Darkness

by David Fletcher

  Then it moved out of sight and Dan was left wondering – and feeling more uneasy than ever.

  seven

  The elephant was standing in the middle of the baie. He was no more than fifty metres from where Dan and the other guests were watching him from the camp’s main building. To Dan, he looked confident, content and sage. Like all elephants, he had those knowing eyes, eyes that revealed the depth and the breadth of his intellect – and of his sentience. As he stood there, gently swinging his trunk from side to side, one could see that there was no real gulf between him and his observers, but just some differences – in size, shape, habits and temperament. In fact, it occurred to Dan that all those who insisted that mere “animals” pass through life unaware, and that what defines us as humans and sets us apart from all other animals is our being conscious, would be given cause to think twice if they were here with him now. No way was that elephant unaware, and no way was he other than conscious in every sense of the word. And he could even vocalise – beautifully.

  They had all heard him in the night. Or, more likely, it had been him and some of his chums – singing to each other. Because, as Dan knew very well, all the elephants in this part of Africa were not bush elephants but forest elephants. They were members of a completely distinct species called Loxodonta cyclotis. And Loxodonta cyclotis know how to sing.

  These guys are smaller than bush elephants. They also have some minor physical differences to bush elephants, such as straighter tusks, smaller and more rounded ears, and one more toenail on each foot. But critically, unlike bush elephants, they are night-time crooners. And the songs they sing are exquisite. Impossible to describe adequately in words, their enchanting nocturnal ballads include low rumbles, amplified seal snorts, basso-profundo gargling sounds – and a great deal more. Indeed, so much more that, in Dan’s mind, their night-time renditions not only constituted beguiling serenades but unquestionably they also represented the “true voice of the forest”. If their arias could be broadcast to the world, he thought, more people might think twice before they rushed to trash their forests. They might even realise that there were very good reasons not to trash them at all. And then he thought that it was a little early in the day to be getting so disheartened and that he should leave the ellie to his own thoughts and get himself some breakfast.

  This meal he relished, both for the welcome nourishment it provided, and also for the distraction it provided in the form of Svetlana’s appearance. She had combined what looked like one of Bruce’s khaki shirts with one of her own very tight and very short skirts, and on her feet she had a pair of white and gold trainers. It would be interesting, thought Dan, to observe how she would install herself on a Land Cruiser.

  In the event, she managed it, but not without revealing what she was wearing beneath her skirt and not without becoming (more) ill-tempered as a result. Dan actually began to feel sorry for Bruce, even though Bruce had only himself to blame for bringing her to a place like this. She was a fish out of water. And that was water that was aerated, filtered, filtered again and, of course, maintained at an ideal temperature. Svetlana, Dan had decided, was not a child of nature.

  It was just as well then that the planned excursion this morning would cause her little further stress. It would involve a ride in Kate’s Land Cruiser with Bruce, Dan and Mike – while the Spanish armada set sail in another direction – and there would be no possibility of Svetlana marking her white and gold trainers. No walking would be required and if she wanted to, she could remain in the vehicle even when Kate stopped for refreshments – which, in due course, she did. She could also, if she wanted to, take in the features of a nearby “dry forest” through which they drove, and there study the animals and birds that Kate pointed out – which, in due course, she did not. But Dan and Mike did, and so too did Bruce. In fact, as the morning progressed, Bruce seemed to be more and more enlisting the companionship of his fellow males and more and more eschewing that of his petulant partner. This just made her even more petulant, but Mike found it hilarious. Dan thought it quite amusing as well.

  Whether it was Bruce’s behaviour during the morning or the second – and this time glaring – display of her underwear as she dismounted the Land Cruiser that was the cause of Svetlana not turning up for lunch was never established. However, her non-appearance did give Bruce a further opportunity to develop his nascent relationship with the two Brits, and he grabbed this opportunity with both hands. He then squeezed it to the point of nearly strangling it at birth. That is to say that throughout the meal he proved that, once out of the blocks, he was a poor listener and a rampant talker. He was, however, able to redeem himself by articulating a number of views with which both Dan and Mike could only agree. Indeed, those concerning Russia could have been scripted by Dan himself and, as soon became apparent, then ratified by Mike.

  He had it all. How a peasant society has mutated into a ready-made supine society. How its modern peasants crave subjugation and control – and have no time for democratic values. How this subjugation and control is willingly provided by an untouchable autocrat. How the autocrat, with his clique of acolytes and supporters, has been able to construct the greatest mafia state the world has ever known. How this criminal elite has been able to enrich itself at the expense of the gullible peasants. And how the autocrat-in-chief has been obliged to adopt a more and more belligerent approach in order to convince the peasants that they are under some sort of external threat and that they need his strong and ruthless leadership like never before.

  Dan was able to add only one further observation. This was that “Putinism” is really just a mishmash of flawed and dishonest ideologies and it is highly unlikely to survive Putin’s demise. That it will dissolve into nothingness just as soon as he leaves the stage – for whatever reason.

