Private Lies (18 page)

Eliot researched brainwashing techniques. Although most of
them were theoretical, they were successful under the right circumstances. Get
the subject into a situation outside his normal life, a controlled environment,
and maybe, just maybe, a drumbeat of information manipulated into his
unsuspecting head might get that person to think what the manipulator wants him
to think. Or feel.

Africa! He was on the verge of
canceling the safari when it occurred to him that Africa would offer an ideal
opportunity, a perfect venue, for what they had in mind. At a certain level of
desperation, one takes one's chances. Certainly, it was worth the investment.

If it could happen anywhere, it could happen in Africa.

DURING THE TRIP south to the Samburu, images of Africa had flung themselves into Maggie's vision. Passing villages barely over the cusp of
the Stone Age, living side by side with the internal combustion engine and
under the ubiquitous antennae of the television age, she had the impression that
modern civilization was still making up its mind about absorbing Africa into its bosom.

Fifty miles out of Nairobi, paved highways had disappeared
and they had to bounce through walls of dust particles that burned their way
down their throats and up their nasal passages.

Jack Meade, his W. C. Fields nose shiny and ulcerated with
drink and sunburn, kept up a running commentary on the African dilemma, which
according to Meade was dire, teetering on the edge of chaos and disaster.

"No self-restraint with these Africans," Meade
explained. "It's all greed and corruption. Padding pockets it is. Not a
black-white thing." He took pains to point this out. "There's no
self-discipline anywhere. Babies, babies. They know how to make them. They do
that better than anything. Where they miss is what to do with them. No jobs,
you see." He pointed to rows upon rows of makeshift dwellings, many of
them roofless, constructed mostly of flattened cans. "Poor buggers. They
also have to compete with the wildlife. Well, who's going to win that one? Not
the wildlife."

He went on and on about the poaching situation.

"They come down from Somalia mostly and machine-gun
the elephants for their bloody ivory. Not that the killers see any of the real
lucre. They get peanuts for the killing. The rhino's been finished, all for a
dagger's handle and the myth of aphrodisiacs. The leopard's seen his day as
well. Game wardens are in on the take, too. At the same time the bloody
powers-that-be want to increase tourism to three million people. More
spectators in their friggin' Volks buses. God, I hate those things."

"It's an international disaster," Eliot said,
showing his agreement with Meade's assessment. "That's why we're
here." He paused and briefly glanced toward Maggie. "We've got to
monitor the situation and bring the message back."

The road grew rougher as they drew farther and farther away
from Nairobi. Waves of dust blew through the open windows, filling their
nostrils, caking their faces.

Meade struck Maggie as one of those colorful characters who
popped up in old movies, a kind of Humphrey Bogart type in
The African Queen
.
She glanced toward Ken, who looked bored and uncomfortable, making skeptical
facial expressions as Meade's voice droned on with its endless patter. Carol,
taking the tack of all seasoned travelers, dozed sporadically, raising her head
occasionally to check their location. It was apparent that she had heard all of
Meade's stories before.

Their camp in the Samburu had already been set up before
their arrival and the servants were lined up to greet them and attend to their
immediate needs. Tents were allocated and Meade explained the schedule and
procedures.

There were three fly tents, one for Ken and Maggie, one for
Eliot and Carol, and one for Meade. The servants slept in less elaborate tents
on the working side of the camp. A large mess tent looked out on a fire circle
in which a fire burned merrily.

Each fly tent for the principals was equipped with twin
cots and folding camp tables and mirrors set up under the fly at either end for
washing, shaving, applying makeup, and other ablutions. There were also two
director's chairs and a writing table for sitting, reading, and writing during
camp breaks.

At the rear of each tent, entered through zippered flaps,
was the "outhouse" tent, equipped with a black plastic toilet seat
placed over a deep hole and a shower which one entered through another flap.
For showering, the men brought hot water in buckets and poured them into an
overhead device. A pull on a chain released the water and gravity provided the
rest.

Primitive but comfortable and effective, Maggie observed. A
nineteenth-century fantasy, she decided, beginning to understand the
otherworldliness that was implied by this kind of romantic Victorian adventure.
She wished that she were here alone with Eliot. Already the frustration and
pressure of showing indifference toward him were beginning to make her tense.

