Lillian lay stretched out on a cane lounge in the dappled shade of the jacaranda tree. Her hair was wrapped in a silk scarf that perfectly matched the pink of the flowers on the bougainvillea bush nearby, as did the floral print of her dress. As Mara crossed the brown lawn towards her, she couldn’t help wondering if this colour coordination might be deliberate. Perhaps Lillian had spent so much time seeing herself as a part of a carefully arranged film set, she couldn’t help ordering the real world in the same way.
The tea tray Mara had come to collect was on the ground beside the lounge. She approached it quietly; Lillian was fast asleep, breathing deeply and evenly through parted lips. There were faint shadows under her eyes, but other than that, she looked fine. Beautiful, in fact. It was hard to believe this was the same person Carlton had confronted last night.
Mara lifted the tray carefully, making sure not to rattle the crockery. She was about to turn away, when she noticed Lillian’s sketchbook lying abandoned on the grass. As she watched, a beetle crawled up onto the paper, beginning a slow, trackless journey over a painstaking drawing of a man sitting in a chair. Mara guessed it was meant to be Peter – she recognised the hip flask and rifle. Mara wondered if Lillian would give the finished drawing to Peter, and if she did, whether he would lie and say it was good, like everyone else seemed to. Mara felt a rush of anger on Lillian’s behalf. It didn’t seem fair that she put so much effort into her drawing and yet had no idea if she was talented or otherwise, all because no one gave her an honest opinion of her work.
Looking at Lillian lying there, Mara wondered about the other drawbacks of fame – the more serious ones, that might have led Lillian to where she was now. Then her thoughts turned to Peter. He was equally famous, yet there was something solid and grounded about him. She felt sure it was not a façade. She could not say whether it was due to who he was, or where he had come from, or the choices he had made in his life – but he seemed to have survived his success unscathed.
Mara glanced around the lodge grounds. It was already midmorning, but in place of the usual frenetic activity there was an atmosphere of calm. Carlton had announced that there would be no filming this morning – he was giving everyone the opportunity to renew their energy for the second half of the shoot. Several members of the film company had joined Lillian, relaxing outside. Brendan had abandoned his lights and coils of electric leads, and was reading an old newspaper on the front verandah. Rudi was sitting on a rug near the mango tree talking to the hut boys, who were responding with a mixture of words and laughter. Their high, childish voices seemed to brighten the air. Although Mara suspected there was work they should be doing elsewhere, she didn’t interrupt the pleasant scene.
It was a pity John wasn’t here to see the lodge full of contented guests, she thought. It was something he’d so longed for. But then another thought came to her: if John were here, everything would be different. He would be in charge. There would be tension as the staff struggled to meet his instructions, whether they agreed with the Bwana’s decisions or not. And Mara, surely, would not have taken part in the filming. With John looking on, she realised, she simply would never have found the courage.
Pushing the thought aside, she crossed to where Jamie was sitting in a deckchair, idly stripping the rows of tiny leaves from a broken frond of jacaranda. Tomba stood close by, a large set of earphones clamped onto his head, holding a microphone mounted in a handgrip that made it look like a pistol. Two long black leads tethered him to the sound-recording deck set up on a card table nearby. As Mara watched, Tomba pointed his microphone towards the noisy hut boys and then swung it away. He repeated the action again and again, a look of rapt attention on his face.
Jamie shook his head at Mara as she came near. ‘I think he’s after my job.’ His tone was mocking, but there was a note of admiration there as well. ‘He’s quick, you know. Very smart.’
The microphone jerked towards him, holding him in its sights. ‘What did you say?’ Tomba asked.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Jamie. ‘The point is, you missed it, because you weren’t on me. That’s how it is, with the 416. It’s a very directional mike.’
Tomba’s eyes narrowed with concentration. Mara saw his lips moving as he committed the words to memory.
‘Do you know where Carlton is?’ Jamie asked Mara.
‘In the dining room,’ Mara answered. She’d just seen him there with documents strewn around him and an adding machine in his hand. It may have been a half-day’s break from filming, but the producer was clearly far from relaxed. From the way he kept adding up figures, Mara guessed he was worrying about money; she felt selfishly pleased she’d already been paid a second large instalment of cash. ‘He looks very busy.’
