by Andrew Sharp
To my distress and confusion, she started to cry. I was unsure of how to reassure her.
‘This is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me. Freddy trusts me. Freddy loves me!’
No guest had ever cried on us on safari before. I was bewildered, and I’m sure Mr Bin as well.
‘Will he let me take a selfie?’
‘Keep still until he gets used to you,’ said Mr Bin. I think he was worried for his ape, that Miss Camlyn would do something chancy that would frighten it off into the bush, where it would no doubt be devoured in no time.
But I was worried for Miss Camlyn. The creature was semi-wild and so was prone to out-of-order behaviour. ‘If you wish me to shoo away that monkey … I’ll be pleased to oblige.’
‘This is all so crazy good,’ she said. ‘Everything since we got here has been way beyond fantastic. I’ve found the place of my dreams!’ She wiped away a tear from her cheek. ‘I feel so alive.’ Her crying burbled into a half-suppressed laughter. ‘I’m going to take you home, Freddy!’ Then she sobered. ‘But dang —I can’t! My mother won’t visit me if I do. She loathes anything cute or furry. Even her partner is waxed and bald.’ She slid an aside to me. ‘Not that she ever troubles herself to drop in anyway.’
I was minded of my father’s saying, Home affairs should not be talked about on the public square. ‘Would you like freshly ground coffee, madam?’ My duty was to help her forget the regrets and bothers of her life back home and so to aid her to a merry vacation. ‘Finest Arabica, of course … and I can offer Real Dairy Milk.’
‘Awesome! Thank you, Mr Mlantushi.’
‘And would you like to partake of my pinwheel shortbread creations?’
‘I’m sure Grandad would.’ She kissed the ape’s tail. I had never seen the ape so easy with a client, so drawn towards the guest and so relaxed. It somehow got me thinking that it was trying to tell Mr Bin something. To direct his attention. Or had its behaviour just pulled the string of a bow in my own head?
I was pleased that Mr Summerberg assented to a pinwheel shortbread and was gratified when he said, ‘Very good for a bush biscuit.’ I genuflexed in appreciation of his appreciation.
‘Now, where’s Ben?’ he said.
Mr Bin had turned away and was staring out as if searching for a path to the far horizon. An escape route perhaps. Or was he listening out, in fear of being tracked down by someone from his past? Only I knew that he had already been found. That tomorrow he might be taken into custody.
‘Are you clear what we’re going to do this morning?’ said Mr Summerberg, raising his voice.
‘Shhh! Ben’s communing with nature, Grandad,’ said Miss Camlyn in a loud whisper whilst stroking the ape’s tail. I hoped that it was not going to relieve itself on her gaudy raiments. ‘Wow, Ben’s so out there. We mustn’t disturb him. We should learn to be soundless like him and listen to the call of nature … ha, ha, I mean the wild.’ She was surely merry now. Even the old gentleman twitched a smile when she tapped his arm for a response.
‘Excuse us, Mr Bin,’ I said loudly. ‘Mr Summerberg has asked you where you are and if you know what his requirement is today.’
Mr Bin turned slowly as if he had indeed been occupying a faraway location. ‘Excuse me?’
I repeated.
‘He told me in the bakkie he’d like to record bird song,’ said Mr Bin.
‘He would,’ said Mr Summerberg.
‘Grandad likes collecting weird stuff,’ explained Miss Camlyn to myself. ‘He’s got green beetles … old globes … hot chillies … antique telephones and … um … turtle shells and now he’s a bird song collector. Like some people collect teapots.’
‘Teapots! No, this is the rarest thing.’ Mr Summerberg pointed a crooked finger to the sky and shook it. ‘This isn’t any old object. It’s …’ He appeared to be struggling to find the correct words. ‘You have to play it at my funeral. Promise, El.’
‘Grandad, please! I don’t want to think about that.’
Mr Bin, all of belated attention, said, ‘They’ve the best songs, small birds. Complicated tunes. Hundreds of notes too fast for us to hear. Some sing two notes at once. A duet from one beak. They also have dialects … depending on where they live.’
‘What? Some speak swanky and some speak northern?’ said Miss Camlyn.
Mr Bin blank-looked her. No, she did not have the vain and haughty discourse of the ornithology gentlemen that comprised our usual clientele. ‘I guess,’ he said eventually, ‘and each has its own voice. I can tell which bird is carolling when I’ve got to know them.’
‘That’s so cool,’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘They sing carols! Like Do They Know It’s Christmas?’
