An Inconvenient Elephant Page 4

  “This is crazy!” I exclaimed. “How do we push him? Besides, we’d need to get through the borders ourselves, and then a plane has to be ready and waiting.” I felt a wave of resentment. If only Tom and I were still talking, he would have helped. I knew he would have helped. He had contacts and planes and had spent years orchestrating elephant rescues.

  Diamond bent over to lace up her boots, then stood. “Well, I’ve known Charlotte a long time, and I trust her to think of something that will work.” She pushed my bowl of breakfast sadza back at me. “You’d better eat, or you’re going to be very hungry later. There aren’t any vending machines in the bush.”

  I looked down at my breakfast, cold and unappetizing. “I don’t suppose there’s a spoon.”

  She laughed. “You carry your eating implements at the end of your arms. Finish quickly. We’ve got some tracking to do.”

  “Shamwari, you come here for elephant?” a voice asked from behind Diamond. We both whirled around to see a man dressed in the usual tan safari clothes, carrying a large backpack and a heavy-duty rifle. It was our guide. “Shamwari,” he repeated in a lilting accent, clapping his hands together, the traditional male greeting. “I was sent to help you. I have supplies.” He pointed to the backpack and smiled congenially. “Are you ready, shamwari?”

  Shamwari meant “friend,” and I had found in Kenya that almost everyone was your friend—the people are warm and open, the word is used all the time.

  Diamond cupped her hands together and clapped them in response, the traditional female greeting. “Yes, thank you, shamwari,” she replied. The guide clapped his hands at me, and I followed Diamond’s lead.

  “Thank you for your help, shamwari,” I said, then pointed to his rifle. “Please, no shooting the animals. No shooting.”

  He just patted the rifle and smiled pleasantly. “Until you grow big teeth, we will take this.”

  We slipped easily through the lavender rushes, hiking along the curvature of Lake Kariba, leaving broken stalks of heather in our wake. From the edges of the lake rose half-submerged pale skeletons of dead trees, arms outstretched like graceful dancers, holding delicate white egrets in their hands as though offering up living ornaments to the azure sky. Beyond the flash of flaming orange bushes lay a backdrop of thick blue-green brush and dark blue mountains. “We make this lake,” the guide said proudly. “Many years ago. We make it from the Zambezi River, oh yes.”

  Hippos drank nonchalantly at the water’s edge, and several crocodiles floated close, their eyes studying the shoreline, watching the herons, the antelope, the impala that drank there, waiting for a sign of weakness. The guide led us away from the shoreline now, and inward, toward the forest.

  The smaller brush was gone, replaced by stands of mahogany trees reaching skyward, like heavenly supports. Animals peeked at us from behind the acacia trees, then fled as our guide led us deeper into the interior.

  With every step, every move, every turn of my head, I felt watched. The god of wild hearts was watching us, I knew. He would be cautious, hidden within the trees and thickets. Concealing himself within the deeper mopane woodland, where the trees had leaves like pale green butterfly wings that crushed easily under our feet, leaving behind the unexpected scent of turpentine.

  We walked forever. After a while, my legs felt separated from my body, as though they had taken on a career of their own, to walk and walk and walk. We waded over brilliantly clear streams that gurgled all the way down from the mountains, feeding pink hibiscus growing all in rows like schoolgirls in pretty dresses. We stepped across small yellow and purple wildflowers that sprang up in natural bouquets, and we carefully pushed away from the undergrowth that grabbed our arms like beggars, always making sure to turn our faces downward to keep at bay the tiny bees following us with great persistence.

  The guide finally stopped for a moment before crossing one of the unpaved roads that wove through the park and was frequently used by tourists packed into safari jeeps. On the other side was a lily pond surrounded by a circle of light that streamed down through a series of short, stubby bushes. When we got closer, I could see it was a clearing of trees that had been broken away, standing in a ring as though they were on their knees in prayer.

