Still Life with Elephant

by Judy Reene Singer

  “No. Lufthansa. Also,” Richie continued. “We’re not going straight to Harare Airport in Zimbabwe, because we have to eat frankfurters first, then pick up escargots.”

  “Escargots?” I repeated.

  “Listen to me,” Richie said impatiently. “I said we first have to meet Tom in Frankfurt, to pick up the cargo plane. You’d better start listening carefully, because things could get hairy if you don’t pay attention.”

  And I could see Matt smirking next to him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  WE LANDED in Frankfurt after a seven-hour flight, tired, sticky—courtesy of my mother’s buns and jelly donuts—and with Matt and me still barely civil to each other.

  Thomas Pennington met us at the Lufthansa terminal and led us swiftly through customs, then drove us to the other side of the airport, to a huge blue-and-white cargo plane. He introduced us to Grigoriy, his Russian assistant, and then left to oversee the loading of the plane and to discuss itinerary with our pilots, two chain-smoking, wheat-haired, unshaven Russians who badly needed a few grooming tips. Grigoriy was in his late fifties, with pale-blue eyes and unruly graying reddish hair, and was sucking at a tiny stub of a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.

  “Call me Grisha,” he said to us in heavily accented English. We all shook his hand with great ceremony.

  “Wow.” Richie stood back and whistled at the size of the plane. “Where did Tom get this from?”

  “Is Russian Ilyusha, the plane,” said Grisha. “Mr. Thomas knows everyone. He has friend in my country—lets him use plane when he witches.” He smiled up at the plane, like it was his favorite sweetheart. “Old Russian plane, but she does good work.” I watched as his cigarette burned down perilously close to his lips. “Stronger than American plane,” he said proudly. “She can carry much enamels.”

  “Much what?” I asked.

  “Da.” Grisha squinted against the wisps of cigarette smoke. “Mr. Thomas—shall we say—is enamel server.”

  We all looked at him.

  “Enamel?” Matt repeated, trying to puzzle it out.

  “He said ‘enamel,’ but he I think he means another word,” Richie said, and turned to me. “Neelie, you’re good at these things.”

  “Oh,” I said. “He means animal…something.”

  It took me another moment, but I realized that he meant “animal saver.” Or “savior.” But I wasn’t talking to Matt, and Richie had already left us to talk to Tom, so I kept the translation to myself.

  The cigarette stub finally burned against Grisha’s lips, and he pulled a small black-and-red box with Cyrillic writing from his shirt pocket.

  “Stolichnye Lights,” he said, offering them to Matt and me. “Better than American cigarettes. Strong like Russian bear.” He took a fresh cigarette from the pack and lit it from the glowing remains of his old one, before spitting the stub onto the tarmac and grinding it under his foot.

  We watched them load the plane for a few minutes. Two or three tons of hay, along with several big round metal barrels and dozens of pallets of medical supplies and boxes labeled “Maize” and “Soy Products.”

  “Maize?” I asked. “Isn’t that corn?”

  “You did not see maize,” Grisha said brusquely. “You did not see nothing.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering why I hadn’t seen anything.

  “What are the barrels for?” Matt asked.

  “Water. There is shortening of water. All Zimbabwe has drought,” Grisha explained between puffs of his new cigarette. “We give enamels the water.”

  Our suitcases were brought on, along with food for the ten or so hours that we would be flying. Nothing exotic, just sandwiches and cases of bottled water. And sleeping bags.

  “Sleeping bags?” I asked Grisha.

  “We sleep in bush,” Grisha answered. He took a long drag, then exhaled and gave me a mischievous smile. “Five-star bush.”

  My fantasy hotel with the rooms nicely tricked out in safari theme went up in a puff of smoke from Grisha’s cigarette.

  “But isn’t Makuti only a few hours’ drive from Harare?” I asked. I had looked at maps. Harare was where the airport was, Makuti was where the elephant was supposed to be, near the western border.

  “Da.” Grisha nodded. “Just a few cows.”

  It was difficult, but I understood him. Sixty minutes make one cow.

  “A few cows?” Matt asked. We ignored him.

