Dark Heart

by Tony Park

  A kilometre from the gate Richard indicated left and turned into the car park of the Kruger Park Spar supermarket. He went in and grabbed a plastic basket and filled it with three cans of Coke Zero, two bottles of water, a Bar-One and a packet of rusks. He didn’t know if he’d be sleeping at Liesl’s parents’ place, or if he’d have to find a B & B somewhere. He might be breakfasting on the road the next morning for all he knew.

  As he queued at the checkout the people around him were all speaking Afrikaans. The language was common among the staff in the Kruger Park, but the younger staff, in particular the Africans, tended to favour English. Phalaborwa, however, was a mining and army town, and the language of the old regime still ruled here out of necessity because of the diverse mix of cultures employed in the town. The slim woman with blonde ringlets in front of him glanced back at him and smiled. Her singlet top showed off her brown shoulders and her denim mini gave him a nice view of her legs, which were flattered by the high-heeled sandals she wore. Ahead of her was an African woman with a plastic Pick’n’Pay shopping bag tied over her hairdo, to protect it from the rain outside, and a cute little daughter standing in a near-empty shopping trolley. The child stared at him. Richard poked his tongue out at the little girl and the white woman, who was glancing at him every now and then, smiled at the girl’s laughter. Steady, Richard told himself.

  Women had been neither his downfall nor his saviour in life. More a temporary refuge. He was, he knew, a bit of a joke among the few friends back in the UK who had stayed loyal to him, and those of even fewer number he’d allowed to get remotely close to him in Africa. The married men he knew thought he had a great life, but the women fell into three camps. There were the busybodies who tried to match him with every thirty- or forty-something single friend they had; the lecturers who told him it was time he grew up and settled down; and the sisters who winked and laughed at his antics and probably thought he was actually gay. He’d had sex with women from all three groups.

  The blonde woman paid and pushed her trolley slowly out to the car park. She was lingering by the tailgate of a battered old Toyota Condor as he came out with his bag. She caught his eye and smiled at him. Richard forced himself to keep on walking past her.

  10

  Henri Bousson handed a five-thousand kwacha note to the uniformed guard on the boom gate at the Livingstone Airport car park. The guard asked Henri a question and he replied with a phrase that provoked a deep laugh. From reading her Lonely Planet guidebook, Carmel thought the language might be Lozi in this part of Zambia.

  Henri closed the electric window and smiled across at her. ‘He asked me if you were my new wife.’

  Carmel raised her eyebrows. ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him you were a very important donor to my fledgling wildlife rehabilitation project and that you should be treated and addressed with the utmost respect and not be the subject of crude jokes.’

  Carmel laughed. ‘Yes, it sounded just like that.’

  ‘They’re good people here,’ he said. ‘They like a joke and I like Zambia. It’s rugged and run-down enough to feel like the real Africa, yet it’s relatively stable politically, and economically the country has undergone a mini boom in recent years.’

  Carmel nodded, pleased he’d stopped the innuendo before it escalated. He was a handsome man, but she did feel a little vulnerable alone in the vehicle with him. She’d imagined she would be picked up by one of his staff – a guide or a driver, perhaps collected with a group of other guests or donors. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but I’ve read that Zambia’s newfound prosperity is largely due to the decline across the river in Zimbabwe. Wasn’t Zambia’s agricultural sector kickstarted by white Zimbabwean farmers who fled, and the tourism industry’s really only “boomed”, as you put it, since Zimbabwe’s nosedived?’ She was a lawyer and a prosecutor. She argued for a living.

  ‘True on all counts, but I still like it. Perhaps it’s more to do with the heart and soul of the country than its balance sheet or record on human rights.’

  I’ve done it again, she thought. ‘I didn’t mean to offend.’

  He looked at her and grinned. ‘No offence taken. I like a good argument – to be challenged is to be alive.’