Jamie snorted a brief laugh. ‘I’ll bet Leonard’s hard at work, too, rewriting the script, trying to make us all crazy.’ He stretched lazily. ‘Well, you know what they say – it’s tough at the top. Hey, Tomba, I’ll give you some advice. Whatever you do, don’t ever be the boss.’
Tomba stared at him for a second, and looked uncertainly at Mara for confirmation. ‘Do not be the Bwana Mkuu?’
Mara nodded. ‘That’s what he said: do not choose to be the big man.’
As she turned to go, she saw Tomba looking at Jamie with mixed scepticism and confusion.
Instead of heading straight for the kitchen, Mara set down the tray near the front door. She told herself that she should check to see if the hut boys had carried out their duties in the rondavels. If she found Peter in his room, she could use the opportunity to make sure he’d been offered morning tea.
She could talk to him. She could watch how the sun shone in through the window, onto his face …
Rounding the corner, she glanced across to the dining-room window. She could see Carlton still sitting at the table, now surrounded by at least three coffee cups. Scanning the rest of the room, she could see no sign of anyone else, but something caught her eye further along the verandah. Through the open French windows that led to the sitting room she could see a patch of colour: a distinctive shade of blue she recognised as Peter’s linen shirt. He was bending down, looking at something on the floor.
She hurried towards him, hoping it was not a squashed lizard or a dead rat or a trail of marching safari ants that had attracted his attention. When she drew close, she saw he was examining some objects laid out on a kitenge spread over the grass matting. Kefa was hovering at his shoulder.
Both men turned around as Mara entered the room.
Peter smiled in greeting.
‘Good morning,’ Mara said.
Kefa threw her a quick, nervous look, as he swung one arm to take in a display of woodcarvings: animals, people, bowls and implements.
‘The village carver has brought these things …’ He began in a tentative tone but then lifted his chin and spoke more boldly. ‘It is a gift shop. Daudi advised that our lodge should have one.’
Mara raised her eyebrows – not because he’d arranged for the carvings to be brought here without asking her, but because of the phrase he had used. Our lodge. Mara pictured Bina’s outrage at a house boy speaking this way. John would be pretty shocked as well. But as she considered Kefa’s choice of words, Mara felt a sense of relief. She didn’t have to feel negligent about leaving Kefa and Menelik to make their own decisions while she was preoccupied with the demands of the film company. They were all in this together. They were all the bosses. Or, perhaps none of them were.
Kefa was watching her in silence, waiting for her response.
‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Mara said, and it was the truth. She could see no reason why the villagers shouldn’t make the most of this opportunity to acquire some cash. After all, it might be a long time before they had another chance like this.
A smile broke over Kefa’s face, his body settling into a more relaxed posture.
Peter leaned to pick up a zebra. It had been carved from a golden yellow wood; burn marks had been used to create black stripes and a dark muzzle and mane. He handed it to Mara. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
Mara viewed it from all angles. She’d seen the carver’s work before. His wooden animals looked as if they could gallop across the plains, kicking their hind legs up in the air.
‘This carver was a cattle boy when he was young,’ Kefa commented. ‘He spent a long time watching animals. He is an expert.’
Peter picked up another carving made of black timber. ‘Looks like ebony,’ he said, stroking the satiny surface with his fingers. After a few seconds, he glanced up at Mara, peering almost shyly through the hair that fell forward over his brow. ‘I work with wood, a bit.’
Mara met his gaze. ‘That’s why you have strong hands.’ She bit her lip, regretting the words as soon as she’d uttered them. They sounded too personal, as if she’d been studying him.
‘I’m more of a cabinet-maker than a whittler,’ Peter said. ‘I’ve made the odd piece of furniture. When I see work like this, though, I think maybe I should give it a try – if I had more time, I mean.’ He gave Mara a rueful smile, before turning back to the display of carvings. ‘I’m trying to choose presents for my kids. I can’t make up my mind. What do you think?’
