Binstead's Safari Page 3

  “The last we heard of him, he had retired from his university duties and was negotiating for the foreign-language paperback sales.”

  Stan liked the story, but said that that was a scholarly fraud. What he was afraid of was what Jack had called a genuine fraud.

  “As I say, you must see for yourself. Go there. Look at everything. And be careful. Who have you with your team?”

  “Ian Foster.”

  “In that case, there will be no problem. Ian is one of the best. Nicholas too, but the older generation has known Ian longer. That’s important, especially here. We’ve had enormous changes in the past forty years. Upheavals, one could say. It makes a bond.”

  *

  Millie had taken one of the hotel tours through the game park. Stan saw her as she got out of the bus; she looked young and elegant next to several fat women and seemed to be on terms of the greatest friendship with everyone there, calling people by their names as she said goodbye. But when he asked her, “How was it?” she just said, “It was very nice. How was your morning?” He told her his morning had been fine. Naturally, he realized, her answer was simply the kind he himself usually gave.

  “Well,” he asked, “what did you see?”

  “Oh, everything.”

  “Such as what, Millie?”

  “Animals.”

  “Rabbits, cows?”

  “Elephants. Antelopes. Zebras. Rhinoceroses,” she said. “Lions.”

  “Rhinoceros.”

  “Rhinos. Nothing close-up. And giraffes.”

  “Which did you like best?” he said, and thought: What am I doing? This is like playtime with the three-year-olds. I’d like to hit her.

  “I don’t have favourites,” she told him. “I liked them all. That’s what was nice—there were so many. All different, all interesting, living together. Mohammed said they’re going to ban big game hunting soon.”

  Mohammed must have been the driver. Stan said, “They’d lose a lot of income if they did. It might be a disaster.”

  “They could get the same amount by just running photographic safaris and building a few more hotels where you can look out of your room and see the herds of wild animals grazing right there on the terrace. Don’t you think so?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. It would be a blow to Ian and Nicholas.”

  “They’d just join the Department of Environment and Conservation. They’d be hired to cull the herds.”

  “Cull the herds? Where do you get all this high-flown technical jargon?”

  “I got some books out of the library before we left home.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t believe everything you read in travel books.”

  “Why not? They were all written by the people who live out here. At least, I think they were.”

  A battered landrover came to pick them up and take them out to the Fosters’ house. They were carried at a smart lick, though not at the breakneck speed they had feared at first sight of the machine. The driver’s name was Abdullah. He’d stuck a quotation from the Koran on the windshield and reinforced it with an evil-eye charm that hung from the mirror. Everyone in Africa, Stan thought, seemed to have a religion and to proclaim it without self-consciousness. Even the Europeans and their descendants probably went to church a lot. He was sure they did; it was that kind of place. And why, then, shouldn’t there be a resurgence of animal-spirit cults? It would tie in with the new nation’s desire to re-establish its cultural and racial heritage as it had been before other people had entered the country bringing different economies, tools, machines, different weapons and clothes, different gods.

  “You come from United States of America?” Abdullah asked.

  Stan said yes, Millie at the same time said, “London,” and then corrected herself, adding, “just the past couple of weeks.”

  “I was in Europe once,” Abdullah said. He pronounced the word so that it had three syllables. “Spain,” he added.

  “What did you think of it?” Stan asked.

  “I hate it,” Abdullah answered in a loud whisper. “I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”

  In the back seat, where Abdullah had insisted on putting them, Millie and Stan looked at each other sideways. Abdullah continued to express his hatred. The inflection of his voice didn’t falter. As soon as he showed signs of letting up, Millie asked, “Why did you hate it?” Stan pinched her arm hard, but too late.

  Abdullah began: the devils, the pigs, the dogs who put him in a filthy room like a box, they say you undesirable alien, you are bad to come here, you don’t have food what you want, you take what you get and you pay for the boat or you go to jail, may they die in unspeakable agonies.

