Iceblocks chinked gently in the six glasses of water Mara carried on a tray. The sound rose above the constant low rumble of Brendan’s generator. Mara was struck by how strange it was to hear the noise now, in daylight, when it was usually heard only after dark. She walked along the verandah, approaching the cane sofa where Lillian was sitting. The actress had kicked off the boots she’d been wearing – Mara’s spare pair – and folded her legs underneath her. Her head was bent over a sketchpad. Jamie sat nearby on a chair. Tomba squatted comfortably on the ground beside him, his elbows resting on his knees. As Mara came near, Tomba jumped to his feet.
‘We are not needed inside.’ He spoke hurriedly as if Mara had reproached him for abandoning his post. ‘They are filming but it is pictures of furniture only. There is no sound to be recorded.’ He turned to Jamie, seeking confirmation.
‘That’s right,’ Jamie said. He studied the freckly skin of his arms as he spoke. ‘You’ve got it. It’s called a mute take.’
Mara nodded approvingly at Tomba. This was his second day as boom operator and he seemed to be managing well. She turned to Lillian, greeting her with a smile. ‘Kefa told me you were sitting out here.’ She looked around for the actor. ‘I thought he said Peter was here, as well.’
‘He went for a walk,’ Lillian said. ‘He won’t be needed for a while. There are some set-ups with just me.’
‘Where did he go?’ Mara asked with a frown. She hoped he’d remembered her warnings about not leaving the grounds.
‘Somewhere in the garden, I think. Not far away,’ Lillian said. She lifted up her sketchpad.
Mara caught a fleeting impression of a human figure drawn in dark strong lines. But before she was able to see the drawing properly, Lillian returned the pad to her lap and signed the corner of the picture with the confident flourish of someone practiced at giving autographs. Then she tore off the page, handing it to Jamie.
‘It’s for you!’ Lillian said.
Jamie looked at the drawing, his face unreadable. Then he smiled enthusiastically. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll treasure that.’
Lillian received his words with a graceful inclination of her head. Then, taking a glass of water from Mara’s tray, she continued to watch Jamie over the rim of her glass as she sipped.
Jamie fiddled with the drawing, clearly aware of Lillian’s gaze still fixed on him. He smiled again. ‘It’s a great drawing.’
Lillian relaxed in her chair. ‘Thanks. I think I’ve really captured something about you.’
‘You sure have.’ Jamie held the picture up to Mara. ‘Look at that! Isn’t she amazing?’
Mara moved closer to the drawing and was surprised to see that the proportions of the body were all wrong and the expression on the face was wooden. The drawing bore only the faintest resemblance to Jamie.
‘The lines are certainly very … dramatic,’ she said. She looked from Jamie to the drawing and back. ‘You’re right – it’s amazing.’
Tomba shifted closer to see what the exchange had been about. He picked up the drawing – carefully, using two hands – and studied it intently. Mara could see a puzzled look growing in his eyes. She moved quickly to stand in front of him, shielding him from Lillian’s view as he turned the picture upside-down, and looked at it again.
‘When you’ve finished, Tomba,’ she said, reaching a hand towards the paper, ‘I’ll put it away somewhere safe.’
At that moment, Carlton emerged from the dining room. His face was gleaming with sweat.
He addressed Jamie first. ‘You’re needed for the next shot.’ Then he turned to Lillian, smiling encouragingly. ‘Leonard’s ready for you, now.’
‘Already?’ Lillian screwed up her nose as she laid down her sketchpad. She frowned as she pulled on her boots. But then, when she stood up, turning towards the dining room, her expression began to change. Her eyes brightened and a look of anticipation crept onto her face. Mara could see her picturing the director and crew gathered in there, awaiting her presence. The prospect of becoming, once again, the centre of their attention seemed to breathe life into her soul.
