Читать книгу Chasing The Leopard Finding the Lion - Julie Wakeman-Linn - Страница 12
ОглавлениеOn the curve to Bumi Hills’ main entrance, Brett swerved to miss the lodge’s cat, sleeping sprawled on the driveway. Isaac yelped as the Jeep swayed. “Buddy, Dad’s right. Somebody should see your shoulder.”
Unlike their usual return from the farm to the lodge, always filled with his ranting about his dad or Isaac’s moaning about the lodge’s cooking in comparison to home, they’d hardly talked at all. When they passed the turnoff to Hwange village, Brett had argued for pulling into the clinic, but Isaac said no because the doctors would likely report him to the cops.
“Drop me off here, so I can skip the boss until the swelling goes down more.” Isaac popped the door. “I’ll grab some aspirin. Let’s ask Mrs. Hilda if Astrida is visiting tonight.”
“Good plan. She’ll check you over and not breathe a word to anybody.”
“Astrida will know if the rumors I heard about Bulawayo are true.” Isaac cut through the bushes toward the employee bungalows.
Brett parked near the kitchen door. If he hurried, he could catch Mrs. Hilda now before anybody was looking for him. He didn’t want another dressing down from David for being late. Catching a whiff of Cook’s cigar through the back window, Brett called, “Where’s Mrs. Hilda?”
“Upstairs hallway,” Cook said.
“Ndatenda.” Brett left the kitchen, skirting the quiet lobby and the office hallway. The tourists were finishing up their relaxing or napping in the heat of the day. He, Cook, and Isaac got to be peaceful for a couple of hours. Only Mrs. Hilda worked between 12 and 4. Today she sang as she pushed her housekeeping cart down the guest room wing.
“Mhoroi, Mrs. Hilda. How’s your work today?” Brett asked. Her high dark forehead had no wrinkles even though she was older than his folks. It was pleasant to take a little time, to share news, and it showed her proper respect. Brett didn’t like how Jeremy, increasingly like his father, never took time to talk with her or with Cook or the maids. It wasn’t right.
“Not many rooms. After the loo in the lobby, I’ll finish up early again.” Mrs. Hilda tilted her turbaned head, smiling. “My youngest grandson visits tonight. It is his first birthday.”
“Astrida’s boy? One already?” Mrs. Hilda’s daughter had dated Isaac a few years back, but Isaac broke it off, not wanting to get settled. She’d married that guy from Bulawayo and had a baby already. He and Isaac were still free to have fun. “Can we stop over tonight? I’ll bring the baby a doo-dad and you, a couple of fine beers.”
“That would be nice.” She wagged a finger and chuckled, “For the baby. Beers for me, indeed. Now shoo, let me finish my work.”
“Chisarai,” Brett grinned. She smiled again, murmuring ’good bye’ as she waved him off. Brett hummed her tune as he trotted down the main staircase into the lobby which was cool and dark, the curtains pulled against the sun, the glassy eyes of the trophy heads keeping a silent watch. David stood, his elbow propped on the registration desk, a ledger open. “Brett, dammit. Did you take my Jeep off property?”
“The alignment--remember. Isaac needed to hear highway road vibration. We’ll gravel test it tonight after dinner.” That covered his reason for the trip to Mrs. Hilda’s later. “What schedule have I got for this afternoon? The Australians?”
“No, Miss Elise persuaded the Nelsons to request you.” David banged the ledger shut. “Nothing is going on, right?”
“Of course not. I know the rules. Just keeping her happy.” Since old man Johnson, who’d been the king of tourist flings, retired last year, David enforced a non-fraternization policy. As if they weren’t smart enough to use protection against the wasting disease. Probably David didn’t want Jeremy to get any ideas from them.
“Take the boat and look for those lionesses you saw. Hurry up--they’re waiting.”
Brett ran down the steps to the boat dock where Elise and the Nelsons, an American family of three, waited by the five meter motorboat. The little boy Tommy peeked around his mother’s long swingy skirt.
“Will you find us a leopard?” Elise winked.
“No guarantees, but I know where there are two hungry lionesses.” Brett helped Elise into the front and when he turned, the kid was watching him.
“Can you show me lions?” Tommy asked seriously, no wiggling.
“We’re hunting for two swimming lionesses,” Brett said. The kid nodded like a fifty-year-old. He then climbed into the back seat with his mom and dad without whinging at all. Brett untied the boat and hopped next to Elise.
A short boat ride put them ten meters off the island. Brett circled for an hour and a half and they saw kudu, impala, but no lionesses. The Nelsons and Elise chatted about Zambia, where Mr. Nelson was a Lutheran missionary. Brett tried the southern and then eastern inlets with no luck. He couldn’t tie up the boat and let them debark and hike which was their usual system on the island, not with two lionesses somewhere around.
