by Andrew Sharp
Whilst grinding the finest Arabica coffee beans, I allowed myself a prospect of superlative happiness. I imagined Miss Camlyn finishing her safari picnic, dabbing her expensive lips, and saying, ‘Excuse me Mr Mlantushi, may I have a private word with you?’
‘It’s my pleasure. Of course you may,’ I would reply.
‘May I compliment you profusely on your culinary skills? Mouth-watering! Little did I know I’d have to travel all the way to the African bush to be served the finest dishes I’ve ever tasted.’
‘Thank you kindly. It’s nothing.’ I nodded my head in tactful acceptance of her praise. ‘I never compromise my gastronomic standards.’
‘I should also mention that many foods cause my fiancée Mr Summerberg to swell up like a hippo and his tongue to peel like a banana. But since dining on your splendid fare … well … he’s as healthy and content as a baby after its mother’s milk.’
I bowed with all humility. ‘The ingredients are grown in mother nature’s earth, madam.’
‘What I’m coming to is this,’ said Miss Camlyn, her excitement as irrepressible as the golden bubbles in a Perrier-Jouet champagne. ‘I need to appoint a head chef in the new restaurant I’m opening in New York. You’re ideal. Or would you prefer Paris or Singapore? We shall, of course, fly in any fresh produce you require from this organic country so you can create your signature dishes in our kitchen.’
I saw myself rubbing my chin to indicate a balanced consideration of her benevolent offer, but my heart leapt like an impala.
‘I’d like to mention —just in case it’s important to you— that the kitchen has the highest security against intruders and pets. It’s crafted from one seamless cube of easy-clean stainless steel. We have a launderer whose sole responsibility is to wash and iron the aprons.’
‘Mozzy! Mozzy!’ I became aware that Mr Bin was shouting for me. ‘The bakkie won’t start. Come and push, will you?’
For a short while I remained in my kitchen in New York, wearing the finest, whitest, chef’s toque and apron and arranging walnuts and dried cherries on a frisée and apple salad. With effortful resolve I landed myself back in the camp-kitchen in the remotest bush. I had duty to fulfil to the best of my abilities. Yes, I had certain principles, certain doctrines and disciplines. Duty was indeed one such principle. Until Miss Camlyn appointed me, I would endeavour to remain diligent in Mr Bin’s employ.
‘Mozzy! Are you deaf? You’ll make me late.’
In truth, such shouting and blaming caused me to question my principle of duty, inclined me to believe that my only obligation, my only loyalty, should be to the path of career advancement. Far away from Mr Bin and his primitive environs.
But I had to help him to bring that future to me. I took off my so-white apron and called out, ‘I’m arriving now, Mr Bin.’
Chapter 2
It was only five minutes after Mr Bin’s departure that I heard a vehicle roll up outside. I feared that Mr Bin had double-booked. It had happened before. Unexpected guests expecting fine cuisine after their fowl spotting, requiring me to up-scale my dishes in record time. But the man standing at the foot of the veranda was no list ticker strapped with optical devices. His black hair glittered and he was tailored in a pastel-blue sports jacket, ivory chinos and stitched leather shoes. His chest hair was barbered in a horizontal line above the open neck of his shirt. No, he would not be inclined to snare his trousers, or bore himself, seeking featheries out in the bush. He was well sculpted. His pastimes were surely the gym, shooting, skiing —snow and water.
‘Greetings, good sir. Can I assist you?’
‘You the domestic help around here?’ An American. A low, unhurried voice.
‘No, I’m—’
‘Whose property’s this? Who lives here?’
‘I’m … might I enquire … your name? Your business?’
‘All super confidential, little guy.’
Confidential was no business of mine but I did not appreciate his tone, his poor manners, his lack of regard for the head chef. Whatever his tailoring. I stalled.
‘Hey! I’ve asked you a question. Who lives here?’
This could not be called a ‘courtesy’ call, no. And I did not appreciate his planting himself outside the house with his big black four by four, interrupting my preparations. Mr Bin’s place, however dilapidated, was invitation only. Exclusively for our guests.
‘An ape … a cat.’
‘Don’t try funny with me.’ He pushed his thumbs into his belt, settling his arms to wait for however long to have his answer. But he had reminded me: I must not allow offence to compromise good etiquette.