  At the end of the drive, when they had climbed from the car and were walking towards the bungalow out of earshot, Stan said, “What the hell got into you? Couldn’t you see he was just itching for you to give him his cue?”

  “Don’t be silly, Stan. Would you have missed all that for anything? If half the things he said are true—”

  “They aren’t.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never been a penniless stowaway caught by the Immigration Department.”

  Ian came out on the porch to meet them and bring them inside.

  The house was neat and comfortable. There was a lot of light wood everywhere, carved statues, masks, mounted trophies, paintings, bright rugs on the floor and chintz covers patterned and flowering on chairs and couches. Pippa Foster was grey-haired but otherwise looked like a girl out of the 1920s.

  Stan said, “What do you do when you have clients from Spain?”

  “What’s that?” Ian asked.

  “Abdullah.”

  “Oh dear,” Pippa said. “Has he started on that again?”

  Ian said, “Fortunately it’s never happened. Suppose I’d tell them to say they were from South America.”

  They got into the landrover once more and drove far out into the country. Stan felt for the first time that he had finished with the plane flight and the sense of disorientation. But he couldn’t get over the way the place looked. If it weren’t for the animals, the slanting, trapezoidal shapes of some of the trees and the clear, dazzling air, it might almost have been somewhere like Florida.

  They tested the guns. Ian was impressed by Stan’s marksmanship and Millie was about to tell him: yes, Stan even had medals for it, when she stopped herself.

  A car drove up while they were still adjusting sights. Nicholas got out and came over. He told Ian that he’d heard from the Whiteacres, who now thought they would definitely be arriving in a week’s time. Did Ian want to wait that long or go on alone?

  “There’s an even chance that that week is only an estimate,” Ian told him. “They’ll let you know in another week that they’ve changed their minds again.”

  “Makes it awkward for the boys,” Nicholas said. “They don’t know where they are.”

  “Well, we’ve got their money, and they were meant to arrive last week. Tell them we started charging them field rates from the date they originally gave us. They won’t miss it.”

  “But it might aggravate them enough to send them somewhere else.”

  “They’re more trouble than they’re worth, Nick.”

  “Not if they’re prepared to pay those prices. We don’t have a choice.”

  Stan and Millie were standing too close to be completely outside the conversation, but made it appear that their attention was directed somewhere else. He checked the sights on a rifle and aimed, lifting the stock to his shoulder and squinting down the barrel. She looked closely at her shotgun as if she might be expecting to find a message printed on it.

  “We’ll have to get out and back in time for the Rawlinsons,” Ian said. “They’re regulars and they’re punctual.”

  “We can’t afford to lose the Whiteacres, Ian.”

  “We won’t lose them. They’ve paid.”

  “They’ve only paid a part of what it’ll come to once we add the extras. And they could do all that with
another firm. We’ve given our word about the work—we’ll have to pay the boys.”

  “What other firm would take them on if we send out the story?”

  “Perhaps. G & T would do it.”

  “Of course. Worst safety record in the business. It’s not a question of one hunter and a tent—they’ll want a large outfit. Well. We’ll leave on the right date and meet you. Stop for lunch. We’ll draw up a plan.”

  Nicholas couldn’t stay. He said something about later that night. As he left, he waved to the Binsteads. Stan nodded, Millie lifted her hand and smiled.

  Ian began the shooting lesson. Stan offered to show Millie himself, but was told that this was one of those activities, like driving a car, where the husband made a worse teacher than anyone else.

  On their way back to the bungalow, Stan asked about the farm.

  “You’ve heard about the ground-nut scheme?” Ian said. “A fiasco. I was in on that. A lot of us were. It’s mostly coffee here, but that hasn’t been too successful recently. Terrible thing, the weather.”

  Stan wished that he hadn’t asked.