  Then I got worried. “If we’re sleeping in the bush, what about bathrooms?”

  “Madame Sterling worries too heavy.” He puffed a cloud of smoke over my head, and it wafted down across my face.

  “Madame Sterling might have to pee on occasion,” I said.

  He gave a brief acknowledgment by nodding his head. “Madame Sterling can use toilette. There is petite toilette behind pilots.”

  “I meant on the road to Makuti.”

  “Ah.” Another puff. “Many trees.”

  Peeing behind the pilots may have sounded a bit unceremonious, but peeing behind some tree sounded distinctly public. I must have looked doubtful, because Grisha laughed up a big cloud of smoke.

  “Don’t make so heavy worry, Madame Sterling,” he said, casually taking yet another deep drag. “We don’t watch you. Americans worry too heavy over privates.”

  A staircase was rolled up to the side of the plane, and we climbed aboard. Except for the cargo, the interior of the plane was fairly empty, and resembled nothing more than a long metal tube. There were some jump seats folded in the very front, where we would be sitting. Now I felt that we were really going to Africa. To Africa and back. Returning, I kept thinking, with an elephant sharing the space behind us, in that narrow metal tube of a plane. A wild elephant. I kept staring at it, until Grisha touched my shoulder and pointed to my seat. I sat down.

  “We go,” one of the pilots announced from the open cockpit, puffing furiously on his own cigarette, and putting his two hands together and flapping them like a bird flying, just in case there was any question of how the plane was going to get to Africa.

  “Button up sit belts,” said the other, leaning forward to see out the cockpit window through the haze of smoke.

  I couldn’t help but think that some of the dangers Thomas Pennington neglected to mention might stem from sitting in a cargo plane loaded with hay and chain-smokers.

  The great roar of the plane’s engines brought me out of my musings, and I watched from the window as the ground rapidly fell away and an aerial view of Frankfurt angled below us, a maze of gray buildings and roadways.

  I was glad that Richie sat with Thomas Pennington—because I still couldn’t bring myself to address him by his first name—and, thank God, Grisha sat with Matt. I sat next to a case of granola power bars and opened one up, though I drowsed off before I could eat it.

  I awoke after a few hours and watched sleepily as the men exchanged places—Richie sat with Matt, Grisha took the granola bars—and I rose and stretched and headed for the toilette. Grisha forgot to mention that it didn’t have a door, which gave the occupant an unobstructed view of the cockpit, while at the same time giving the pilots an unobstructed view of the occupant. While I peed, I feigned great interest in all the dials and gauges and digital displays and took heart that the plane never so much as dipped a wing, reassuring me that the pilots were not very interested in observing what was going on behind them. I washed my hands and slunk to my seat.

  Matt and Richie were sleeping now. Grisha was still smoking. Thomas Pennington was sitting in the seat next to mine. I was thrilled to be sitting so close to him. The last famous person I had been near was Big Bird at a shopping mall when I was seven years old. I shyly glanced at his face; the interesting scar that ran down his cheek gave him a certain mysterious virility. He caught me looking at him.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  He got up from his seat and came back with a few sandwiches, for me to take my pick from. I felt flattered and h
onored. Thomas Pennington, serving me food! He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t figure out—bemused, perhaps. I chose an interesting-looking blue-veined cheese on a baguette. He put another sandwich on the seat for himself, and left to bring me a cup of coffee.

  “Mr. Pennington, how many elephants have you rescued?” I asked him, once he settled down.

  “Tom,” he said, opening the wrapper on his sandwich. His moves were graceful, deliberate, spare.

  “I feel funny calling you just plain Tom,” I said. It was like calling the Washington monument Georgie.

  “Tom,” he said again. “I promise you, after a few days in the bush, you’ll be calling me a lot worse.”

  “You’ve done this a long time?” I asked, taking a bite of my sandwich.

  He closed his eyes to calculate. “Twenty years. Maybe more,” he said. “Rescued maybe two or three hundred elephants.”

  “Two or three hundred?”