  They sat in silence for a minute or so. ‘It’s lovely and green here, and the view of the falls and the river coming in was great,’ Carmel said, trying to be more polite. Well-meaning friends had told her that when she met a new man it was like watching the Spanish Inquisition in action. She questioned their assertions, probed their backgrounds and tried to categorise and file them within the first few minutes. The observation by her friends had angered her at first and then, when she’d realised it was true, saddened her. But it was true and it was how she protected herself.

  ‘You’re not married?’ Henri asked her. ‘I just realised I never actually asked.’

  ‘No.’ While Carmel would quite like to have a man in her life, her real regret was not having children. She doted on her sister Sarah’s ten-year-old boy and seven-year-old girl, but it wasn’t really enough. She didn’t, however, want a child badly enough to go through the process of finding a sperm donor and raising one on her own.

  The questioning of prospective boyfriends was, she told herself, a means of saving time and avoiding a broken heart. But maybe she was subconsciously repelling the men she’d been set up with, or had chanced upon. Besides, it was easier to be alone than to open up and let someone get close to her and learn of her past problems – and she certainly wasn’t about to change her ways to accommodate a stranger in her life.

  ‘And you?’ she asked Henri.

  He shook his head. ‘No, never. I could say that I never found the right woman, but that would be a lie. I’ve met quite a few wonderful women and I probably should have married one of them, but to be honest my work always came first. I know that sounds terrible.’

  ‘No, not at all. I’m probably guilty of the same thing. It’s nice to hear someone be honest about it. You don’t say it like you regret it.’

  He glanced at her, making eye contact. ‘I don’t regret anything in my life. I have met women who say they could put up with my solitary ways, and my animals, and my constant travelling through Africa, but I doubt any of them could. Also, I wonder sometimes if there is room in my life for another person. Perhaps I am subconsciously turning them away. Sorry, I am talking too much.’

  Amazing, Carmel thought. It was as though he’d been eavesdropping on what she’d been thinking. It was time to change the subject. ‘So, how is the chimp refuge going?’

  Henri nodded. ‘It is good. As you no doubt know, chimps are not endemic to Zambia, but this country is something of a conduit between southern, east and central Africa. Chimps are smuggled through here, to Mozambique and South Africa from Tanzania and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Sometimes the police and customs officials intercept them, but in most cases they are bribed to turn a blind eye or they miss them. Mine is not the only chimp sanctuary – there is another better-known one in Zambia, and also one in South Africa, but sadly there are enough animals either seized or handed in by owners who have tired of them to fill half-a-dozen such places.’

  ‘It’s amazing an animal as big and noisy as a chimp could evade the notice of a customs inspector.’

  Henri took a hand from the steering wheel and waved it in the air. ‘This is Africa, Carmel. The smugglers sometimes hide the animals in their trucks or aircraft, but in other cases they are declared, but the name of the creature on the paperwork and the crate is changed to something legal. Wildlife traders will tell the authorities they are moving a vervet monkey or a marmoset – species that are not protected, and are legal to own as pets – and then pay the customs officials not to take a close look. I am telling you, quite seriously, that many border officials wouldn’t know the difference in any case.’

  ‘Incredible.’

  The car in front of Henri put on its hazard lights and slowed down. He did the same thing. C
armel saw a man in green overalls and a beret waving his hand up and down, motioning for the motorists to stop.

  ‘Army?’ Carmel asked.

  ‘Non. ZAWA – Zambian Wildlife Authority. This boom gate is the entrance to the Mosi-Oi-Tunya National Park. Sadly there is not much game left here – some elephant and giraffe and a few buck – but most of it has long since been poached. There are also a couple of rhino here under twenty-four-hour guard. They are replacements for others, which were shot by poachers not long after being reintroduced here.’

  Carmel had read about the park. Henri spoke to the national parks man in Lozi. The ranger looked into the cab and saluted her. She returned the gesture and he waved them through. ‘You seem to know everyone here.’

  ‘It is a small community and, like I said, I like it here, and the people. I was born in Africa, and that makes me an African. I drive this road every day – sometimes two or three times – and this man and his friends, they stop me every time. Some whites get infuriated with the meaningless bureaucracy and the pace of life on this continent, but I always say that if one does not like Africans then one should not live in Africa.’

