Private Lies (21 page)

Soaping himself, he pulled the chain and slicked away the
suds. Then he shampooed and came out again, a towel wrapped around his middle.

"That was quite a spectacle," Maggie said. She
had stripped to her bra and panties and was awaiting her shower. It occurred to
him suddenly, seeing her in her underwear, that she might be aroused and he
would be forced to perform an act that he wasn't up to, not with her. Nor did
he feel at all like the kori bustard. No way.

"Nature's way," he said, turning his back to her
and pulling on his undershorts.

"Carol has always impressed me as quite the little
lady," Maggie said. "But I bet there's more to that girl than one
might think. Lusty, isn't she?"

"I'd say Eliot was a lucky guy."

"I don't think Eliot's into that," she said.

"Into what?"

"You know. Sexiness. But I'll bet Carol is. I always
sensed that. A woman senses things like that. The way she walks. The way she
carries herself."

Ken heard the boy preparing the shower.

"Shower ready," the boy called.

Maggie put on a toweled robe and started toward the shower.

"Come and get fucked," she said, laughing,
repeating Carol's remark. "I like that."

"MIND IF I borrow Maggie here while you fellows take
the afternoon hop?" Eliot said pleasantly, hoping he was being
businesslike in a casual way. Maggie looked up, searching his face. Last night
he had mentioned the possibility of arranging something but he hadn't given her
any advance notice.

They had come out of the tents after siesta, all four of
them ready for the afternoon ride, when he had made his announcement.

"I had this idea," he explained, "about how
we could improve the wildlife data-base program." He turned to Maggie.
"Hope it's not an imposition." He had been making notes during the
siesta while everyone else napped. He had, indeed, spent the siesta time
working at the table under the fly of the tent.

"Of course not, Eliot," Maggie said. "I'd be
delighted."

"There'll be lots more elephants, especially in the Masai
Mara," Meade said.

Soon they would be heading to the country of the Masai. It
was even more spectacular than the Samburu, which was drier, less green, at
this time of year. Eliot had decided that the Masai Mara was more seductive.

The episode of the kori bustard had affected Eliot in an
odd way. He felt a sense of deprivation. Worse, of desolation. His woman, his
one true love, was standing there just a few feet from him and here he was
trapped in a manmade maze of his own absurd design. He envied the silly old
bird, free to follow the dictates of his instincts.

He looked at Carol and Ken, wondering if they were buying
his excuse. Above all, he wanted it to seem natural, certainly not a ploy to
give Carol and Ken more time together. Of course, with Meade ever present and
inhibiting his maneuverings, the plan would have less impact than if they were
truly alone. But it did have its virtues as a means to promote some emotional
bonding.

"Okay with me," Carol said, moving forward, Ken
following. He turned as he prepared to get in the van.

"Hope you won't miss anything spectacular," he
called back to them. They waved. Meade started the motor and they headed out of
the camp into the plain.

"Smart ass," Maggie said when they had gone. She
made no move to be affectionate. The servants were busy clearing the table.

"Of course, I'd rather that they were really
alone," Eliot said, rising from the table. They moved out of the mess tent
to Eliot's tent, where they sat side by side in director's chairs under the
fly.

"Well, we bought us a delicious afternoon. That's
something."

"I'm trying to buy us a life," Eliot said. He
looked over to where the servants were busy washing the dishes and clothes. One
was using a hot iron on a flat rock, pressing a pair of slacks.

Maggie reached out and put her hand in his. He took it and
squeezed.

"Dammit," she said. "It's not fair."

"I've stopped considering fair. I'm paying more
attention to what's doable."

"We're doable now," Maggie said, lifting his hand
to her lips.

"Not with them around," Eliot said, pointing to
the servants as they performed their chores.

"They barely speak English."

"But they have eyes—and ears. And Meade understands
Swahili."

"You're not worried about Meade?"

"Everybody is a potential troublemaker," Eliot
said. "This is Africa and news travels fast in Africa. Too fast."

