Rhinoceros Summer

by Jamie Thornton

  “Come out on a hunt. Go on one hunt. And if you hunt it the right way only once, then tell me it doesn’t trump anything you think you found in this piece of religion you’re waving at me. Maybe then I’ll believe you.”

  Walter Fritz drained the glass and unwound his legs before standing up. He dropped the pamphlet that featured a color illustration of a brown-haired Jesus clasping his hands in prayer towards heaven onto the table like it was a piece of trash. “Until then, you don’t have anything I want to hear.” He pulled out a card from one of his dozen shirt pockets and threw it down.

  The business card said, simply: Walter Fritz, Professional Hunter.

  Walter left the bar, ducking his head to miss the doorframe.

  Paul had crammed both pieces of paper into his jean pocket and went to find the rest of the college group, especially Abby. He remembered he couldn’t wait to describe this Walter Fritz character to her. It was all he could think about for the rest of that day.

  About a month later, almost at the end of the mission trip, Abby discovered she was pregnant. The two of them decided to stay in Tanzania until the baby was born. They didn’t want anyone in the States finding out.

  Paul sought out Walter and asked for a job. After that first hunt, Paul was hooked. He stayed on with Walter’s outfit after Abby died. It had been easier than trying to face everyone back home. And by then, he was living a completely different life. A harder life. He believed, a truer life.

  Paul took another long drink to push back the nostalgia. That wasn’t why he came.

  He made sure to arrive in Arusha early enough before picking up Lydia to knock down a few. As he ordered his third one, he tipped his chair back against one of the roof support beams anchored into the ground and then saw his watembezi girl walk in: Ruth Waweru.

  After the last few weeks of bad news—the government snooping into his business through the form of his son, the lack of clients, how all his hopes seemed pinned on one innocent girl and her camera—he couldn’t resist checking if his girl had some free time.

  Ruth had dark chocolate skin smoothed to perfection and sinewy hips that knew just how to move against him without spilling the drink in his hand. She was like a rare, black-maned lion, unique because her skin was so dark it made other black people around her look pale.

  One night, months before, when they had both been drunk, when Paul’s safari business was still flush enough with money that he could afford a hotel room for them, Paul asked why she ‘walked the streets’ looking for men. She could get a job as a secretary somewhere and put her languages to use. She knew four languages—Swahili, English, German, and a local tribal dialect Paul had never heard of.

  “Secretary does not pay family to live,” she’d said, slurring her words.

  He’d shaken his head at her. “So they pimp you out to white men.”

  She’d thrown the drink on the floor of the hotel room. The glass bounced off the rug and shattered against the wall. She had been ferocious in her anger and eminently sexy as she stood there naked, her small breasts moving in time to her gesturing. “This isn’t America,” she said, “No pimps. My family not know I do this for them.” She hit her chest with her fist. “My money save them. My money buy seeds for crops. My money put food in front of brothers and father.”

  He’d taken her to bed then. Told her she was a good woman. Proud. He’d moved his rough hands across her dark skin and left her more money than she’d asked for so she would know he didn’t mind her anger. Liked it better that way.

  Paul motioned to where Ruth stood talking with the bartender. She gulped down a shot before turning to Paul with an inviting smile.

  “My mzungu,” she said softly, bending down to kiss him on the cheek, so he could smell the vodka on her breath. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed his face into her sweet-smelling breasts. The black dress she wore was tight enough against her skin to reveal toned muscles, a firm ass, and small waist.

  “You shouldn’t come to this place,” Paul said. “Stay at the resort with me.”

  Ruth frowned slightly and then sat in a chair next to Paul, moving it closer so their thighs pressed together. She said something he couldn’t understand.

  In English, she said, “I come if you pay.”

  Her hand slipped up his thigh. Why not? It would make Abiba furious. “Let’s go,” he said, draining his glass, “but we need to stop at the airport first.”