  They drove on, lush green bush watered by the summer rains flanking the roadside. Henri slowed to a stop and looked to the right. Carmel peered around him but saw nothing. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Giraffe.’

  ‘Where? Oh, now I see it.’ It was amazing how such a tall creature could blend in so perfectly with its surroundings. She knew from her previous trips to Africa that it would take her a few days to get used to spotting animals in the bush. Her eyes and her brain were conditioned to the city. Her horizon was the multistorey office block opposite hers; the only predators she had to watch out for were badly driven taxis and tourists on foot stopping in the middle of the Mary Street Mall to consult their guidebooks.

  By the time Carmel had found her camera in her daypack the giraffe treated them to one more look of lofty disdain and moved deeper into the trees.

  ‘Damn it.’

  Henri smiled and started the engine again. ‘I will find you another one.’

  ‘Merci,’ she said. Henri was a big guy; heavyset without being fat, and muscled without being muscle-bound. Somehow she’d thought he would be slighter, gentler. When he reached over to adjust the air conditioning the left sleeve of his T-shirt rode up a little and she glimpsed old blue ink, though couldn’t make out the pattern of the tattoo. His hair was dark but flecked with grey. She wondered how old he was. Closer to fifty than forty, she guessed.

  They passed through a second boom gate at the exit to the small national park. Beyond the fence Carmel noted an immediate change in the vegetation. There was more open grassland, lines of straggly maize, and far fewer trees. Habitat destruction, she knew, was the biggest threat to so many species of mammals in Africa. But the reality was that people and animals had to live side by side.

  ‘It’s not all like this,’ Henri said, taking in the view with a sweep of his hand and reading her mind once again. Her married friends said this happened all the time – that one partner would start talking about something the other had been thinking. ‘There are still some properties where the natural vegetation remains. Like mine. And here we are.’

  The carved wooden sign hanging from a metal brace said Kubu. ‘It means hippo in the Lozi language,’ Henri said.

  Immediately they were surrounded by mature trees and thick riverine bush. The narrow dirt road meandered in loops that in some cases seemed to go back on itself. ‘I had a tree expert work with the engineer who built this road,’ Henri continued. ‘I wanted to cut down as few mature trees as possible. As a result, my “driveway”, as you would call it, cost me four times the price of a straight road, but I think it was worth it, yes?’

  ‘Oh yes, definitely!’ Carmel said. ‘These trees are beautiful.’

  The thickness of the vegetation made her first glimpse of the Zambezi from ground level even more exciting and grand. As the road gave way to a gravelled circular driveway, she could see the river beyond the house, sparkling enticingly at the edge of the view. She almost wanted to run to it. Once they pulled up, an African man in khaki safari shirt and shorts and rafter sandals strode up to the four-wheel drive and opened her door for her.

  ‘Carmel, this is Elvis. He’s my senior guide.’

  They exchanged greetings and shook hands as Carmel got down from the truck. Elvis opened the back of the vehicle and took out her bags.

  ‘He’ll take them to your room. Come through to the main house. You must be dying for a drink.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ she said.

  Henri led the way past a fountain and then down a flight of four grey stone stairs. The house was painted a pale blue, with a slate roof. At its centre was a pair of heavy, arched, ancient-looking doors. With their stained brass studs and sturdy crossbeams they looked like the ornate examples she’d seen in Zanzibar.

  Henri pushed them open. As Carmel came up behind him she had to raise her hand to her eyes. The Zambezi River filled most of her view, across an open-plan living room. She walked inside, mouth open.

  ‘You like?’ Henri asked.

  She turned to him. ‘My God, it’s so incredibly beautiful. I can’t believe you actually live here.’

  ‘Yes, my little piece of paradise.’

  Carmel looked back at the river, once again transfixed by the view.

  ‘I’ll show you around if you like.’

