Jackal's Dance (3 page)

She started her early morning exercise program, something she did without fail every day. ‘I'll be glad to go home.'

Fletch watched her lithe body bend sideways at the waist. ‘Only four days to go.' He smiled sympathetically. Angela seemed out of place, too frail for fieldwork. She wilted in the heat, her fair skin burned easily and she seemed to need more liquid intake than everyone else.

‘Four days!' she groaned. ‘I'll never make it.'

She was doing knee bends. Fletch went back to the fire vaguely aroused. Angela had that effect on him.

Kalila Mabuka drank tea. Fletch prepared the milky brew and took it to her tent. A few days ago she'd accused him of favouritism, asking why she was always last. Fletch took favouritism to mean racism – Kalila made many pointed comments along those lines. He'd patiently explained that, as the only first-year student in their group, she was logically last in the pecking order. She had tartly countered with the fact that, next to the professor, she was the oldest of them and deserved more respect. At twenty-six, that meant two years older than Fletch. A Zulu, Kalila expected that due
consideration be given to her high-born status – her father was a chief – finding it difficult to accept long established university protocol which, up until recently, had been the express privilege of white South Africans. Her eyes reproached him but she took the mug without comment and slid back behind the flap of her tent, leaving Fletch standing there with a polite inquiry about how she had slept dying on his lips.

Back at the fire, Fletch squeezed every last drop of flavour from his soaking tea bag, dropped its spent carcass into the flames and sat in a camp chair to watch the new day dawn. No-one liked the wake-up shift but they all took turns, including Professor Kruger. Fletch didn't particularly enjoy rising in the dark but, once up and dressed, he savoured the cool air, the sounds, the smell of wood smoke and the time alone. Before the others joined him at the fire and the subdued babble of sleepy conversation cranked everyone awake, Fletch enjoyed these few private minutes as a soothing balm for his soul. Very much at ease in the company of others, he nonetheless had always – even as a small boy – needed moments of solitude to recharge his batteries, get in touch with himself. At home, in the Western Cape, on the family's Devon Valley vineyard near Stellenbosch, it had been easy to snatch time alone. At university, privacy was simply a matter of shutting his door and pretending he was somewhere else. But on trips like this, even in the middle of nowhere, there was always someone around.

Field study was an integral part of the curriculum. All the students in Professor Eben Kruger's Behavioural Studies of Carnivores in Their Natural Habitat course were expected to undertake at least one stint under canvas at some stage during whatever three- or four-year program they were studying. They were encouraged to do this later, rather than earlier, in their time at university because, as the professor liked to say, by then, with their degree within grasp, they were motivated more by their heads and less by their reproductive organs.

Fletch had impressed Eben to such an extent as a second-year student on last year's trip that he'd asked him to come back and assist this year. Needless to say, Fletch jumped at the opportunity. He was studying to become a research biologist and any chance to observe animals in the bush was eagerly grabbed. His special interest was lion, the subject of last year's study, but since jackals scavenged some of their food from fresh lion kills, this trip was providing him with another look at the king of beasts.

They'd been camped in Etosha for eleven days and Fletch had seen and recorded a number of lion, including one they'd tagged last year. Unexpectedly, he was also developing a respect for the beautifully decorated black-backed jackal. Fletch felt the animal was the elegant gentleman of the African bush. With its dark cape, peppered with silver above a beige underbelly, a bushy black tail, reddish head, flanks and legs, the black-backed
jackal was a distinguished-looking creature, and an extremely adept hunter, brave and fearless in the face of danger, intelligent and innovative and completely faithful to its chosen mate.

With the professor's encouragement, Fletch found his interest base broadening. There was no reason, he supposed, why his area of specialty knowledge shouldn't extend to all carnivores of the canine and feline variety, from lion to fox. Eben Kruger had agreed, delighted with Fletch's dedication and escalating enthusiasm.

