Binstead's Safari by Rachel Ingalls Page A

back.”
    “Was that the man I saw with you?”
    “Yes.”
    He appeared relieved. He asked her how long she had been married, where she lived, whether she had children. He wanted to know what she had seen so far in Africa. She mentioned the game park, then she spoke of London. She told him about the tiger and the spots at the back of the ears, which he had known about already, but had forgotten. She talked about her visit to the Ethnographic Museum and described its exhibits, including the implement for making toeholds. He burst out laughing.
    He said, “When I was a boy, I wanted more than anything to go to the South Seas. It was so cold where we lived. Snow and fir trees, foxes and owls. My mother was fond of painting; not her own—other people’s. She took me with her one day on a trip into town. Big deal: the metropolis, excitement. I was old enough not to have to be taken to look at the trains or planes, or ride on the camel, but I think it was motorcycles I was interested in at the time. So, I was sort of mad when I found out I was going to be dragged along to paintings again. I figured I’d go through part of it for show and then just sneak down into the dinosaur rooms. But that changed when I saw the pictures. They were all by Gauguin. It must have been one of the biggest exhibits of his stuff ever put together. Theycame from everyplace—Paris, New York, Switzerland, from the museums and out of private collections, too. I can’t tell you what it did to me. It almost drove me out of my mind. Those colours. It was like what happens to you when you’re going really fast, just before you lose your sense of location: when everything is more alive. So, I thought, right—that’s where I’m going. But time passes, people die, the money runs out. And so on. In the end, I joined the army. Big mistake. Everybody else was protesting and I actually joined. I had my hand out for the gun: lead me to it. And they did. Hunting, shooting, fishing, surviving—all I was good for. After I got out, I saw this ad for a job as a game warden. Here. I’ve put more tags on more ears than you’d believe.”
    “And do you still want to go to the South Seas?”
    “Maybe, some day. But I’m pretty much settled down here now. Besides,” he said, “why would I want to leave, now I’ve found you?”
    Millie laughed. “This is even better than lunch,” she said.
    “You think I’m joking.”
    “And I like it.”
    They came to a street planted with lines of trees, so that as they walked forward they went from light to dark, again and again.
    He said, “I live right near here. Only about two blocks away.”
    “Oh?”
    He stopped. They stood together under the branches of a tree that arched and spread away out over them. It was like being at the bottom of a pool. The rest of the street danced with brightness.
    “Would you like to see my etchings?” he said, giving hera big grin.
    She laughed with delight.
    He said, “On the other hand, it’s still kind of early for lunch but I could offer you a cup of tea, or coffee.”
    She looked back at him without answering. He put his hand on her arm. He opened his mouth to speak, and said nothing, and breathed in. His hand tightened a little.
    “Ever since yesterday—” he began.
    Millie said, “I’d love a cup of tea.”

Stan sat directly behind a wiry man of about his own age…
    Stan sat directly behind a wiry man of about his own age: late thirties to early forties. The man was named Carpenter. He worked for the government, not for the tourist board. He had told everyone about safety measures, and disappointed the Frenchwoman who was travelling with them. She was a professional photographer and, like many photographers not working inside actual war zones, dressed in what looked like genuine combat-issue clothes. Stan had thought when he first saw her that she was a very small soldier. She was smoking Gauloises until Carpenter said something to her about a fire risk. Stan