"Yes," she said, feeling very disoriented and breathless as she realized that she was not immune, after all, to huge and charming phungus. It was all very disconcerting, she thought—at her age, too—and then she lifted her gaze to the sky and was struck breathless all over again. "Oh," she whispered.
It was like standing in the center of a planetarium, the sky a huge bowl turned upside down and fitted snugly to the horizon and then filled with thousands upon thousands of stars. This, surely, was infinity, she thought, gazing up in awe, and slowly became aware of the silence surrounding them, a silence like the beginning or the end of the world.
It was interrupted by a cough from the guard some distance behind them. Cyrus said dryly, "I think we're keeping him, he's been patient with us long enough."
Without speaking they turned and walked back to camp.
When Mrs. Pollifax entered her room again it was already very cold and she paused only long enough to slip a new cartridge of film into her camera and to hide the camera under her pillow for the night. Blowing out the candle beside her bed she inserted herself between the blankets, tucked the mosquito netting around her and was surprised to find her room still filled with light. She noticed now what had escaped her by daylight: the wall of the room over her door rose only to a height of eight feet. Between this and the inverted V of the rafters there was only mosquito netting, so that she could see the glow of the lantern in the passageway outside.
She lay gazing up at this light and thinking about her strange day, about her film being stolen and then about Cyrus Reed, who was proving very distracting indeed. She realized that she was going to have to discipline herself very severely; after all, for her this was no ordinary safari. She was here for a purpose, and if she was not attentive and very clever, then Aristotle would continue wandering around the world negotiating contracts to shoot more people and this would never do.
Never, she thought, and resolved to put Cyrus Reed completely out of her mind. She closed her eyes and then opened them when she heard voices and footsteps outside on the path. A moment later she recognized Amy Lovecraft's high-pitched laugh.
"I would have fallen, Mr. Kleiber, if you'd not rescued me like a knight in shining armor, you dear man. This path—"
Amy Lovecraft, thought Mrs. Pollifax, was definitely hunting something more than game.
"I do not understand," Mr. Kleiber said in his pedantic, humorless voice, "why one bulldozer could not be assigned to this hill. They have the bulldozers, I know. They use them on the roads, and with only one hour of work—"
"Are you in the construction business, Mr. Kleiber? You seem to know so much about machinery."
"Heavy machinery, yes. I sell worldwide. It's—"
Their voices blurred as they passed from the arcade into the compound; she heard one more brittle laugh pierce the stillness and then there was silence. Mrs. Pollifax had closed her eyes again when she heard fresh pebbles crunching underfoot outside the building. "Really beautiful," Lisa Reed was saying. "I love it, don't you?"
It was Tom Henry who replied. "Absolutely." A comfortable silence followed and then Tom said, "John Steeves is certainly very distinguished."
Lisa said carelessly, "Oh—distinguished, yes."
"As a matter of fact we've one of his paperbacks at the hospital. One Hundred Nights in a Yurt, I think. The chap who read it—"
"Tom."
"Mmmm?"
"Don't be a goose."
Tom Henry laughed. "Have a good sleep, my dear."
Mrs. Pollifax heard him walk away and Lisa open the door of the room opposite hers. A very interesting exchange of words, she thought, smiling, very interesting indeed, and wondered on whom she might eavesdrop next.
She was not kept waiting long: Mclntosh came next through the arcade, talking to Cyrus, and for a man of smiling silence Mclntosh had suddenly become very articulate. ". . . Monetary Fund, of course. You simply can't cure inflation unless nations stop going to the printing press. The world is being drowned in worthless paper . . . Irresponsible. Expedient, of course, but disastrous. No discipline without paper being backed by something."
"Gold?" inquired Cyrus.
"Probably, yes. We've not been on a gold standard since 1901. Governments sneer at it, of course, because it would force discipline on them. But mark my words, Reed, whole civilizations have become graveyards by corrupting their currency."
"You do considerable business between countries?"
"Oh yes, quite international, but of course multinational's the word these days. But I don't want to hold you up, we can continue this another time. Good night, Reed."
"Yes . . . Lions tomorrow. Good night."
