Saving the White Lions

by Linda Tucker

  From the snippets she revealed to me, I’ve reconstructed fond images of Mireille as a sunny little two-year-old in a Swiss orphanage, throwing her arms up to be adopted by barren and childless aristocratic parents. But they subsequently denied her their inheritance, because they didn’t consider their adopted daughter a blue blood. To me, Mireille’s generosity illuminates her true aristocracy of spirit in contrast to their mean-spiritedness, no matter their title.

  I stop on my way to the office at the coffee shop close to the zoo. It seems appropriate. My thoughts are with Marah, as always, and her next big step to freedom is finally secured! Precisely 9:00 a.m. That’s 8:00 a.m., Geneva time. I start imagining how Mireille’s day must be unfolding. With characteristic efficiency, she’d be phoning her banker precisely as the Swiss bank opened its doors, concluding her instruction with a salvo along the lines of: “Get on with it, good fellow—all systems go!”

  When I arrive at the garden office, Xhosa is waiting for me, perched expectantly on his seat inside his alcove. A momentary suspense. The phone rings. We both freeze. He’s waiting for me to answer. I lift the receiver and before I say a word, Mireille bursts out in sobs on the other end of the line. She is totally distraught. I hear she’s in a state of acute distress, her voice choked with emotion even before she completes her sentence.

  “I’ve no choice but to listen to sense! Please forgive me, darling daughter.”

  In that moment I get a flash of an infinitely reasonable Swiss banker advising his client that no sensible woman would sink her precious francs in a lion project in darkest Africa.

  What’s there to say? After hearing the cold voice of reason, it’s only natural a warmhearted lion matriarch should waver. I’m stunned. My voice is barely audible as I bid goodbye to my beloved godmother. With my last hope snuffed, I clutch my unopened briefcase and leave the office immediately, instructing Xhosa to do the same. Pushing the door closed behind me, I can barely breathe. I’ve a splitting headache.

  The whole journey home is blank. Interminable. Back in the claustrophobic darkness of The Cupboard, I’ve sealed all the blinds tight shut against the daylight. I stare into nothingness. Too dark to see Aslan’s face. I dare not look at the King. After coming so close, I have failed him utterly. The King and Marah.

  Just when hope was so tantalizingly dangled. I have never felt this kind of excruciating pain before—almost achieving an all-important goal, then failing utterly. Why did I bother to try at all? Maria Khosa must have been out of her mind to believe in me. I’ve failed her too.

  My last glimmer of hope, which flickered for just a moment, has faded to black. I abhor my deluded state, which led me to believe I could actually make a difference to the future of this planet! What a grand and utterly ridiculous scheme. No wonder my godmother got cold feet.

  She quite rightly rejected me and all I stand for. And how could I possibly blame Mireille? She’s already done more than could be expected of anyone. It’s no one’s fault; these things happen. My only mistake was to have held out hope in the first place and to have staked my life on the outcome.

  My hateful cell phone keeps peeping and the screen lights up in the dark.

  “Congratulations! I knew you could do it!”

  It’s Ian. Ironically, he’s responding to the text I sent him yesterday—the first person I informed of my seemingly miraculous good news of Mireille’s eleventh-hour salvage job.

  “Ian,” I begin typing back. “It’s no-go. What can I say …” Then I erase the message and drop the phone from my hand. I feel like such a dismal failure.

  I can’t tell how many hours pass. Too many to care. It seems the day is finally drawing to a bleak and unforgiving end. The final countdown: day two of the extension of the extension. Five hopeless days to D-day.

  Now my cell is ringing; I reach out to switch off the noise, but notice that the caller is Marianne van Wyk. Fighter pilot and squash champion, friend and trusted trustee. What difference can she, or anyone, make at this burned-out stage? Best to ignore the call.

  Then, as a reflex, against every judgment, I answer it. Marianne has been following very closely the painstaking process of my fundraising efforts for the land, and, as a trustee, she deserves to be kept informed.

  “I’m afraid it’s all over, Marianne,” I say without introduction, sobbing.

