WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [53]
Even with the benefit of full water troughs and a cross-breeze, the animals are in a heat-induced stupor. The zebras, giraffes, and other hay burners remain on their feet but with their necks extended and eyes half-closed. Even the yak is motionless, despite the flies that buzz mercilessly around his ears and eyes. I swat a few away, but they land again immediately. It’s hopeless.
The polar bear lies on his stomach, head and snout stretched in front of him. In repose he looks harmless—cuddly even, with most of his bulk concentrated in the lower third of his body. He takes a deep, halting breath and then exhales a long, rumbling groan. Poor thing. I doubt the temperature in the Arctic ever climbs anywhere close to this.
The orangutan lies flat on her back, arms and legs spread out. She turns her head to look at me, blinking mournfully as though apologizing for not making more of an effort.
It’s okay, I say with my eyes. I understand.
She blinks once more and then turns her face so she’s looking at the ceiling again.
When I get to Marlena’s horses, they snort in recognition and flap their lips against my hands, which still smell like baked apples. When they find I have nothing for them, they lose interest and drift back into their semiconscious state.
The cats lie on their sides, perfectly still, their eyes not quite closed. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of their rib cages, I might think they were dead. I press my forehead up against the bars and watch them for a long time. Finally I turn to leave. I’m about three yards away when I suddenly turn back. It’s just dawned on me that the floors of their dens are conspicuously clean.
MARLENA AND AUGUST are arguing so loudly I can hear them twenty yards off. I pause outside her dressing tent, not at all sure I want to interrupt. But neither do I want to listen—I finally steel myself and press my mouth to the flap.
“August! Hey, August!”
The voices drop. There’s a shuffling, and someone shushing someone.
“What is it?” calls August.
“Did Clive feed the cats?”
His face appears in the crack of the flap. “Ah. Yes. Well, that presented a bit of difficulty, but I’ve worked something out.”
“What?”
“It’s coming tomorrow morning. Don’t worry. They’ll be fine. Oh Lord,” he says, craning his neck to see beyond me. “What now?”
Uncle Al strides toward us in red waistcoat and top hat, his plaid-swaddled legs swallowing the ground. His grovelers follow, jogging in nervous spurts to keep up.
August sighs and holds the flap open for me. “You might as well come in and have a seat. Looks like you’re about to get your first business lesson.”
I duck inside. Marlena sits at her vanity, her arms folded and legs crossed. Her foot jiggles in anger.
“My dear,” says August. “Collect yourself.”
“Marlena?” says Uncle Al from just behind the tent flap. “Marlena? May I come in, dear? I need a word with August.”
Marlena smacks her lips and rolls her eyes. “Yes, Uncle Al. Of course, Uncle Al. Won’t you please come in, Uncle Al,” she intones.
The tent flap opens, and Uncle Al enters, perspiring visibly and beaming from ear to ear.
“The deal is done,” he says, coming to a stop in front of August.
“So you got him, then,” says August.
“Eh? What?” replies Uncle Al, blinking in surprise.
“The freak,” says August. “Charles Whatsit.”
“No, no, no, never mind about him.”
“What do you mean, ‘never mind about him’?” says August. “I thought he was the whole reason we came here. What happened?”
“What?” says Uncle Al vaguely. Heads pop out from behind him, shaking vehemently. One man makes the motion of slitting his throat.
August looks at them and sighs. “Oh. Ringling got him.”
“Never mind that,” says Uncle Al. “I have news—big news! You might even say jumbo-sized news!” He looks back at his followers, and is met with hearty guffaws. He swings around again. “Guess.”
“I have no idea, Al,” says August.
He turns expectantly toward Marlena.
“I don’t know,” she says