"So what?" Maggie asked.

He knew it was difficult for her to understand, not coming
as he had from an environment of privilege. One always had to be careful about
the servants. They were always observing their employers, looking for gossip.
The objective was never to give them anything to wag their tongues about. Many
an employer has been done in by a servant who knew too much.

"Are you saying that we're going to spend the rest of
the day together and not take advantage of this opportunity?"

Her words had a half-sarcastic tone. Eliot smiled.

"Actually, we're going to take a walk."

"Isn't it dangerous?" Maggie asked.

"Not really. Especially at this time of the day. Most
of the predators have full bellies, having made their kills during the night.
Besides, for most of them we're not on the menu."

He led her around the backs of the tents, pausing to make
certain that none of the men had noticed, then took a route through the
tree-studded campsite that came out on the plain. By hugging the tree line they
would not be seen, even by the occasional vehicle that might be criss-crossing
the plain.

Eliot moved fast, having mapped out the route carefully.
From previous trips, he knew the various natural landmarks, the highest
ridgeline to the north, the river bend to the south, the west being where the
sun was going.

"You weren't fooling," Maggie said from behind
him.

He took her on a route alongside the trees that afforded
shade, avoiding any strenuous uphill areas, to keep down their level of
exertion. They saw animals along the way, a herd of zebras intermixed with a
group of giraffes, who moved gracefully through patches of trees, stopping to
munch leaves from the branches.

In the distance, they could see the silhouettes of the
occasional groups of elephants moving deliberately over the plain. He knew
where the real dangers lurked and his eye searched for lionesses on the move,
cubs in tow, a rare sight for this time of the day, but nevertheless a real
danger. Any cat with cubs was dangerous. The mother instinct to protect one's
young could be a genuine killer in this part of the world.

"Isn't it lovely, seeing it this way?" Eliot
asked. They walked in single file, although there was no specific trail, he
leading, she following.

"Beyond words," Maggie said.

"Are you tired?" he asked.

"Exhilarated," she said. "I can walk
forever."

He turned back to look at her and smiled.

He could not help indulging in the philosophical
significance of their being in this vastness, a species vastly different from
those creatures with whom they shared this place. Although he thought of these
animals reverently, he rejoiced in the idea that man, because of his more
complex brain and its resultant powers of reason, logic, and ability to absorb
knowledge, was the superior being, and therefore the most powerful.

And in this environment, he was sensing this superior power
in himself. To achieve his present goal he needed every ounce of cleverness,
every morsel of resourcefulness. And guile. Mostly guile. He was not going to
be deprived.

They moved through grassy terrain to a gentle rise
over-looking the river, which moved in a sparkling ribbon below them. A family
of baboons played along its edge, and they squatted for a while watching them gambol
among the trees along the river before they scampered away deep into the
thicket. A lone oryx stood on an anthill not far away, his body outlined
against the sun, now arced to throw longer shadows as it began the process of
slowly falling from the western sky.

"Beguiling, isn't it?" Eliot said, his glance
surveying the various dips in the contour of the land. He knew exactly where
they were, and in the distance he could spot the tops of the trees of their
campsite.

Then he heard Maggie's voice.

"Eliot," she cried.

When he turned she was naked, her clothes strewn in a pile
beside her, her arms outstretched toward him. The sun seemed to spangle her
skin as she stood there, and he looked at her for a long moment, feeling the
goading force of his own arousal.

"I feel free, so free," she cried. "Oh,
Eliot, I need you so badly."

He tore off his clothes and ran toward her, feeling the
same sense of abandonment, the joyous kinship with all those other creatures
that inhabited this vast plain.

But when he reached her she inexplicably turned and ran
toward the river, looking back at him, as if she too needed to perform her own
mating ritual. He followed after her, enjoying the sensation of the sun on his
naked flesh and the cooling breeze created by his own movement as he followed
her to the embankment.

