Private Lies (26 page)

Through her closed eyes, she saw the flash of brightness,
the sudden beam of light that washed over her for a brief moment, then
disappeared. When she opened her eyes it was gone.

"What is it?" Ken asked. Facing the opposite
direction, he hadn't seen it.

A cough rent the air, unmistakably Meade's. She took the
sound of it as confirmation. The man had seen them in his flashlight's beam. A
chill swept through her. It was out now, definitely, no longer a private secret
between them. She forced herself out of his embrace and they quickly refastened
their clothes.

"It was Meade. He flashed his light on us."
Again, paranoia charged back at her. "He could be watching us for them.
Spying on us. I feel it, Ken. They know."

"Not Meade," Ken said. "He would never do
anyone else's dirty work."

Carol felt hostility stir deep inside her. It was, indeed,
war. Something had to be done, some new action mounted. She wasn't certain
what, but she knew she would think of something. This was one war she must not
lose.

Then she heard Ken's low chuckle. It was out of context to
her own thoughts.

"What's so funny?" She forced down an edge of
anger.

"At least I mooned the bastard," he said.

She started to protest, but held back. There was humor in
it, she supposed. But she didn't laugh and it didn't chase her fear.

"THEY ARE NOT what they seem," Meade said,
throwing Eliot a sharp meaningful look. The message was quite clear. They were
standing on a knoll in the Masai Mara, watching a herd of cattle straggle out
of a Masai village.

A gentle breeze brought the stinging effluvial vapors up
from the village. Walking beside their cattle, the tall, graceful Masai in
their colorful orange robes prodded the herd into the plain.

"They look so beautiful," Maggie said.

"A bloody filthy lot. Don't be taken in. They're
greedy and they stink of dung. Everything they do is dung. They build their
houses with dung. That center there"—Meade pointed to a kind of courtyard
surrounded by huts made of dung and branches—"is literally a cattle-shit
dump."

"Meade is offended by them," Eliot interjected,
wishing to explain the man's hostility rather than rebuke him for his now
nonstop drinking. Meade had become exceedingly vocal and abusive and his
drinking had accelerated since they had made their camp in the Masai Mara two
days before.

Meade's drinking was very worrisome to Eliot. Uninhibited
by his alcoholic euphoria, a chance remark could set him off, cause him to
blurt out information that would be better left unsaid.

"The women and kids do the work. The men hang out all
day on their bums passing the time drinking and screwing."

"Not all bad," Ken said.

"Their cattle also muck up the plain and the so-called
brave Masai warriors kill any wildlife that gets in their way."

"I've read that a Masai man gains his manhood when he
kills a lion with a spear," Maggie said.

"Bloody bullshit myth," Meade said. "They
carry those spears for show. Oh, they kill lions all right. Come across one
sleeping on a full belly and they'll stick a spear in his gut. Real brave, they
are."

Eliot had never approved of Meade's intense dislike of the
Masai. But hating Masai was a kind of tradition among the safari guides. The
Masai made them pay to traverse their land, made them pay for any pictures
taken by tourists, and hustled and stole from safari clients.

But this was Masai land, and Eliot believed that they were
entitled to some respect. He had visited them in their villages on a number of
occasions. It was true that they stank and drank an offensive concoction of
milk and cattle blood, but they were a cultural phenomenon with different
values, worthy of preservation and toleration.

Ordinarily he would have rebuked Meade for his criticism.
But this was not an ordinary time, and Meade was obviously using his knowledge
to get back at Eliot for sabotaging his van. Eliot had no illusions on this
point. The man suspected him and rightly so. It was, in retrospect, a stupid
act. He would have to be more clever in the future.

He had no intentions of giving up, surrendering what
rightly belonged to him. Life had opened up to him in a way he had never
imagined. He would have to be more resourceful, more resolute. It was growing
increasingly obvious that there was little hope that Ken and Carol might ever
be attracted to each other. He needed to find another way, stronger means.

"Bloody bastards," Meade said as they all
clambered back into the van to resume their afternoon safari.

Gone was the easygoing, albeit surface camaraderie of their
first days in the Samburu. Now the tension was palpable, inescapable. Everyone
was touched by it.

On the way to the Masai Mara they had stopped at Narok, a
fly-blown dust-ridden township, to freshen up and buy carvings, magazines, and
postcards. Maggie signaled Eliot with her eyes to follow, then drifted down the
main thoroughfare into the post office where she took her place in the queue
for buying stamps. Eliot followed.