Mara could find no sign of Peter anywhere in the garden. Aware that it was her responsibility to check on his whereabouts, she headed for his rondavel and knocked on the door. In the lengthening silence, she could feel emptiness emanating from the room. She was about to leave, when it occurred to her that she might as well go inside and check that the hut boys had made the bed and changed the straw in the chow pot.
The rondavel looked almost unchanged from how it had been when Mara had first discovered Peter standing by the bed. There were just a few personal items set out on the desk by the window. Out of respect for the actor’s privacy, Mara tried not to look closely at anything as she crossed the room to the adjoining chow hut. But as she passed the bed, something caught her eye. A picture frame of red leather lay facedown in the space between the pillow and the bedside table. Mara guessed that Peter, like Lillian, travelled with an image of his loved one. Only he kept his picture in a place where he could see it as he prepared for sleep.
Glancing behind her to make certain that she was still alone, Mara picked up the leather frame. She turned it over, expecting to see someone glamorous and beautiful, a woman with features as perfect as his.
Instead, she saw a family photograph: two adults and four kids, all smiling at the camera. They were grouped in front of a smog-stained marble statue with tall buildings rising behind them. Mara tilted the picture towards the light. Peter had one arm round the shoulders of a woman she guessed was his wife. Even in this informal snapshot, Mara could see how beautiful she was – her creamy skin contrasted with the red of her long curly hair; her eyes were a vivid blue. She held a toddler on her hip. She was shorter than Peter and she leaned slightly towards him, as if drawn by the strength of his presence. The other three children stood in front of the adults. There were two fair-haired boys, who looked about three and five, and a slightly older girl with red curly hair. The mother’s hand was cupped over the girl’s shoulder and Peter’s arm draped over the younger boy’s chest, his hand resting over the child’s heart.
The world was full of images like these, Mara knew, yet there was something striking about this one. There was a sense of completeness about the little group; the bond between them was almost tangible. Mara smiled longingly at the photograph. It reminded her of the family of her school friend, Sally McPhee. Sally and her parents and brother had shared a passion for horses and used to spend every Saturday riding together. Mara had envied her deeply. Her own family rarely seemed to have time for anything other than working on the farm. And even when they did attempt a family outing – the occasional fishing trip, or a visit to the beach – the tensions between Mara’s parents made it hard for any of them to relax and enjoy it. Growing up, Mara had dreamed of one day being part of a family like Sally’s. With a twist of pain, she thought of how she and John had planned to have children: at least two or three. That was in the days when the future had stretched out ahead of them, clear and bright and certain.
Carefully, Mara put the picture back where she had found it, her fingertips lingering for a moment on the smooth soft leather of the frame. Then she quickly checked the chow pot, before hurrying from the room.
She headed for the car park next, in case Peter had gone to get something from one of the vehicles. As she passed under the archway of tusks, she scanned the area – peering into each of the two zebra-striped Land Rovers, still on hire from the Manyala Hotel, and then the truck and even her own old vehicle. But there was no one to be seen. She was about to turn back when she noticed a line of footprints in the fine surface of the gravel. The size, shape and the tread of the sole were immediately familiar to her: the prints had been made by a pair of John’s boots – the ones she had given to Carlton for Peter.
She followed the tracks along the driveway, picking up her pace. Anxiety grew inside her, quickly turning to anger. She had given clear instructions to the guests about not leaving the lodge grounds alone. Peter had seemed so normal and nice – and the photograph she’d just seen only added to that image of him. But, she reminded herself, he was still a famous actor. Spoiled, no doubt. Used to doing exactly what he liked, when he liked.
She was about to turn back and get the Land Rover and her rifle when she caught sight of Peter up ahead. He was standing on top of a large rock, a little to one side of the track. The place was a favourite vantage point of Mara’s. The rock formed a wide flat ledge, which offered a clear view over the treetops, down to the plains. An old fig tree grew nearby and one thick twisted limb stretched across the front of the rock at waist height, forming a natural railing. Mara often stopped there on her way to shoot guinea fowl or quail for the kitchen. She liked to rest her elbows on the branch of the fig tree and take a few moments to look down at the grasslands – as if she were a god, up in heaven – before going on to take her own small place in the world spread before her.