Mr Bin started a you-are-so-funny smile before thinking better of it, as if he did not know if Miss Camlyn was a magnificent jester, or playing with him, or deeply unschooled. Maybe he thought her daft. But I somehow liked her uncommon talking; her not ashamed of being unscholastic and speaking whatever she found on her tongue.
‘Grandad, don’t you agree? Ben’s got the brains of David Attenborough and the looks of your plumber, Patryk. You know … Patryk’s lean but fit physique.’
Mr Bin statued.
‘If you say so,’ said Mr Summerberg through a perfectly crumbling pinwheel creation shortbread biscuit. ‘Don’t embarrass him, El.’
‘I’m just, like, complimenting!’ She flicked a strand of hair away from her neck and turned her head to present a portrait of herself, perhaps hoping for a reciprocal flattery from Mr Bin. He was not looking. The ape pulled Miss Camlyn’s blue braid to reposition her head to its liking.
‘Let’s remind ourselves why we’re here,’ said the old gentleman. ‘We have to find that bird.’
Miss Camlyn leant towards me. ‘It’s the brackish akalat,’ she whispered, as if this bird’s name should not be spoken out loud in case it brought us a misfortune. In truth, I had never heard of this fowl, but the park was infested with many featheries.
‘As you can see’ —Mr Summerberg stabbed his legs— ‘this is likely my last chance to record it.’
‘Grandad’s going to donate his collection of rare stuff to the Natural History Museum in London,’ said Miss Camlyn to myself. She appeared rightly proud and I was appreciative of the information.
Mr Bin tracked a ragged vulture slow-flapping the sky. Mr Summerberg called to him. ‘With your alleged reputation for finding rare birds, Ben, I’ve every confidence we’ll succeed. And I’m not interested in anything else apart from the brackish akalat.’
Mr Bin reconnected again to his guests, sucked air and said, ‘Jeez, I don’t know. Sheppardia eximius. A sweet song I believe but it’s as elusive as … as a Jubjub bird and it—’
‘What?’ said Mr Summerberg. ‘El says you list it on your website as a sighting on your guided walks. I hope we’ve not been misled, young man. I’ll want my money back.’
‘Thing is—’
‘Thing is, what?’
‘We’ll be lucky to hear it.’
Mr Summerberg inflated the hollow carcass of his chest. ‘Never been a rare thing that’s escaped me yet and nor will this. Especially this.’
‘Do all birds sing?’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t actually sing. Is that why we won’t hear it, Ben?’
Mr Bin scratched his chin with uneasy fingers. ‘It’s been heard, but—’
‘But what?’ said Mr Summerberg.
‘It’s said that … only certain people can hear it.’
‘People who’re not hard of hearing, I expect,’ said Miss Camlyn. She promoted her fingers as ears above her head. ‘Ha, ha, good thing Grandad’s brought me along! I can hear worms chewing in apples.’
‘There’s this story,’ said Mr Bin.
I saw Mr Summerberg nod once, privately to himself, as if he thought he knew such a story and was satis
fied that Mr Bin was about confirm it.
But I was fearful that Mr Bin might have been influenced by primitive fables and was about to talk nonsense and so embarrass us. I interrupted him to say loudly and slowly, ‘Mr Summerberg was asking you whether you truly see it on your walks.’
‘Apologies. Once or twice.’ Mr Bin stared at Mr Summerberg’s trousers which accommodated the skeleton of his legs. ‘We’ve only seen it on our guided walks.’
‘That’s why I’ve brought young El with me. If I don’t make it, then you and El will carry on with my recording equipment until you hear the akalat.’
‘I couldn’t leave you on your own in the bush, sir,’ said Mr Bin. ‘There are predators and buffalos.’
‘Does it matter? It’ll hardly be the premature death of me, will it? Hear this Ben. I’d rather die tragically young today than too tragically old tomorrow. Too old’s the curse of my generation.’
‘It’s the no-claims bonus on my liability insurance,’ said Mr Bin flatly, ‘and my reputation for always returning guests alive.’
‘I love it, Ben!’ said Miss Camlyn, singing out like the birds. ‘I love your dry humour! You could sell it in packets … like those dehumidifying crystals.’ The ape leapt off her shoulder and vaulted away into the house. ‘Wow, sorry Freddy. Didn’t mean to jiggle.’ Then she smiled most pleasantly at me. ‘I’m sure Mr Mlantushi could stay with Grandad —if Grandad can’t go any further— whilst Ben and I go on together to find the bird.’