  “Elephant take up trees,” our guide explained, making a pulling motion with his hands. “Yes, shamwari, your boy come here.” He gave us a big smile and dropped his backpack but kept the rifle on his shoulder. “Eat?”

  We gratefully nodded, and he unpacked cheese and fruits and vegetables and flatbread. We ate quickly. A troop of baboons found us and screamed loudly, opening their mouths wide, baring long, sharp teeth and snatching at us with sinewy arms until we threw food into the bushes for them. Our guide found a piece of wood and banged it against a tree while we ate, to keep them from returning. Suddenly he stood still, immobile, listening. I wondered what he was listening for—there was no sound at all except for the droning of the insects near our faces.

  For a few minutes, the silence was an oasis in time, in movement, as even the trees stopped their sway. The air filled with an expectancy, and I felt the skin on my arms tingle. Something was there with us, something close, but it was concealed, hidden by the leaves and brush. I looked to the guide, but he hadn’t moved at all. Diamond, too, had frozen.

  Then I realized he was here. I knew it. He had come.

  Suddenly, before us stood an elephant. He had slipped through the brush and trees like a stream of light, without bulk or gravity, without disturbing a single leaf. Like a secret revealed, with the hushed heralding of the most extraordinary, suddenly Tusker stood before us.

  His amber eyes looked from one to the other, his one tusk glowed pale yellow in the sun, and he stood before us as though he was granting a royal audience. He studied us for a moment, three figures. Were we enough to pay him the respect he deserved? He flapped his ears slowly and reached forward with his trunk. My heart stopped beating in deference to him. I, too, stood frozen.

  Diamond threw down her chunk of cheese, then slipped her camera from her pocket and surreptitiously pushed its button. Tusker swung the food into his mouth and reached for more. I threw my food before him, standing very still, not moving my arms, using only my hands. He was wild, we were at his mercy, I knew, and he knew. When he was finished, he waved his head up and down and stepped back, melting away into invisibility.

  The guide was immensely pleased. “Dustbin,” he announced, then asked Diamond, “Shamwari, you get photo?”

  Diamond nodded. The guide squatted to close up the backpack. “We go away now, shamwari,” he said to us. “Haraka! Haraka!” Hurry, hurry.

  Before he could finish, there was a soft rustling behind us, a flutter of leaves, and we turned our heads. Tusker had returned, materializing again as if he were enchanted.

  “Bollocks,” Diamond whispered, her eyes wide. She was nervous, and suddenly I was, too, my nerves heightened because of her reaction. I knew she was thinking he had come back for more food, and because we had nearly exhausted our supply, this time he might get aggressive.

  The guide slowly reached into his pack and emptied its contents on the ground: a small piece of cheese and avocado and some remaining fruit. He took out a few pieces of flatbread, looked at it, then smiled up at us. “Not for tembo,” he said softly, returning the bread to his pack. “For me.” We understood. His people were starving and bread was very scarce. To throw it down for an elephant was more than he could bear.

  Tusker moved toward the food, and the guide backed us away from him calmly, reverentially as he ate, as though we were like the mythological creatures of the African bush who walked on backward feet to fool those that might bring harm to the jungle. He backed us across the road and into the brush, retreating slowly, carefully, almost reluctantly, until the form of the elephant became part of the trees and the trees became shadows and the shadows became whispers beyond the horizon.

  Chapter 6

  IT IS A HEARTBREAKING SKY THAT FALLS OVER AFRICA
when there is death in the air.

  Before I knew of Tusker, I had enjoyed watching the sun nestle itself into crimson clouds for the night, turning the sky rose pink and pale peach before slipping away. Now I sat outside the hut and stared at the sky, at the red streaks streaming across, and could think only of blood.

  We had tipped our guide well, and he promised to return soon with our dinner, but I had no appetite. Diamond finished both our portions of sadza and greens and roasted squash.

  “How can you eat, knowing what’s going to happen to that elephant?” I asked her.