  She simply snorts in response, “Huh! It’s not over til it’s over!’

  All I can do is sob.

  “I’ll take over,” she declares, stepping into the cockpit.

  She hangs up. I can only assume she is making an international call from South Africa to Leeds.

  I am still in the same position, slumped on the futon, holding my aching head in my hands. It’s about twenty minutes later, in the blackness, and the cell phone rangs again. Again, Marianne’s name lights up. When I answer it, she launches straight into her version of events.

  “I told Mireille straight. I said to her, ‘Are you going to let some little gray man in a little gray suit in an even littler, grayer office tell you what you should or shouldn’t do with your life—and your money—when the future of the White Lions is at stake?’ That’s what I told her.”

  I am still tearful, but I can’t help letting out a half-spluttering laugh. “And then?” I ask.

  “Well. Wat kan ek se? I don’t think Mireille likes anybody telling her what to do.”

  I want to know more, but I could see from my cell phone there’s an international incoming call on hold. I swiftly say goodbye to Marianne and answer the other line.

  “Right!” It’s Mireille’s voice on the other end of the line—assertive and upbeat—and I get an instant picture of my fairy godmother getting back into the driver’s seat of her 4.4 HSE Range Rover. “I’ve just had a call from Marianne to say I should not let anybody overrule my better judgment. Well. Naturally, I was coming to that opinion myself, after a strong cup of coffee and a piece of shortbread. Onward, Christian soldiers! Let’s burn rubber!”

  So Mireille’s steam train is on track again, with all the bells and whistles! The first thing I do after saying goodbye is to splash my face with cold water. And try to get my thoughts into full throttle again.

  The challenge is to clear the international transfer through the South African Reserve Bank in time to meet the deadline. Normally, the Reserve Bank allows for a minimum of two weeks for clearance on this scale. We have exactly four working days. In that time, not only do the funds need to be cleared, they also need to reflect in the sellers’ attorney’s trust account.

  Unfortunately, there’s nothing more I can do today. Day has become night. Again, the thought of sleep is an impossibility. First thing in the morning, I’ll be on to the necessary practicalities.

  I’ve reached a condition somewhere between acute exhaustion and hyperventilation. I wish I could get a breath of fresh air, but it’s pitch dark outside, and not safe in my neighborhood to walk on my own. To add to the crisis, I am due to present to an international environmental congress called the Defenders of Wildlife Conference in Sante Fe in three days’ time. During the crucial fundraising period, this forthcoming event seemed a secondary priority—so I shelved thinking about it. But I am only too aware that it represents a real opportunity to keep the Global White Lion Protection Trust afloat. If I opt instead to stay in South Africa and the land deal falls through—which, realistically, despite Mireille’s best wishes, it’s on the brink of doing—I’d lose everything: not only the immediate prospects for Marah and her cubs, but also for the survival of my organization. With everything hanging in the balance, though, how can I even consider going to the congress?

  In this cramped carton of an apartment, I feel like a pent-up lioness in the zoo dungeons. The tension is virtually unbearable. There’s a new choice to make: whether to go or whether to stay.

  DECEMBER 18, 2004. The day after Mireille’s spectacular comeback. Hair unbrushed, I propel myself out of The Cupboard this morning in jeans, a white T-shirt, and
a raw silk jacket that could do with extra pressing, but I couldn’t care less. At best, sleep has been erratic over the past few months, and unfortunately, last night was another totally sleepless night. If I am to present at the congress, I need to depart later today! My flight to Sante Fe was booked several months ago, so securing a seat isn’t the problem. And organizing accommodation for the conference at such short notice is also no challenge, since Corelight’s headquarters are located in Sante Fe, and they’ve long since extended a wonderfully warm invitation. The difficulty is weighing up whether I can risk everything in departing at this pivotal moment.