Because of the exhausting drive, Meade had abbreviated the
ritual of the evening meal to just a light salad, cooked vegetables, and a cool
white wine of Eliot's choice, served by the servants in white jacket and
gloves. The conversation consisted of Meade and Eliot explaining how the safari
was to be conducted and what was expected of the participants for its fullest
enjoyment.

Meade, Maggie noted, was a big burly man, a
second-generation Kenyan who had been a white hunter, one of an intrepid band
of legendary British-descended big-game hunting guides that had flourished in East Africa until the government banned the practice in 1977.

Like all the white hunters of Kenya, Eliot had told them
earlier, Meade longed for the good old days, tolerating the present with a
cynicism that bordered on despair. Eliot had also briefed them on the man's
character and habits, warning them about his affection for booze, which Eliot
had strictly forbidden during the working safari day.

Meade, he had also warned, could be moody, gruff, and crude
at times, but he was extremely knowledgeable and reliable when it counted.
There was also, Maggie had observed, an air of tragedy about him, as if his
life's experience had left him bitter and disappointed.

Eliot had debated changing guides, but in the end he had
decided to stick with Meade, who had taken him out on other occasions. There's
not a better man to have in a tight spot, he had told the others. The bush,
after all, was fraught with many dangers.

"Our lives are in his hands," Eliot had told
them.

It did not take Maggie long to determine that the toughest
part of the safari would not be the absence of creature comforts, but the
forced separation from Eliot and the pressure of influencing Ken to take more
of an interest in Carol.

She and Eliot had agreed that casual but friendly
disinterest between them was to be the accepted mode of behavior. There must be
no long, lingering eye contact between them in Carol and Ken's presence. Not
the slightest hint that there was this explosive intimacy between them.

"No touchee, feelee, kissee," she had whispered
playfully in Eliot's ear as they stood in a quiet corner of the Norfolk lobby waiting for their bags to be loaded. It was turning out to be harder than
she thought.

Thankfully, there was much to learn and absorb on this
first night. It deflected her attention. That and the sudden injection of the
element of fear. In the distance, they could hear the fierce rumble of African
night creatures.

"Listen," Meade said. "The lion's roar. It
carries long distances."

It was an eerie, yearning, anguished sound and it filled
Maggie with dread.

"It's the female," Eliot said. "She is the
efficient killer, the true predator."

"Like all females," Meade grumbled as he led them
to their tents, lighting the way with his flashlight. It struck Maggie that
failure with women might be one of the ways life had disappointed Meade.

"You'll find flashlights hanging in your tents,"
Meade told them as he said good night to each couple and proceeded to his own
tent farther away from the others. In front of it, he had parked the van.

"You're awfully quiet," Ken said after he had put
on his pajamas and slipped beneath the covers of his cot.

"I'm just absorbing the strangeness," Maggie
responded.

"It's quite wonderful," he whispered. "Just
what Eliot said it would be."

"Yes," she said. "They were accurate as well
as eloquent in their explanation of what to expect."

"I'm really impressed by that guy," Ken said
after a long pause. "He sort of grows on you. He really believes that
certain things can be saved for posterity. There's something heroic and
stirring about that kind of commitment."

She agreed, of course, but said nothing, waiting for the
right moment to offer a telling comment.

"Don't you think Carol looks marvelous in her bush
clothes?"

"I suppose," he agreed noncommittally.

"I find her so perceptive and intelligent," she
offered casually. "Don't you?"

She waited for him to answer as she searched her mind for
more to say, but soon his rhythmic breathing told her he was asleep.

Maggie lay on top of the covers in her nightgown, not yet
ready for sleep, trying to sort out the images of the day but unable to think
of much else but Eliot. She hated the idea of sharing Eliot with the others.
They belonged together, working together, joining together in doing things that
mattered, pursuing a lifetime of meaningful projects.

With what she believed was her innate sense of fairness,
Maggie tried to resist making comparisons between Eliot and Ken. Wouldn't that
be onerous and mean-spirited?