Mara bent her head to hide her face. Her eyes ranged over a giraffe with blackened spots and a pair of savage-looking lions with open jaws. But she barely saw them. She thought, instead, of Peter’s children – the faces she’d seen in the photograph. She tried to connect each of them with one of the carvings, but she found it impossible. She was distracted by a sinking feeling in her stomach, and a disturbing sense that her centre of gravity was shifting – that she was falling and did not know where she would end up.
What was the matter with her, she wondered? She struggled to concentrate on the carvings.
Begin with the boys. What do little boys like best?
She stared blankly at the display, then stiffened suddenly. With a shocking clarity, she realised what it was that had so unnerved her – thinking of Peter’s children made her feel guilty.
She felt guilty because while they were waiting at home with their mother, looking forward to his return, she wanted to keep him here.
I want him for myself.
Catching her breath, Mara recoiled from the thought. But she could not deny it. She gazed numbly down at her shoes, placed together side by side, their toes lightly scuffed.
‘Look at this.’ Peter’s voice came to her, and then a wooden plaque swung into her view. It was about the size of a large envelope. The edges were decorated with a frieze of baobab trees and animals; the centre contained a single word carved in rounded letters: Karibu. ‘What does it mean?’
Mara forced herself to focus on it. ‘It’s a kind of greeting,’ she explained. ‘When people arrive at someone’s hut, they call out Hodi! It means, I am here! The reply is Karibu! The closest translation is something like: Come near. You are welcome.’ Mara thought her voice sounded thin and strained, but Peter seemed not to have noticed. ‘Europeans buy them to hang by their front doors.’
Kefa picked up another plaque, which bore the word Nyumbani. ‘This one means “our home”,’ he said. ‘But you can order words of your own choosing. The carver will produce whatever you like.’
‘I’ll buy one for the door of the children’s playroom,’ Peter said. ‘With birds and animals around the edges.’ He turned to Mara. ‘What do you think?’
Mara nodded mutely, avoiding Peter’s eyes. His words made her feel cold inside. She realised she’d misread his feelings. She’d thought he was attracted to her. But now it seemed that what he felt about her was so uncomplicated – so innocent – that he wanted to involve her in his relationship with his family.
She tried to answer as if she felt the same way about him. ‘You could buy one for each of the children’s bedrooms, with their names carved on them.’
She attempted a light-hearted smile, but it wavered on her lips. She couldn’t help remembering how he’d looked at her last night outside the rondavel, and during the Tanzanian feast that had followed. They’d barely spoken the whole evening – Lillian had dominated the conversation at their table – but their eyes had met constantly, and for long moments neither had seemed able to look away.
Suddenly, a new thought struck Mara – one that felt immediately solid and true. This was no casual interchange for Peter, she realised, any more than it was for her. He was deliberately trying to connect her with his real life, back home. Because he wanted to show her how much he cared about his family. He wanted to force a distance between himself and Mara.
Because in the same way she wanted him – he wanted her.
Mara searched Peter’s face, trying to see if she was right. She felt a wave of sympathy for him. Didn’t he already know his plan could not work? It was impossible to evoke the presence of his wife and children here at Raynor Lodge – trying to do so only made them feel more distant, and less real. Like John – far away in the Selous – they existed in a completely separate reality.
Mara reached towards the back of the kitenge for a set of four elephants, ranging in size from large to small. They each had a pair of tiny tusks, shaped from bone and embedded in the dark wood. ‘Choose these,’ she said, gathering them up. ‘It’s a family.’
Peter smiled as he took the elephants from her. Mara let her gaze travel over his face. He had a touch of sunburn on his forehead and nose. One cheek had been lightly scratched by a thorn bush and she could still see a faint yellow stain from the iodine she’d dabbed there. Near his temple was the small red mound of a mosquito bite. As he bent his head to search in his pocket for some money, she leaned towards him, breathing in the smell of cinnamon aftershave overlaid with Lifebuoy soap.
She took in all these little details; the marks of a world in which they existed together in the moment, cut off from the past and the future.
Floating free.