"Meade's torturing us," Maggie whispered.

"He thinks what he knows gives him the right,"
Eliot said.

"I'm so sorry, Eliot. But I was so afraid, then so
grateful. I couldn't control myself."

"It's not your fault. I'm sure he suspects that I
sabotaged the van."

"Has he confronted you?" Maggie asked anxiously.

"Not yet. So far he's just toying with us."

"Do you think he'll say anything to Carol or
Ken?"

"Who can say? When he's drunk he might do
anything."

"It's my fault. All my fault."

"We'll tough it out, Maggie. He's got no proof on
either score, only his word, and in his present state that's not too
good."

"But if he does say anything it will plant ideas in
their minds. Alert them."

"Well, so far he hasn't," Eliot said. It seemed a
hollow reassurance.

The line in front stalled. A woman was arguing with one of
the clerks in Swahili. Eliot waited through a long silence. Then Maggie
whispered: "It's not happening the way we wanted, is it, Eliot?"

"No, it isn't," he admitted.

"Why don't we just tell them? Get it over with."

"We've been through that," Eliot sighed.

The line had begun to move again. Maggie opened her
pocketbook and got money out to give the clerk.

"What are we going to do?"

"I'll think of something, Maggie, something foolproof.
We mustn't lose heart. It means too much to both of us."

"Of course it does. It's that terrible man, Meade.
He's making me nervous."

"We'll handle him," Eliot whispered.

Maggie reached the window and bought stamps. As Eliot
waited, he inadvertently turned his gaze. Meade had attached himself to the
line. How long had he been there watching them? Eliot wondered.

Maggie turned away from the counter, began to speak to
Eliot again, then saw Meade and her features grew rigid with fear. She said
nothing and moved toward the exit.

Eliot detested the man for making them both self-conscious
and fearful. Yes, he thought, he'd find a foolproof way to accomplish what they
had set out to do. Despite Meade, that drunken sinister bastard. He moved up to
the counter and bought stamps.

Meade no longer joined them at the campfire either before
or after dinner. He sat on the director's chair on his tent porch sipping from
his flask and, it seemed to Eliot, guarding his van. He had also placed the
tents closer together than at the Samburu, which troubled Eliot. It was as if
he wanted to keep them as close as possible, within his vision.

The four of them did not stay long at the campfire, and the
conversation between them was confined to platitudes and African lore. Even the
way they seated themselves had changed. Normally Eliot and Maggie would be
seated together. It seemed expected that, as business colleagues first, there
would be much in common for them to share.

Somehow that had changed. Eliot and Ken found themselves
side by side and Maggie and Carol now sat on the other side of their spouses.
Eliot was not sure how that had happened. It crossed his mind that perhaps
Meade had somehow conveyed his suspicions to Carol and she was orchestrating
this new design. He decided to explore the idea cautiously.

"They seem to be more aloof," Eliot said to Carol
when they were back at their tent to prepare for bed. He kept his voice
modulated to a whisper.

"I've noticed that," Carol replied.

"You think it's something we've done, something gone
wrong?"

"Maybe it's Meade, his drinking, putting a pall on
everything."

"Maybe."

He allowed himself a period of silence before he spoke
again.

"We seem to be pulling apart." He paused.
"As couple friends."

"I thought you and Maggie were buddies," Carol
said. She had slipped into her cot and he had put out the lantern. He turned
his head, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. Then he saw
her clearly. Her eyes were open and she was looking at the ceiling of the tent.
He offered no comment, remaining alert and cautious.

"As a matter of fact, Eliot, I thought she had a crush
on you."

Her statement confused him. What was she saying? Was she
testing him, baiting him? Did she suspect? Had Meade said anything?

"That's ridiculous," he said.

"I don't think so," Carol said. "I think you
and she complement each other."

"I won't have that," Eliot said, his stomach in
knots.

"Why not? She's bright, sexy. And she seems to dote on
you." There was a certain relentlessness in the way she pursued the
subject. "Frankly, I think you'd make a great pair."

He ripped away the blanket and stood up.

"What are you telling me, Carol?" he asked.
"Has Ken been saying this?"

"He's not blind."

"What has he said?"

"That you two go together. A better match than you and
I. And them."

"Have you actually discussed this with Ken?" Her
remarks were beyond his wildest expectations. His uncertainty was acute. He had
no idea what to make of her sudden outburst. Did she know? Was this her way of
telling him? "Well, did you?" Eliot prodded.