Mara walked towards the rock, shaking her head. Peter had no rifle to protect himself with and probably no understanding of how to check an area before entering it. He was standing there with his hands in his pockets, clearly relaxed and enjoying the scenery, oblivious to the fact that there could be a leopard or a lion crouching on the limb of a tree, only a yard away from his head.
Mara took a deep breath, preparing her words. She knew it was important to remain courteous. But she had to be firm as well.
You seem to have forgotten my advice. You must understand, I am only concerned about your safety. I’m afraid I must insist …
She was almost at the base of the rock when a figure stepped into her path – an African, armed with a heavy-gauge shotgun. She felt a rush of panic, but then she recognised the ranger from Arusha. She’d barely seen him – as they’d been filming inside the lodge, he’d not been needed yet. She’d forgotten all about him.
‘I am here,’ he stated. ‘I am guarding this American.’
‘Very good,’ Mara responded, gathering her composure. ‘I can see that all is well.’
Their exchange drew Peter’s attention. He turned round, beckoning Mara to join him. ‘Hey, come on up here. What a view!’
She hesitated, feeling nervous. What if she couldn’t think of anything interesting to say? She glanced at her watch, to suggest that she was short of time. Then she picked her way through the low scrub and climbed up onto the rock.
Peter offered her his hand, to pull her up.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said.
Soon they were standing side by side on the ledge. Beneath the green-leaf smell of the woodland Mara could just pick out a trace of his aftershave – a spicy cinnamon fragrance.
They were both quiet for a time, looking out at the view. The plains were dotted with mingled herds of zebras and wildebeests, the animals all grazing peacefully. White birds wheeled and soared against a clear blue sky.
Peter pointed at a large rocky outcrop that rose up beyond the waterhole. The pile of rounded shapes was formed from reddish stone. Dark purple gullies scored its sides and bushes clustered at its base. ‘Does that have a name?’ he asked.
‘We call it Lion Rock,’ Mara said, tracing the shape of a crouching lion in the air. ‘But the Africans call it – in Swahili – The rocks that were put here by giants.’
‘There must be a story to go with that,’ Peter said.
‘There is.’ Mara looked sideways, trying to guess whether he wanted to hear what it was – visitors often gave the impression of being more interested in such things than they really were. Peter was studying the shape of the rock formation, his eyes narrowed with concentration. ‘Apparently,’ she said, ‘there were some giants who were preparing for a great battle. They collected up boulders ready to throw at their enemies. But then a great rain came and washed all the giants away. Only the pile of stones was left.’
Peter tilted his head to one side, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the rock. ‘Now that you’ve told me that story, it doesn’t look at all like a lion any more.’
Mara’s lips parted in surprise. She’d had exactly the same response, the first time she’d come here after Kefa had told her the story.
‘I know,’ she said simply.
They stood there, looking down over the plain. Peter leaned forward, resting his arms on the fig branch. His hands, Mara noticed, looked surprisingly strong, even calloused in places. And the cuffs of his shirt-sleeves were worn through. It would almost be possible to mistake him for an ordinary person.
Silence fell over them – a quiet that seemed undisturbed by the distant whine of the generator, or the calls of the weaverbirds. Mara enjoyed the peace for a while, but then felt she should make conversation.
‘Do you enjoy travelling?’ she asked. ‘I suppose you do it quite a lot.’
‘I love it,’ Peter replied, turning to face Mara, ‘except I miss my four kids – and my wife, Paula, of course. I keep wondering what they’re all doing, back home.’
‘You must wish they’d been able to come with you,’ Mara said, remembering the closeness of the little group in the photograph.