  She looked surprised that I would even ask. “What does the color of maize have to do with the song of the bulbul?”

  I still don’t know what she meant.

  Tusker didn’t come back to camp the next day, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or worried. I had come to think of him as my elephant and felt very proprietary toward him. I worried if he was eating, if he was frightened, if he was spending his day happily pulling trees out of the ground or making mischief by flipping cars. I was so enamored of his great frame and wise eyes and congenial face, of his splendid majesty, that I would have laid my life down for him.

  “What do you think he’s doing right now?” I asked Diamond several times throughout the day while she tried to get Charlotte on the phone. “Do you think he’s okay?”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Neelie,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “He’s been coming to this park for more than forty years. He’s been finding food, water, whatever he needs. I think he’s fine.”

  I flashed her a dark look. “For now,” I said.

  She was waiting for a phone call from Charlotte, hoping her friend could offer either advice or manpower or horses. Charlotte’s safari business was based in Chizarira, about a day’s journey from where we were. If there was a chance she and her husband were able to help us, I was sure we’d have to move Tusker nearer to them. I paced our hut nervously, thinking any moment I would hear a fatal shot ring out and my elephant would be dead, but Diamond was stretched out on the floor to nap, with the phone next to her ear to wake her when it rang.

  “But will they be able to help us?” I asked her again. “Do they have Rovers? Do they know anyone with a plane?”

  “First of all,” Diamond replied testily, “the Zim government listens in on all phone calls, so I can’t get the information I want, and secondly, I need a nap.” She jumped up to push me out the door. “I’ll tell you everything as soon as I find out,” she said. “Take a hike.”

  I did.

  I followed the path along Lake Kariba in the opposite direction from the day before, tracing the shoreline toward the other half of the encampment. It was unbearably hot and unbearably dry, and I wished the lake could rise up, breach the atmosphere, dissolve into it, and ease the searing heat. I eyed the water longingly, wondering if its placid blue would be cooling or unpleasantly warm, but I wasn’t foolish enough to put even a toe in. Several houseboats floated by. Their occupants, mostly wealthy tourists, were taking dips in the lake inside swimming cages that protected them from the profusion of crocodiles that shared the water. Several gazelles were drinking warily, their delicate faces streaked with black that made a straight line up to their antlers, giving them a sport sneaker look. A herd of zebras fled as I drew closer, cantering away in a flurry of dashing stripes.

  The heat was hypnotic. Maybe I was dreaming all of this. Maybe I was still in Kenya with my baby ellies. Maybe I hadn’t even left New York. How improbable it was that I was here! The intense blue of the sky reached down, connecting with the intense blue lake. The mountains directly across from me were covered in mist, and a fish eagle screed overhead. I squeezed my eyes shut, wondering if it would all disappear if I clicked my heavy boots together, and I would wake up and be home with Tusker, like Dorothy and Toto. I opened my eyes again. I really was here.

  But I didn’t have the Wizard of Oz to help me.

  There was a commotion ahead. Dreading and yet hoping it was Tusker, I ran to a campsite that was supported by a large, flat, rocky ledge the other campers had called the Chill Spot. It overlooked the water and was used by foreign tourists with less formal equipment who were vacationing on the cheap. Tusker was standing in the middle of a small crowd. They were obviously used to the sight of elephants, since elephants appear out of everywhere in Zimbabwe. Garbage was strewn about his feet, and he was being pelted by glass soda bottles that were breaking into shards around him. A boy, maybe sixteen, had another bottle in his hand, aiming to throw it, and I ran to him and grabbed his hand to divert him from his target. The elephant lifted his trunk over his head, and the gathering crowd moved menacingly close, taunting him and screaming obscenities. He shuffled his feet nervously and trumpeted, and there was a collective gasp.

  “Give him room to move,” I yelled. “Move back and give him room! Give him a way out.”