The last to pass by her door were Julian and John Steeves, and they were walking much faster. ". . . oh, much better here," Julian was saying. "Too many young men of my country head for the cities, and this is bad. Lusaka is full of thieves and spies."
"Excellent sense," said Steeves. "I'm not very big on cities myself. I like your bush, it has a mystique . . ."
Mrs. Pollifax did not hear the rest because they had left the arcade and their voices faded. In any case she was growing warmer now, and with this came a voluptuous drowsiness: she closed her eyes and slept and dreamed of masks. In her dream she sat in a theater and one by one each member of the safari walked out on stage to form a single line facing her. It was only when they moved up to the footlights in unison that Mrs. Pollifax saw they were holding masks to their faces. At a given signal each mask was swept away, but underneath lay another mask, and then another and still another . . .
CHAPTER
8
When Mrs. Pollifax woke at half-past six the next morning it was bone-chillingly cold. The young waiter who brought coffee to her room on a tray said, "Good morning, madam," and it was so cold that wisps of vapor curled from his lips to match the steam rising from the coffeepot. Mrs. Pollifax put one foot out of bed, poured coffee into a cup and carried it under the blankets with her, wondering if she would ever be warm again.
"I thought Africa was t-t-tropical," she protested at breakfast, which was served down by the river in the morning mist.
"We're four thousand feet above sea level," Julian reminded her with a flash of white teeth. "You are ready for lion? Perhaps it will warm you to hear that Crispin took the Land Rover out at dawn and found lion tracks six miles north of camp."
"Oh how wonderful!" gasped Mrs. Pollifax.
Almost as exciting was the news that overnight two of the Land Rover roofs had been removed so that they could ride standing up and scan the savannah for game, like professionals. Mrs. Pollifax could scarcely wait.
But in spite of her excitement she had not forgotten her resolve of the night before, and between breakfast and departure time she retired to her room to make a list for the day and contemplate it. Find out, she wrote, who's traveled widely during the past eight months (France—Costa Rica). To this she added: Try Mclntosh again, could be opening up. Mr. Kleiber: if good at machinery ask about guns. John Steeves: what disguises preferred? She studied this memo and then lit a match and burned it.
They set out shortly afterward in the two Land Rovers, the sun higher now and promising warmth soon. For this excursion Mrs. Pollifax had arranged her clothing in layers so that as the day advanced she could remove first her bush jacket, and then her heavy sweater, and then the pale-blue cardigan until eventually—it was rather like peeling an artichoke, she thought—she would be resplendent in striped shirt and kerchief before the process reversed itself. She also carried her bright parasol and two rolls of film for her camera and wore her lapel pin.
As they left Kafwala camp behind and headed for the open savannah Mrs. Pollifax realized that, like Lisa, Africa was having its charismatic effect upon her: the road wound ahead of the Land Rover like textured brown ribbon, the high grass tawny on either side and the earth flat under the incredible arc of blue African sky. There were also the surreal notes: a candelabra tree, its limbs perfectly splay
ed, its blossoms a dull orange; a baobab tree smooth and silvery in the warm morning light, and when Mrs. Pollifax inquired of Julian what the cement posts along the road meant, Julian laughed. "Not cement —termite nests." Bringing the Land Rover to a halt he jumped out and kicked at the top one, exposing holes like a honeycomb.
It was Mrs. Pollifax who spotted the elephants first. "Oh look," she cried, and in both Land Rovers heads swiveled to the left. At some distance away from them a line of elephants was moving across the savannah, an entire family with three young ones among them. "Baby nsofu," said Chanda, pointing and grinning. "I count nine," volunteered Cyrus, standing beside her. Mrs. Pollifax stood up on the seat and took three pictures in rapid succession, and then somewhat reluctantly slid down in the seat and snapped a close-up shot of John Steeves as he watched the procession.
"Can we get out?" called Amy Lovecraft, who was all beige and white today, with a green kerchief around her hair.
"Better if we drive ahead down the road," said Julian. "They're heading for water, we'll see them closer farther along."
The two Land Rovers inched ahead for half a mile and stopped, after which everyone climbed out and stood in a group waiting, cameras ready.
"This light," said Mrs. Pollifax, gesturing widely toward the sky. "It so reminds me of the light in southern France. The same luminous quality. Has anyone been in France lately?"
