The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (15 page)

He found them in the kitchen with Ming, Pong’s wife. Antoine had learned to be careful never to confront the Chinese directly. They were hypersensitive, and even a slight reprimand could cause a feeling of humiliation that lasted a long time. So he calmly asked Pong where the animal had come from. Charming though the crocodile was, he said, it was threatening and had no place in the house.

Pong explained that Bambi’s mother had died on the flight from Thailand. At the time, Bambi was no bigger than a tadpole and so cute that he and Ming became attached to the little creature and adopted him. Growing up, Bambi had never once attacked them. Usually he lived in a fenced pond, but this morning he had managed to escape.

Antoine sighed as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
As if I didn’t have enough problems already.
He made Pong promise to lock Bambi up securely and to keep an eye on him. He didn’t want him in the house again. Pong smiled and bowed, thanking Antoine for being so understanding.

“Nevermore, Mr. Tonio, nevermore!” he rasped, bowing deeper and faster.

The Croco Park plantation consisted of the coop where they raised chickens to feed the crocodiles and staff; the crocodile farm proper, whose pens extended from the coral reefs across several hundreds of acres and included a number of man-made canals; the canning factory, where the crocodile meat was canned; and the factory where the crocodile hides were removed, treated,
and prepared to be shipped to China. There they were turned into suitcases, bags, card holders, wallets, and purses—and stamped with the logos of famous designers. That was the part of the business that most concerned Antoine, who worried there would be an international backlash if it were discovered that the trafficking started on his plantation. When owner Yang Wei had come from Beijing to Paris to meet and hire him, he hadn’t told Antoine about that part of his job. Wei had mostly emphasized the crocodile breeding and the meat and egg production business, both of which needed to be state-of-the-art and on a solid financial footing.

Wei had mentioned “ancillary” activities, but without going into detail. Grinning broadly, he promised Antoine a percentage on everything that left the plantation, “dead or alive.”

It was too late to make a stink now, and Antoine knew it. Morally and financially, he was in up to his neck.

Antoine had big dreams. Burned by what happened at Gunman & Co., he had promised himself he would become someone to be reckoned with. He had taken out a loan and bought 10 percent of the Croco Park business. To do that, Antoine had gone to see their banker Faugeron at Crédit Commercial and shown him the plans for Croco Park and its anticipated profits over one, two, and five years. Faugeron was skeptical at first, but he knew Antoine and Joséphine, and figured that Marcel Grobz’s fortune and Philippe Dupin’s reputation would serve as security. In the end, Faugeron loaned Antoine 200,000 euros. The first monthly loan payment had been due October 15, but Antoine hadn’t been able to make it; he hadn’t been
paid himself yet. Administrative issues, Yang Wei explained once Antoine finally reached him on the phone after several attempts.

“I’ll pay you three months all at once next time,” Antoine promised Faugeron. “By December fifteenth at the latest.” He could tell from the banker’s voice that he was concerned, and used his most upbeat tone to reassure him. “Don’t worry, Monsieur Faugeron, we’re talking big business here! China is on the move. It’s the place to be. I make deals that would make your employees green with envy. Millions of dollars pass through my hands each day!”

“I trust that the money is clean, Mr. Cortès,” the banker responded coldly.

Antoine awoke every morning with the same anxiety, haunted by Faugeron’s comment. And every morning he checked the mail to see if his paycheck had arrived.

He hadn’t lied to Hortense and Zoé. He really was in charge of seventy thousand crocodiles. He read everything he could about crocodile behavior, hoping it would help him boost their output and breeding.

“They’re not aggressive just for the fun of it,” he explained to Mylène, who was frightened of them. “It’s instinct. They eliminate the weakest and clean up the environment around them as they go. They literally vacuum junk from rivers.”

“Sure, and if they catch you, they gobble you down in the blink of an eye. They’re the most dangerous animal in the world, Antoine!”