But she did not stop at the river's edge, wading into it.
The tribe of gamboling baboons turned to look at her for a moment, then
continued their movement in the trees. Eliot noted, too, that the lone oryx on
the anthill remained unconcerned as he kept his solitary vigil.

He felt a thrilling sensation of danger as he moved in her
wake into the river. It was shallow, the water barely reaching his knees, but
it felt cool on his flesh and it was clean. Looking down, he could clearly see
his toes. As he followed, she looked back at him and waved, and he pressed on.
She headed for a wide flat rock that formed a dry island in the dead center of
the narrow river.

Reaching it, she turned toward him, awaiting his arrival,
and when he got closer, she sat down on the rock, tucking her legs under her,
smiling as she watched him. When he was finally close enough she reached out
and grasped his hand and helped him up.

There on this rock, with Maggie in his embrace, feeling the
fullness of his desire, he was conscious of assuming a totally different
persona, shedding every vestige of the civilized world, as if he were suddenly
reborn a primitive in a wild, untrammeled world.

When she touched him, caressing his manhood as she kissed him
deeply, he truly felt time disappear and the full sense of what it meant to be
part of the primal force of mankind. He entered her body, with both his own
will and the power of her womanhood, as if she were the great Earth Mother
drawing one of her sons back into herself.

Then came the mystical sensation that this was the true
first time for both of them, the consummation of some holy quest, the
culmination of which was only to be found on the crest of their mutual ecstasy.

Nor was he disappointed as their bodies hungrily
accelerated toward the climactic moment and they both screamed out their
pleasure as each reached a shuddering orgasm.

After that, they were quiet for a long time, watching the
river's flow as it eddied around the rock. Occasionally birds dived into the
water and glided upward again in a wide arc. They watched the tree shadows
elongate as the sun's angle dipped westward.

As they lay there, Eliot felt his conscious body float
upward as if to observe the conduct of his other self below, this self
connected to the woman by his side. The floating consciousness believed these
two people to be the beginning of mankind, dropped into this rich cornucopia of
Africa to begin the world all over again.

With her fingers Maggie traced his body as they lay there,
her head lying on his chest.

"Must we go back?" she asked. "Can't we just
fade into the bush, become part of the creatures on the plain, flee all the
responsibilities and cares we carry with us?" She looked into the trees,
where the tribe of baboons were temporarily resting. "Escape with
them."

"We're too late," he said. "We've beat them
in the evolutionary race."

"Beat them?" she laughed. "And here we are
suffering all the agonies and pain of being civilized and responsible, when we
know in our hearts we belong just as we are."

"That's exactly why nothing can stop us, Maggie,"
he said, feeling a resurgence of optimism and confidence. "Nothing. We
belong together."

They kissed deeply again and stretched out on the rock like
sea lions sunning themselves.

A shadow passed across Eliot's mind as the thought of
civilization and all its portents rushed back at him. Their dilemma, he
decided, was unjust and the unfairness of it was skewering his most cherished
values. Carol had become not only the usurper of his material goods but also
the usurper of his happiness. He saw her now as having used him badly, of
cheating him.

Suddenly the shriek of a baboon startled them and they
stood up. The baboon who had shrieked had apparently spied another male who was
attempting to copulate with a female baboon who belonged to him. The shrieking
baboon chased the other male into the river. They watched the chase until both
baboons were out of sight.

"No prenuptial agreements for them," Eliot said
archly. The thought brought him to a new level of determination.

"Lucky them," Maggie sighed.

Then they waded back to the embankment and reached the spot
where they had thrown their clothes. They got dressed and started back to camp.

MEADE WAS TELLING them how they had followed this huge
imaginary semicircle where herds of elephants coming from different parts of
the plain were moving toward the same objective, which was this certain spot in
the river.

"I feel awful about missing it," Maggie said.

"It was fabulous," Carol said. "Wasn't it,
Ken?"

"Super," Ken said.