Peter took a breath, letting it out in a faint sigh. ‘Well, I do – except that Paula would hate it here. She’d be terrified of the kids getting sick or being bitten by snakes. She’s a real city girl. She prefers sidewalks to bush tracks, any day. It’s a pity, because I love nothing better than getting off the beaten track, away from the crowds.’ A wistful tone entered his voice, but he banished it with a smile and his face took on the fond look of a parent describing the idiosyncracies of a child. ‘She’s always been like that. It’s just who she is.’
‘Well, she must be very busy, anyway, with four children to care for,’ Mara commented. But she was not really concentrating on what she was saying. A single, envious thought filled her head: Paula’s husband accepted her for who she was. He didn’t ask her to be someone she was not. He didn’t ask her to go to places she didn’t want to be.
Where bloodied tusks lie on the ground. And severed feet – huge and grey – dangle from ropes tied to the limbs of a tree.
Peter stirred, pulling back the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘I’m due back on set before much longer.’
He waited for Mara to climb down the face of the rock ahead of him. Then he slid down behind her. The ranger stood ready to greet them, his shotgun poised on his arm.
The last of the daylight reached in through the crack between the blue kitenge curtains of Lillian’s rondavel. They were drawn firmly shut and the door was closed. The space was lit by the yellow glow of a single electric globe, which cast soft shadows over Lillian’s face and body. Clad only in her silk petticoat, she looked like a Greek goddess, formed in stone by a master sculptor. She was leaning over a deep enamel basin, the long dark mass of her hair falling forward, hiding her face. Mara stood behind her, ready to offer more hot water. Lillian’s hair drifted in the foamy water like seaweed strands in the ocean. It looked strangely sinister to Mara, as if Lillian were drowning.
Mara shifted her gaze to the jug of water she held in her hands. Steam rose up to her, adding heat to air that was already warm. She breathed the smell of expensive shampoo, blended with the sharp flowery scent of the glasses of gin and tonic Lillian had asked Kefa to bring to her rondavel.
‘I deserve a sundowner,’ she’d said to Mara. ‘And so do you.’
When Lillian’s hair was finally rinsed to her satisfaction, Mara wrapped the mauve towel around her head, making a turban. She wanted to be as helpful as possible, well aware these were not the bathroom facilities Lillian was accustomed to. Mara had considered inviting the actress to use her and John’s bathroom. It was the one place in the lodge (aside from the kitchen) where there was hot and cold running water. But there were clear divisions between private and public spaces at Raynor Lodge. John had explained to Mara that respecting them was a vital part of keeping a professional distance from clients. Once the physical boundaries became blurred, relationships became negotiable as well. This was considered a normal situation in some lodges; there were places – here in Tanzania as well as in other parts of Safariland – where guests could expect to find the kind of establishment they recognised from Hemingway novels, or from the Hollywood films of his work. In these settings, it was taken for granted that the white hunter was as expert in hunting women as he was big game. Female clients felt the safari had not been a success unless they’d had an affair with someone – and the professional hunter was always their first choice. Raynor had despised this kind of behaviour. According to John, the old hunter had never compromised himself in this way, and he’d made it clear he expected the same from his apprentice.
Mara’s lips tightened as she imagined what Raynor would have said about John and Matilda.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Lillian asked. She held her head on one side as she sipped her drink. ‘You look unhappy.’
Mara forced a smile. ‘Oh, no – I was thinking of the film. I was wondering about the story, what happens in it.’
A shadow of disappointment crossed Lillian’s face. Then she adopted a look of measured enthusiasm. ‘It’s a thriller – the kind of thing that would normally be set in a city. Paris or New York. That’s one of the things Leonard’s interested in, you see – the surprise of it being filmed in Africa. It’s a wonderful script.’
‘I like your character – Maggie. The way she speaks. She’s so strong and brave.’
Lillian snorted into her glass. ‘She’s an idiot.’
Mara frowned, surprised and confused. In her mind, she replayed the scene of the argument between Maggie and Luke: the passion, the certainty, the belief in doing what was right. ‘You mean, you don’t agree with the things Maggie said?’
