Part 9 (2/2)
We stand in a circle around the kill as the last blood drains from the open cavity. Already the discarded organs are drying out in the sun and the vultures grow thicker overhead, anxious to rip into this ripening mound of carrion.
”The meaning of meat,” Elliot says. ”I never thought of it that way.”
”The bush makes you see your real place in the world,” says Johnny. ”Here, you're reminded of what you really are.”
”Animals,” Elliot murmurs.
Johnny nods. ”Animals.”
AND THAT'S WHAT I see when I look around the campfire that night. A circle of feeding animals, teeth ripping into chunks of roasted impala meat. Just one day after being stranded in the wild, we have devolved into savage versions of ourselves, eating with our bare hands as juices drip down our chins, our faces streaked with black from charred fat. At least we do not worry about starving out here in the bush, which teems with meat on the hoof and on the wing. With his rifle and skinning knife, Johnny will keep us well fed.
He sits in the shadows just outside our circle, watching us gorge. I wish I could read his face, but it's closed to me tonight. Does he look at us with contempt, these clueless clients, helpless as baby birds, who need him to put food in our mouths? Does he blame us somehow for Clarence's death? He picks up the empty bottle of whiskey that Sylvia has just tossed aside and deposits it in the burlap sack where we store our rubbish, which he insists we must haul out. Leave no trace, he says; that is how we respect the land. Already the rubbish bag clinks with gla.s.s empties, but there is no danger we'll run out of booze anytime soon. Mrs. Matsunaga is allergic to alcohol, Elliot drinks only sparingly, and Johnny seems determined to stay stone-cold sober until we are rescued.
He returns to the fire and, to my surprise, he sits down beside me.
I look at him, but his eyes stay on the flames as he says quietly: ”You're handling the situation well.”
”Am I? I didn't think so. Not particularly.”
”I appreciated your help today. Skinning the impala, breaking down the carca.s.s. You're a natural in the bush.”
That makes me laugh. ”I'm the one who didn't want to be here. The one who insists on hot showers and proper toilets. This trip was about me being a good sport.”
”To please Richard.”
”Who else?”
”I hope he's impressed.”
I glance sideways at Richard, who is not looking at me. He's too busy chatting up Vivian, whose formfitting T-s.h.i.+rt leaves no doubt that she's braless. I focus, once again, on the fire. ”Being a good sport only gets you so far in life.”
”I hear from Richard that you're a bookseller.”
”Yes, I manage a bookshop in London. In the real world.”
”This isn't the real world?”
I glance around at the shadows surrounding our campfire. ”This is a fantasy, Johnny. Something out of a Hemingway novel. I guarantee, it's going to show up in one of Richard's thrillers someday.” I laugh. ”Don't be surprised if he makes you the villain.”
”What part do you play in his novels?”
I study the fire. And say, wistfully: ”I used to be the love interest.”
”No longer?”
”Nothing stays the same, does it?” No, now I'm the millstone. The inconvenient girlfriend who'll have to be dispatched by the villain, so the hero can pursue some new romantic interest. Oh, I know all about how things work in men's thrillers because I sell those novels to countless pale, flabby men who are all, in their minds, James Bond.
Richard knows just how to tap into their fantasies because he shares them. Even now, as he reaches over with his silver lighter to light Mr. Matsunaga's cigarette, he is playing the suave hero. James Bond would never fuss with a mere match.
Johnny picks up a stick and prods the fire, pus.h.i.+ng a log deeper into the flames. ”For Richard, this may be only a fantasy. But this one has real teeth.”
”Yes, of course you're right. It's not a fantasy. It's a b.l.o.o.d.y nightmare.”
”Then you understand the situation,” he murmurs.
”I understand that everything's changed. It's not a holiday any longer.” I add, softly: ”And I'm frightened.”
”You don't have to be, Millie. Watchful, yes, but not frightened. Now, a city like Johannesburg, that's a scary place. But here?” He shakes his head and smiles. ”Here, everything's just trying to survive. Understand that, and you will, too.”
”Easy for you to say. You grew up in this world.”
He nods. ”My parents had a farm in Limpopo Province. Every day, when I walked out into the fields, I'd pa.s.s leopards perched in trees, watching me. I got to know them all, and they knew me.”
”They never attacked?”
”I like to think we had an agreement, those leopards and I. It was respect between predators. But it didn't mean we ever trusted each other.”
”I'd be afraid to step out of my house. There are so many ways to die here. Lions. Leopards. Snakes.”
”I have a healthy respect for them all, because I know what they're capable of.” He grins at the fire. ”When I was fourteen, I was bitten by a pit viper.”
I stare at him. ”And you're smiling about it?”
”It was entirely my fault. I collected snakes as a kid. Caught them myself, and kept them in various containers in my bedroom. But one day I got c.o.c.ky and my viper bit me.”
”Good G.o.d. What happened then?”
”Luckily it was a dry bite, with no venom. But that taught me there's a penalty for carelessness.” He gives a regretful shake of the head. ”The worst part was, my mother made me give up my snakes.”
”I can't believe she let you collect them in the first place. Or that she ever let you step foot outside with leopards around.”
”But that's what our ancestors did, Millie. This is where we all come from. Some part of you, some ancient memory deep in your brain, recognizes this continent as home. Most people have lost touch with it, but the instincts are still there.” Gently he reaches out and touches my forehead. ”That's how you stay alive here, by reaching deep for those ancient memories. I'll help you find them.”
Suddenly I feel Richard's eyes on us. Johnny feels it, too, and instantly conjures up a big smile, as if a switch has been flipped. ”Wild game roasting on the fire. Nothing to beat it, eh, everybody?” he calls out.
”Way more tender than I ever expected,” Elliot says, licking juices from his fingers. ”I feel like I'm getting in touch with my inner caveman!”
”How about you and Richard do the butchering when I bring down the next one?”
Elliot looks startled. ”Uh ... me?”
”You've seen how it's done.” Johnny looks at Richard. ”Think you can do it?”
”Of course we can,” says Richard, staring straight back at Johnny. I'm sitting between the two of them, and although Richard has ignored me for most of the meal, he now slings an arm around my shoulder, as if to declare owners.h.i.+p. As if he considers Johnny a romantic rival who would steal me away.
The thought makes my face flush hot.
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