Firelight flickered in Meade's eyes as he talked, pausing
only to drink, then refilling his glass from the whiskey bottle sitting on the
ground near the legs of his director's chair. Up to then he had been on his
best behavior, holding the intake down to two or three at the most, including
before and after dinner. He was above the limit now, his bulbous nose showing
the signs of his inebriation like litmus paper.

Carol knew, of course, that he liked his whiskey, and over
the years he had repressed his temptations on safari, as if it were a tacit
understanding with Eliot, who admired his expertise and devotion but detested
his weakness.

Every time he had started to excuse himself, Maggie had
held him back by wanting to know more about their afternoon with the elephants.
Encouraging Meade to spin his yarns, especially at this hour, was for him,
Carol knew, a prescription for inebriation. He was a man who loved this life,
loved the wilderness and the animals, and greatly enjoyed rehashing the oral
record of his exploits.

Carol also understood that as an old hunter he lived with
deep regrets that hunting had been abolished. Often, he had explained the idea
of the hunt, the poetry of its mission, the mysterious natural kinship between
the killer and the victim, the need to assert man's status as the king of all
the predators. The ritual of killing, he explained, was merely the symbol of
mankind's necessary domination of all species on this earth. Man is the real
king of the jungle, he would proclaim.

He provided practical reasons for the old ways as well. The
herds had to be trimmed. There was too much competition for space and food. A
hunting death was an honorable death, much preferred to the indignity and agony
of a death without grace, from starvation or poaching or an unclean killing.

And, like all true hunters, Meade abhorred the visitors'
predilection for killing for trophies and, always, if somewhat symbolically,
ate the kill.

Meade's explanations and opinions invariably struck Carol
as pretentious or self-righteous, but fascinating. She would be prompted to ask
him baiting questions such as: How do you choose who shall live and who shall
die? Instinct, he would explain without hesitation. The hunter knows who must
die. It was an idea that always troubled her, but he was unshaken in his
belief.

Meade's supply of talk was inexhaustible and, if properly
stoked with booze, a belt or two beyond the limit, he could easily go on all
night. Indeed, until his tongue thickened beyond articulation, he could
actually be incisive and entertaining. Eliot had turned in early.

"We parked the van," Meade said, "off to the
side of the river bank and they came down this flat incline. It was a bloody
parade, it was. How many did we count?" He turned to Ken, who was sitting
in the director's chair beside Meade.

"Oh, God, nearly two hundred," Ken said.

"Two hundred bloody elephants. The whole community
come to gossip and meander and play in the river, the babies under the watchful
eyes of the aunties, mums, and nannies while the teenage boys banged heads. It
was lovely. Lovely."

He upended his glass and poured another.

"Was it scary?" Maggie asked.

Meade shrugged with macho disdain.

"I was scared," Carol said.

"Sometimes these aunties get this idea in their head
that you want to hurt the calves. That's the prime no-no. Show them evil intent
and they'll swing a trunk and knock you all to pieces. Biggest killer, the
elephant. Just look at the zoo statistics. More keepers killed by elephants.
They get to not liking you, then
bam
. I've seen it. I can tell
you."

Miraculously, he spoke as if he were dead sober without the
slightest slurring.

"But how can they tell the difference between benign
and evil intent?" Maggie pressed.

"Paranoia, you see," Meade said.

"Paranoia in elephants?" Maggie asked.

"They're scared. Poachers will come with automatic
weapons and mow down a whole herd for their ivory. So their fear is real and
somehow they communicate it to the others. Damndest thing."

"Poachers," Ken said, shaking his head.
"Dirty bastards."

"Worse than slime," Meade continued, helping
himself to another drink. "It's the ivory, the bloody ivory. Hell, they're
also poaching me and my buddies out of business. First the rhino, then the
elephant. We humans are a bastardly bunch of coconuts."

He would soon be past the point, Carol knew. But there was
no stopping him and Maggie was not running out of questions.

"Do you think we'll see it again?" Maggie
persisted.