  “Friend of mine went into flowers, grows daffodils. Pops them on a plane, they’re in London before you know it, all over the world. Coining money. If I’d thought of it at the time—but, you know how it is: one doesn’t. And then it’s better to see the thing through than pull out and change. That might be the wrong moment, too. Thought he was a bloody fool at the time. Now he’s laughing.”

  “Everything’s risky nowadays, I guess,” Stan said.

  “That’s it. We thought we’d made the last big decision in our lives when we opted to stay on. But nothing’s certain.”

  “It never was,” Millie said. “That’s the way life has always been, hasn’t it? Businesses can go broke, countries can go broke, fashions change, politics change. That’s what life is: movement.”

  Ian chuckled. Stan was astounded. The speech, even the fact that she had spoken at all, was so unlike her.

  She added, “Of course, it’s always nicer when things go well. I hope it picks up for you soon.”

  “Thank you,” Ian said. “We’ve given the children a start, at all events. That’s the important thing.”

  Millie asked about the children. The Fosters had two boys and a girl, all of them grown up now and making their way in the world. The daughter and one of the sons already had children of their own. The other son had been divorced and everyone—even the boy himself—agreed that it was his own fault. But people never took advice, and especially not children.

  “Or parents,” Millie said, which made Ian laugh again.

  Their lunch was simple and pleasant. Pippa said that if the Whiteacres really intended to take their time, she didn’t see why she shouldn’t go in their place. “Why not?” Ian asked. “There’s nothing you can’t leave. Come along. You can do those paintings you’re always talking about.”

  “I shall one day, you know.”

  “Do,” Millie told her. “Come with us.”

  “You see? You owe it to your public,” Ian said. “Those are all her paintings over there, you know. I’m constantly being threatened with more. No space left anywhere.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Don’t think. Decide.”

  Stan said, “That sounds like one of those battalion mottoes.”

  “It’s a family quotation,” Pippa explained. “It’s what we used to say to the children when they wouldn’t make up their minds. We went back to London once when they were small.”

  “That was frightful. That was when it came to me,” Ian said. “Looking up friends, trying to find a job in the city. Hopeless. And all at once I realized that I’d hate it, anyway. I couldn’t stick it. Not after this.”

  “The first thing they looked for in a restaurant,” Pippa said, “was the sweet trolley. And all through the meal, they kept their eyes on it. You’d think they would have decided, but no—when the time came, they kept shilly-shallying over their choice.”

  “Bloody annoying.”

  “Yes, that wasn’t a very good holiday.”

  “Come with us on this one, then. Make up for past disappointments. All right?”

  “All right,” she said. She folded her napkin and stood up. “I have two witnesses now, so you can’t back out of it.”

  They had coffee on the screened-in porch. Pippa told Millie what creams and medicines she was going to need, to ward off insects and avoid general infection. She also gave her a few suggestions on where to shop for what in town. Millie asked about the paintings in the house.

  “Most of them are mine,” Pippa said. “Yes. It’s become a mania over the years. I have visions of certain paintings I could do—marvellous, brilliant pictures. That’s what keeps me going. And then they never live up to it. Naturally. But some of these are by aunts and uncles. My people were Indian Army and they all painted. And their friends painted. It was the done thing at the time. One of the cousins was quite exceptional—a genuine talent. But he died young, so only a few of his works were left. The other relations lived to a great age. The ones who hadn’t the talent. Well, no talent for painting. A talent for growing old.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Who knows? Malaria, cholera, some sort of fever, heatstroke—anything. It’s difficult to imagine now that any army could have thrown away its men rather than infringe the dress regulations. Adherence to the rules at all costs. One of my uncles maintained that the troubles in India only began with the telegraph. After that, the politicians at home could issue their silly orders and the men on the spot had to carry them out. But before that, all the instructions came overland or by sea; it took months. By the time one of the idiot dispatches arrived, the local company man had already taken whatever steps were best suited to both sides. Those are his. And this one’s mine, but you can see where I had to start over down at the left.”

  “It’s much harder to correct a mistake with watercolours, isn’t it?”