  Both Bruce and Mike had little problem accepting this point, although Mike did suggest that in any mafia state, there were always more than enough gangsters eager to take over, more than enough tyrants-in-waiting to ensure that the mafiosa survived. So after Putinism there’d probably be a few years of Zharkovism or Ivankovism or any other Tyrantism you care to mention, and whilst they’d all be as fraudulent and meaningless as Putinism, they’d provide the new incumbent with the same sort of bogus legitimacy. And, of course, none of these successors to Putin would do anything to lift Russia out of its culture of chronic mediocrity.

  Mike also thought – and said – that to have devoted a good chunk of this lunchtime to discussing the failings of Russia was something of an affront to their situation in one of the most unspoilt tracts of land in the world, and they should endeavour not to repeat it. He did not go on to say that it was hardly a suitable diet for someone who was already so despondent about so many things, but Dan knew that he believed this. He could see it in his eyes. It was unfortunate, then, that their second excursion of the day, even though it was into the natural world around them, would expose Dan to a further exhibition of the wickedness and venality of ruling elites.

  It started with another Land Cruiser ride with Kate again at the wheel. Svetlana had returned (wearing trousers), so the vehicle now contained the same complement of passengers as it had this morning, together with a local guy called Rex. He was apparently a boatman and his skills would be called upon in due course. Before then, however, there was a walk to take. Kate had driven about a mile out of camp and had invited her guests to leave their vehicle where a rough track through the savannah came to a stop at the edge of a forest. This was a “wet forest”, which meant that its constituent trees grew in shallow standing water, and to negotiate it one needed either waders and an exceptional degree of determination or a raised walkway. Fortunately, one of the very few examples of infrastructure in this national park was one such wooden walkway, and this would allow Kate to take her party through the forest with relative ease and without getting their footwear wet. The reason it was here would become apparent when they got to its end. If, that i
s, they got to its end.

  Halfway along, Kate, who was leading the file of guests with Rex in the rear, signalled her charges to stop. And to remain silent. Dan then heard it: the unmistakable sound of large creatures rearranging the vegetation as they plodded their way through the water. It was elephants, probably the same elephants who had been singing in the night. And they were now out here in this giant salad bar and currently unaware that they had nearby company. Dan knew, as they all knew, that it was preferable to maintain that situation. For no matter how sentient elephants might be, they could easily react badly to interlopers in their domain, especially if taken by surprise. In that case, being stranded on a narrow wooden walkway with no chance of escape might be a less than desirable situation. Accordingly, all six humans became mannequins for what seemed like many minutes, and not until the sounds of feeding pachyderms had receded into the far distance was movement resumed. Shortly after it had been, the walkway came to a halt and in front of the party was a substantial wooden bridge. It spanned a small river – and it led into another camp…

  Dan had been told that in this part of northern Congo, there were just two camps: Lango and Ngaga. However, here was a third, and it was not another Lango – or another Ngaga. Billy had talked at length about how both of these camps had been designed to reflect the character of traditional Pygmy homes – and they had done this very well. However, this place… well, it reflected only insensitivity and hubris.

  As the party began to walk through its disturbingly expansive grounds, Kate began to explain what it was all about. Essentially, the panjandrums back in Brazzaville had decided that in their role as the selfless rulers of this country, they should provide its citizens with the facility to enjoy its natural wonders; that the marvels of the Odzala-Kokoua National Park should be accessible not only to plutocrats from the West but also to the ordinary folk of this far-from-ordinary land. In pursuit of this vision they had therefore authorised the building of this publically owned camp and they were now in the process of putting it through a series of rigorous tests to ensure that it would meet the demands of a patient but deserving public. Only when these tests were completed would the camp then be opened up to its intended clientele – and the currently empty accommodation be filled with a complement of grateful Congolese.

  Unfortunately, such were the demands made on the ruling elite that only infrequently could any of its members find the time to fly here and involve themselves in the necessary tests. Accordingly, the tests were still incomplete, and consequently no Congolese plebs had yet been allowed here to savour the country’s wildlife delights. Happily, this hiatus in proceedings was causing very little distress because few, if any, of these soon-to-be pampered plebs even knew of the camp’s existence.

  Kate then reached the end of the satirical part of her address and went on to spell out the reality of this place. This was that the ruling clique had been among the first to savour the delights of Lango and Ngaga (of course, at the state’s expense), but had found neither camp up to their own very demanding tastes. In particular, they had found the traditional Pygmy-inspired accommodation a little too rustic and a little too bijou. Essentially, there was simply no way that they could indulge themselves in such homely and compact hovels.

  The answer to this problem was simple: build a new camp – with public money – and build it properly. Clear a great expanse of land and erect on this land the sort of large, workmanlike cabins that could accommodate not only a sizeable VIP but also a sizeable party of his drinking buddies. After all, why would anyone want to exchange the comforts of Brazzaville for the dubious attractions of some outpost in the wilds if he could not bring some of those comforts with him?