  “At least,” he said. “My first one—ah.” He lifted his chin and closed his eyes, the way a man would when imagining his first time having sex. “My first one had been shot seven or eight times by one of those game-hunters for hire, and left to die. We came across him by accident, while I was on holiday. I found a way to get the poor creature to a sanctuary in Kenya, where he was treated and saved. Nice big bull elephant. Twelve feet at the shoulder. By then I was hooked.”

  “Hooked,” I repeated knowingly.

  “Yes.” He glanced down at his sandwich. “I guess it’s like—”

  “You don’t have to explain ‘hooked’ to me,” I said. “I do horses.”

  “So you do,” he said, and smiled at me, a smile of camaraderie. Then he lifted his gaze and stared straight ahead for a moment, lost in elephants. I understood that, too. I waited a few polite minutes, then asked, “You said this one is critical?”

  “From the severe drought,” he said. “There’s no vegetation. The thirst and hunger are making the elephants come closer to the villages, and then the villagers attack them. Sometimes the elephants get gravely injured, and sometimes they die. She is the last of ten elephants we just rescued. We brought the others to sanctuaries in Kenya and Mozambique, but they’re full up now.” He took a sip of coffee. “She’s badly wounded. We had a hell of a time tracking her. We think she’s heading up toward the Zambezi River.”

  “Wow,” I said. “How does one even start something like this?” I meant it more as a rhetorical question, because I felt overcome with the need to sleep. I put my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, the rest of my sandwich languishing in my lap.

  “And every time it’s different,” Tom continued. “An adventure.”

  I opened one eye for another quick glance at his scar. “A dangerous adventure,” I said, and closed my eyes again.

  “It is,” he agreed. “But it’s an odyssey, really. Consider this an odyssey, of sorts.”

  I turned to look at him—he had no idea how his words struck me—then I turned my head away, squeezing my eyes shut against the feel of hot tears.

  All of a sudden, I didn’t care about the danger. In an instant, my going to Zimbabwe didn’t have so very much to do with my being with Matt as it was for me. I was doing it for me. Maybe it had always been for me.

  I needed redemption. And I realized I wanted this to be my redemption.

  Reese was right. There was an elephant in the room. His name was Odyssey.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I WAS meant to ride. I always knew it. Why horses take over someone’s life, as opposed to dogs or cats or gerbils, is probably one of the universe’s great mysteries. My two brothers and I came from the same gene pool, same environment. We all rode ponies, and swam and took tennis and piano lessons. It was just part of the childhood experience. But I was the one that got stuck on horses. Lived for horses. Knew they were going to be in my life forever.

  And I was a nice little rider. I quickly grew bored with jumping horses, and my mother signed me up with a dressage trainer. I liked it right away—the obsessive striving to perfect each compulsory movement that was the hallmark of dressage training, the figure eights, pirouettes, straight lines that were straight, circles that were round. It was like equestrian figure-skating, but without the fancy costumes, and instead of being comely and lightweight, our partners were four-footed, lumpy-shaped equines, dressed in saddles and bridles.

  I had gotten enough good scores at the horse shows to receive an invitation to train at the United States Equestrian Team Headquarters in Gladstone, New Jersey. I was almost seventeen. If I had a successful training session, I might even make the short list for the Young Riders Team. It was an incredible opportunity.

  We were to work with Captain Pierre Chandelle-Meiers, the coach for the Swiss Olympic Team. He had made himself available to help the Americans. He would give us pointers. Whip us all into shape for the big international competition.

  BNTs, we call them. Big Name Trainers. They were famous in our small, insulated world of riders and competitors. Their word was law. They were almost as revered as the ODGs—the Old Dead Gods—Alois Podhajsky, Willi Schultheis, Harry Boldt, those who had literally written the books on how to train dressage horses.

  I was very honored to be able to ride with Captain Chandelle-Meiers.

  Homer was my horse. A gift from my parents when I turned twelve and my trainer told them that I had outgrown my gentle, not very athletic first horse. His real name was Odyssey, a well-trained ten-year-old brown Hanoverian, dark, like espresso coffee, with a black mane and tail and a long white blaze down his face. Odyssey. So, of course, his barn name became Homer.