‘Only Mr Bin.’
‘Mr Bin, huh?’ He laughed short. ‘Mr Bin. That makes sense.’
‘It does?’
‘Where is he then? Is he in?’
‘No, he’s … not here.’
‘When will he show?’
We had VIPs that day, one of whom was my destiny. There must be no distractions to disturb their welcome and nothing to compromise the opportunity for my advancement.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow huh?’
I gave him what I intended to be an inscrutable smile. He studied me with a scorning —perhaps disbelieving— frown. Maybe he judged me as simple, as well as little.
‘We’ll see. I’ll be back.’ He short-laughed to himself again. ‘Yeah, Mr Bin. That figures.’ He turned to go.
‘I’ll inform him.’
He swung back. ‘Negative!’ He pointed his finger at me. ‘You saw no one. You copy me?’
I shifted, uneasy. Was this all not irregular? I grinned wide again, pleasant and obliging, without yielding. He rolled his eyes and strolled over to his vehicle with its tinted privacy windows and big-boy wheel arches. He thumped his door closed, revved the potent engine, and departed.
I found myself somewhat disturbed as I changed into my whites. Apart from guests, that man was the first visitor to have come to Mr Bin’s place. I could not surmise his purpose. He was no tourist. A private investigator? A man looking to recover money from Mr Bin? A corporate wishing to take over the place, bulldoze its thatch and bricks into the bush and build a five star? International law enforcement? An Interpol! Could Mr Bin have a felonious past? Was that why he hid out in the wild, using his business as a camouflage? True, he had the obligatory knowledge of the timber, beasts and fowls of the National Park, but cramming taxonomies was insufficient qualification to CEO a tourist corporation. A bona fide manager in hospitality would have a personable, sociable disposition. But Mr Bin craved solitude. He had no friends. He did not court a girl. I rested my case: he was hiding from someone or was hunted by the law.
I would say nothing to Mr Bin. Be discreet, as was my nature. If he was a wanted man, I should not tip him off. He would abscond.
I was soon ready to welcome our VIPs. I stood behind the table on which I had arranged the welcoming beverages, chest puffed out like a goose and wearing my oh-so-white double-breasted jacket and my head chef’s toque. A superlative display of red and yellow flowers from Mr Bin’s unruly garden edged the table, scented of Seville marmalade and African wild honey.
I could hear Mr Bin’s bakkie coming burping and squeaking down the road. Our esteemed guests would be visiting our country and, in particular, that way-out-of-town safari location not only to tick their bird lists but also to tread on wild paths of an aboriginal nature. Where our guests came from, Mr Bin had informed me, it was not possible to step on the ground as it was in the beginning. It was not feasible to experience the first soil, the undefiled loam of the Garden of Eden, ‘the virgin bed before it was fornicated by rapacious anthropoids’ said Mr Bin. Everywhere they trod in their own country had been violated by planners and paving, the soil shot-gunned with plastics and soaked with pesticides, fungicides, insecticides, herbicides, and many other toxic cides that
Mr Bin related to me at tiresome length. For the privilege of walking on celibate ground of an organic nature for just one day and of breathing our chaste air, our guests were willing to pay Mr Bin five hundred US dollars per person not including tips, gratuities, tourist taxes, service and community charges. Of course, they also wished to view our picturesque fowl, our giant timber, our impenetrable thorn bushes, and all the kinds of meat before it is snared and eaten. They were welcome.
The backie came to a halt with a final squeak. I trembled to think that I was now to meet Miss Camlyn, my destiny. I hoped that my outstanding bearing would incline her to favour me; that her executive self would see my unrealised potential.
But as soon as Miss Camlyn and Mr Summerberg disembarked, I saw that they were not quite the personages that I was suspecting. The intelligence I had received about them from Mr Bin was incorrect. Miss Camlyn was a young lady, skirted and bloused in floating yellows and rippling blues. She was boldly goggled with lemon-yellow sunglasses and had a bright blue braid in her hair. Her hair shone fair and free in the lusty light of the morning. A blue jewel decorated the side of her nose. It flashed in the sun. Her sandals were popped with beads and flowers and she exhibited a coloured thread around one ankle and a small tattoo on the other.
