by Andrew Sharp
Miss Camlyn sighed. ‘It’s such a shame that my mother’s so, so, busy she couldn’t come with us. Shame in some ways, anyway.’ I thought she raised a conspirating eyebrow at me as if we had a secret between us —although she alone knew what it was. ‘She needs to get a perspective on life. She’s so, so, driven. So grasping. She should sell all her restaurants.’
I spilled the Real Dairy Milk. A grasshopper of hope leapt in my heart. Mr Bin had misinformed me. It was her good mother who owned the top restaurants in the greatest cities of the world. My dreams of prodigious opportunity had not been a fancy. I would be bold at a discrete moment to ask our guest for an introduction to her mother. It would put me on the fast-track to my future. They had commended my cuisine over and over. Had not Mr Summerberg said that he had never partaken of a better luncheon in all his ninety years? I was, of course, seeking a firm offer of employment as my wife had insisted that only a guaranteed position would persuade her to leave her Divine Prosperity Assembly and our village. This would now surely come. I had to self-deny my imagination from entering that New York kitchen again. I awaited an opportune moment to make my request.
Mr Summerberg stirred himself at last and said in a voice that was weakened by the proximity of his no doubt impending demise, ‘We’re wasting the day. We can’t afford to sit about like beach bums. I’m ready to march out again.’ But he made no attempt to leave his recliner. In truth, Mr Summerberg was like an old bird that does not understand that its wing is broken. I feared that he would not last if he walked under that ruthless sun once more, stumbling on that stony ground.
‘Poor, poor Grandad,’ said Miss Camlyn, and leant across to put her hand on his arm. Then she turned to me and spoke quietly. ‘Did I tell you, Mr Mlantushi? It’s been like literally his one ambition this year. He’s got to record the bracky bird. Grandad really wants it.’
I could understand this. A man must be stubborn and relentless in his quest for achievement.
‘Now it’s all come to nothing. It’s really sad.’ Her words brought a teary shine to her eyes. I bowed my head to be alongside her in her sorrow. ‘Grandad’ll never be in the Natural History Museum with the dinosaurs.’ She addressed Mr Bin. ‘Can’t you do something? Anything?’
‘He can’t whistle for it, El,’ said Mr Summerberg. ‘It’s rare. It may have snuffed it … it may have beaten me to it. Let’s hope our fortune turns. Didn’t help that we missed the dawn chorus.’
Miss Camlyn stood up and went to Mr Bin, grasping hold of his bearded arm whilst pressing into him with advanced familiarity. ‘I know you can do something, Ben. Yeah?’ Her bluish gaze combed his charcoal hair.
Mr Bin found it imperative to take a cloth from his pocket and hard-rub the glass of his binoculars. Then he stared out into the lonely wilderness that encircled us.
‘My life coach says we have to act on even our wildest dreams. That’s the only way they’ll happen.’ She cocked her head at him. I could not tell if she was expecting a dismissal of her coach’s conjecture or was seeking his endorsement.
Mr Bin chewed the side of his lip.
She turned to me. ‘What do you think, Mozzy?’
‘Of course, madam,’ I concurred, cognisant of my own soon-to-be-fulfilled dreams, ‘but my father used to say, To walk is not necessarily to arrive.’
She released Mr Bin. ‘To walk is not necessarily to arrive,’ she said to herself. She turned to me. ‘Your father said that? Your own father? Awesome! It’s sort of, yeah, meaningful. Was your father totally ethnic? Like, it would be amazing if he was all traditional … like wore claw anklets and leopard skins. Painted his face with clay and went into trances.’
I corrected her. ‘He wore a city suit. He rose to the position of assistant bank clerk and his only religion was football.’
‘Oh, of course. No offence intended … but disappointing in a way. You see … we’ve got this ginormous coffee table book at home of … I expect he heard it from his ancestors.’
And her book must have been inherited from her ancestors —as if I had a picture book of her cave-dwelling parents in deer skins hunting in a forest in the UK.
