The Lioness(58)

Phillip shook his head. “But I’m not a veteran, either. This will be my third time out in the wild.”

“Well, you keep coming back.”

“I do. I’m trying to chronicle a problem, which, alas, makes me part of the problem.”

“And that is?”

“Ecological catastrophe. People. You, me. Katie Barstow. Other than the Maasai, we don’t belong here.”

“In the Serengeti.”

He nodded and said, “But I’m not going to lecture you. I don’t lecture anyone. My plan is a book of photos that will tell the story much better than I can with words.”

“Who are you with?”

“You mean who’s my outfitter?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t use one. Just me and a couple of porters and a guide. Fellow I used last time who knows the land as well as anyone.”

“Any tips?”

“On getting a good photo of a rhino?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“You may not. Maybe down by the crater you’ll see a few. Or one.”

“Ngorongoro.”

“That’s right. Used to be much easier. Obviously. But if there’s a rhino about, Charlie will know. You should be fine, if the animal doesn’t have a calf with her. And you don’t get out of the vehicle. And you get close, but not too close.”

Terrance thought about this. He’d learned a bit about trackers in South Dakota for a Western he’d done in 1959. “How would Charlie know? Something he’d notice in the landscape? Or do you just get a special sense for that sort of thing when you’re out there enough?”

Phillip nodded. “Both. And he also has very solid guides.”

“So, we’re in good hands.”

“Oh, I didn’t say that. You’re in Charlie Patton’s hands.”

Terrance stood up a little straighter. “Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me more.”

The photographer shrugged. “Ol’ Charlie will give you a good show. You’ll all get your money’s worth. Or, I suppose, Katie Barstow will get her money’s worth.”

“But…”

Phillip looked at his watch, and it was clear to Terrance that he was stalling.

“You can’t say something like that and not elaborate, man,” Terrance pressed. “You just can’t. You have to tell me more.”

“You can when you didn’t sleep much the night before because you stayed too late at the bar and now, the morning after, aren’t thinking before you speak.”

“Nope,” Terrance said, smiling. “Not letting you off the hook.”

“Fine.”

There was an awkward beat, and Terrance considered whether he’d made a mistake pressing and putting Phillip Tiegs on the spot. He was about to let it go when the fellow spoke.

“Charlie can be an angry man,” he said. “You may not see his temper. You may only glimpse his Papa Hemingway charm. Big-game hunter. Man’s man. Whole persona. Storyteller—though half his stories are whopping fairy tales. But he doesn’t much like the 1960s. Time has passed him by. That’s the problem.”

“Have you ever seen this anger of his?”

He chuckled and pointed at the pile of camera gear at his feet. “See that Rolleiflex? I bought it to replace the one he smashed with the butt of an elephant gun a couple of years ago on my first visit here.”

“And he did that…why?”

“Because a Nairobi newspaper published a photo I took of an elephant graveyard.”

“I didn’t know elephant graveyards were real. Are they?”

“Yes and no. It’s not as if old elephants create patches of earth where they can go to die. In my opinion, it’s the opposite: They actually choose places that give them the best chance to live. They’re too old to migrate and keep up with the herd, so they find a spot with water and food. But, eventually, it all catches up with them. They starve or the infirmities that get all old mammals get them. So, there tend to be sizable concentrations of dead elephants in some spots. A graveyard. But not really a graveyard, if you get my point.”

“Why in the world did Patton care that you took a picture of one?”

“Because this graveyard? It was man-made. Patton was hosting a guy named Viktor Procenko. Colonel Viktor Procenko. Procenko was a military adviser working with Lumumba in the Congo—one of the hundreds the Kremlin sent. After Lumumba fell, the Soviets left. Except, before going home, Patton took Procenko and a couple of his communist cronies out on safari. These days, as far as Patton’s concerned, all money is good money. He’ll take anyone into the bush. Well, they all started drinking one night, and the Russians got Patton absolutely soused. Blotto. They thoroughly embarrassed an old-school colonial who takes great pride in the way he can hold his liquor. Then, when he was conked out, they went night hunting, using the lorries’ headlights, a couple of gun bearers, and their AK-47s. They found the elephants. It was quite a massacre.”

“How did you hear about this?”

“Procenko. He tried to drink me under the table right over there,” said Phillip, pointing toward the hotel bar. “But not even a Soviet colonel can drink me under the table. Especially a couple of years ago. Anyway, the next day I retained a guide and went to the site. It wasn’t hard to find. I just went to one of Patton’s regular campsites.”