“And completely predictable. We know how and why they
attack. If you splash about in the water, crocodiles think you’re an injured animal and it’s all over. But if you just slip slowly in, they won’t stir. Want to try?”

Mylène shuddered visibly at the idea, and Antoine burst out laughing.

“No, really, Pong showed me. The other day he got right next to one and stayed very still, and the crocodile didn’t do a thing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true, I swear! I saw it with my own eyes.”

“You know, Antoine, at night sometimes I get up to watch them and I see their eyes in the dark. They look like flashlights or little yellow lanterns floating on the water. Don’t they ever sleep?”

Antoine laughed, and hugged her tight. Mylène was good company. She wasn’t used to their new life yet, but was eager to make the best of it. “I wish I could be doing something useful,” she said, “like Meryl Streep in
Out of Africa.
Remember that movie? She was so beautiful! I could do what she did and open an infirmary. I got my first aid certificate when I was in school. I could learn to disinfect wounds, to sew them up. At least I’d keep myself busy. Or—I know!—I could be a tour guide for the tourists that come through.”

“Except that they aren’t coming anymore. Too many accidents.”

“That’s too bad. I could have opened a souvenir shop. It would have brought in some cash.”

The biggest problem Antoine faced was feeding the crocodiles. The canals dug for them extended into rich hunting
territory, but the antelopes and other prey animals had grown wary and went farther upriver to drink. So the crocs depended more and more on the food provided by the plantation workers. Mr. Lee had been forced to initiate “feeding rounds,” where the staff would walk along the canals, dragging strings of chicken carcasses in the water. When they thought no one was looking, the workers would quickly unhook a chicken and eat it. They tossed the bones away and continued walking.

The plantation soon had to start raising more chickens.

The crocodile parks farther inland didn’t have that problem. The land they were on had been left wild, and the crocodiles caught their own prey at the water holes.

The local breeders would get together in Mombasa, the closest city to Croco Park, in a place called, appropriately enough, the Crocodile Café. Antoine listened to the conversations between these old breeders, toughened by Africa, experience, and the sun. They swapped the latest news, talked about the price of meat, the latest market for hides. They also shared their views about the crocodiles themselves. “They’ll outlive us, that’s for sure,” one breeder said. “They communicate among themselves, see. They’re always showing who the new leader is. It’s very important to them to know who the strongest one is. Just like men, right?”

“So, how are you getting along with your boss?” asked another, turning to Antoine. “Does he pay you on time, or does he bullshit you and string you along? They’re always trying to screw us. Raise a ruckus, Tonio! Don’t let yourself be cowed. Make them respect you!”

The others laughed. Antoine watched as their jaws worked. A trickle of sweat ran down his back.

He ordered a round of drinks, and lifted a cold beer to his sunburned lips. “Here’s to us, guys!” he said loudly. “And to the crocs!” They raised their glasses, drank deeply, and rolled themselves cigarettes. “There’s good shit here, Tonio. You should try it. Helps to soften the blow on a bad night when you haven’t made your quotas and you’re freaking out.” Antoine turned down the offer. He was dying to ask them what they knew about Mr. Wei, or why the previous plantation director had left, but he didn’t dare.

They gazed at him out of the slits of their yellow crocodile eyes.

The hardest part was hiding his anxiety from Mylène when he came back from his trips to Mombasa. She would question him about what he had seen, what he had learned. He knew she was seeking reassurance. She had used up all her savings to pay for the trip and what she called “the basics” they needed for their new house—the previous owner had stripped the place when he left. “I’m so happy to be part of this adventure,” she’d sighed, handing him her credit card. Nothing was too good for their “little love nest,” she said. And thanks to her, the house had become a home. She bought a sewing machine—an old Singer she found at the market—and made curtains, bedspreads, tablecloths, and napkins. Some of the Chinese workers started bringing her things for mending, which she did cheerfully. At times, when Antoine came home unexpectedly and wanted to
kiss her, she would have a mouth full of pins. On the weekends they went to the white beaches of Malindi and went scuba diving.