The sun hung low on the horizon. Brett drove the boat past the northern tip of the island, the farthest point from the lodge. He’d circled the whole damn island and was about to give up when there they were, sleeping on the black soil of the bank, two tawny lionesses.
Tommy made a purring noise. From the second seat, Mr. Nelson chuckled about Bootsie back home. “Will the lionesses wake up, Mr. Brett?” Tommy asked.
“I hope so,” Brett said. “They should be rested up from their swim.”
Behind the lionesses on the short bluff, a group of fifteen impala grazed, ignoring the cats and the boat. The herd was a good sized group to shoot. They were such small antelope, he could get crowd scenes or zoom in on individual behavior, while keeping the lionesses in the foreground. He slipped his camera out of his bag, nestling it by his ankle.
“We’ll watch for a while and see. See those deer on the grassy bank? They’re impala and lions like to eat them.”
“Oh!” said the little boy.
Mrs. Nelson asked a reasonable question about impala horn size. Answering her with a comparison to puku and waterbuck, Brett dropped an anchor and handed around sodas and beers. The Nelsons were more like the tourists the lodge used to get, not pushy, not drinking like fish, but they were missionaries, not international types or diplomats. Every missionary he knew was on a tight budget. David must have cut the price of the safari for folks from the region.
“The sun is orange this afternoon.” Elise reached for her beer, her fingers sliding down his bare forearm. His skin tingled up to his neck.
“It’s always this intense shade an hour from setting.” Brett wrapped his hand around hers while he popped open her beer. “It’ll drop fast in the last quarter hour.”
Mr. Nelson gazed at the sun. “Yes, much brighter than Maine’s yellow sun.” Then he and the Mrs. started to talk quietly, prompting the kid to look at the half submerged trees, the reflections on the water. Tommy didn’t seem bored. Instead, he shot back lots of questions. Brett liked this kid.
The lionesses napped. Their tails occasionally flicked at a fly.
“May we see your video of the lionesses swimming?” Mrs. Nelson asked. “Elise mentioned you are a photographer.”
Brett dug out his camera and set the playback. Elise offered to hold the camera so the Nelsons could see more easily.
“Nice filmwork.” Mr. Nelson said. “Wildlife conservation is something Zimbabwe does so much better than Zambia.”
“Zambia has the advantage in politics,” Mrs. Nelson interjected. “Our parliament still meets, even if they don’t agree on anything. South Africa has the best of both, of course, a functioning parliament and excellent wildlife conservation. Too bad Mugabe won’t listen to Mandela.”
“Parliament’s just on a recess session, that’s all. The opposition is very active here. The next election will be different, I’m sure.” South Africa meddling in Zimbabwe--that couldn’t be a solution. Brett hated when politics interfered with game viewing.
“I hope you’re right. Our last election at least had two real candidates, not Mugabe yes or no.” Mrs. Nelson sounded huffy.
“Now, Leah, we shouldn’t judge. We don’t know what is happening in Harare, but it doesn’t sound good. Not much news gets out, even on the BBC.” Mr. Nelson tapped his chin. “I do wonder if Mugabe will start restricting everybody’s movements around the country and not just the journalists.”
“I hear they all have to be licensed. Photographers, too. It doesn’t seem right.” Mrs. Nelson said. “At least not to me.”
“No, that can’t be right. It couldn’t happen,” Brett sputtered. Licenses for photography? Not to be able go to the Matusadona Hills in the hot months? Not be able to go home on a whim? His dad and Noah once hinted the Rhodesians had restricted travel during the Chirumenga.
“You should come to Zambia and film there, Brett, if they restrict photographers here.” Elise cradled the camera. “I’ve met a wildlife researcher in Lusaka.”
Tricky ground--he was stuck between political nightmare scenarios and this mention of a guy who would likely be her boyfriend. Time to guide the conversation to less dangerous ground. Keep everybody happy. “What kind of animal is this guy researching?”
“She. She’s tracking hyenas in Luangwa. Dr. Sally Pierce.”
“I’ve heard of her,” Mr. Nelson said. “We’ve driven to a couple of tourist caravan camps there. Your lodge with its lovely dining room is fancier than we are used to.”
“Another soda or beer, anyone?” Brett had been sure the wildlife expert was her boyfriend.
“Through this lens, this is your world, isn’t it?” Elise asked, offering him the camera in exchange for a beer.
“Look,” the little boy said, right into their ears.