  So this place was a folly. It was a ghost town maintained by a small crew of men with machetes to cut the grass around those workmanlike cabins, and maybe a couple of women who cleaned the cabins’ insides. And maybe there was another guy, a guy waiting for a call from the bigwigs in Brazzaville to tell him that they were on the way. But the call never came, and the guys with the machetes just got on with their cutting and the girls got on with their cleaning – and the camp remained empty. And it remained a monument, a monument to the principle of the abuse of the many by the privileged few. A monument to how those in power – all over the world – exploit those not in power. And so it also served to reinforce Dan’s belief in those earlier discussed failings of all ruling elites – if not the acceptance of these elites by those who they screw. In fact, it seemed to Dan as though Kate had brought them to this place just to underline his misgivings about these “legitimate gangsters”. But of course she hadn’t. She’d brought them this way for a ride down a river…

  It was a decent-sized river, and it was just a short walk beyond the folly. Furthermore, it was equipped with a small tin boat which was itself equipped with five comfortable chairs. These were soon filled with five sitters, and Rex then proceeded to fiddle with the boat’s outboard motor to make it ready for use. With practised skill he then eased the boat away from its riverside mooring and into the river’s flow. It was time to forget the conduct of crooks and instead focus on the wonders of the natural world, for along this river they were everywhere. First it was a pair of sparring sitatungas, two lean handsome bovines who were so busy sparring – ineffectually – that they only noticed Rex’s boat when it was almost alongside them. Then there were a number of putty-nosed monkeys, an assortment of exotic birds – and a pair of incredible birds: a duo of great blue turacos, birds that seem to owe more to the art of colourful animation than they do to natural selection. But what really excited Dan was the appearance of a male de Brazza monkey, a rare primate that bore the name of the founder of this country and one that was noted for its slow, retiring and non-confrontational nature. Dan relished the encounter. He knew he had a greater respect for this creature than he did for all those bastards in Moscow and Brazzaville, and for all those other lowlifes around the world who made the world such an unpalatable place. He also knew that he had a greater affinity with this creature than he did with most of his kind.

  He didn’t, however, relay these thoughts to Mike. There again, he probably didn’t need to. Mike would have known them already.

  eight

  The party had returned from its afternoon expedition without any further near-encounters with forest elephants, but plainly with some healthy appetites. The evening meal had been consumed eagerly by all those at the table, and some of these diners were now eyeing the cheeseboard. On it were a number of French cheeses, including what was a veritable hillock of Roquefort.

  Dan was impressed. He knew that great efforts were made by the operators of places such as Lango to make their guests as comfortable – and indeed, as pampered – as possible. Accordingly, good food was always expected – and always delivered. However, this was more than just good food. This was an offering of some genuine French cheeses that, despite being a very long way from home, were in first-class condition. How, he wondered, had Lango’s operators done it?

  When Billy suggested to Dan that he excavated just a little more of the Roquefort mound, Dan had his chance to discover. He was able to ask him directly how such delicacies – in such prime condition – were brought to this remotest of situations. And the answer Billy provided would reinforce the view he’d formed when he’d first arrived in this country that the Republic of Congo was still very much wedded to France. For what his host told him was that every week, three large cargo planes arrived in Brazzaville from Paris, all stuffed with enough French goodies to keep the inhabitants of this African capital supplied with all the French cheeses, wines, chocolates and patisseries they could ever want. Indeed, according to Billy, everything and anything French came in on this aerial conveyor belt – other, he joked, than windows. And this meant that there were always more than enough cheeses and other delicacies in that town to be whisked up to the airfield in the national park and then onto this table in the camp. It was like,
he suggested, having a well-stocked Carrefour down the road. Even if the prices were generally a little bit higher.

  Dan was still impressed. He was sure it couldn’t be quite that easy. Indeed, he did not want to believe it was that easy. If it were, it would undermine that sense of being away from the world, away from the clutches of its principal tenants, and instead merely situated in one of its quieter suburbs. So he quickly turned the conversation to entertainment. How did Billy and his colleagues amuse themselves out here in the bush? The answer, it transpired, was with all sorts of unspecified homemade entertainment. And given the expression on Billy’s face, it was not too difficult for Dan to infer that he was not alluding to homemade board games or singsongs. And who could blame him – or any of his colleagues? They were, after all, all very young.

  Dan was not, and when the meal finally came to an end he could happily have gone to bed. He was tired and very aware that he had spent a long day in a tropical environment. His vigour had been leaking away for more than fifteen hours and he was pooped. So when Mike suggested they retired to the bar, he almost refused. However, he knew that to do so would have been rude and that it would also have been wrong. Mike had now graduated to a confidant of sorts, and he couldn’t be that easily dismissed. What’s more, Dan suspected he might actually enjoy a late beer, and that the beer and Mike’s company might revive him a tad. He was right. When they were again left on their own – after only a few minutes, this evening – Mike’s company, if not the beer, revived him entirely. Particularly Mike’s line of questioning, a line he’d embarked on without any preamble and certainly without any warning.