  I’ve made arrangements for Xhosa to meet me at Marianne’s house. After driving down the panhandle of her entrance drive with its purple plastered walls, I climb out of my car. It’s a blazing summer’s day, and I prepare myself to be slobbered to death by Marianne’s fierce guard dogs: one a miniature version of the other. I see them propelling themselves toward me now: a huge shaggy dog with long black hair, a drooly mustache, and bright button eyes behind dreadlocked fringe; and a tiny shaggy dog with the same hair, drooly whiskers, and button eyes: a black-haired Bouvier and Scottie. Sure enough, they launch a twin assault, nearly toppling me over—but I am rescued by Marianne, who calls them off.

  “Ag shame, just see it as part of the design,” Marianne announces, referring to the additional muddy paw motifs all over my white T-shirt, some big, some small.

  No point in trying to dust myself off.

  “Hellooooo!” I hear a cry as I enter the front door. It’s Marianne’s cockatoo, Pumpkin, shrieking a greeting at me from his colorful jungle gym.

  I sit on Marianne’s couch and the two panting, dribbling dogs leap up to join me.

  “There’s nothing more you can do. Leave the country,” Marianne instructs. “Sign any relevant document. And sign a couple of extra blank sheets, while you’re about it. Gaan maar. Go! Pack your bags. Get the hell outta here! Go do what you have to do at the congress—and leave this little matter to me.”

  I wonder whether I am really in a position to do so. “You do realize, Marianne, that whatever überqualities rocketed you into national squash championships in your late teens will be needed, and more, to pull off the impossible timing?”

  My response to Marianne’s firm answer was not exactly encouraging, true. Nevertheless, the champion fighter pilot is not deterred.

  “Let me get my hands on those bankers,” she demands. “And Corelight? How’re they doing?”

  “Well, if anyone can swing it at this late stage, it’s Brad and Leslie’s organization,” I explain. “They’ve an SOS distress call out to their entire circle. But now the timing’s excruciating!”

  Suddenly, the front gate bell is ringing, and the hounds leap off the couch in unison, tearing into the front yard. Xhosa has arrived and is bowled over by the guard dogs, who are giving him an exuberant greeting, with barking, jumping, and dozens of kisses sealed with slobber. I would assist, but my phone rings; it’s Mireille. Breathless, I explain the impossibilities of our timing to her.

  “Mission impossible?” she responds in her Swiss-British accent. “Absolute nonsense!”

  She’s adopting a haughty tone, and it’s a relief to see that her characteristic bubbly enthusiasm has returned, en force. I recognize that it must have taken every last ounce of matriarchal lioness courage to go ahead with the decision she just committed to.

  “Regrettably, dearest Mum,” I explain, “We have to face the reality that the timing could just be too tight now.”

  “Bulldust!” she announces, the matriarch’s way of encouragement. “Darling daughter: ever since a child, I’ve gone by the dictum: If it’s possible, it’s already done. And if it is impossible, it shall be done!”

  Allowing myself a momentary smile, I explain to Mireille my thinking in respect to the congress, where help and resources may be available for the fragile survival of the organization. She agrees there wasn’t much more I could do to process the funds. She is satisfied to leave the final details to Marianne and Marianne’s connections in the Reserve Bank.

  It’s decided. After Mireille’s encouraging phone call, I begin sorting files, packing, giving Xhosa instructions, and signing documents for Marianne.

  “Okay,” Marianne instructs. “Put your signature on those blank sheets as well—just in case.”

  I give her the binder full of relevant background material. Xhosa carries my bags to the car.

  “Hellooooo!” shrieks the cockatoo as we depart.

  “And goodbye, Pumpkin!” I reply. “Sorry, can’t stop to talk today.”

  As the rows of suburban houses flash by, Xhosa announces, “Can’t let banking formalities and procedures halt the perfect solution in these final critical moments. That’s inadmissible.”

  “True. Inadmissible,” I reiterate. “Simply can’t happen.”

  Despite the tensions, I can’t suppress a moment’s amusement at Xhosa’s highfalutin language. He’s such a delightful concoction of Rasta-cool and scholarly intellect.

  The prospect of thirty-two hours in transit is exhausting but, in reality, this might present my first and only opportunity for significant sleep in several days. However, there’s still the congress to consider. Normally, presentation at such a high level of exposure would require a lot of preparation and careful thought. With my entire focus on the all-important property purchase for Marah’s freedom, I’d given it no consideration whatsoever. In this respect, I’m totally unprepared.