No one appeared to pay her the slightest attention; John Steeves stared inscrutably into the distance; Mclntosh was busy with his light meter; Mr. Kleiber grunted noncommittally, while Amy Lovecraft simply ignored her. Only Cyrus turned and looked at her. "No," he said. "Have you?"
Having never visited France in her life, Mrs. Pollifax found herself figuratively pinned to a wall and was happy to be rescued by the elephants. "Here they come," she cried.
The elephants emerged from a copse of trees and lumbered toward them, trunks swinging. They crossed the road only twenty feet away from them without so much as a glance at their audience. The baby elephants brought a laugh from Lisa. "They're darling!"
Satisfied, they climbed into the Land Rovers and drove on. Gradually the topography began to fold in upon itself, nurturing seams and hollows and small hills. The Land Rover coasted down an incline to a dried-up brook bed surrounded by tangles of thorn bush and twisted roots. It stopped and Julian climbed out. "Here," he called, beckoning, and when they joined him it was to see the imprint of a lion paw in the dust.
The Land Rovers drove ahead in low gear, no one speaking now. Cautiously they rounded a wide curve, slowed as they approached a grassless area beside the road, and—Mrs. Pollifax caught her breath in awe— there lay two lions stretched out sleeping in the sun. The Land Rover coasted to a stop only eight feet away from the lions; beside Mrs. Pollifax the guard leaned forward and swung his rifle into horizontal position, his eyes watchful.
"A lioness and a male," whispered Julian.
As the second Land Rover drew up behind them the lioness lifted her magnificent head, yawned and rose to her feet. She stretched, looked them over without interest and sniffed the air. The male stirred and rose to his feet too, massive, nearly nine feet in length, and Mrs. Pollifax held her breath as he stared unblinkingly at them. Remembering her camera just in time, she snapped a picture only a second before the two beautiful tawny creatures slipped away into the grass and vanished.
"Lion," breathed Mrs. Pollifax, and felt that her cup was full to the brim.
At noon they came to Lufupa camp, which was small —for weekend people only, Julian said—and not yet open for the season. The camp occupied a point of land where the Kafue River curved and broadened, smooth as a millpond in the noon sun. They were to lunch here, Julian said, pointing to a picnic table under the acacia trees.
Mrs. Pollifax had now removed three of her layers of clothing and was happy to sit in the shade. It was a tranquil scene: not far away two men were painting chairs a bright blue in the grass, and mattresses were being aired in the sun. Up on the roof of the largest hut an old man was spreading out fresh thatch and tying it down with wire, like shingles. Finding herself next to Mr. Kleiber at the picnic table, she turned to him with a warm smile. "Do you know much about guns, Mr. Kleiber? I'm wondering if you can tell me what sort of rifle our guard carries."
The man serving them their lunch chose this moment to place in front of Mr. Kleiber a plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy and fresh tomatoes. Mclntosh, seated across the table, answered instead. "A 3006, I'd say."
"Oh—you know guns," she said brightly.
"Or possibly a 3004," Kleiber said with his mouth full.
"A 3004," Crispin told them from the end of the table.
Very inconclusive, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and decided there was something far too relaxing about all this fresh air and that an evening campfire might be the better place for tactful interrogations.
After lunch they strolled upriver a short distance, with guards at their front and rear, and watched hippos bathing in the shallows. This especially pleased Cyrus because there had been no ox-peckers on the backs of the hippos they'd seen at Chunga camp.
"Ox-peckers?" echoed Mrs. Pollifax.
"Tick-birds," he explained, and pointed. "Find them on rhinos' backs too. Feed on their ticks and conveniently warn them of danger." His glance moved to John Steeves, who was helping Lisa remove her sweater, and he frowned. "Chap really seems to be zeroing in on Lisa. Very confidently too."
Mrs. Pollifax smiled. "If there's one thing John Steeves has, I'm sure it's confidence."
"Seems a decent enough chap," said Reed. "Just difficult to picture as a son-in-law. I mean—yurts?"
"Oh, I don't think you need worry about that."
"No?" said Reed, looking surprised. "Together all the time."
"There are," said Mrs. Pollifax, "undercurrents."
"I'm overlooking something?"