  They walked out arm in arm, Ruth taking careful steps in her black heels. The low afternoon sunlight bathed the shacks and cracking asphalt road in a dusty gold color. Dozens of people walked the streets on their way home from work or going out for an early dinner. A horn honked at a man picking his way across.

  “Ruth!” The man waved and hurried over to where Ruth and Paul stood on the cracked sidewalk just outside the bar entrance. Small, one-story buildings just like the bar lined the street on either side, each one filled with the smells of market food, tourist trinkets, or bartenders welcoming in the tourists. The man was in his forties, like Paul, but he’d let himself get fat. His sweat turned his skin into a splotchy pink mess, like uncooked pig.

  Ruth turned away, as if she didn’t hear the man speak, but he came up and grabbed her.

  “Tomorrow,” Ruth said, plucking at his hand on her arm.

  “Who is this?” He jerked his thumb into Paul’s face.

  “She’s not your property. Better get your hands off,” Paul said.

  The man in his nice grey slacks and button-down shirt sneered at Paul and dug his fingers deeper into Ruth’s arm, making her wince.

  Paul sighed and tensed his hands into fists.

  The airport would have to wait.

  The man managed to throw a single, feeble punch, and then Paul laid him out on the concrete.

  Paul licked the blood off his lip.

  Ruth moved into the shadows of the building while they fought. Not that it lasted long. That kind of man never could hold out in a fight.

  Paul spit on the ground next to the man’s head and heard the siren of a police car making its way down the street.

  Two white men fighting on the sidewalk was an event, and the entire block had stopped to watch.

  He had a gash in one knuckle where he’d hit the guy’s tooth, otherwise he was fine. The other guy was not. Paul wiped his hands across his jeans. Probably a concussion. Paul kicked the guy in the chest as an insurance shot. A concussion and bruised ribs.

  Paul glanced around for Ruth, but she was long gone. Just as well.

  CHAPTER 10

  Lydia

  “Like this,” Muna said. She showed Lydia how to climb into bed without ripping the netting from the ceiling hook. She motioned towards the windows. “They have netting too that can stay open for breeze.” Muna overlapped the netting. “Like this for no gap.”

  Lydia nodded to let Muna know she was listening. Her simple instructions threatened to break down Lydia’s resolve to not cry.

  Muna tilted her head to one of the windows. “Hear that?”

  Lydia didn’t hear anything at first, and then—a low humming sound.

  “This light here.” Muna pointed to the only lamp in the room. “All lights in house run off generator. We ration generator so light no good soon.” Muna took Lydia’s hand and squeezed it gently. “You should take a good sleep.”

  Lydia squeezed back to let Muna know how much her kindness meant. “Thank you,” she tried to keep her voice from cracking. She had dozens of questions about Blue Nile Safari but wasn’t ready to hear the answers.

  Muna hesitated at the door. “You will be okay,” she said, and smiled again before leaving Lydia alone in the room.

  Lydia locked the door and tried to picture what the room would feel like with the light off. She thought she would welcome the darkness. In the darkness she could hide, maybe put off thinking about this mess. She unloaded her camera bag next to the lamp and made it ready for the next morning. Even in the midst of her exhaustion she
did not fail to notice the balcony off her room, and the view that must be on the other side.

  The room fit a bed, a dresser, and a sitting chair next to the balcony door. She unpacked a bag into the dresser and slung another bag against the chair. The light made it so she couldn’t see through any of the windows.

  “Sleep,” she said to the empty room. Her voice almost sounded normal. She knew she should search for a phone and call her parents. Instead, she climbed into bed and tried to overlap the cloth as Muna had instructed.

  The generator died and her room plunged into darkness. She gasped.

  Insects filled the void. Their noises must have already been present, but she hadn’t noticed with the lights on.

  Her hands fumbled with the netting. She couldn’t tell what part she held anymore. She gave up and huddled under the quilt.

