way, so naturally and sincerely, that she wasn’t angry or annoyed, or even made uneasy.

“Of course not,” she said. “My name’s Millie Binstead.”

“Was that Mildred or Millicent?”

“Actually it was Millamant, but I can hardly believe it myself. It came from my father’s favourite play.”

“Well, Millie, if you’re leaving tomorrow, I can’t let you waste your time on this. Come on down the road. You tell me what you want, and I’ll show you the best bargains. Or are you just browsing?”

“Oh, a little of both.”

They began to walk slowly down the street. Millie felt elated but vaguely dazed, enraptured by the progressive rhythm of warmth and shade. The sound of his voice came to her hardly as part of the exterior world, but as though inspired within herself, like the beat of a second heart. The man was hypnotizing her. She had been aware of the same thing the day before, right through the window. He had a romantic look to him too, but what really captured and magnetized her attention was the fact that he seemed to be obsessed about her. She wasn’t shy or flustered. It was strange. It was like what she had said to Pippa Foster about there being something in the air.

“How long have you been here?” she asked him.

“Oh, for years. I’m a professional hunter. Like Ian.”

“But you’re American?”

“Canadian. I was American a long time ago, then they split up and we moved.”

They walked down an alley, turned left and came out into a courtyard. All around, like boxes set between the spokes of a wheel, were small shops. The windows were open, but screens were down to protect the interiors from insects. Up above, all the awnings joined. Only at the very centre of the yard the sunlight fell in a splash.

“Look,” he said. He took her arm. It was as though they were face to face again, although in fact walking side by side. She could tell where every part of him was, she could see him even though her eyelids were partly lowered.

They went into three or four shops. Everyone knew him. Millie bought five wooden animals, two scarves and two shell and bead ornaments, like belts but without buckles. The owners hadn’t wanted her to pay, because she was with him; she had to insist.

They came outside again and turned into a wide street.
They hadn’t gone far before they were in a crowded marketplace. The first shops had been Indian, these were African and there were groups of children playing on the ground and in and out of the piles of goods. There was also a lot of noise, unlike the well-behaved hush of the places they had left.

A gang of children surrounded them and jounced up and down, singing at them. Lewis laughed. He said, “I shouldn’t have brought you through here. I forgot. I’m the man who gives them candy. Wait a minute.”

He looked to his right, guided her to a stall, and began to talk to the owner, who flashed out a smile and reached down behind some bolts of cloth for a box at the back. The children kept on singing. They started to dash forward to touch Millie’s skirt. Lewis shook his head and growled something at them. They squealed with laughter and then began to chant even harder.

“Is it a game?” she asked.

“They’re just being silly.”

He turned around from the booth, his hands full of a big collection of coloured sweets wrapped up in cellophane. They didn’t look like the kind of thing she would have expected to find being sold from an open stall; they were like red and yellow, green, blue and orange jewels in their clear coverings. He shouted out, and tossed them all high up into the air. The children fought to get as many as they could.

“Come on,” he said. The two of them ran back the way they had come and walked quickly until they found a quieter street.

He told her, “That’s the trouble with small towns. Everybody knows you.”

“What were they singing?”

“About you. They were saying, ‘O Bwana Simba, what a beautiful bride you have.’ They thought you were my girl.”

Millie smiled. “That’s nice.”

“That’s very nice,” he said. “Well—where can we go? What do you think? We could go anywhere. Do anything. I have a whole week off. Come out to lunch with me?”

“I think my husband’s expecting me back.”

“Was that the man I saw with you?”

“Yes.”

He appeared relieved. He asked her how long she had been married, where she lived, whether she had children. He wanted to know what she had seen so far in Africa. She mentioned the game park, then she spoke of London. She told him about the tiger and the spots at the back of the ears, which he had known about already, but had forgotten. She talked about her visit to the Ethnographic Museum and described its exhibits, including the implement for making toeholds. He burst out laughing.