She turned to Mr Bin again. ‘Whatever, Ben, we’re totally depending on you. You’re our Moses leading us to the Holy Grail … or whatever he did.’
Mr Bin scuffed the toe of his boot on the ground. He stared out into the wilds and then talked strong. ‘I’m going to scout out that way for a couple of minutes.’
‘Yay, Ben,’ said Miss Camlyn, springing up and down on her toes. ‘I knew you’d work something out. I just knew it! I’m coming with you. I’ll carry Grandad’s contraptions.’ She made a hasty arrangement of her hair and picked up her hat from the back of her recliner.
‘I’m actually just going … behind a bush,’ said Mr Bin.
Miss Camlyn replaced her hat. ‘Ha, ha, silly me! And it’s literally a bush out here! You’re so, so, grounded Ben and so … real-world!’
I stepped forward to top up her glass of home-made granadilla and mint cordial. In that heat, lips cracked and throats became dry river beds pleading for a flood
When I turned, I saw Mr Bin beckoning. I excused myself and followed Mr Bin, but with half an eye on our guests. It was not advisable to leave guests exposed to mortal danger in such a wild place with no fencing, although Mr Bin had his rifle, always over his shoulder. He was never without it in those dangerous locations.
I followed Mr Bin, but he passed the Safari Comfort Station tent with courtesy Kudu Horn Tissue Dispenser, which we had erected earlier for our VIP guests. Then he stopped dead as if he had walked into an invisible timber and turned towards me. ‘What am I going to do, Mozzy?’
‘My father used to say—’ I started.
‘I don’t want to hear your old man’s lousy sayings. What should I do? I’m asking you as a confidant. I’m actually asking for your advice.’
‘I’m a chef, not a bird spotter.’
‘Is she a complete airhead? Or is she taking the mick out of me?’
‘Do you mean Miss Camlyn?’ I was shaken by this perplexing turn of events.
‘She’s hectic. She wants me to magic up the bird. She’s spouting half-witted things. She asked me how big hippo eggs are and why the mummy doesn’t break them when she sits on them. There was no chance of hearing an akalat because she was jawing so loudly.’
‘Please, Mr Bin! Be forgiving. Miss Camlyn is kind and polite. She’s also fragrant and comely, unlike our regular guests.’
Mr Bin looked to be inspecting my words as if I had opened his vision to something previously curtained. ‘I prefer Merops Nubicoides or Coracius Caudatus.’
At that time, I thought that he was referring to Greek and Italian actresses but a later knowledge revealed that he spoke the Latin names of colourful fowl.
‘She’s in admiration of you,’ I said, ‘and look at the concordance between you. She loves nature, and you love nature.’
‘Loves nature!’ Mr Bin fake laughed. ‘She loves the idea … the notion … the cute Instagram image. And she likes that she can buy it —or her grandfather can. But, damn it, that’s beside the point. She asked me about my dreams for the future. I don’t have any …’ He looked away. ‘I guess I used to.’ He shrugged. ‘But now I’m living in the moment. We’re on a birding walk, not in therapy. I want to be quiet in the bush. Preferably with like-minded ornithologists.’ He nodded slowly to himself in the absence of the ape to concur with. ‘Alone in the bush … even better. Ja, most days I like being on my own.’
I wondered again why this was so. Why he preferred to be on his own. Why he had no friends and no desire for such. Why he was not pleased at the adulation of Miss Camlyn. Surely a vexation in Mr Bin’s past impacted on his present in a negative fashion. What was afflicting him? Of course, I did not pry by asking. It was necessary to keep a professional relationship where personal issues and fai
lings were put aside for the benefit of the guests. In the year that I had worked in Mr Bin’s employ, I had always maintained a proper respect for his privacy, discouraging inappropriate familiarity. But why was that sportsman looking for him?
I said, ‘Is that your problem right now, Mr Bin? How to endure Miss Camlyn?’ I asked this in a stern tone to bring him to the chief requirement of the guests for which they had paid five hundred US dollars each notwithstanding supplemental costs. ‘Is that really your problem?’
‘Ja, totally.’