I surmised that she was too young, too immature, and too frivolously presented to be the owner and CEO of international restaurants. Mr Bin had been misinformed or, more likely, had been careless in his attention to detail. Consequently, my posting to New York was in question. Was there to be no escape from Mr Bin and his flies?
Mr Summerberg, in disparity, was exceedingly old. In truth, it was surprising that he was still living. He was ninety years or more, bony inside a black suit and braces, white shirt and polished black shoes. He looked prepared for lying in a coffin rather than adventuring out on a bush trek. But his purest-white hair burst industrious out of his ears and his scalp, and his sinews still heaved and pulled, and I liked his sharp blue eyes. He was not quite ready to be laid out.
I hoped that with the excessive disproportions in years, Miss Camlyn and Mr Summerberg had no intention to marry. On this one occasion, I hoped that my good wife’s prayers would be refused.
Miss Camlyn assisted Mr Summerberg down from the vehicle, her hair and skirt swaying as if in flows of water as she turned, but Mr Bin jerked knee forward, then back, like an uncertain giraffe.
‘Shall I hold his other arm?’ said Mr Bin.
Mr Summerberg replied to Mr Bin himself. His voice was cracked but passioned. ‘No, don’t hold his other arm, you mug. He needs it to grip his walking stick. El, pass me my stick. If we hadn’t had to wait years at the hotel for Ben to collect us … I’d still be young and fit.’
‘Grandad, you refused to bring your stick … yeah? Remember? Let me take your arm.’
‘We missed the dawn chorus. What a disaster.’
‘Oh look! Awesome!’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘That nice man over there is waiting with refreshments. It all looks to-die-for!’ She happy-faced me and gave me a little wave with her free arm.
Mr Bin offered his hands in the manner of holding a net for fishing as if to catch the old gentleman in the circumstance of him falling. I had to abandon my post and go to help.
‘Good morning, Mr Summerberg, and good morning, Miss Camlyn. Welcome to Bird Observation Day-Walk Safaris. My name is Chef Mlantushi. Let me be of assistance to you.’
‘At last! Some help,’ said Mr Summerberg. ‘Hold my arm, will you? I’ll soon loosen up and you’ll be panting to keep up with me.’
‘Listen to Grandad. Don’t you love him?’ Miss Camlyn handed over supporting duties.
‘Very much already,’ I replied.
We proceeded with caution towards the veranda. Miss Camlyn ogled the place with her big yellows and I was ashamed that we could not oblige her with a finer residence as a venue for their Reception Drinks. Mr Bin’s house was truly an animal’s den, a disintegrating hutch. The sun had revealed creeping plants growing without restraint up the beetle-bored wooden posts of the veranda. The scented bushes close to the house had attracted a mob of stinging insects. Even the citizens of our poorest villages took pride in clearing away the bush and sweeping the earth around their houses, but Mr Bin forbade this. I was truly embarrassed that we could not welcome our guests to a modern, ordered domicile.
‘Wow! It’s amazing here,’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘Such a pretty house and beautiful garden. Such colours. Listen to all the birds. They’re deafening. And so sunny. So warm. I love it!’
Myself, I saw that she was exceedingly polite and that she herself had a sunny and warm personage.
‘Oh my god … what’s that huge bird in the tree up there?’
We stopped to observe the fowl, but I made sure that Mr Summerberg was firm on my arm as he had a propensity to fall rear-ways when he looked up.
‘It’s an enormous ostrich,’ said Mr Summerberg. ‘An ostrich has flown high into the tree.’
‘Yeah?’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘That’s awesome. Surely … no, it’s not! Grandad, you’re such a tease. Ostriches have much longer necks. You do make me laugh.’
‘It’s a male yellow-billed hornbill,’ said Mr Bin, proud no doubt to demonstrate his top-of-class marks at bird school and to engage in the safety and comfort of academic avian discourse. He handed Miss Camlyn his binoculars. ‘See its oversized beak? It’s a sound box for its booming call.’
‘How do I work these?’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘I’ve never even held binoculars before. Can you believe it?’ She leaned mirthing towards Mr Bin, but Mr Bin was not able to respond in an easy fashion. It was not his way.