He said, “When I was a boy, I wanted more than anything to go to the South Seas. It was so cold where we lived. Snow and fir trees, foxes and owls. My mother was fond of painting; not her own—other people’s. She took me with her one day on a trip into town. Big deal: the metropolis, excitement. I was old enough not to have to be taken to look at the trains or planes, or ride on the camel, but I think it was motorcycles I was interested in at the time. So, I was sort of mad when I found out I was going to be dragged along to paintings again. I figured I’d go through part of it for show and then just sneak down into the dinosaur rooms. But that changed when I saw the pictures. They were all by Gauguin. It must have been one of the biggest exhibits of his stuff ever put together. They
came from everyplace—Paris, New York, Switzerland, from the museums and out of private collections, too. I can’t tell you what it did to me. It almost drove me out of my mind. Those colours. It was like what happens to you when you’re going really fast, just before you lose your sense of location: when everything is more alive. So, I thought, right—that’s where I’m going. But time passes, people die, the money runs out. And so on. In the end, I joined the army. Big mistake. Everybody else was protesting and I actually joined. I had my hand out for the gun: lead me to it. And they did. Hunting, shooting, fishing, surviving—all I was good for. After I got out, I saw this ad for a job as a game warden. Here. I’ve put more tags on more ears than you’d believe.”

“And do you still want to go to the South Seas?”

“Maybe, some day. But I’m pretty much settled down here now. Besides,” he said, “why would I want to leave, now I’ve found you?”

Millie laughed. “This is even better than lunch,” she said.

“You think I’m joking.”

“And I like it.”

They came to a street planted with lines of trees, so that as they walked forward they went from light to dark, again and again.

He said, “I live right near here. Only about two blocks away.”

“Oh?”

He stopped. They stood together under the branches of a tree that arched and spread away out over them. It was like being at the bottom of a pool. The rest of the street danced with brightness.

“Would you like to see my etchings?” he said, giving her
a big grin.

She laughed with delight.

He said, “On the other hand, it’s still kind of early for lunch but I could offer you a cup of tea, or coffee.”

She looked back at him without answering. He put his hand on her arm. He opened his mouth to speak, and said nothing, and breathed in. His hand tightened a little.

“Ever since yesterday—” he began.

Millie said, “I’d love a cup of tea.”

Stan sat directly behind a wiry man of about his own age: late thirties to early forties. The man was named Carpenter. He worked for the government, not for the tourist board. He had told everyone about safety measures, and disappointed the Frenchwoman who was travelling with them. She was a professional photographer and, like many photographers not working inside actual war zones, dressed in what looked like genuine
combat-issue
clothes. Stan had thought when he first saw her that she was a very small soldier. She was smoking Gauloises until Carpenter said something to her about a fire risk. Stan was pretty sure the rule had been made up just that minute.

He was in the back seat with a large, proper-looking Dutchwoman and a Japanese who was handsome enough to be a movie star. The car was a heavy-duty vehicle, a cross between a truck, a jeep and a wagon. They were all slightly crushed together inside and the view from where he was sitting wasn't always good. The photographer seemed to believe they should have been given a convertible or a jeep. Stan, however, had been told in
London about a member of the television crew whose jeep had been accordioned by some large animal—a rhinoceros or a wild buffalo. And God only knew what an elephant could do to an ordinary car if it concentrated. He was glad they were where they were.

From the beginning it was clear that Carpenter couldn't stand the Frenchwoman. She tried to take loudly snapping pictures into the driver's face and spent a lot of time complaining, mainly because of dust on the lenses. The Japanese asked about rainfall, herd numbers and so on, but Carpenter had trouble understanding his accent. Stan repeated a few of the questions, paraphrased in order not to offend the Japanese, whose English was grammatically faultless and not, in his opinion, difficult to understand. It occurred to him part way through the morning that Carpenter might suffer from impaired hearing: either an ordinary deafness or one caused by constant exposure to gunfire at close range—something the army was fussy about, he remembered, because you could sue them if it got worse.

The Dutchwoman said nothing at first. She appeared pleased to be where she was and looked as respectable and dignified as if she were on a church outing. Stan felt there was an unexpressed sympathy between them until about twenty minutes later, after they had gone over some especially bumpy stretches and swallowed quite a lot of dust from a car ahead. She then began to chatter. As he had expected, she seemed to be a very nice woman, but practically impossible to stem. Information about her friends, family, vacations, poured from her. His replies grew quieter and more perfunctory and she became more animated, laughing and chortling. She turned to the Japanese on her other side. All at once he too went into
action: out came his friends, family, vacations as well. The silent understanding had been there all right, but between the two other people, not between Stan and anyone else.