Eben genuinely liked Fletch, something that was a bit of a rare occurrence for the academic. The boy was serious about his studies, an excellent example to others in the difficult conditions of fieldwork and a natural leader. The older Eben grew, the more he found himself relying on the assistance of whoever had been appointed second-in-charge. Not that there was much wrong with this lot. Fletch took his responsibilities seriously and was refreshingly interested in this year's study subject. Some students found the less impressive carnivores a bit of a let-down. Megan and Josie were good students and went about their work in a head-down, attention to detail fashion. And while Josie could be abrasive, Megan had a mother-hen quality about her that was always useful when a group of comparative strangers were thrown together for three weeks in basic and sometimes uncomfortable conditions.

Then there was the Greek boy, Troy. He could
be a pain in the arse and bone idle around camp, but his ambition to become a veterinarian was genuine enough and he was quite relaxed in the bush. Sometimes too much so. And every field study had to have an Angela – someone who loved the romantic idea of the wild but would prefer to admire it from the comfort of their own living room. Eben had intended to turn down Angela's application to join the group, advising her to put her name down for next year's trip in the hope that she might develop some maturity by then, but a colleague had implored him to include the girl, saying, ‘She's my niece. Her heart is set on going. She's been working hard and needs a break.'

Rather than object, Eben characteristically took the line of least defence and accepted her, though it did cross his mind that the annual study trip to Etosha would not be something he'd recommend to anyone looking for time off. It was patently obvious that her ambition to work as a game ranger was a pipedream. If ever a girl was unsuited to a harsh environment it was Angela. But, to give the student her due, apart from having the attention span of a gnat – a favourite expression of Eben's – a propensity for totally unsuitable apparel and a tendency to flirt, she'd got on with the job, even though it was clear from the first day that she'd rather be anywhere but here.

And the Zulu girl? Kalila was a nice enough young woman, academically gifted and certainly dedicated, but she kept herself aloof from the others. Her behaviour added an unnecessary element of
strain, something they all could do without. Eben had no problem with the fact she was black. As far as he could see, with the exception of Troy who took it upon himself to take the piss out of every member of the group, no-one gave her colour a second thought. Kalila was arrogant, yes, though that could be a cover-up for insecurity or resentment. Normally, an application from a first-year student would have been automatically rejected. But Kalila was a mature-age student and had proved she was more than ready to undertake fieldwork. The way she was shaping up, Eben thought he might ask her to assist with next year's group. He'd have asked already except for her confrontational attitude.

Eben sipped his coffee.
I'm getting too old for this
, he thought sourly. He'd had the same thought for the past ten years. He hunched forward suddenly as a familiar tightening swept into his chest, one hand snaking under the pillow for his respirator. Eben knew what was coming. His bronchial tubes were in spasm, and if he didn't act quickly, he'd be fighting for breath. Asthma had been with him all his life. Years ago, the doctors found that he was allergic to dander, the small particles of dry scales or fluff from the skin, hair or feathers of animals. Short of shutting himself away in a sterilised environment, he had no choice but to learn to live with it. Eben learned. But he never managed to stop resenting it. Attacks came on with no warning, leaving him embarrassed, frightened and weak. The worst were when they happened in the lecture hall, in front of students.

Like many academics who possess specialised knowledge, a degree of vanity was present in Eben's personality. In the area of animal behaviour, he believed himself superior to most. But it came out as professional arrogance. Eben was a master at putting down any theory that differed from his, no matter how well researched it may have been. He enjoyed the power over a student's fail or pass mark. Outstandingly successful at making a pause speak volumes, many an unfortunate student had been subjected to one of Eben's silences for asking a question that the professor deemed unsuitable, ill-informed or just downright stupid. In the lecture hall, Eben was king. He would pace up and down, a tall, thin man with a tendency to stoop, long grey hair untidily frizzed out from his head, grey eyes alight with authority, expanding on a theme when,
wham
, an attack would hit, reducing him in seconds to a weak, vulnerable object of scorn.

Invariably, after such an experience, Eben would excuse himself and leave the lecture, fleeing from all those youthful, healthy eyes which, he was sure, regarded him with either disgust, incomprehension or worse, pity. The bouts were short-lived but came with no warning. Without exception, his students would, at some stage, witness at least one.