But three months had gone by, and Mylène was no longer sighing with happiness. Every day she waited anxiously for the mail to arrive. Antoine could see his own anxiety reflected in her eyes. On December 15 there was nothing in the mail. The day passed in gloomy silence. Pong went about his duties without a word. Antoine didn’t touch his breakfast; he was sick of eggs.
In ten days it’ll be Christmas, and I haven’t been able to send anything to Joséphine or the girls. In ten days it’ll be Christmas, and I’ll be sitting here with Mylène, mournfully sipping cold champagne, all our hopes ground to dust.

Tonight I’m calling Wei, and this time I’m going to do some yelling!
Given the time difference, Antoine was sure to catch Wei at home. But in the evening, reality didn’t have such a jagged edge, and the yellow eyes of the crocodiles were a thousand points of light. The wind picked up, and the stifling heat of the day over the grasslands and the swamp eased. A light mist was rising. You could breathe again. Contours softened, and hope rose anew. Antoine smiled at Mylène. Relieved to see him relaxed, she smiled back.

The publisher was delighted. He’d opened the folder, rubbed his hands, and said, “Let’s just take a quick look.” Wetting his index finger, he leafed through a dozen pages, nodding with satisfaction. “You write very well, Madame Cortès. The prose flows, it’s elegant and simple. Like an Yves Saint Laurent dress!”

Joséphine blushed, unaccustomed to such praise. “Audrey inspired me,” she stammered.

“Don’t be so modest. You have real talent. Would you consider taking on other projects like this one?”

“Yes, of course.”

“In that case, I’ll be in touch soon. You can stop by the accounting department, one floor down, and they’ll give you your check.”

He stuck out his hand, and Joséphine gripped it like someone clinging to a lifeboat in a storm.

“Good-bye, Madame Cortès.”

“Good-bye, monsieur.”

Joséphine was too shy to say anything or look at the check when the bookkeeper handed her the envelope. She just tucked it away. She’d been in a cold sweat. Only when she was in the elevator did she gently peel open the envelope, unsticking one corner, making the opening bigger. She had plenty of time coming down from the fourteenth floor, detaching the check from the letter it was stapled to. When she saw the amount, her head began to swim and she had to lean against the side of the elevator cage.

The check was for 8,012 euros—four times her monthly salary at the CNRS! Eight thousand and twelve euros for translating the life of the adorable Audrey Hepburn.

Joséphine held her purse tightly under her arm and decided to deposit the check at the bank right away. “Hello, Monsieur Faugeron!” she would say. “Guess what I have in my purse? Eight thousand euros!”

She decided to splurge and take a taxi.

At the bank she filled out the deposit slip, beaming with pride as she wrote the numbers. When she got to the teller’s window, she asked if Faugeron was there. She was told that he was with a client, but that he’d be there around five thirty. “Tell him to call me,” Joséphine replied, closing her bag. “I’m Madame Cortès.”

Leaving the bank, Joséphine decided to head straight for the mall at La Défense. She would shower the girls with Christmas presents.
My little darlings will get everything their hearts desire. Better yet, they’ll get as many gifts as their cousin Alexandre!

She peered into the expensive boutique windows. Zoé and Hortense wouldn’t have a father at Christmas, but she would dazzle them with presents. With the swipe of her credit card, she, Joséphine, would be Daddy, Mommy, and Santa Claus all in one.
I want them to fall asleep at night thinking, Mom is here, Mom is watching over us, nothing bad will happen to us.

As she wound her way through the rows of shops decked out in tinsel, Christmas trees, and Santa Clauses with billowy white beards, she thanked God, the stars, and the heavens for her good fortune. Then she remembered that she had to put some of the money aside to pay her taxes. Joséphine wasn’t the kind of woman to lose her head.