One lioness rolled onto her belly, swiveling her gaze from the boat to the herd. Her eyes were wide open now. The impala jerked their heads up, almost as one. One male bucked and leaped six feet straight up. Like an uncoiled spring, the whole herd bounded over the bluff on their lithe slender legs, their little black boot markings like ribbons fluttering in a breeze. The Nelson boy cheered, but then asked, “Now what will the lions eat for dinner?”
The second lioness stood and padded down to the water’s edge. Every motion of her muscles was fluid and powerful as she crouched to drink. The boat had drifted much closer to shore; Brett focused and manually squeezed the shutter. Through his viewfinder, the lioness’s yellow eyes stared.
“Magnificent,” Mrs. Nelson murmured.
Mr. Nelson shifted, tucking the little boy between them. “Will she swim out again?”
“Lions pounce at their prey, but she won’t because she can’t see us separate from the boat,” Brett said. “She smells the oil and gas, not us.”
Elise seemed hypnotized by the lioness. “Her eyes are pure carnivore.”
The sunset cast sharp shadows of the cat across the soil to the grasses. Given the angle of the boat’s drift, the Nelsons, in the second seat, were stuck behind him. Tommy’s head hung over Elise’s shoulder. She reached for Tommy’s hands and helped him step forward into her lap and she slid her hip close to Brett. She whispered, “Now your mummy and daddy will have a better view and you will have a terrific view.”
Brett felt Elise’s thigh pressing his. Her perfume, that green juniper scent, mixed with a nice touch of sweat. Tucked in her arms, the little boy sat motionless while the lioness padded along the beach, her sister following. The Nelsons oohed, stretched around them, saying this was the best game viewing they’d ever had. The lioness shadows lengthened and darkened as the two padded down the lakefront.
“I’m sorry to break this off, but driving across the lake in the dark is risky.” Brett scanned their faces, expecting the little boy to whine.
The little boy smiled wide, dimples popping up in his skinny face. “This has been an adventure!”
Brett grinned at the kid. The sun had sunk more than half below the horizon. As Brett raced back to the lodge’s dock, he mulled over the kid’s reaction--once the politics was dropped, it had been great. Few game drives ever ended so perfect--except they’d be late for the dinner hour which would make David furious.
They crossed the lake, their speed rippling the shining orange surface. David waited on the dock.
“Are you folks all right?” David asked. He frowned at Brett as he caught the tie rope and lashed the boat to its mooring. “It’s getting mighty dark.”
“It’s only the start of sunset, David.” Brett steadied the gunwale and offered a hand to Mrs. Nelson.
“Hello, Mr. Colton.” Mrs. Nelson landed lightly on the dock. “We had the most wonderful ride. The lionesses were fascinating.”
David cut in front, offering a hand to Elise, which left Brett to get the kid. “What happened? Did Brett run the boat aground?”
“He handled the boat like a Maine fisherman,” Mr. Nelson said as he stepped out. “You have a terrific guide in Brett, Mr. Colton.”
Brett smiled at Tommy as he set him down--nice to hear praise for a change, but David wasn’t listening to the Nelsons.
“This way, folks. You’ll have to hurry to change for dinner,” David said, tucking Elise’s hand through his elbow. “Let me escort you. The stairs get dark at twilight.”
Brett stared after him. David didn’t even offer to help secure the boat. Where was Isaac? Now he had to wrestle the cover on the boat. The Nelsons’ comments saved him from another reprimand, but David got Elise. Damn.
* * *
The village of Hwange was only three kilometers from the lodge. Again they drove in silence. Brett felt too grouchy to talk and Isaac was probably too achy. No point telling Isaac about Elise’s request. At the end of dinner over guava sorbet, she’d asked him to have a drink with her and show her constellations. Damn. Here he was delivering Isaac instead. Brett parked in front of Mrs. Hilda’s. A tethered goat nibbled her scratchy brush grass short. Mrs. Hilda swept the front steps with a dried twig broom.
“Manheru, shamwari,” The Shona tones soft in her welcome.
“Good evening and best wishes to you, Mrs. Hilda,” Isaac continued in Shona as he climbed the stairs first and shook her hand in both of his.
The warmth of old fashioned words and ways, like the heat of the day exuding from the stucco wall, was comforting. Mrs. Hilda touched Isaac’s shoulder in traditional greeting. Isaac flinched and murmured, “So sorry.” She took his chin in her hand and tsk-ed at the puffy eye.
Brett, bowing, offered her a packet of tea and the two beers. The goofy stuffed elephant he’d found in the Lost and Found bin wedged under his arm. She laughed with open hands to accept the gifts.
“Welcome, Mr. Brett. Thank you for your kindnesses. Come in and let me brew some of this tea.” She invited them inside and called into the bedroom. “Astrida, bring my grandson.”