"Question of numbers," Meade said. "You'll
see them, but how many I cannot tell you. Today was one of a kind."

"Just my luck," Maggie said, throwing another
piece of wood on the fire. In a moment it caught and flared, casting a bright
circle of light beyond which they could make out nothing but blackness.

"You must be really tired, Meade," Carol said.

"Surely something must be done about the
poachers," Maggie interjected, opening up still another subject, which
Meade bit on, proceeding to trace all the reasons for poaching and what must be
done about it.

"Money, money, money. The elephant's ivory, the
rhino's horn. And the sheer competition for grazing domesticated animals.
Bloody wogs haven't got a clue about land management. Bloody awful to sacrifice
these magnificent beasts to that kind of bloody ignorance. Shoot the bloody
bastards on sight." He barely took a breath, stopping only to refill his
glass, but passion and booze were making him repetitive and surly.

"Do you think those measures will work?" Maggie
asked.

Was she blind to his condition? Carol wondered.

"Fuck, no," Meade answered. He was showing it
now. Soon he would grow belligerent.

"I think we'd better turn in," Carol said,
standing up, glancing toward Maggie, who averted her eyes.

"I can listen to his stories all night," Maggie
said.

"Seems like we have," Ken said, standing and
stretching. "Shouldn't you be doing the same, Meade."

"You my nanny?" Meade shot back.

"Hell, no," Ken said.

Perhaps recognizing his condition, Meade got up and
immediately began to sway. He was very drunk, having difficulty taking a step
forward, holding his arms in front of him in self-protection against a misstep
that would fling him to the ground.

"Let's go, fella," Maggie said, lifting his arm
and putting it on her shoulder. Meade mumbled a brief protest, but gave her
little fight.

"You'll need help," Ken said.

"Please, no," Maggie said, waving him away.
"It's no problem. Besides, I feel responsible for keeping him going. You
guys stay. I'll deposit the great white hunter and turn in."

Then she moved off with him into the darkness. When they
were gone, Carol and Ken sat down again. They had been trying, unsuccessfully,
to be alone all evening.

"She's right about one thing. She did keep him
going," Carol said. "Surefire way to prime the pump."

"When she gets curious, there's no stopping her,"
Ken sighed.

"You'd think she'd have some insight into the man's
weakness. He was gone an hour ago," Carol said testily.

"Never mind her," Ken said. "More
importantly, did you spot anything promising between them when we got
back?"

"Hard to tell," she whispered.

"Eliot seemed exhausted. He yawned a lot at
dinner," Ken said.

"I'm not sure that means anything," Carol said.

At dinner, Eliot had told them that he and Maggie had
walked for a bit on the plain. "I think we both needed a stretch," Eliot
had explained.

"You think anything might have happened between
them?" Carol asked.

She had entertained this fantasy idea all day that she and
Ken would persuade Meade to head back to camp early on some ruse or other and
they would discover Eliot and Maggie making love. But the elephants had
intervened and pushed that idea from her mind. Besides, it was good being alone
with Ken, despite Meade's presence.

"Be great if it was just us on this trip," Ken
said.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"When we're free at last we'll do just that," Ken
whispered. He had tippled a few himself and was beginning to feel optimistic
about their future together. "Maybe we'll go up to Tanzania and shoot the big stuff."

Hunting was still legal in Tanzania.

"Old Meade really got to you," Carol laughed.

"Not just Meade," Ken acknowledged.
"Hemingway saw it as well, the mystique about this place, as if somehow we
were closer to the truth of it out here. It was Hemingway who may have posed
the eternal question of Africa."

"What was that?" Carol asked.

Ken paused, his eyes growing vague as if he were looking
inward. "Why the leopard climbed Kilimanjaro, beyond the altitude that
could support his life. It's in the introduction to his short story 'The Snows
of Kilimanjaro.'"

"And why do you think the leopard did that?"
Carol asked.

Ken shrugged, then his face brightened.

