Scribbling the Cat - Alexandra Fuller [81]
It became obvious, at least to me, as the evening wore on that the four of us, and the lion, were going to be stuck on the island together for the night. The sun had set long ago and had wrapped up what was left of the daylight with an impatient flourish, like someone folding up a picnic blanket at the end of the day. And even had there still been enough light (the moon was waxing nightly), St. Medard now looked far from sober enough to negotiate the passage back to his island, which was apparently an hour or two from here. And still we had not eaten.
“I’m not staying for supper,” said St. Medard, less than distinctly. “Can’t remember the last time I ate a fucking vegetable and I’m sure as hell not going to start now.”
More drinks were brought from the house. The breeze died down and mosquitoes sighed out of the grass and whined around our ankles. I decided to take my chances with the lion, who was perched up on the pavilion wall and who seemed momentarily distracted by his hunk of crocodile, rather than risk the certain deadliness of Mozambican malaria, and fled to the cage. K and I were being billeted in single beds along the wall of the house behind the cage, like soldiers or children at boarding school. Mapenga had said that he would sleep in the pavilion with the lion.
I sat on my bed under a mosquito net straining my eyes to read in the undulating light of a single bulb that gleamed out from the kitchen. I could hear shouts from the pavilion, and gusts of laughter. The lion, obviously missing my company, sauntered up to the outside of the cage and settled down on his belly, head on his paws, to watch me. His lips were greasy. The tip of his tail twitched.
It was close to midnight by the time we ate. K said grace, which was wasted on everyone else. St. Medard looked as if he was approaching alcoholic collapse. He swayed over his plate blearily and occasionally took swipes with his fork at the food, some of which made it into his mouth, but most of which ended up in his beard. Mapenga was sounding insistent and argumentative about something—or perhaps a series of things. Whatever it was, Mapenga was right about it and everyone else was wrong. K ate steadily, calmly. Andrew had cooked an extraordinarily good vegetable curry, although it was harder to appreciate the meal than it otherwise might have been because, aside from everything else, it was impossible to escape the clammy, ever present odor of rotting crocodile flesh (the generator-run deep freeze was obviously incapable of keeping several full-grown crocodiles fresh).
St. Medard wiped his plate clean with a slice of bread and then gave a soggy hiccup.
“That’s the thing you fuckers don’t understand,” Mapenga was saying, jabbing his fork at K. “Because people are afraid to see the truth . . .”
Suddenly, St. Medard pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “Right. I’ve had enough of this. You!” He hooked his finger under Mapenga’s collar. “I’ve had enough of your shit. You’re talking shit.”
Mapenga blinked with surprise, then got quickly to his feet. His chair crashed to the floor. He grabbed St. Medard by the beard. “Fuck you.”
“Let’s go.”
The two men supported each other unsteadily out of the cage. They were swearing loudly as they crashed past the kitchen, through the swing door, and out on the lawn.
Andrew came to clear the plates.
K was picking his teeth discreetly with his penknife.
Andrew asked if I’d like some fruit for pudding.
St. Medard suddenly lunged into view on the lawn with Mapenga’s head gripped in the crook of his elbow. Both men gleamed in the light of the fat silver moon. Between here and there, they had somehow managed to shed every last stitch of clothing.
“No fruit for me, thanks,” said K.
“Madam?”
“What? Ah. No, thanks Andrew. That was delicious.”
“You fucking bastard!” came a shout from the lawn.
St. Medard sailed into our range of vision again, followed by the lion. There was a roar from Mapenga. The