  Long whooping howls drifted through the open windows. Her heartbeat increased. They sounded like a cat fight, but this was not her bedroom. These wouldn’t be two housecats acting at fierceness. She didn’t know what kind of animal it could be. Lion? Leopard? Hyena? An image of each animal rose into her mind, at least, what she could remember from nature shows and trips to the zoo. Did the animals know the resort was here? Did they surround it? Even as she had ignored, she’d noticed how isolated Blue Nile Safari was—a broken down mansion in a sea of dead grass.

  Caleb despised her without knowing anything about her. Without giving her a chance. People always liked her, but he thought she was a joke, a naïve little girl. She wanted to add her own frustration to the animal howls but kept silent and huddled deeper into the bed, as if trying to force a hole in mattress. She wouldn’t let anyone convince her to give up. In this, she knew she was like her mother and was glad for it. Caleb had no right to make her afraid when she was only trying her best.

  She wished she’d had the courage to talk back to him. Her father would have known how to handle it. He never let Grandpa get to him and Grandpa had been worse than Caleb. Her father wasn’t afraid to try and change peoples’ minds, or ignore them.

  Tomorrow she would talk to Paul, find out the truth, and then make a decision.

  The yowling died away, bringing her back to the room. Smells crowded in instead of noises. She didn’t know what they were exactly—a mixture of old furniture, musty cloth from the quilt, a whiff of grass from the open window. The animal noises rose up again, distracting her from her labeling. This time she strained to distinguish individuals by their calls and imagined taking pictures of them under infrared lights like those PBS specials she thought were so Hollywood paparazzi. Animals playing, mating, fighting, thinking no one could see them when instead people were ready with their lights and cameras to expose it all. It made animals into something scandalous, more in line with the National Enquirer than National Geographic.

  Lydia turned and wrapped herself tight within the quilt and mosquito netting. It took hours, but she finally fell into a restless sleep. The animal sounds bled into her room, adding a twisted soundtrack to her dreams. Nightmares full of brakes slamming, tires fishtailing. She looks at the driver—it’s not Caleb, but her grandfather. Cat howls turn into the creaking doors of her grandfather’s Cadillac. His old hands grip the steering wheel. He peers through the dusty windshield. He tries to keep the truck under control. The squealing tires and grating brakes shout at her to wake up.

  She woke up. The car noises didn’t disappear. She opened her eyes, but the darkness didn’t change. The quilt wound around and between her legs, clamping her down, making it difficult to move or take a breath or not feel tied up.

  Someone outside killed an engine, then opened and closed a car door. Heavy steps sounded on dirt, then wood.

  She unwrapped her legs and made sure the netting was still closed, then snatched her hands and head back beneath the blanket. In her half-awake state she pictured hundreds, thousands, of mosquitoes hovering in her room. They waited for her to create a gap. Waited for her to touch the netting with a finger or a cheek, bringing her close enough to puncture. The awake part of her mind felt relief at this straightforward insect fear, better than the complicated fears that had started at the Tanzanian airport.

  She imagined a greater horde of mosquitoes gathering. Her only option was to huddle into a little ball, make sure the quilt tucked around every piece of exposed skin, and pray for the mosquitoes to stay away.

  Thoughts stumbled through her head as she tried to fall back asleep. She used to ask God to keep her parents from fighting, to not let people call her PK-Lydia, to not let the M’s ask her to get fake nails again, to make the weekend sunny so she could ride her bike to the park. Stupid stuff left unanswered.

  She’d gotten smart about praying eventually—better to not set anything up for failure. She learned instead to ask for help with getting good grades and being nice to people.

  She’d always gotten good grades. She’d always been nice.

  The quilt wrapped her body. The netting overlapped her bed. Mosquito hordes filled the room. Screens covered the windows. Animals bit and scratched and howled at each other outside. Nothing else was real except for those facts.

  She fell asleep praying for protection from the mosquitoes. It was the only thing she trusted to prayer. She would find a way to handle everything else.

  CHAPTER 11

  Paul

  After four hours of smoothing things over with the police, Paul was tired.

  He drove carefully in the near-blinding darkness on the road out of Arusha. He thought of the man he’d fought and the money his nice suit showed. Men like him were the kind of client Paul needed to book for safari.