"Yes. I have," she said hesitantly.

And had Ken discussed this with Maggie? Had they been that
obvious? He was certain Carol was precipitating something, setting him up. He
would stop it right there. It would go no further.

"Well, then. There it is. That's the problem. That's
why they're so aloof now. You've stirred a pot of trouble, Carol. Frankly, I'm
ashamed of you."

"Ashamed of me?"

Had he gone too far? He saw it quite plainly now. Meade had
told her, had agreed to be a witness. They were conspiring against him. He had
better retreat, he told himself, think things out. Hasty action now could be
disastrous.

Eliot remade the cot and slipped back between the sheets.

"I don't think this is worthy of you, Carol," he
muttered. "Your connotation is filthy-minded. The woman is my employee, a
colleague, more like a sister to me."

He closed his eyes, his mind spinning, hoping that this
outburst might quickly checkmate her accusations. But one thing was certain. He
must not underestimate her.

It was growing more and more apparent that he would have to
take some drastic action.

"BLOODY GOOP," MEADE cursed as the wheels of the
van slipped in the mud. He rocked it backward and forward until the tires
gripped, found rock, and started their forward motion again.

It had rained all night, soaking the plain, swelling the
rivers and streams that rolled down from the foothills.

"I thought this wasn't the rainy season," Ken
said, addressing Eliot, who did not seem amused.

"Freak weather," he replied evenly. "It
happens."

Meade was too busy fighting the van's wheel to respond. The
inside of the van stank of stale alcohol. He hadn't shown up for breakfast,
which was becoming increasingly common, and when he did appear his eyes were
two maps of red tributaries and his nose was swollen and pitted with red lumps.

"We're going for lion today," he had announced,
his words slurry. He had given Ken no more than a cursory glance. Could it be
that Carol had been wrong in her observation that Meade had caught their
lovemaking in the beam of his flashlight? Ken had accepted her observation as
gospel. It could be that the light had merely washed over them, that Meade had
detected nothing.

Ken was getting worried about Carol. Her imagination seemed
to be overheating. All right, he told himself, suppose Meade had seen them. As
an experienced safari guide, Meade must have witnessed all kinds of odd
liaisons. It would be counterproductive to his business to gossip.

But Carol's paranoia had pushed her to contemplate a truly
bizarre idea, that Meade was conspiring with Eliot, spying on them. Such a wild
scenario had a terrible logic. There was certainly a lot of money at stake
here. He understood clearly what it meant to Carol, and, therefore, to himself.

What worried him most was that that kind of suspicion could
feed on itself. It implied that Eliot knew what was going on between them, that
Maggie knew, that Meade knew. Was it making Carol lose confidence in their
original plan? No, he cautioned himself. He mustn't let this happen, mustn't
give it up. His future, their future, was at stake.

Ken noted that Meade was carrying something in a leather
bag which he had put beside him on the floor. When it rolled, a clanking sound
revealed that it was unmistakably a bottle. Yet no one challenged him, which
seemed strange to Ken. Certainly Eliot should have admonished him. Eliot had
arranged the safari. Eliot was in charge. But he seemed not to notice.

Ken and Carol had exchanged glances but not words, although
the communication between them was quite clear. Considering what Meade had
observed, neither Ken nor Carol was prepared to make waves. No way.

Despite the muddy terrain, the plain was studded with
wildlife. Thompson's and Grant's gazelles pranced in the wake of zebras,
giraffes, wildebeests, and impalas. They saw topi and duiker and herds of
African buffalos adorned with their perpetual tick birds. Even the birds were
out in force—buzzards, eagles, plovers, hawks, bustards, and hoards of quail.

If only he could eliminate this fear that had gripped
Carol, Ken thought as he and Carol stood in the portal observing the
spectacular display of wild creatures that studded the plains, thickets, and
riverines. To avoid any suspicion that things had changed radically, Ken and
Carol still shared the middle portal seats. Maggie, sitting as always in the
rear of the van, seemed to have, inexplicably, lost interest in the sights, and
Eliot actually looked dull and forlorn in his seat beside Meade. What was
happening here?

The sun had risen, but it would be hours before the plain
would dry out.

"We should be crossing that bloody river," Meade
pointed. The Mara River was swollen and moving at high speed. "Maybe
tomorrow."

Meade took a hard right and crossed high ground, which was
drier, headed up a hill, then down again, watching the ground as he drove.
Occasionally, he stopped suddenly and studied the animal tracks.