Under the single bulb hanging overhead in her front parlor, the orange cushions on the woven bamboo chairs gleamed against the white-washed walls. Astrida’s framed Nursing School certificate was centered over the dining table. Pots of herbs and seedlings crowded the front window.
“Titambire, Mr Isaac, Mr. Brett.” Astrida walked in with her baby boy on her hip.
“Mai -Trida!” Brett laughed at his schoolmate, adding the title of respect for a mother. He bowed to his waist, one arm across his front and the other tucked behind his back. Hell, he could tease her; she’d never dated him. The baby giggled and squirmed. Astrida set him down and he waddled toward Isaac, his baby arms reaching to be picked up.
Brett wondered how Isaac felt as he started to lift this child, which could have easily been his own. Isaac started, but then shuddered and plopped the boy down. The baby howled. Brett danced the stuffed toy half in his screaming face. “What’s the little guy’s name?”
“Seth.” Astrida hovered near the wobbling baby. She turned to Isaac. “What is wrong with your eye?”
“Seth--Sethie,” Brett singsonged. The baby tottered toward him and the ellie toy. Brett scooped Seth up and tickled his belly. “Astrida, could you take a look at Isaac’s shoulder. For old times’ sake.”
“Off with the shirt,” she ordered. She’d always been bossy to both of them, even though she was between them in age.
Isaac began to unbutton his shirt. He closed his eyes as if the effort was too much. Astrida brushed his hands away and slid the shirt off his shoulders. His mouth was shut tight, but he didn’t make a sound as her fingers tapped across the shoulders, down his ribs, and over his collarbone.
“It’s broken.” She laid her palm high on Isaac’s chest, the touch of an old lover. The baby, chewing on the toy, gurgled and mewed, catching her attention. “Seth needs to go to bed now.”
“Not to worry, I got this guy.” Brett rocked Seth. “Can you do anything?” Seth cooed, his drool sticking to Brett’s shirt. Great-- if he ever got near Elise, he’d smell like baby slobber. The little guy, warm against him, winked his eyes shut, open, shut.
“How did you get hurt? I don’t know how to fix it if I don’t know what caused it.” Astrida crossed her arms over her belly. Brett thought her hips were a lot bigger than before she was married.
“A couple of blows from a rifle butt. Harare cops. The Presidential Guard.”
Astrida’s arms still folded, she tapped her foot. “I thought for certain it was some stupid foolishness. More trouble, more fighting. The last thing we need.”
“What’s this all about? Isaac was doing what he thought was right.” Mrs Hilda reappeared with a tea tray and two beers opened and set it on her wood table. “You left some of your student medical supplies here. Would any of them help?”
“There is a roll of the white antiseptic tape,” Astrida answered. “That will stabilize it. A break in the collarbone needs to be set but it mends by itself. Drink this beer straight down. That will numb you a bit. Men should be home tending their families and not marching with fools in the streets.”
The baby started to fuss, probably reacting to the sound of his mother’s angry tone. Brett hush-hushed and started an English lullaby his mother used to sing. He drifted into the kitchen, the baby gurgling again. Around his singing about waiting at the train station, he could hear Isaac asking about Bulawayo. The ripping of medical tape covered part of Astrida’s answer, but she was positive her husband’s job at the mill was secure and that the mill would never be bothered. The commercial farmers who supplied grain to the mill were concerned, but it was nothing, she said. Her mother interrupted, insisting the government veterans had visited once or twice. Mrs. Hilda continued that some veterans were camping at a farm nearer Harare and the Presidential Guard had been seen on the Route 17. Isaac said mari –something, a word Brett didn’t recognize. Something about a traitor or a thief.
The baby’s breathing fluttered his lips; he was sound asleep. Brett strolled out of the kitchen. The three of them looked at him; conversation stopped. Mrs. Hilda tipped her head, no smile; she peeled the baby out of Brett’s arms and carried little Seth off to his bed. Brett stood by Isaac and tried to figure out what they were arguing about. Was it the sleeping baby or didn’t they want him to hear? Astrida just packed up her supplies. Isaac flexed his arms, testing the collarbone.
“Ready, then?” Brett felt odd, outside a conversation of Isaac’s.
“I’m better. It’s good to see you, Mai Astrida. I wish you and your family well.” Isaac shook her hand in both of his. “Thank you.”
“Be careful. Try not to do anything stupid.” She touched his shoulder.
“You know I’ll take care of all the stupid stunts. Good night, Trida. You have a lovely son.” Brett opened the front door and walked to the Jeep. “How’s the shoulder feel?” Brett asked as they drove away.
“Better, I guess.” Isaac clicked on the radio and searched for his Harare jazz station, shutting off any conversation about the baby or politics.
