Here now were zebras and a herd of wildebeest. Urmila began to count but they were too numerous—fifty, sixty, or more. Some grazed, some ambled along, not a care in the world.
Then, in a single, rapid movement, the herd lifted heads. Halted. The landscape quieted, and Urmila’s breath slowed.
The Jeep jerked and the driver, in an excited voice: “Madam, madam, you are about to witness something extraordinary. Look closely now. In those bushes, what do you see?”
“Nothing. I see nothing.” She craned her neck.
Sounding satisfied, he said, “Now we wait.”
“For what?” she said. “For what!”
“You will see.”
Urmila heard the wind in her ears. Sun pulsed on her skin. For the first time since coming back, she enjoyed feeling utterly alone.
The wildebeest released their attention, and Urmila watched them walk to the edge of a large watering hole.
The attack happened so fast she nearly missed it. First the grass rustled, then from many directions lionesses leapt. They had agreed on a single, weak target and lunged toward it with astonishing speed. Beasts scattered, a flurry of legs and hooves like a quiver of arrows released all at once. Urmila urged them on. Flee, flee! But then she turned back to the sacrifice. The cats were too skilled, too determined. Yes, they had felled. The fleeing ones screamed; the captured one writhed.
Urmila strained on her toes to see all she could.
The driver smiled knowingly and eased them forward. “Your first live kill?”
Gleaming white teeth ripped meat from skin and bone. Everything red and slippery; insides turned out and exposed to the driven, hungry world.
“The beasts eat the heart while it is still beating.”
Haa.
Looking up from the carnage at last, onto the plains, into the still, yellow grasses and beyond into the burning, lowering sun, she felt another heart, in a different place and far away, catch fire.
Acknowledgments
When you work on a book for a decade, there are a lot of people to thank.
I am grateful beyond words to my agent, Duvall Osteen, for being a true friend and advocate, for buoying me in every possible way, for expertly finding this book a good home. Deep gratitude and appreciation to Jonathan Lee and Scott Cheshire for sending me to Duvall and supporting me along the way.
Many large and sincere thanks to my editor, Joseph Olshan, for his unending keen attention and excellent narrative suggestions, without which this would be a much floppier book.
Gratitude to my dedicated and brilliant Bennington teachers and mentors: Alice Mattison, Brian Morton, Amy Hempel, Askold Melnyczuk, Bret Anthony Johnston, Paul Yoon, and Wyatt Mason. I frequently return to your letters and our conversations. To my Bennington classmates for good times and excellent writing. For literary support, mentorship, inspiration, and friendship, I am grateful to Claire Messud, Lauren Groff, Karen and Jim Shepard, Ted Conover, Suketu Mehta, Ilan Stavans, and Harold Augenbraum.
Philosopher friends have been indispensable in discussing both story and morality: Casey Perin, Katia Vavova, Alejandro Pérez Carballo, and Sharon Street, who has been more than gracious as I stole and simplified nearly beyond recognition her own original and fascinating view. Heartfelt thanks to David Velleman and Kitty Bridges, who have become my extended family.
Unending gratitude to my dear women writer friends who have helped me weather storms both personal and professional: Hannah Gersen, Krista Hoeppner Leahy, Elizabeth Witte, Katherine Jamieson, Alicia Christoff, Katherine Hill, Megan Tucker Orringer, Emily Everett, Nancy Pick, Elisa Mai, Sara Brenneis, and Karen Latuchie.
Big thanks as well to the entire staff and intern team at The Common for being such hard-working, inspiring, funny, and smart writers and readers.
For time and space and companionship, thank you to Writers OMI and Vermont Studio Center. To Curtis Bauer for being there at the beginning and staying with me.
Gratitude to Timothy Wangore and his mother, Elizabeth, for welcoming me to the sugar cane fields and harrambe school of Mwira, in Kenya’s Rift Valley, with open arms in 1995, and again, with my father, in 2007. I have gained so much from being your American sister and daughter for nearly 25 years.
Barbara Mayer and Charles Acker have been the best possible parents, far better than I deserve. Their love and interest in my work and in my life have kept me afloat in countless ways. I want to acknowledge the early love and support of my grandparents, Eleanor Mayer and Malvin Mayer, in memoriam. Gratitude to my family in New York, Los Angeles, and Canada. I thank my parents-in-law, Bachu and Surya Shah, for sharing their stories and their son, and for welcoming me to their family. To the Shahs of Nairobi and London for their welcome and hospitality.
To my beloved husband, Nishi Shah, I owe this book. You have taught me to laugh at myself, to take disappointments in stride, to be silly with joy, to think harder and longer, and to love fiercely.
A note on research: This book is a work of fiction and cannot be traced to any particular individuals, but it is inspired by some real events and stories. My reading has encompassed numerous invaluable volumes and scholarly works. I am particularly indebted to the following books and individuals: Dharam P. Ghai and Yash P. Ghai, Yash Tandon, Agehananda Bharati, Marcus Banks, and Mubina Hassanali Kirmani; We Came in Dhows by Cynthia Salvadori, Asians in East Africa by George Delf, A History of Asians in East Africa c. 1886–1945 by J.S. Mangat, A Short History of the East Coast of Africa by L.W. Hollingsworth, The Man-Eaters of Tsavo by J.H. Patterson and Ghosts of Tsavo by Philip Caputo, North of South by Shiva Naipaul, My African Journey by Winston Churchill, the many novels of V.S. Naipaul, particularly A House for Mr. Biswas, and the works of Isak Dinesen.
About the Author
Jennifer Acker is founder and editor in chief of The Common. Her short stories, essays, criticism, and translations have been published in the Washington Post, n+1, Guernica, Slate, and Ploughshares, among other places. She has an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars and teaches at Amherst College. She has received writing fellowships from Vermont Studio Center and Ledig House/Writers OMI. She lives in Western Massachusetts.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Acker
978-1-5040-5740-0
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