  Lights off, shutters down, Xhosa ready in the car, but I feel I’ve forgotten something. I pause in the doorway, trying to identify it. I desperately need rest. I am grateful and relieved that Xhosa is driving me to the airport, because I doubt I could have made the taxi drive without stopping to gag. My stomach keeps churning, and my throat is so hoarse that I can’t even make conversation. I am utterly overtired and disoriented. My wits are hanging by a thread.

  IN A STATE OF FATIGUE BEYOND JET LAG, after two days’ traveling, I have arrived in Sante Fe. December 19, 2004. I’d gained a day in traveling across time zones, which means that in South Africa, the final day of the option has already dawned.

  I have absolutely no idea what measure of success Marianne has achieved with the banking processes. But I know she has a way with words, which can make or break any deal. On the flight, I was imagining her instructing her colleague at the Reserve Bank, “If you close the doors of the bank today without clearing these funds, ek se vir jou, I’ll have your balls for breakfast.”

  While Marianne tended to be upfront with friends, she was even more direct with rivals. I was imagining Marianne’s instruction to the sellers’ attorney: “If you close your office before registering these funds today, I, Marianne van Wyk, will personally make the rest of your life unlivable.”

  I picture it clearly, but I can’t visualize the outcome. Have we or haven’t we succeeded? I am too mentally and physically depleted. I’ve even stopped praying with my every last gasping breath for divine intervention. My primary objective now is to somehow hold myself together and get to the congress. I determine not to phone Marianne, in case the bad news knocks the last stuffing out of me. Mercifully, I am staying in a loving and warm environment: the guesthouse of the Corelight organization, known as The Casa; an elegant abode filled with inspired paintings and large, comfortable furniture.

  When I arrived at The Casa twenty minutes ago, Corelight’s right-hand woman, Victoria, a warm and highly wired enthusiast, made sure she brought me up to date on the status. I sit on a high barstool in Corelight’s ample kitchen, mug of cocoa in hand, and she informs me that Brad and Leslie have held up their end of the deal, with “the speed of light.” I marveled to hear of their swift and effective action—they wired through additional funds, which were safely received in the sellers’ account in the nick of time. With these in place, it only leaves Mireille’s master loan pending to clinch the deal. I’m trying not to assume the worst.

  I’m eager to see B
rad and Leslie again, to thank them personally for their support. But, as fate would have it, I’m due to present to the congress this evening, so I politely excuse myself from Victoria and retreat to my room to try to rest. My presentation was hurriedly put together on the flight, leaving little time to doze. Now, in my spacious suite in The Casa, I pause for a moment in the bathroom, inadvertently catching my reflection in the mirror. Wide, staring eyes and matted hair in a tangle, the face of Medusa! I am in a state of utter collapse. I slump into the queen-size bed and sink into a state of suspended inertia.

  I hear my alarm sounding. I drag myself out of bed, drape my cashmere suit on a hanger behind the bathroom door, hoping that the steam from my shower will soften the travel creases. After showering and drying myself, I step into the suit, comb and forcibly gel my hair back into a ponytail, preparing to set out with my laptop under my arm.

  I calculate the time difference between Sante Fe and Johannesburg and realize the last working hour of the final day has closed. With a grinding sense of relief, I finally shut my mind down to any further options or saving grace. After the close of business in South Africa, on this seventh day, the option is well and truly at an end. Whatever the outcome, it is now a fait accompli.

  I try to put the property deal entirely out of my head. It is pointless agonizing. I need every last wish and will to keep my dwindling composure together and deliver a coherent presentation shortly. I force myself to focus on getting through the presentation, as if this were a distant light at the end of the darkest tunnel. I am halfway to the congress building before realizing that I’ve left the power cable behind. Retracing my route, I’m in a rising panic. Back at The Casa, I stumble into the interior only to find Brad Laughlin and his partner Leslie-Temple Thurston, cofounders of the Corelight organization, looking astonished to see me. They appear unusually tense today.