  She nodded. The building she was in, though it was the size of a three-bedroom home, was not so much Henri’s house as his entertainment area, he explained. There was one guest bedroom off to the side of the sprawling lounge area, a kitchen with walk-in pantries, a coldroom and a freezer, and a library. On the riverfront side of the building was a long line of concertina glass doors, instead of a solid wall. A long, low mahogany coffee table piled with guidebooks, novels, and travel and fashion magazines fronted an equally long upholstered chesterfield which would easily seat eight people. The walls were painted the same pale blue as the exterior, which gave the room an enhanced feeling of coolness under the high-vaulted ceiling and a trio of spinning fans.

  Henri led her out onto the narrow strip of lawn that separated the entertainment area from a fifteen-metre infinity pool. The inviting waters provided a seamless transition to the river beyond. On the other side of the river was Zimbabwe and the Zambezi National Park.

  ‘There are many more animals on the Zim side,’ Henri said, following her gaze. ‘Though I am afraid poaching continues to take its toll. Still, I am sure we will see some elephant at least on our cruise.’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’ Carmel followed him along a stone-flagged path to their right and greeted two maids on their way to the kitchen. Beyond a stand of bush and trees was a mini version of the blue house, as she already thought of it. Henri walked up a wooden staircase onto a wide verandah and slid open the glass door. When Carmel reached the top of the stairs she felt the chill blast of air conditioning from inside.

  ‘This is your suite.’ Inside was a king-size bed in a room that was almost as large as her one-bedroom flat back in Brisbane. Elvis had been there ahead of them and Carmel saw her daypack and bag had been placed on a carved wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The bathroom was proportionally grand, as was the spa bath. Through another door Henri showed her to an outdoor shower with a wall screening it from the main building but not from a view of the river.

  ‘This place is over the top.’ She meant it as a compliment, but she saw his face crease.

  ‘You think I am a millionaire or something?’

  Carmel didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘And you are asking yourself, perhaps, why did I donate money to such a man and his animal rehabilitation project, yes?’

  ‘No . . .’ But he was right. The thought had just been forming in her mind.

  ‘The truth is that this is an illusion, Carmel. Yes, I am fortunate to live in such a beautiful home, for now, but I will probabl
y have to sell it soon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The rehabilitation centre has drained my personal savings. My fortunes have been up and down over the years, but like many people I was hit hard by the financial crisis in 2009 and 2010. I lost a good deal of money on my investments. I set up the chimpanzee project when times were good and I had money to spare, but keeping it going has cost me dearly.’

  ‘So that’s why you went public, appealing for donations?’

  He looked out at the river, as if ashamed to meet her gaze. ‘Yes. I ran the centre for seven years without anyone knowing about it. I registered it as a charity two years ago so that I might raise enough money to feed my animals and provide them with veterinary care. I do not want anyone’s pity, but if people do donate money to my foundation I can assure them that every penny goes to the animals – none of it is taken by me for my own use. My books are available for anyone to peruse – the operation is totally transparent.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Now, if you want to change or freshen up, the boat will be leaving in an hour’s time. And tomorrow you can give me a lawyer’s opinion of my accounts.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful, but you don’t need to show me your books.’

  ‘Please, I want to.’

  Henri left and closed the door behind him. Carmel felt the jet lag drawing her towards the crisp cotton sheets and fluffy pillows, but she knew she should fight through it. Besides, she didn’t want to waste a moment in this place. She stripped and walked outside to the shower. It was a liberating feeling, standing naked in sight of a river in Africa. The summer sun was hot on her shoulders as she turned on the taps. She got under the spray before it heated up too much, revelling in the feel of the cool water sluicing the grime of the flight from her. When the hot came through she wet her hair and lathered it with shampoo. She turned and felt the sun on her breasts as she arched her back to rinse her hair.

  What harm was there, she reasoned, if Henri could afford to keep this magnificent place? Whether he knew it or not – and she suspected he did – she had already contacted the accountant whose link was on Henri’s website and checked out his financial records for herself. She’d satisfied herself he was legitimate before transferring five hundred Australian dollars to the foundation’s account. She would also make sure she received the itemised accounting of how the money had been spent.