"A pride," he muttered, heading the van in the
direction of the tracks.

The van jostled along. At times the sudden movement would
throw their bodies together and Ken would feel Carol's warmth. Why the fear? he
wondered. Why all this angst and anxiety? Why care who knew? Meade, Eliot,
Maggie. What did it matter?

Out here, in the freedom and beauty of the African plain,
pessimism evaporated. Financial cares were trivial. So-called civilization back
somewhere in that other world seemed stultifying and corrupt. Here,
possibilities were infinite.

There was something revitalizing in that idea, as if he
were getting back to that place of his youth where anything was possible, where
dreams had power and he was suffused with boundless hope. He looked toward
Carol. Their eyes met and she smiled. Despite her present fears, hadn't her life,
too, been renewed by their love?

Another jostling turn forced Carol's body against him.

No more of this, he decided. Their love was all, was
everything. Under no circumstances, he vowed, would he lose this opportunity.
He seemed to swell with the full force of his conviction. No, he would not
throw away their chance for happiness.

Of course, he would have to rein in temptation, be less
compulsive and more discreet. If things could be worked out as they had
originally contemplated, well and good. But if not, they would have to find a
new path. Carol must be mine one way or another, Ken assured himself, using the
heroic cliché as if he were the star of some medieval romance.

To avoid the van's wheels slipping onto a muddy track,
Meade zigzagged to cut across the driest spots. At the top of a rise, he
stopped the van and, standing up in the portal, surveyed the plain with his
binoculars.

"Got a pair," he snickered, sinking back down
into the driver's seat and moving the van forward in the direction he had been
studying.

"What does he mean?" Ken asked Carol.

"You'll see."

For the first time that day he saw her smile.

They pulled up beside a lion and a lioness stretched beside
each other. They looked up indifferently as the van approached, then turned
away, the male lion resting on his great paws while the female, legs up, warmed
her belly in the sun.

"Zip it up," Meade whispered, inching the van as
close to the pair as possible. Then he braked the van and withdrew his flask
for another deep swallow.

The four of them stood up to observe the animals from the
portals. They were beautiful, free, utterly unfazed by their human observers.
The lioness, her coat gleaming, looked as if she had been groomed for the
occasion.

Cameras clicked as they took their pictures.

"Save some for the show, folks," Meade said,
taking another sip from his flask. Eliot said nothing. Ken noted that he cut
Meade sidelong glances of disgust.

"What show?" Ken asked.

"Find out soon enough," Meade snapped, offering a
cackling laugh.

Suddenly the lion stood up, shook his mane, and ambled over
to the lioness, who, as if on cue, rolled over onto her belly. The lion moved
behind her, reared over her with his two front paws, and, his penis erect,
mounted her. His muscled haunches pumped, then suddenly he let out a loud roar,
his jaws closing on the back of the lioness's neck.

"There's a fucker for you," Meade said, laughing,
up-ending his flask.

"I wish you wouldn't," Eliot said. His attitude,
Ken noted, seemed to be one of pleading.

Meade looked up at him malevolently.

"Surely, Butterfield, you know all about a good
fuck," Meade said. When he looked up he caught Ken's eye and winked. Ken
turned away embarrassed.

Eliot's docility puzzled Ken. In his drunken state, there
was no telling what Meade might say. Carol, standing beside him, poked him in
the thigh.

"He's being goddamned offensive," Ken whispered.

"Leave him alone, Ken."

It was Maggie's voice behind him, which further confused
him. The man was terrorizing them and they were taking it.

At that point, the male lion moved away from the female and
the lioness rolled over on her back again.

"They'll do this repeatedly," Eliot said.
"Twenty times at least. It's the constant stimulation that gets her eggs
to react and be fertilized. They rarely miss conception."

"That's why they call the bloody bugger king of the
jungle," Meade cackled, gurgling the remains of his flask. "Fucks and
fucks and fucks, he does." Reaching beside him, he found the bottle of
whiskey and took a deep swallow from it.

"Come on, Meade. Easy there," Eliot said, but his
rebuke lacked conviction.

"I think you're being a jerk," Ken said.

He felt all their eyes engulf him at once.

"Do you, now, Kramer, old sod?" Meade said.
"I wouldn't be so quick to pass judgment if I were you." His air of
menace was inescapable.

"He doesn't mean anything," Maggie said quickly.

"Good show, lady. Playing the loyal wife, are
ya?"