They stopped several times to see lion, elephant, giraffe. All the animals were immensely far away, almost dots. The Frenchwoman made a big production of her work, getting out of the car and setting up tripods every time they came to a halt. While she was busy, the Japanese explained to the Dutchwoman that a friend of his was a photographer and none of that was really necessary. Carpenter kept an eye on everyone and on the neighbouring countryside. The driver stared ahead during the breaks, his face still and thoughtful except for an occasional ripple of activity along his jaw muscles that showed he was chewing something.

They drove in among zebra and a herd of animals which were larger than ordinary gazelle and had dramatically back-slanted horns. Stan felt caught by the grace of movement as he watched a long outer swale lift itself up from the main body to get out of the way, all its members jumping in accord. The driver was using the car to buzz them. It wasn't blatant and they never left the road completely; nevertheless, that was what he was doing. The herd swerved and an entire wedge-like section of it leapt over to the side in high, far-aiming arcs, right at the
three-quarter
mark of which the gazelles kicked their hind legs like rabbits. It was fun to see. It also made Stan think about what ability enabled them to wheel and leap together so exactly. It was almost like watching a flock of birds. Men did it too, but only on the parade ground. When he'd gone through his short spell of that, he'd just thought of it as marching. The official name for the whole process was
Basic
Training.

On their way back, the Frenchwoman started a quarrel. She was championed, without having looked for it, by the Japanese. The Dutchwoman came to attention.

“What?” she said. “Excuse me?”

Carpenter leaned over the seat and away from the French being discharged at his head.

“We had some trouble here a few days ago.”

“You, personally?” Stan asked.

“No. A few bloody stupid fools got out of their car when they'd been warned not to. It's usually the photographers,” he said, raising his voice.

“We will guarantee to stay in the car,” the Japanese told him.

“Yes, indeed,” the Dutchwoman agreed.

Stan asked, “What happened?”

“Lion. Went for one of the cars. Don't know why. Took a swipe at the window—from above, you understand, on the roof. They hadn't even shut the windows. Laid a man's arm open. Then one of them panicked, I think. Got out and ran. Of course, he didn't stand a chance. The driver had to go after them, and then he was mauled. Damn shame.”

“And the lion?”

“Got away. But he's here, somewhere. We tracked him, and he's doubled back.”

“Was he hit?”

“Not badly. Enough to slow him down. Enough to make him a nasty customer if he's cornered.”

“We will stay in the car,” the Dutchwoman promised.

Stan said, “Shouldn't he be asleep at this time of day? I thought lions were nocturnal, they hunted at night.”

“By and large. If they're disturbed, you can't tell what they'll do. Can't tell in any case.”

“I guess you couldn't have left the body.”

Carpenter made a face. “That would have been the sensible thing to do, but of course it was out of the question.”

“Leave the body?” the Dutchwoman said. “This poor man who is killed? What a terrible idea—why leave the body?”

“So the lion would return to it,” Stan told her.

“Ah, forget the lion.”

Carpenter said, “I'm inclined to agree with you.”

“I thought they turned into man-eaters,” Stan said. “If they get hurt, or crippled.”

“Oh, a few bites out of a tourist, we don't count that. It's the wound that makes the difference.”

In the end, Carpenter gave in. They took the route that went past the place where the accident had happened. And there, in what they were later told was the identical spot, a large dark-blue four-door car stood empty, with all the doors open. Carpenter began to mutter oaths. He said something to the driver and then announced, “I'm going out, but if one of you moves from here, I refuse to be responsible.”

As he left, taking his rifle with him, he bent down and said, “Binstead, keep the lady in the car.”

The Frenchwoman reached for the door handle straight away. Stan lunged across the seat and put his arm over hers. He said in French that he regretted very much—but. She told him not to be absurd. Would she, he asked her, want her nice camera to be eaten up by the ferocious animals? She said he spoke French like a Spanish cow, and she darted towards the door again. This time he grabbed her by the back of her shirt collar and pulled, saying that he had been entrusted with a sacred duty to protect the
beautiful ladies, and it was a matter of honour. “Imbecile,” she screamed, “imbecile,” and then laughed. He let go. She turned, still laughing, to look at him.

The driver had sat through the whole proceeding without making any movement or sound, not even munching on the thing in his mouth.

Stan said, in English, that if she could shoot her pictures from where they were—through the glass—that might work. She answered in English that she had everything she needed for it, but couldn't she put her head out of the window with the camera?

“Better not. Remember that lion on the roof. When these things happen, it's always very fast. And you aren't expecting it.”

“Okay,” she said. Behind her, the Japanese had already pulled out a camera of his own and started it whirring.