His breathing had returned to normal. Eben rubbed a hand over his stubbled face, then reached shakily for the brandy bottle, slopping a generous
dop
into his coffee. ‘Just one,' he told himself. But the disapproving look on his ex-wife's face rose
before him and he defiantly added extra. Thus fortified, Eben prepared for another day of unbearable heat, flies and students by donning heavy denim jeans, thick socks, boots and a long-sleeved denim shirt. He didn't bother to brush his hair, just jammed a bush hat over it, smeared his unshaven face with a cheap and inefficient sunscreen cream before finally fishing his false teeth from their glass of Steradent to suck and jiggle them into position.

He ignored the small shaving mirror. Eben knew how he looked. He'd never been a handsome man and age had not been kind. Not that it bothered him. He hadn't been particularly worried about his appearance since Ilsa left, fifteen years ago. Hardly thought about her any more. Funny that. He could barely recall features but her constant air of disapproval remained crystal clear. She'd been the light of his life before they married – bright, funny, warm, loving and twenty-seven years younger – a student Eben had dared to love. An emotionally innocent man, Ilsa wasn't the first woman Eben had found attractive. But he was an intensely shy person and more than prepared to admire the girl from afar as he had always done in the past. Ilsa had other ideas. No-one was more surprised than Eben when she seemed to be aware of the crush he had on her. With patience and maturity far greater than one would have expected from one so young, she found ways to be alone with him. Slowly his confidence grew. Even so, the professor told himself that nothing could come from their friendship. Each progressive step in the
relationship was instigated by Ilsa until Eben found himself so infatuated with the eighteen-year-old that he couldn't think straight. Their subsequent defiant marriage caused tongues to wag right around the academic world of South Africa.

In his heart of hearts Eben knew that Ilsa had been emotionally unstable. Right from the start she'd shown signs of flightiness, nervousness and insecurity. She flaunted his almost dog-like devotion whenever they were in the company of others, even university staff from the Chancellor and Vice-Chancellor down. Eben was too besotted to see an almost hysterical need to be noticed in his young love. It was Ilsa who suggested marriage. He put up only token resistance, his vanity and arrogance demanding attention as much as she appeared to want to lavish it on him.

Eben sighed. No point in thinking about Ilsa. The marriage had lasted a short eighteen months before she ran away with a fellow student. Eben blamed the boy for tempting his wife. There was no possibility that his own behaviour might have been the cause. But a short temper brought on by asthma, coupled with his love of a regular
dop
had been significant reasons for Ilsa's defection. Eben, set in his ways and used to complete obedience from the young, had simply refused to listen when she complained about his breath and bad moods, thinking she'd learn to live with them. After all, she was his wife. What else could she do? Eben's rigid Afrikaans upbringing left him unqualified to deal with the new-age freedom of expression. Women
were owned and controlled by their husbands, simple as that.

Ilsa, who had gone into the marriage with very little thought other than being the wife of a university professor, and no resolution to make the union work, woke up one day to confront the truth. She was saddled with a cranky, ugly, brandy-drinking old man with smelly feet. Not short of admirers, Ilsa began an affair with a fellow student. Eben had no idea, although his wife's antics were common gossip on campus. A few months before Ilsa's twentieth birthday, Eben came home and found a breezy little note which ended with the words, ‘I know you will wish us both well'. About a year later he heard on the grapevine that she'd left the luckless student for an even younger boy, a singer in an unsuccessful rock band. By then Eben didn't care.

With Ilsa gone, Eben let himself go. He'd gained a little weight during their eighteen months together but quickly reverted to mainly liquid nutritional habits and lost it all. A hairy man, while married to Ilsa he'd had regular haircuts. In the interest of appearance, and with his wife's urging, he'd even laboriously plucked sprouting nostril and ear hair, a painful exercise but one he was happy to do for her. Not any more. All were allowed to grow again. Sports shirts and slacks encouraged by Ilsa found their way to the back of his wardrobe and, once again, Professor Eben Kruger's dress sense revolved around denim jeans and crumpled matching shirts. The old professor was back – a little more
fond of a
dop
, a little beaten up emotionally and a whole lot more cautious. It was as if Ilsa had been a speed bump in his dry academic life, an unavoidable obstacle approached too fast. He'd gone flying for a brief time, landed with a thump and was now firmly back to earth. And the more unattractive he looked the less chance there'd be that he'd ever again become involved with a woman. That was fine by him. Women were trouble.