Maggie seemed struck dumb by his remark.

"Are you all right?" Ken asked his wife.

"No fuss, please. I'm fine."

"You look pale as a ghost," Ken said.

"She said she's fine, Ken," Carol said.

Eliot observed them, but said nothing. Nobody spoke for a
long time. They all watched the lions. In a few minutes, the male lion got up
and mounted the lioness again.

"Small doodle for a big bugger like that," Meade
said, watching the performance. The lion roared. "Feels good, eh,
laddie," Meade croaked. "Earth move for ya, laddie?"

"Ignore him," Carol said, watching her husband,
whose level of infuriation was visible and rising.

"Listen to the lady, Butterfield. Another good and
faithful wife is heard from."

"Must you?" Ken blurted.

"Well. Well. Well. Pot calls the kettle," Meade
cackled drunkenly.

"I think we should head back to camp," Eliot
said. "We've got plenty of pictures."

"Bad luck, mate," Meade said. "You must
never leave until after the third fuck."

"Jesus," Ken blurted. The man was insulting,
crude, and contemptible.

"He's beyond the pale when he's drunk," Carol
whispered, hoping Meade might not hear her. "Might say anything that comes
into his head. Pay no attention."

"I'm not feeling well. I really think I'd like to get
back to camp," Maggie said, addressing Meade.

"Show us a little decency, Meade," Eliot urged.

At that moment, the lion rose again, mounted the lioness,
and roared. Then he moved away, stretched out, lay on his paws, and closed his
eyes.

"Now can we go?" Eliot asked.

"Had enough, have you?" Meade said. "That's
a surprise, considering."

Considering what, Ken wondered. That he and Carol were
yielding to this disgusting form of blackmail, letting this man abuse them?
What had he seen? He rolled that over in his mind. Plenty, I suppose. But why
this cruelty? And why had Eliot reacted so tepidly?

Meade gunned the motor and the van shot forward as the four
of them pitched backward, jolted by the fast start.

"Sorry, folks, for the fast getaway," Meade
muttered, squinting through the windshield. "It's all right. I'm
concentrating."

He nosed the van into the plain, moving cautiously with the
exaggerated care of the drunkard who knows his condition. He did not take the
same route over which they had come, easing the van down the rise and heading
between two extended thickets, realizing too late that there was only the muddy
track between them. Meade brought the van chugging and wheezing into the track.
It was rough going. The ground churned beneath them. At one point, the wheels
sank into the mud and no amount of rocking could dislodge them.

"Bloody slop," Meade grumbled as the van sank
deeper.

"I'm afraid you'll have to winch it," Eliot said.

"My show," Meade cried. "I'll bloody well
decide."

Ken looked at Eliot, whom he could see in profile through
the front portal. His face had flushed, but he provided no response to Meade's
insolence.

"Surly bastard," Maggie whispered. She was
standing in the portal behind Ken.

Pressing full force on the accelerator did little good. The
wheels spun as if they were hanging in midair, forcing all four wheels down to
the fender line.

"This is crazy," Ken said, catching Carol's
glance. She shook her head quickly, a signal for him to desist.

"Fuck," Meade said. He took the bottle from
beside the seat and took a long swig. The bumps on his nose reddened.
"Everybody, the fuck out," he shouted.

The four of them jumped out in turn, trying to clear the
muddy track. Ken's left foot sunk to mid-ankle and he pulled it out with a
plopping sound.

Meade unrolled the cable attached to the winch which was
mounted on the front of the van.

"Need help?" Eliot asked.

"You'll be the first to know," Meade barked.

"Drunken asshole," Ken whispered to Carol, who
put a finger up to her lips.

"He'll hear," she whispered.

"So what," he mumbled, resenting being held
hostage by this abusive drunk.

Meade looked about for a solid tree that would accommodate
the cable's length.

"There," he said, pointing to a tree in a nearby
thicket. "That will have to do." He pulled at the cable, which
unwound from the mounted winch, calling back to them as he entered the thicket.
"And don't touch a fucking thing."

They watched as he entered the thicket, heading for the
sturdy tree he had spotted.

"We can't let this go on," Ken said.

"He gets this way when he drinks," Eliot said for
what seemed like the umpteenth time.

"The man is dangerous," Ken said.

"If we push him, he'll get worse," Carol said.

"Let's just ride it out," Maggie muttered.

At that moment, they heard a screeching roar and a human
scream. Two lion cubs appeared at the edge of the thicket.