I became a little distracted. I could hear a vehicle. It was somewhere out there on a track. Circling in towards us?
‘The old toppie can’t trek any further,’ said Mr Bin. ‘She’ll want you to stay with him. Then she’ll want to come looking for the akalat again with me. There’ll be loud psychobabble and domkop questions. Or is she revving me?’
Still with an ear on the vehicle, I said with all forbearance, ‘What about recording the dull bird? It’s why we’re out here suffering this forsaken location. That’s what our guests are crying about.’
‘Damn it Mozzy! I don’t want to be on my own with her.’
I saw then that he was begging my opinion, even advice and guidance as if I was a brother instead of his employee. And what if Mr Bin upset our VIPs, making Miss Camlyn ill-disposed to my request for employment in New York?
‘For the sake of your business … for the five stars on TripAdvisor … you should be personable towards her. But most importantly, for her happiness. It only requires your civility for a few more hours.’ I recalled then my father saying when he worked at the bank, The truth is not like money to be tied up and hidden. To speak the truth, I said, ‘It shouldn’t be difficult. She admires you with blind respect.’
‘Did you say blind? What do you mean … blind?’ Mr Bin turned his thoughts, no doubt, to Miss Camlyn’s healthy eyes. Mr Bin had no understanding of expressions of a symbolic nature.
I remembered the ape, how its friendly manner towards Miss Camlyn had pulled a bow in my head. I found myself releasing the arrow. ‘Forget that blind business. What I’m saying is this. Take this opportunity!’ He looked at me straight and I saw that he attended to my words. ‘Our guests are most times decrepit. True? You don’t meet eligible persons. Yes? But now … here’s a young lady! Correct? She admires you. Exactly. She sees you’re in cahoots with nature. She sees you have few words but you know many things. She’s come to find the brackish fowl. Instead … she’s found you!’ I nearly teared at my moving discourse. Yes, I felt too deeply.
‘What are you saying?’
I spoke plain. ‘Court her with a view to matrimony!’
Mr Bin’s skitting eyes suggested that he thought I spoke as a village crazy.
‘Be calm! Here’s the best of it. You don’t need to talk dreams to her. Your disposition is interpreted by her as philosophic … scholastic … intriguing. You don’t need to say anything to keep her admiration. Let her continue to believe you have righteous convictions and concealed fortes. At all costs, don’t show her your true character. Don’t cause her terrible disappointment.’
‘Cause her terrible disappointment? How would I do that? You think—’
‘Yes, most definitely,’ I said with solemnity and in a spirit of benevolence.
‘I’ve heard enough. I’m not listening to your … impossible suggestion. You don’t know how impossible.’ He waved away my hands.
Impossible? No, just a lack of imagination on his part, an absence of dreams. Or maybe he did not want advice from his ‘cook’.
‘I don’t need this,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I gave you the voetsek this morning.’ He nodded agreement to himself. ‘You’ll take your bike and go … this evening.’ Then he spoke to his ape although it was not present. ‘Why did I think I could get advice from my domestic help as if he were a broe? Instead, he hits me with insults.’
‘I’m the company head chef,’ I reminded him. It was not for the first time that I had given instruction to Mr Bin and he had responded with abuse and invective.
‘I’ve only spoken at your own request.’
Mr Bin was turning towards our guests, but I wanted to make my proposal compelling. I said after him, ‘If you marry Miss Camlyn, I’ll hand over my duties to her. I’ll leave for a higher posting. She’ll no doubt charm your guests. And, what’s more,’ I said, succumbing —I am ashamed to report— to the pain of a crack in the delicate shell of my feeling heart, ‘I’m sure she can boil an egg as well as I can.’
I do not believe he heard me as, just as I spoke, two things happened. I heard again the potent engine, but much nearer. And then Miss Camlyn cried out.
Chapter 4
Mr Bin swung his rifle off his shoulder and streaked like a cheetah towards Miss Camlyn. He could get himself together when necessity demanded. I hastened after him. In a place like that, every possibility was probable. She had certainly been bitten by a venomous snake or was faced by a merciless predator. I could not keep up with the long-strided Mr Bin, but I too was ready to defend our client to the death. A necessary and expected customer service.