  The crowd parted, still yelling, disrespectful and foolish, deceiving themselves that their trappings of civilization, their bright plastic coolers with matching trash pails and flowered umbrellas and rented drop-sided campers were somehow equal to the elephant’s irrevocable rights to this territory. They had forgotten, or never learned, that he belonged here, he was the native and they were the intruders, in their garishly bright reds and pinks and turquoise tropical clothing.

  “Leave him alone!” I screamed, even as the game warden drove up and dispersed them in calm, authoritative tones.

  “Leave them to me, mademoiselle,” he said, and I politely retreated, still watching Tusker, who sorted through another trash pail before he turned around and casually walked away.

  “We have to get him out of here soon,” I announced to Diamond.

  We were eating dinner: dovi—a peanut butter and chicken stew—with greens and cauliflower and dinner sadza and tea. Inexpensive native food, unlike the steaks and seafood that the guests in the other huts were receiving, since we weren’t paying, courtesy of Charlotte and Billy Pope.

  “You had to see the way they were treating him,” I added. “Have you heard anything yet?” Tusker was all I could think about.

  “I spoke to Charlotte, and she’s working on a plan,” Diamond replied, quickly finishing her dinner. “She’s been trying to pull something together ever since the Conservation Task Force issued the execution order.”

  Execution. The word again sent a chill through me.

  “What kind of plan?” I asked.

  Diamond made a face. “She thought a crew could somehow push him to where she is, and then she could make arrangements to have him airlifted out. She’s been working with some rescue friends that she’s known a long time.”

  Chizarira National Park was the most remote park in the country, with fewer tourists, and would give us more privacy and more opportunity, so Charlotte’s idea seemed logical. Though there were some driving roads cut throughout Charara, the terrain, according to Diamond, would be mostly uncharted.

  “Did you tell her that we want to help?” I asked.

  Diamond nodded. “She says that we can be the ones to push him to Chizarira. It would save her a few days. He doesn’t have a lot of time.”

  “But how?” I asked. “We can’t do it on foot. Is she sending horses?”

  “No,” Diamond said, eyeing my plate. “They finally managed to get petrol. She’s sending us a Rover. Are you going to finish that sadza?”

  I pushed my plate at her. “Take whatever you want. I never did figure out what the appeal is with this stuff.”

  “It’s cheap and filling,” Diamond said, wiping my plate clean with her fingers. “Charlotte also said they’re sending an old friend of theirs who has done like a million rescues. She said he should be a big help.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “When does he arrive?”

  She burped and checked her watch. “In about another hour.”

  I thought I would never see him again.

  There was a rap at our door and a sharp whiff of cigarette s
moke as soon as Diamond opened it. Russian cigarettes. From an old Russian friend who was a major part of the rescue team when Tom rescued Margo.

  Grisha.

  “Madame Neelie,” he said with great surprise, his thick Russian accent as garbled as ever. “My eyes cannot believe my heavy amazement!”

  “Me either!” I said. I fought the temptation to look over his shoulder for Tom. We embraced and I stepped back to exult in my good fortune. Grisha had spent most of his life helping Tom with elephant rescues and was considered a world expert. “Please, just call me plain Neelie.”

  He looked just as I remembered him—pale blue eyes that noticed everything, maybe a little more gray throughout the thatch of light red hair he left uncombed, but still lean and muscular, with the ever-present Stolichnye Light hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him joyfully. “How did you get involved with this?”

  He looked perplexed. “Have I committed grave confusion? Grisha is thinking woman peoples would have gladness over his present position.”

  “Oh, we do, we do,” I said, and pulled out a chair for him. “Sit down, we need to talk. You have to tell us everything.”

  Diamond was still standing by the door, watching us, looking mystified.

  “Oh, Diamond,” I apologized, “I forgot. This is Grisha, Tom’s assistant.”

  “Diamond-Rose Tremaine,” she said, extending her hand to him. Ever courtly, he rose halfway from his chair and kissed the tip of her fingers. “Where are the other men?” she asked. “Surely you brought others.”