‘— no,’ said Mr Bin.
‘Yay!’ said Miss Camlyn.
‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Bin. ‘What I’m saying is … unfortunately, Mozzy … Mr Mlantushi … has many domestic chores to get on with here today. Today he’s going to be working in the house.’
This was news to me. Bad news. Was it to be domestic chores for the head chef? Who was going to serve the guests their sumptuous picnic?
‘A sterling suggestion from my granddaughter,’ said Mr Summerberg. ‘In the almost certain event of my incapacity, your man and I will wait for your return. He’ll wait with my body, if necessary.’
‘Grandad! Please! You do make me laugh. Why don’t we ask Mr Mlantushi himself since he’s right beside us?’ She turned to me. ‘Mr Mlantushi, it would be awesome if you could assist us. Will it upset your plans today if you come with us?’
What could I say? What should I do? My employer was instructing me in contradiction to the petitioning of my VIP guests. I remembered my father’s proverb. The cow that likes two herds is eaten by the lion between them. His proverb was pertinent. I had to make a decision this way or that way so as not to be devoured by the lion of vacillation. But which way?
Miss Camlyn had spoken to me by way of her most gracious request, but Mr Bin shot at me through rifle eyes, telling me to stay in the house. I perceived such, but there was also other talk in his eyes. He also saw a lion that he feared. The lion was the impending circumstance of being alone with such a lady as Miss Camlyn should Mr Summerberg and myself need to stay behind on the path. Mr Bin, I had observed, was unable to converse in a comfortable manner with young female personages. He was at ease only when speaking to the cat and the ape or to persons who talked birds. If it was necessary to make civil and everyday chit-chat with a lady —which might indeed be required if he walked alone with Miss Camlyn— then he became as perturbed as a worm on my kitchen floor.
Miss Camlyn turned her ear to me in expectation. To whom was my highest obligation? To my employer or to our guests? I always looked for the top responsibility in such judgments. The superseding obligation. My wife said I would make a fine preacher as I ‘accidentally’ had spiritual discernment but, in truth, my calling was culinary, not clerical.
I discerned this: there was a higher duty to my employer than he was perceiving for himself. He must be facilitated to speak to the young lady. He needed to acquire pleasantries so that one day, after much social education, he could catch a wife, and so comply with the correct order of things.
In fairness to the true record of my thinking, I also hoped that by staying with the party I would have the opportunity to discover whether Miss Camlyn did indeed own the promised high-end restaurants. Had I been prejudiced against her? Maybe her decorated razzle was just a packaging. The modern world was made by young entrepreneurs who had achieved their money and dreams whilst still living with their parents, promoting their businesses by selfie-dressing and face-painting in their childhood bedroom and posting worldwide for advantageous marketing.
I did not vacillate further. ‘It’s no problem for myself to accompany your safari party, Miss Camlyn. It’ll be an honour to assist Mr Summerberg if it becomes necessary. But I’m certain Mr Summerberg will walk all day like a Maasai.’
‘What an obliging and helpful gentleman you are, Mr Mlantushi!’ said Mr Summerberg. ‘What a lucky man you are, Ben, to have Mr Mlantushi working with you.’
Mr Bin twisted away from us. He held his throat to suppress the emission of a goose-like noise, but I saw that the lion that likes to eat the vacillating cow had turned and slunk away.
Chapter 3
‘You’re right principled. I so have a thing for that,’ said Miss Camlyn to Mr Bin. ‘And even though you’re, like, eco and ethical, you don’t bang on about it.’
The guests were roosted on our Luxury Winchester Safari Recliners in a location in the National Park under the shade of one of those timbers, which the guests open-mouthed on account of its plentiful dimensions. They had gorged on the picnic feast I had provided on our Winchester Safari Table. The guests had experienced high-end dining despite the rough locality. With all humility, I venture to propose that any success achieved by Mr Bin’s guided safari footing business depended, by the grace of God, on myself, his head chef.
Miss Camlyn had commented that Mr Bin had not partaken of my carpaccio of smoked ostrich with nasturtiums.
Mr Bin said, ‘I’m the only vegetarian in Africa.’
‘I want to be a vegan,’ said Miss Camlyn, ‘and some days I actually am.’ She squint-lipped me, then she said to Mr Bin. ‘Is it because eating meat is literally murder or because it’s the cause of global warming?’ She gazed eager at him, as if believing him to have superlative wisdom, or perhaps to hear him deliver a parched jest.