  We clicked right away. He lived to please me, and I lived to make him happy. We began winning at practically every show I took him to. I loved him. All I talked about was Homer. He was my first love, my confidant, my social life. And after I had gotten invited to Gladstone, I thought life just couldn’t get any better.

  Captain Chandelle-Meiers was in his early sixties, with brilliant blue eyes and white, white hair that made me think of the snow-covered Alps of his home country.

  He seemed tall to me, although now I realize that he was probably only five foot eight or so, but he carried himself like an oak tree. Absolutely upright. He had rider’s legs, long and muscled, and a little potbelly that hung discreetly over his britches.

  He dressed like a military man. Tan britches, boots shined to mirror perfection, a starched white ascot over his white tailored shirt, a navy jacket with brass buttons, and a tan cap that sat on his head like a crown. He gave us all a curt nod when we were introduced.

  Homer always rode well for me. I barely needed to touch him with my leg, and I held his mouth very lightly with the reins. It was the way my coach had trained me, and it was the way her coach had trained her. She had ridden with Nuno Oliveira. Another ODG. Nuno used to give exhibition rides with a piece of thread that ran from his hands to the horse’s bit, just to show how light in the mouth the horse was. And that was how I rode Homer in front of Captain Chandelle-Meiers. Not with a thread, of course, but my hands held the reins so that the bit barely disturbed Homer’s mouth. All my signals came from my legs and back muscles. The Captain watched me work, his arms folded, his eyes burning into my back as I rode past him in the riding ring.

  “More engagement,” he snapped. “He does not come through.”

  I knew what he meant. The horse was too tenuous, not stepping his hindquarters under his body enough to support his full weight. Not releasing his mouth totally to me. I tried harder, pressing my legs against him and inching the reins in just a little.

  Homer stiffened his neck against the unfamiliar pressure. I felt bad taking a stronger feel of the rein, but I did it.

  “Nein, nein, nein. Not good enough,” the Captain said. “Come again.”

  I was embarrassed. I wanted to be the best. I wanted a spot on the team. I tried harder. More leg. Stronger hand.

  After watching me with growing disapproval, the Captai
n beckoned and I rode over to him. He gestured for me to dismount, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of spurs. They were round, with rowels. They reminded me of the wheels that you use to slice pizza. Pizza-pie cutters.

  He mounted Homer and trotted him around, taking a solid feel of the reins. Homer threw his head up and flattened his ears. I watched from the rail, pressing my hands together from nerves, until my knuckles blanched. The Captain rode Homer for about ten minutes while I mentally begged Homer to behave, to give in. To just give in. The Captain wasn’t asking so much, just for a little cooperation. But Homer had stiffened the muscles under his neck until they bulged like they were cast in iron. He thrust his head out, he shortened his stride into choppy little bounces.

  “This horse resists too much,” Captain Chandelle-Meiers finally said, touching Homer’s side once more with his pie-cutter spurs. “Get me the Gogue.”

  The Gogue. It sounded so light. Elegant. Like a French dance from a more courtly era. The Gogue in C Major. Ladies in long gowns, men in frocked coats with ruffles at the throat, horses in a contraption that forces their heads down and their necks into an arch of submission.

  Homer fought the device right away. I could see his eyes widening, his muscles cording up. He didn’t like the feeling of pressure against the poll of his head, the pull against his mouth. He stepped backward, trying to relieve it.

  Captain Chandelle-Meiers was not pleased. He leaned back a little in the saddle to drive Homer forward into his hands, and touched the pizza cutters against Homer’s ribs. Homer grunted and hopped forward. I leaned against the fence rail and pressed my fingers against my mouth, breathing for Homer, willing him to be obedient.

  Homer struggled to raise his head, then tried to shake off the unfamiliar device. He snorted. Then he took a misstep sideways, and plunged to the ground.

  In an instant it was over. Homer lay there, his neck broken in two. Broken. His nostrils flared and his eye rolled wildly around, as if looking for an answer. He whinnied a soft, faraway whinny, like a soul retreating. Dying. A dying, distant, far-off whinny.