Eliot and Ken were different people with different
sensibilities. Not that it mattered. Ken was a closing chapter now. She wished
him nothing but the best, the best of everything. She hoped that he would one
day realize his ambition to be the next Hemingway, or whatever it was he
wanted.

As for her, she knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted
Eliot. She needed Eliot Butterfield.

There was no point in trying to rationalize why this
conflagration had occurred between them. On the surface, Eliot would have
seemed to her to be the least likely candidate for a lover. She chuckled at the
memory of her first impression of him. He had struck her as too prissy, too
controlled, too fastidious, too spoiled by money and personal indulgence, and,
yes, snobbish and superior.

Odd how people see only what they wish to see. Maggie was
happy, of course, that Ken also seemed to be viewing Eliot in a new light of
appreciation. She liked that. Of course, what Ken couldn't see was how she and
Eliot were two halves of one whole. How could he?

The soft night air seemed to heighten her thoughts and
excite her mind, which now seemed to fill with erotic images of Eliot and her
together. She could not believe the heights of sexuality that they had reached.
How was it possible for her, at her age and maturity, to feel so joyously mad
with lust and romantic longing? It was uncanny, mysterious. And delicious.

Her flesh suddenly felt hot and her mouth etched a wry
smile. This was the prim and proper mother of teenage girls who snickered to
themselves, commenting openly about their parents' old-fashioned attitudes,
dead certain that they were too old to experience sexual passion. If they only
knew, she thought, summoning up mental pictures of herself being mounted
rearwise by Eliot. My God. Was it Africa stimulating her? Or deprivation?

She spread her legs, bare under her nightgown, and let the
night African air play with her moist womanness, longing for him, her man,
Eliot. Come to me, she whispered, lifting her arms.

If only she had the guts to enter his tent, kick out the
usurper, the sexless Carol, her boylike body tight like hard wood. Enough of all
this sham and playacting and private lies.

A lioness roared again. As if in defense, Maggie closed her
legs and drew her nightgown over her knees. No no no. It wasn't fair. Carol had
no license to steal Eliot's right to his own life, to prevent him from pursuing
his ideas and causes to make the world better for others. Still, she would not
give in to pessimism or depression. She had no quarrel with the practical
considerations of Eliot's dilemma. He was thinking of her as well, of their
life together.

She understood his sudden anxiety about money. It had never
been an issue in his life, and having it had given him the freedom to serve
meaningful causes. To be plagued with money worries now was debilitating for
him. Worse, it placed obstacles in the way of their future.

Maggie wished that she did not carry the baggage of
motherhood and maturity. In her heart, she could abandon herself to the idea
that love conquers all. But even in this Roman spring of her life, she could
not escape from the reality of responsibility. It grew painful to think about
and she rebuked herself for indulging this bout of depression. The solution was
in hand, she told herself. They would take control of their own destiny.

Finally, on this note of optimism, she grew drowsy, crawled
under the blankets, and slept.

Sometime later, a loud ground-shaking screech filled the
night air, like the mad braking-tire burning sound that precedes a vehicle
crash. Both she and Ken sat up, startled. The racket continued for some
moments, then disappeared.

"Bloody rogue elephant somewhere," Jack Meade's
voice carried to them. "No danger now. Gone to muck up elsewhere."

"I like that," Ken said, settling back.

"Like what?" Maggie asked, her heart still
pounding.

"The sense of danger," he murmured, turning his
back toward her. "Like Hemingway described it."

Danger came in all shapes, sounds, and sizes, she decided,
thinking suddenly of another kind of danger, the danger of a life without
feeling. She longed for Eliot to comfort her, thinking of him as he lay in his
own cot a mere few yards away.

Oh, God, how she yearned for a life with Eliot, with Eliot
as he was, with Eliot as he needed to be. Which meant Eliot pursuing his bent,
his "thinking," his causes, his philosophical concerns. She admired
this quality of Eliot's, so unlike Ken, who wallowed in excuses, nursing his
frustration as if it were a baby's pacifier.

She could foresee a life of joyous partnership,
intellectually and physically. They would mesh without seams. Eliot would
continue to collect thoughts, ideas, evidence, phenomena. And she would
organize them, place them in context for further contemplation.