‘Not at all – carrying on about doing the right thing! She’d be better off watching out for herself,’ Lillian said. ‘That’s what everyone else is doing. That’s how the world works.’
‘But you sounded so … real.’
Lillian laughed. ‘Mara, it’s called acting. I’m an actress. That’s what I do.’
‘But how do you manage it? How can you cry real tears if you don’t feel anything?’
‘Well, I don’t know what other people do, but I just look back into my life and find something that goes with the emotion I want to feel. That’s what I draw on. I bring the memory and the performance together. It always works.’
Lillian picked up a nailfile and began to pick nonchalantly at one of her nails. There was a smudge of make-up trapped underneath it, but still, the action looked oddly forced. Watching her, Mara tried to imagine what wellspring of pain and anger Lillian had tapped into when Maggie had wept in front of Luke. In the stillness that surrounded them, Mara felt she could almost ask the question – there was something about the warmth of the air, the intimacy of hair-washing, the talk of tears. But then she reminded herself whom it was she was with.
Lillian dropped the nailfile and reached for a tortoiseshell hairbrush. She handed it to Mara. ‘Could you do my hair?’ Instead of the usual demanding edge of someone accustomed to being served, there was a pleading note in her voice.
Mara picked up a long strand and brushed it out, using slow, steady strokes.
‘My momma used to do this for me,’ Lillian murmured. She closed her eyes, letting her arms fall at her sides. But she did not seem relaxed. The muscles around her eyes tightened and a line appeared on her forehead. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said. ‘Just keep brushing.’
Mara eased the brush smoothly through Lillian’s hair. Gradually, the woman’s face grew softer and the lines of tension disappeared.
‘Tell me about you,’ Lillian said. Her voice was dreamy, like that of a little girl asking for a bedtime story. ‘How long have you been married?’
‘Three years.’
‘And are you happy?’
Mara’s hand faltered in the middle of a brushstroke. Though the question took her by surprise, it didn’t seem out of place. She was struck, again, by the sense of intimacy that surrounded them. The rondavel, with its soft-moulded mud walls, seemed like their own private world; and they were just two ordinary people held together in its embrace. Two friends. For just a moment, Mara imagined telling Lillian everything – not only about the financial problems with the lodge, or her inability to be a proper hunter’s wife, like Alice, or even about how she could not picture the future any more. She imagined telling her about Matilda.
Instead, she forced another smile. ‘Of course I’m happy,’ she said lightly. She tried to make her tone easy, yet definite. She glanced at Lillian’s face to see if she had succeeded.
‘I’ll never marry,’ Lillian said. ‘I don’t understand why you’d want to settle for just one man when there’s a whole world of them out there.’ She opened her eyes and shifted so that she could meet Mara’s gaze. And besides …’ A briskness entered her voice. ‘You can’t have a career and a husband. Not in this business.’
Mara picked up another length of glossy dark hair and began to brush. ‘Is it different, then, for an actor?’ she asked.
Lillian nodded vehemently. ‘Of course. What do you think? Everything’s different for a man!’
‘I guess so,’ Mara agreed. It was certainly true in Africa – for Europeans as well as Africans. Bina was one of the few women whose circumstances suggested a different status quo. ‘Peter is married, after all.’
‘He sure is,’ Lillian said. ‘He’s famous for being married.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mara asked.
‘He’s worked with some of the most beautiful women in Hollywood, and in all these years, there’s never been gossip, never a moment of scandal.’ Lillian’s eyes widened, as if she felt surprised by this fact all over again. ‘He just never crosses the line. If he did, believe me, everyone would know – there are no secrets in Hollywood.’
Mara studied the hairbrush – the whorls and scrolls of yellow-amber in the dark tortoiseshell. She sensed Lillian waiting for her to comment. But she feared that whatever she said, her voice would betray her, and that her whole story would be read in her response. She was certain, now, that she didn’t want this to happen. She never wanted anyone to know what John had done to her – to have her unhealed wound laid bare for another to see. The shameful mark of a woman whose husband did not love her enough.