  Tanzania, all of East Africa, used to be a place where a man could come to test his mettle. But now, towns like Arusha bustled with tourists demanding McDonalds and paved roads. Men like the one Paul had fought wanted luxury vacations, easy foreign women, buffet meals, spas and massages, and maybe see a lion feeding at night, if it fit into the vacation schedule.

  There were still plenty of wild places in Tanzania, but the Wildlife Division, conservation organizations, even fellow hunters, had chopped up and carefully tagged, licensed, and sold most of them as blocs. No such thing as unowned land anymore.

  Paul arrived at the resort and slammed closed the car door. He used his senses to sniff and listen for people still awake—those who could give him trouble. Abiba. Caleb.

  Some of the staff were up late, preparing for the morning breakfast, but they avoided his gaze and slid through the shadows in silence. Paul did not try to be silent. This was his business. He could slam doors and stomp through the building if he felt like it.

  The door to his office stood ajar and once he pushed inside he saw Abiba and Caleb waiting for him. They both sat in uncomfortable wood-backed, authentic safari-style chairs, not talking, just waiting in grim silence.

  Paul narrowed his eyes and moved to sit in the comfortable cushion-backed chair behind his desk. The papers from the Wildlife Division still spread across the desk surface waiting for his attention. The black and white portraits of long dead hunters during the golden age of trophy hunting encircled him, their eyes staring at him much like Abiba and Caleb did now. He felt judged by every object in the room.

  Judged and found lacking.

  He broke the silence first. “You two trying to ambush me?” His eyebrow carefully rose in dismissal. It was his way, not to draw things out, but get a situation settled by tackling it head on. “Whatever you have to say, get it out now. I have work to do.” He gestured to the papers on his desk, then leaned back in his chair and interlocked his hands behind his head.

  He could see the signals passing between Abiba and Caleb, deciding who would speak first.

  “Msaka, you lie to the girl,” Abiba said, her eyes flashing in anger. “You lie to Caleb, to me.”

  “I told her everything. All of your lies.” Caleb almost spit out the words, but Paul remained silent. He was patient, he wanted them to overreact. That’s how people made mistakes
, by losing control.

  “She knows you’re a hunter. When were you planning to tell her the real reason she’s here? You think she wouldn’t find out? Well, you shouldn’t have forced me to go get her then. Where were you?” Caleb clenched and unclenched his hands during each question, always unable to discipline himself.

  “I had an errand,” he said, not allowing Caleb to draw him in. “It was…unavoidable.” Let him believe Paul had premeditated forcing Caleb to pick up Lydia. Maybe he could use that to his advantage, depending on what Caleb told her, or how Caleb had told her. Lydia might decide to turn right back around and leave for the States if Paul didn’t find a way to convince her to stay.

  “Was the errand Ruth Waweru?” Abiba spoke softly, silencing both Caleb and Paul with the venom in her voice.

  God, the woman knew everything. Paul felt unnerved that he’d become so predictable. He shrugged his shoulders as if unconcerned. “It’s been taken care of.”

  The three of them sat in silence for a moment. He wondered if there was any use in trying to change a person’s mind after twenty years of thinking the same way about life, about people, about what was right and wrong.

  No use, the silence in the room wanted to confirm.

  No use untangling and understanding, no use trying to change. This was the way of it. Caleb, his son, hated him. Abiba, the woman he desired above any other, hated him. And Paul, he had tasted success, then had it stripped from him, like a bushman strips his toothbrush from the m’swaki stems.

  No use.

  Except he didn’t believe that. Wouldn’t believe he couldn’t still form his son into a proud legacy, find a way to make peace with Abiba, and save his business, his pride, his legacy. He often thought about how people would remember him after he died. He was not a man to go softly into the night. Dylan Thomas wrote something like that. And wrote it true. Well, that’s what he was, a wild animal that would not die softly in the night, would not live softly, for what it was worth.