  “Impossible, really. The speed is part of it. You should have an overall impression of freshness and of capturing the moment and the mood. I’m a convinced believer, but I think it’s usually considered the amateur’s medium.”

  They went outdoors to look at the leopard cubs, special pets of the Foster grandchildren, who had gone back to their school in England now that the holidays were over. Millie was enchanted. She bent down and talked to the animals; they rolled over each other to get to her, stood with their paws up against the wire, and mewed.

  “Can I pat one of them?” she asked.

  “Yes, but be careful.”

  “I’ve had injections for everything.”

  “Yes, my dear, we’ve all had the shots, but they’ll not do you much good if you’re scratched by a leopard. They’re growing so quickly. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Millie tickled one of the cubs. She said, “I just love them. I’d like to take them home.”

  “One becomes so attached to pets. I used to think it would get better as I got older, but it’s worse, if anything. A zoo in Germany wants them. Might as well. They’ll be no use out here now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too long being fed and cared for. Too much civilization. And the boys wouldn’t let them alone for an instant when they were here—that was bad for them as well. Jamie was too ridiculous, said he wanted to name one of them ‘Kung Fu’ and take him back to school where he’d train him to kill on command.”

  “I guess the boys will want to come live out here eventually?”

  “It would be lovely, of course. A dream come true. But one shouldn’t plan ahead. It’s too far away.”

  “For me,” Millie said, “everything out here is so beautiful to look at. One of those places where you know beforehand that it’s going to be perfect, just like the postcards. But it isn’t what I’d expected. It’s much more. And there’s something else. It’s a feeling in the air. The air is different here, it gives you such a sense of excitement and space and freedo
m.”

  “Yes, yes. That’s it.”

  “You don’t like thinking of them being in a zoo, do you?”

  “I shouldn’t allow myself to think it. It’s a sentimentality, for my own sake. It’s best for them to go where they can be looked after properly, I know that.”

  They started back towards the house. Pippa stopped once to put her hand up as a shield above her eyes. She stared off into the distance at a large, heavy, expensive-looking car that was travelling along the road.

  *

  Stan and Ian talked about the government. They had already discussed Lavalle and the Anthropology Department, and even the renegade Canadian scholar and his forthcoming film. Stan asked about the three officials who had taken charge of him in the morning, and said something about the tension he had felt between them.

  “It wasn’t really anything I could pin down. They were sort of holding something back among themselves and at the same time trying to outdo each other towards me.”

  “That puts it nicely. Yes. I think you’ll find that all over this part of the country, everywhere, the one thing you must never accuse an African of is tribalism. It makes him furious. It’s the one imputation he can’t stand. Because, of course, it’s usually true. It’s also true that it’s much more complicated than most Europeans realize when they use the word, so one can understand the indignation.”

  “Is that what was going on this morning?”

  “Absolutely. One or two other scores to settle on top of that, but that’s what it was.”

  “I guess it could have gone the other way, too. They could have tied up all the paperwork, with each one trying not to let anything through that didn’t give credit to him.”

  “Not in your case. They knew you were booked with me and Nick.”

  “I see. Wheels within wheels.”

  “Well, it’s a small place. We old hands have seen a lot. If something isn’t right in town, we know which village to go to, and which old man is the one to complain to.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Oh, it’s a grand place.”

  Millie and Pippa walked towards them from around the corner of the verandah. The car in the distance came nearer, driving up to the house. Two men alighted from it and were introduced to the Binsteads as Colonel Armstrong and Dr Hatchard. The colonel was tall, red-faced, talked in loud barks and had his moustache and sideburns arranged in two large sickles of hair. The doctor was dark, bald, clean-shaven and had muddy-coloured eyes. Armstrong began straight away to ask the Binsteads all about themselves. He skilfully linked his questions into further ones, so that soon Stan was talking about academic backbiting and the risks of publishing, or worse still, not publishing.