‘Look through here,’ he said. His brow furrowed in full earnest. ‘This way round. There. Turn that knob to adjust the focus.’
She took off her yellows and peered screw-eyed through the lenses. After a short period of face-deforming bafflement in which she pointed the binoculars all over the sky, she said, ‘Ah!’ Then she said, ‘— — , it’s amazing. It’s like watching the telly. It’s like a nature program.’ (To my esteemed reader: please do not try to imagine what Miss Camlyn said, indicated by the — symbol of discretion. I do not wish to embarrass you, or my good wife or any descendants, should they read this. God bless them richly.) Then she said, ‘It’s sicking something up. Uerr, totally gross!’
‘It’s feeding its mate and chicks through that hole in the tree trunk,’ said Mr Bin.
‘Whoa, he’s feeding them sick?’
‘Just his gizzard store. He has to, she’s sealed in with mud and droppings—’
‘He’s sealed her in? How does she get out?’
‘No, she—’
‘What if he has an accident before he lets her out?’ She shock-faced. Her eyes saucered. ‘What if he forgets? Or ghosts her?’
‘No, she—’
‘I don’t like him,’ said Miss Camlyn.
Mr Bin made to speak again, I think to correct a misunderstanding on who had sealed the hole, but Miss Camlyn called up to the hornbill, ‘We’ve clocked you! Don’t forget her … you controlling misogynist.’
Mr Bin fired yet again, but then he appeared to give up. Perhaps he thought there was no countering Miss Camlyn’s hot opinions with scholastics and pedantics. In any case, the customer should not be contradicted.
‘That’s the cruel and uncultivated way of nature, madam,’ I said. ‘Out here … we’re in the savage past times. There are no civilising influences.’ I knew that my upmarket beverages and cuisine would soon help her to forget such a disgusting scene.
She lost interest in the fowl and turned to Mr Bin. ‘I read on TripAdvisor you’re ultra-close to nature, Ben. They say you’re living wild. Totally unplugged!’ She pointed the binoculars towards him as if she herself was studying nature, and she giggled.
Mr Bin grunted, scratched his three-day jaw hair as if to rid himself of an irritatio
n, and turned away. She smiled with a certain mischief at me. I returned the smile, without the mischief of course, but was thinking what to do with the young lady? We had never welcomed such a rainbow exuberant before. Such a lively. Such a breathy, upfrontal personage. It had always been quiet and sober gentlemen in flop-brimmed hats and stiff brown walking boots, tinkering with their spotting scopes and tripods, check lists and stub pencils.
I came to my employer’s help. ‘He doesn’t behave like a hornbill. He has no wife and tots sealed in a mud house.’
Miss Camlyn laughed like cow bells, but I was serious on that.
We were close now to the veranda. I suggested to Mr Bin that he fetch a higher chair for Mr Summerberg from inside the house, to which he was hasty to oblige. Mr Bin had circled about these guests with futile gestures and ineffectual shifts and manoeuvres. He needed my know-how and instruction.
I assisted Mr Summerberg’s legs onto the veranda, and we reclined him into the chair.
‘Oh look!’ said Miss Camlyn, praying her hands. ‘A cute little monkey has climbed onto Ben’s head!’
The ape should have been asleep at that time, not delaying the guests’ enjoyment of my comestibles. It jumped from Mr Bin and in one reckless leap it crash-landed on Miss Camlyn’s shoulder. She squealed and tucked her head to her shoulder.
‘Stay still! He likes you,’ Mr Bin said. ‘He’s Freddy. He’s no monkey, he’s a bushbaby. He’s very friendly.’
The ape inspected Miss Camlyn’s braid, pulling it and sniffing it. Miss Camlyn’s eyes and mouth remained far open as the creature nested on her shoulder, holding her braid. When she understood that it would not bite her, she reclined herself with slow delicacy into her chair as if balancing a child’s toy.
Her shoulders reclined. ‘Freddy, the friendly bushbaby!’ The ape’s bushy tail lay around her neck and she reached with a cautious hand to stroke it. ‘Wow! Wow!’ Her eyes spilled wonderment. ‘The softest thing. I’ve never… this is just … just …’