"You've been watching Steeves and not your daughter. He's with her, but she's not with him, if you follow me. It's a matter of the eyes. Glances."
"You astonish me," said Cyrus, and turning to her he added accusingly, "Matter of fact, you've astonished me ever since we met."
Mrs. Pollifax found herself blushing—really it was very tiresome, she'd not blushed in years—and fielded this statement by turning to Mr. Kleiber, who was looking distinctly bored by the hippos. "Still no crocodiles, Mr. Kleiber?"
He looked startled. "Not yet, no. Dear me, I hope soon, though. What a hot sun, I think I've had enough of walking."
She thought that Mr. Kleiber had begun thawing out a little today; the pinched look was no longer so pronounced, and occasionally he smiled at something said by the group. He appeared to like Mclntosh, whose reticence matched his own, and when something unusual occurred he would look first to Mclntosh, rock a little on his heels while he waited to catch his eye, and then deliver himself of a pithy comment in his dry, sarcastic voice. He had begun to tolerate Amy Lovecraft too, no longer looking frost-bitten when she took his arm and asked if he minded her walking with him.
"Crocodiles you will see at Moshe tomorrow," said Julian, overhearing him. "The camp is very open, right on the river, and the crocodiles sun themselves on the banks."
They turned to go back and Mrs. Pollifax fell into step beside Cyrus. Never having walked behind Mr. Kleiber before, she was amused now to see what an odd walk he had: a strut, she thought, with a stutter. He walked with his shoulders rigid, back straight and head high, but his right foot toed in slightly and threw the rhythm just a shade off balance, like one instrument in a band playing a beat behind the others.
"Looks like company up ahead," said Cyrus.
A shiny beige Land Rover was parked next to the safari jeeps, and three men, all black, were talking to the workmen. As they drew nearer, one of them climbed back into the car and the other two could be seen shaking hands and saying goodbye. The man in the car leaned forward and gestured to them to hurry.
Reed said abruptly, "Chap on the left in the
green shirt is the man who was asking for you at the hotel. In Lusaka, when I was checking out."
Startled, Mrs. Pollifax said, "Are you sure?"
"Never forget a face. Shall I give him a shout?"
"Oh yes, do," she said, hurrying.
Reed began to shout, and Mrs. Pollifax waved frantically, but the two men gave them only a quick glance and then jumped into the Land Rover and the car sped away. A moment later it had vanished among the trees.
"Had his chance," said Cyrus. "Muffed it."
"But they must have heard you," protested Mrs. Pollifax, "and if they were deaf they would have seen me waving, because they turned and looked."
Approaching the Lufupa workers Cyrus said, "From the city, were they?"
"Oh yes, sir," the elder said, beaming. "They did not know the camp is closed. Three gentlemen from Lusaka."
"Didn't they wonder what we're doing here?" "Oh yes, missis. I told them you are all from Kafwala camp, on organized safari."
Odd, thought Mrs. Pollifax, frowning, very odd, and could not quite shrug off the sensation that if Cyrus was accurate, then forces were in motion that she did not understand. Turning to him she said stubbornly, "I don't —I really don't—see how on earth you can be so certain it was the same man."
"Could be wrong," he said fairly. She looked at him quickly. "Are you often wrong?" "No. Study too many faces in court. Habit of mine." She nodded. Nevertheless he'd admitted that he could be wrong and she clung to this, because otherwise she was left with the uneasy mystery of a man who wanted to see her in Lusaka and then, catching up with her, jumped into a car to avoid being seen.
Some hours later Mrs. Pollifax, happily showering back at camp, was tempted to break into song again. Life in the bush, she thought, certainly stripped one of inconsequentials: she had been hot and dusty for hours and now the cold water splashing over her heated skin brought a delightful tingly sensation. She had been out-of-doors since dawn, and soon there would be a feast around the campfire for which she already had a ravenous appetite. She wondered when she had felt so free . . . perhaps never . . . and running through her mind like a melody were little vignettes of the road at midday: the hot sun, dust, the orange trunk of a thorn tree as well as another tree they'd seen bearing long torpedo-shaped gray fruit that Julian had called a sausage tree. She had also learned to say thank you in Nyanga—zikomo kuambeia—and at Lufupa . . .
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