asked. Her high dark forehead had no wrinkles even though she was older than his folks. It was pleasant to take a little time, to share news, and it showed her proper respect. Brett didn’t like how Jeremy, increasingly like his father, never took time to talk with her or with Cook or the maids. It wasn’t right.
“Not many rooms. After the loo in the lobby, I’ll finish up early again.” Mrs. Hilda tilted her turbaned head, smiling. “My youngest grandson visits tonight. It is his first birthday.”
“Astrida’s boy? One already?” Mrs. Hilda’s daughter had dated Isaac a few years back, but Isaac broke it off, not wanting to get settled. She’d married that guy from Bulawayo and had a baby already. He and Isaac were still free to have fun. “Can we stop over tonight? I’ll bring the baby a doo-dad and you, a couple of fine beers.”
“That would be nice.” She wagged a finger and chuckled, “For the baby. Beers for me, indeed. Now shoo, let me finish my work.”
“Chisarai,” Brett grinned. She smiled again, murmuring ’good bye’ as she waved him off. Brett hummed her tune as he trotted down the main staircase into the lobby which was cool and dark, the curtains pulled against the sun, the glassy eyes of the trophy heads keeping a silent watch. David stood, his elbow propped on the registration desk, a ledger open. “Brett, dammit. Did you take my Jeep off property?”
“The alignment--remember. Isaac needed to hear highway road vibration. We’ll gravel test it tonight after dinner.” That covered his reason for the trip to Mrs. Hilda’s later. “What schedule have I got for this afternoon? The Australians?”
“No, Miss Elise persuaded the Nelsons to request you.” David banged the ledger shut. “Nothing is going on, right?”
“Of course not. I know the rules. Just keeping her happy.” Since old man Johnson, who’d been the king of tourist flings, retired last year, David enforced a non-fraternization policy. As if they weren’t smart enough to use protection against the wasting disease. Probably David didn’t want Jeremy to get any ideas from them.
“Take the boat and look for those lionesses you saw. Hurry up--they’re waiting.”
Brett ran down the steps to the boat dock where Elise and the Nelsons, an American family of three, waited by the five meter motorboat. The little boy Tommy peeked around his mother’s long swingy skirt.
“Will you find us a leopard?” Elise winked.
“No guarantees, but I know where there are two hungry lionesses.” Brett helped Elise into the front and when he turned, the kid was watching him.
“Can you show me lions?” Tommy asked seriously, no wiggling.
“We’re hunting for two swimming lionesses,” Brett said. The kid nodded like a fifty-year-old. He then climbed into the back seat with his mom and dad without whinging at all. Brett untied the boat and hopped next to Elise.
A short boat ride put them ten meters off the island. Brett circled for an hour and a half and they saw kudu, impala, but no lionesses. The Nelsons and Elise chatted about Zambia, where Mr. Nelson was a Lutheran missionary. Brett tried the southern and then eastern inlets with no luck. He couldn’t tie up the boat and let them debark and hike which was their usual system on the island, not with two lionesses somewhere around.
The sun hung low on the horizon. Brett drove the boat past the northern tip of the island, the farthest point from the lodge. He’d circled the whole damn island and was about to give up when there they were, sleeping on the black soil of the bank, two tawny lionesses.
Tommy made a purring noise. From the second seat, Mr. Nelson chuckled about Bootsie back home. “Will the lionesses wake up, Mr. Brett?” Tommy asked.
“I hope so,” Brett said. “They should be rested up from their swim.”
Behind the lionesses on the short bluff, a group of fifteen impala grazed, ignoring the cats and the boat. The herd was a good sized group to shoot. They were such small antelope, he could get crowd scenes or zoom in on individual behavior, while keeping the lionesses in the foreground. He slipped his camera out of his bag, nestling it by his ankle.
“We’ll watch for a while and see. See those deer on the grassy bank? They’re impala and lions like to eat them.”
“Oh!” said the little boy.
Mrs. Nelson asked a reasonable question about impala horn size. Answering her with a comparison to puku and waterbuck, Brett dropped an anchor and handed around sodas and beers. The Nelsons were more like the tourists the lodge used to get, not pushy, not drinking like fish, but they were missionaries, not international types or diplomats. Every missionary he knew was on a tight budget. David must have cut the price of the safari for folks from the region.
“The sun is orange this afternoon.” Elise reached for her beer, her fingers sliding down his bare forearm. His skin tingled up to his neck.
“It’s always this intense shade an hour from setting.” Brett wrapped his hand around hers while he popped open her beer. “It’ll drop fast in the last quarter hour.”
Mr. Nelson gazed at the sun. “Yes, much brighter than Maine’s yellow sun.” Then he and the Mrs. started to talk quietly, prompting the kid to look at the half submerged trees, the reflections on the water. Tommy didn’t seem bored. Instead, he shot back lots of questions. Brett liked this kid.
The lionesses napped. Their tails occasionally flicked at a fly.
“May we see your video of the lionesses swimming?” Mrs. Nelson asked. “Elise mentioned you are a photographer.”
Brett dug out his camera and set the playback. Elise offered to hold the camera so the Nelsons could see more easily.
“Nice filmwork.” Mr. Nelson said. “Wildlife conservation is something Zimbabwe does so much better than Zambia.”
“Zambia has the advantage in politics,” Mrs. Nelson interjected. “Our parliament still meets, even if they don’t agree on anything. South Africa has the best of both, of course, a functioning parliament and excellent wildlife conservation. Too bad Mugabe won’t listen to Mandela.”
“Parliament’s just on a recess session, that’s all. The opposition is very active here. The next election will be different, I’m sure.” South Africa meddling in Zimbabwe--that couldn’t be a solution. Brett hated when politics interfered with game viewing.
“I hope you’re right. Our last election at least had two real candidates, not Mugabe yes or no.” Mrs. Nelson sounded huffy.
“Now, Leah, we shouldn’t judge. We don’t know what is happening in Harare, but it doesn’t sound good. Not much news gets out, even on the BBC.” Mr. Nelson tapped his chin. “I do wonder if Mugabe will start restricting everybody’s movements around the country and not just the journalists.”
“I hear they all have to be licensed. Photographers, too. It doesn’t seem right.” Mrs. Nelson said. “At least not to me.”
“No, that can’t be right. It couldn’t happen,” Brett sputtered. Licenses for photography? Not to be able go to the Matusadona Hills in the hot months? Not be able to go home on a whim? His dad and Noah once hinted the Rhodesians had restricted travel during the Chirumenga.
“You