"Maybe because here, in this fantastic place, one gets
to believe that anything is possible."

"Did the leopard discover that?" Carol asked.

"No. His frozen carcass was found on the western
summit," Ken muttered, peering into the fire. "He apparently tried to
reach for the stars, which may be the point of the question."

Carol shivered and looked around her, surveying the
perimeter of the circle of light thrown by the fire's flames. She wanted to
reach out and touch Ken. Instead she contrived to touch him in another way.

"Someday our story and this place will find its way
into a book. A Kramer. People will say he got his inspiration in Africa. Like Hemingway," Carol said, suddenly remembering her own lost dream.

Yes, she thought, when they were free, they would put
everything they had into that. Finally, unable to resist, she reached for his
hand.

"Hey," Ken said, pulling his hand away in mock
surprise and looking toward the darkness and the tents beyond. By then, Maggie
must have deposited Meade and gone off to their tent. "That's taking a big
chance."

"I'm tired of all this restraint," Carol said.

"You mustn't lose heart, baby," Ken said.

"Frankly, I see no change."

"I beg to differ. There's a subtle difference in the
way they look at each other."

"I fail to see that."

He tapped his forehead.

"The writer's eye."

"Maybe so. But I see no change and it's beginning to
frustrate me."

She felt herself becoming mean-minded and impatient, a
dangerous combination. Her resentment, which she had held in check since
arriving in Africa, burst once again into her awareness. She had let love
endanger her security. Perhaps their initial success in arranging this trip was
merely a tease, a come-on to raise false hopes. Perhaps all these convoluted
strategies would come to nothing. Africa would be a bust. And then?

She hated the dilemma, hated finding herself the victim of
this injustice, this ridiculous legality. It was inhuman, against nature. Why
must she be punished for her feelings? But to pursue any other course, to
confront Eliot, offering compromise, frightened her.

Perhaps Ken had been right back in the States. Perhaps
there was a chance of compromise. Again she pulled back on that point. Eliot
was too rigid and controlled to comprehend the demands of love and passion.

On the other hand, he was a man whose causes displayed
empathy for humanity as a whole. Surely he could particularize this feeling to
the point of view of a single individual. Yet, that, too, was worrisome. Eliot
might completely comprehend her motives, but her insistence on keeping her
valuable collections could be interpreted by him as a venal display of greed
and grasping acquisitiveness. He might also claim that she had deliberately
defrauded him, siphoned off his funds for her own secret purposes. A case could
be made on that point. She had, indeed, bought things in her own name with a
selfish eye to appreciation. How else was she to circumvent that terrible
prenuptial agreement?

Yet Eliot had plenty of money. Surely he could show some
compassion, release her out of the contract with her possessions intact.
Perhaps she should simply put it on the table: Let me take what is mine as
compensation for years of faithful service. In that context it sounded so
logical. Would she take less? she wondered, suddenly upset by the idea of
negotiating for what was rightfully hers. But love, too, had its value, value
without measure. After all, a life without love was barren and lonely. And a
life without money, without security? She had seen both and they were equally
awful.

It angered her to feel so helpless, so dependent on Eliot's
decision. Had she a choice? She looked at Ken. Yes, she decided, she would
confront Eliot. Now.

She stood up. They had both been lost in their thoughts and
hadn't fed the fire, which was dying.

"Tonight," Ken whispered. "Make love to me
in your dreams."

"Yes. Yes, I will," she said.

But the other matter absorbed her now. Despite her
trepidation, she felt hopeful. Hadn't Eliot always been fair? Hadn't she
performed her role with gracious submission and understanding, waiting
patiently in the wings until needed? When a cue for a wife was signaled, there
she was onstage, hostess and helpmate, ornament and intimate. In its way, being
a wife to Eliot could be considered a job that required compensation, along
with a pension-and-profit-sharing plan. We struck a deal to marry, she told
herself. Why not strike a deal to unmarry? This last thought spurred her
courage. Have it out. Now!