When Mr Bin reached our guests, I saw him stop and lean his gun against the tree. A disturbing thought came to me that Mr Summerberg had passed away. RIP, at last. For the very first time Mr Bin would not be returning all his guests alive. It would be a regret and would impact his no-claims bonus.
‘Ow! Ow!’ I heard Miss Camlyn say. ‘I trod on a thorn.’ She had capitulated into her recliner. Her sandals lay discarded and she examined the sole of her foot, pain-faced. ‘The ground’s a bit sandy. I thought I’d go bare foot, like, to feel Africa between my toes … like you can feel Ibiza when you dance on the beach there.’
‘Fetch the first aid kit, Mozzy,’ said Mr Bin.
I noted that, during this crisis, Mr Summerberg was asleep, or in a mortal coma.
‘I’m already moving.’ I hurried to fetch the Safari First Aid box from the vehicle, following the procedure that I had had to devise for myself for such emergencies. Again, I heard a vehicle engine, teasing me, but it was fading as if it had been on the wrong track to reach us. We would not need to manage two troublesome events at the same instance.
When I returned, I found Mr Bin standing silently by the injured guest with an insufficient bedside manner.
Miss Camlyn was crying. ‘Oh Ben, I’m sorry. I’m a dork. You must think I’m dumb.’
‘It certainly settles it,’ said Mr Bin in a tone that leant more towards unmannered than jest.
‘He means the numbing cream in here will settle your pain,’ I said with haste. I passed Mr Bin the First Aid box.
Mr Bin took a needle and I brought a canvass stool to him so that he could sit beside Miss Camlyn to perform the necessary act of mercy.
‘I expect it’s deep,’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘It’s probably gone right through my foot. Is there a helicopter ambulance? My mother will pay. I hope.’
Mr Bin held Miss Camlyn’s creamy-white foot in his sun-brûléed hand and studied closely.
‘It looks tiny.’
‘For a man of Mr Bin’s experience to deal with,’ I said.
‘Ahh Ben, your hands are very soothing. Mmm.’ Miss Camlyn closed her eyes and succumbed to the comfort of her recliner, as if she had forgotten that she was deeply stabbed. She smiled vacantly as if entering a pleasant dream, which she had no wish to wake from. I thought Mr Bin was distracted for a moment by the grace of her legs, making me expectant that he could be charmed into a change of heart.
Most fortunately the thorn was just visible to the naked eye. Miss Camlyn was exceedingly brave, although she fainted —or pretended to— when Mr Bin flicked it out. I took over customer service, bringing her a glass of iced water with elderflower parfum, and then I fanned her face with a freshly laundered and ironed tea towel.
‘Ben was so amazing. I hardly
felt a thing,’ she said. Did she wink me?
Mr Bin stood back and looked out again into the bush where he would have no doubt preferred to be, on his own. He turned and addressed Miss Camlyn. ‘With a potentially septic puncture wound you should rest your foot. I’m taking you both straight back to your hotel.’
Miss Camlyn lost her secret smile. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘The bacteria are the most dangerous creatures in the park. And there are billions of them. They’re far more dangerous than the buffalos.’
‘You’re having me on!’
‘Fulminating septicaemia … gas gangrene … tetanic paralysis … pustular putrefaction … necrotising fasciitis. You name it.’
‘You have. Oh my gosh!’
Mr Bin stood unyielding. He was certainly exercising maximum caution. Too much caution, and he had also become a determined man of unflinching decisions. I suspected his motives. I had to conclude that the day was ending in a car wreck. These were the facts: my employer had failed to court Miss Camlyn, Miss Camlyn had sustained an injury, Mr Summerberg had failed to record the bird and, even at that moment, was passed away or, at the least, was soon to pass, and the opportunity for my dream posting had died. I remembered my father’s proverb, A patient man will eat ripe fruit. But how much patience can a man suffer?