Mr Bin appeared confounded by her enquiry, but after stalling he said, ‘It’s more the way Mozzy here prepares it. He smothers it in curry.’ Mr Bin designated spices and garnishes, whether clove, thyme, capers or whatever, to be curry.
Mr Summerberg reposed with his chin on his chest, hardly breathing, but now he stirred himself. ‘What are you talking about, Ben? That was one of the best luncheons I’ve had in a long time. Frankly … it’s been the only pleasure of the day.’
I bowed in appreciation of his appreciation.
‘Curry! Ben’s just joking, Grandad. He thinks Mr Mlantushi’s dishes are totally delish. We all do. Ben doesn’t want to boast about his eco-friendly lifestyle.’
Mr Summerberg choked. I assisted him in reaching for his glass of iced water with parfum of elderflower. ‘If we’d heard the bird this morning … I’d be in a better mood for humour. If that’s what it was.’
In the paradigm of seeking out the singing beak, it had indeed been a disappointing morning. Mr Bin had led the eager safari party with due deference to Mr Summerberg’s slow passage. I had offered to carry his black jacket, but he had insisted on wearing it despite the heat, saying that wearing a suit was all an old man had left of dignity. His only concession to the heat was to be tieless. We struggled on an un-swept path splattered with animal excrement and encroached by tick-laden grass until we reached a forested area, which Mr Bin deemed would give us the opportunity for success. We heard every noise of the bush, reminding me of creaky hinges and unhappy babies. Sudden raucous guinea fowl gave me fright. All discordant sounds, for sure. Raw manure and beast-sweat stinks passaged our nos
trils. Timbers leant over their shadows, a premonition of their graves. But Mr Bin fascinated Miss Camlyn, due no doubt to his problematic identity and unsociable manner. Occasionally he indicated varieties of fowl by sound or sight and Miss Camlyn said such as, ‘Unbelievable’, ‘You’re kidding’, or ‘Never seen anything so gorgeous’. A very polite lady.
The quarry remained elusive. I portered the sound recording apparatus for Mr Summerberg. Every time a bird sang, I pointed the microphone boom in its direction, but every time Mr Bin shook his head and said, ‘Wrong akalat’, ‘A cricket’, ‘A bursting seed pod’, and such like. The brackish akalat, I concluded, would sound like nothing else but itself. I could appreciate how its voice would be a most singular loss if it became extinct.
Of course, I was not personally vexed to fail to hear the bird, only for our guests. The bird had caused us a tiring and purposeless morning. And all the time, I had been asking myself what the well-tailored American wanted and if he was about to crash call our luncheon, uninvited, to arrest or to confront Mr Bin. Could I hear the threatening throb of a potent engine on a nearby track? Always, everything, concerning Mr Bin distracted me from perfect service to our guests.
After dining we all inclined to be quiet. Miss Camlyn leant back in her recliner, permitting the sunlight to pet her face through the leaves. She smiled with polite contentment at no one.
‘I never ever want to leave this place,’ she said lazily. ‘I think I said that before. Did I Grandad? It’s so luxuriously warm and bright. Everything’s perfection. I’m floating like … weightless in wonderland.’ Mr Summerberg had lapsed into coma, so did not respond. ‘Do you ever feel like you’re living in the wrong place Mozzy? That you’re not really where you’re meant to be … and you’ve got to do something about it?’
How could she know my thoughts? Yes, she had a certain wisdom. She was not as daft as Mr Bin might believe.
Mr Bin stood on his own, away from the table, listening to the distant honks and screams of the bush. We had no choice but to do the same. It would have been more in keeping with the price of the safari if Mr Bin had provided our guests with a radio to entertain them with an upmarket experience whilst they ate. Perhaps opera or, at the least, a choir. Instead, we were pressed about by intimations of menace. A breeze from nowhere, carrying the dry smell of bones and suggestive of the witchcraft in which I did not believe, disturbed the crispy leaves of the heavy tree, under whose old and unpruned branches —waiting to drop on the unsuspecting— the guests had collapsed. A mournful dove lamented its circumstances. Furthermore, the ice was melting in the Kilimanjaro Spring Water and a fly had stealthily insinuated itself underneath the Brussels Lace Net that protected the plate of green mealie fritters with tangy avocado cream. I could not swing my fly swat as I did not wish to disturb the guests and Mr Bin forbade me killing any creatures in the park. ‘This is their place, Mozzy, not yours,’ he would say, as if my grandfather had won independence from colonial rule only to give the country over to flies.