From then on, as Stan had said, things did happen very fast. They saw Carpenter off in the distance, and another man walking slowly towards him. The two stood together, then both went over to the right and parted again in order to cover a patch of low-growing bushes. They began to move farther and farther away.

And then, there was a rushing. The figures were so small that it was hard to tell at first what it was. But the next moment, leaning forward past the
Dutchwoman
, Stan realized that what he was seeing was a running woman who fell and writhed around on the ground. There were shots and he saw a lion run back into the undergrowth. That was what had made the woman fall down: the lion had jumped on her from behind while she was trying to escape. They heard the shots distinctly and they heard, even from such a long way and with the windows partly closed, the tiny
screaming, quickly lost in the great spaces beyond.

It's
the
way
it
must
have
been
in
the
war,
he thought.
The
way
it
must
have
been
the
day
he
died.
And
they
buried
him
out
there.

Later, when Carpenter talked about it, Stan pieced together what had actually taken place. Many of the things he had assumed, were not there. The lion, for instance, was a lioness and had not jumped, but had run along behind and then beside the woman, and brought her down by clawing up at her legs.

The woman was a German children's nurse, employed to look after a child of seven. She had been wearing white—a suit for a European summer, not a regular nurse's uniform—which had made her look so hideously bloodstained after the attack that Carpenter and the other guide were sure she was dead when she hit the ground. But she hung on, moaning and whimpering, to die later in the hospital from shock and loss of blood.

The child, so the survivors said, had been an extremely spoiled and obstreperous little boy. He had declared loudly that if they didn't stop the car, he was going to have to pee on his fellow passengers. The driver had braked, the boy climbed out, and he had immediately skipped off across the grass while the grown-ups yelled at him to come back. The guide started to go out in pursuit, but the nurse brushed him aside. He assumed that the boy would come to her. Of course, she was the one person there whom the child was certain not to obey; he ran on ahead of her, laughing and taunting. All at once they were both far away out on the plain. The guide and driver got out with their rifles, ordering the others to stay put—which they hadn't done.

The boy raced into some bushes and out the opposite side, where he tripped over a lion, two lionesses and five
well-grown cubs all lazing in the shade. The nurse followed. She heard what was happening and, since she was higher off the ground than the child had been at his approach, saw part of it. She turned around, running for her life. By that time, most of the car's occupants were over to the right, being shouted at by their guide, and, as soon as he joined the group, Carpenter.

The Frenchwoman filmed everything she could. The Japanese likewise fixed himself in a contorted, knee-bent stance up against the roof in order to get a better angle and he kept his finger on the silver lever of his machine. The Dutchwoman clicked her tongue. She murmured doleful phrases in Dutch, but she didn't look away.

At last Carpenter came back, opened the door and got in. Both cameras were still filming. He spoke to the driver, who started up. They backed away down the track and turned.

At the hotel, Stan invited Carpenter to lunch. Not lunch, he answered, but a drink. They ordered beer in the bar and drank together as Carpenter told the story and added one or two others. He gave the impression that he thought Stan had acted commendably in managing to keep everyone from getting hysterical or leaving the car while the hunt was on. They said goodbye on friendly terms. Stan had the feeling that he had stood up to some kind of test.

The clerk at the reception desk signalled to him as he passed. He handed over a note, which said that Millie had telephoned and she wouldn't be back for lunch but would meet him in the late afternoon at the sporting goods store to collect their clothes and other equipment. He had forgotten all about her.

He had lunch by himself, went back to their room, sat
down in a chair and began to shake. He thought about his brother.

*

She came into the shop at about five-thirty. Stan had been there and gone away again. The man behind the counter called his assistant, who took her through into the room where she had had the fitting. She tried on the finished clothes, moved her arms and legs around and checked the seams. Everything was fine. She changed back and emerged into the main part of the store.

“All right?” the assistant asked.

“Yes, perfect. I'll take them with me. Did my husband pay?”

“He said he's coming back. Also he paid, yes.”

“Did he say how soon?”

The assistant beckoned. He ushered her to an enormous rattan chair with a back woven in such a way that it stood up like the hood of a cobra. She sat down on the plump cushion and accepted a cup of tea.

Stan found her chatting to two other customers and the three men who worked in the place. She was talking about a government scheme for preserving rare species of animals, but when she saw him she broke off, saying, “There's my husband.”