Every Breath

“They all sound interesting to me.”

“A good number of them actually are,” he agreed. “Did you ever get to go on safari? You had said that you wanted to one day.”

“Not yet. I’m still hoping to, though.” Then, circling back to what he’d said earlier and remembering how many camps she’d contacted, she asked: “What was so interesting about the camp in Botswana? Was it well known?”

“Not at all. It’s more of a middle-tier camp. The accommodations are a bit rustic. Bagged lunches instead of prepared meals, things like that. And the game can be fairly sporadic. But I’d heard about the lions in the area. Or rather, a specific pride of them.”

“I thought you saw lions all the time.”

“I did,” he said. “But not like this. I’d heard a rumor that the lions had learned to hunt and bring down elephants.”

“How could lions bring down an elephant?”

“I had no idea, and I didn’t believe it at the time, but eventually I met a guide who used to work there. He told me that while he hadn’t actually seen an attack, he’d come across an elephant carcass the following day. And it was clear to him that lions had been feasting most of the night.”

She squinted at him doubtfully. “Maybe the elephant was sick and the lions came across it?”

“That’s what I thought initially. People always talk about the lion as being the king of the jungle—even that Disney movie The Lion King played up the mythology—but I knew from experience that it wasn’t true. Elephants are, and always have been, the king of the bush. They’re massive and scary, truly dominant. In the hundreds of times I watched an elephant approach lions, the lions always backed off. But if the guide was right, I knew it was something I had to see for myself. The thought of it became something of an obsession. And again, with Andrew gone, I thought, why not?”

He took a swallow of wine before going on. “When I started working there, I learned that none of the guides had ever seen it, but they all believed it, too. Because every now and then, a carcass would turn up. If it was happening, it was incredibly rare, which made sense. Even if a pride of lions could take down an elephant, they would undoubtedly prefer easier prey. And during my first few years there, that’s all I ever saw. The main source of food for the pride was what I’d always seen in the past—impalas, warthogs, zebras, and giraffes. I never encountered a single elephant carcass. Halfway through my third year there, though, a drought set in. A bad one. It lasted months, and a lot of the regular game either died off or began migrating toward the Okavango Delta. Meanwhile, the lions were still around, and gradually grew more desperate. Then late one afternoon, while on a game drive, I saw it happen.”

“You did?”

He nodded, retreating into the past. She watched as he swirled his wineglass before going on. “It was a smaller elephant, not one of the big bulls, but the lions separated it from the herd and went to work. One at a time, almost like a military operation. One of them attacking the leg, another jumping on the elephant’s back, while the others surrounded it. Just sort of wearing the elephant down over time. It wasn’t violent, either. It was very calm, very methodical. The pride was cautious and the entire attack probably took thirty minutes. And then, when the elephant was weakening, they ganged up, several attacking at once. The elephant went down, and it didn’t take long after that.”

He shrugged, his voice growing softer. “I know you might feel bad for the elephant. But by the end, I was awed by the lions. It was certainly one of the most memorable experiences of my guiding career.”

“Unbelievable,” she said. “Were you alone when it happened?”

“No,” he said. “There were six guests in the jeep. I think one of them ended up selling the video footage he took to CNN. I never saw it, but over the next few years, I heard from a lot of people who did. The lodge where I was working became very popular for a while after that. But eventually the rains resumed and the drought ended. The game returned, and the lions went back to easier prey. I never saw it happen again, nor did I see another carcass. I heard that there was another occurrence some years later, but by then I was no longer there.”

She smiled. “I’ll say the same thing to you that I did when we first met: You definitely have the most interesting job of anyone I’ve ever known.”

“It had its moments.” He shrugged.

She cocked her head. “And you mentioned that Andrew went to Oxford?”

Tru nodded. “He certainly ended up being a better student than I ever was. Incredibly bright. He excelled in science.”

“You must be proud.”

“I am. But truly, it had more to do with him—and Kim, of course—than me.”

“How’s she doing? Is she still married?”

“She is. Her other children are grown now, too. Ironically, she actually lives near me again. After I settled in Bantry Bay, she and her husband moved to Cape Town.”

“I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.”

“It is. The coastline is gorgeous. Beautiful sunsets.”

She stared into her glass. “I can’t tell you how many times I found myself wondering about you over the years. How you spent your days, what you saw, how Andrew was doing.”

“For a long time, my life wasn’t all that different from the life I had led before. It was mostly centered on work and Andrew. I went on two, sometimes three game drives a day, played my guitar or made sketches in the evening when I was in the bush; and in Bulawayo, I watched my son grow up. Saw him become interested in model trains for a year, then skateboards, then the electric guitar, then chemistry, and then girls. In that order.”

She nodded, remembering the phases Jacob and Rachel had gone through.

“How were his teenage years?”

“Like most teens, he had his own social life by then. Friends, a girlfriend for a year. There was a period there when I felt a bit like a hotelier whenever he was around, but I recognized his desire for independence and accepted it more than Kim did. It was harder for her to let go of the little boy he once had been, I think.”

“It was the same with me,” Hope admitted. “I think it’s a mother thing.”

“I suppose the most difficult time for me was when he went off to university. He was a long way from home, and I couldn’t visit often. Nor did he want me to. So I’d see him over the holidays or between terms. But it wasn’t the same, especially whenever I returned from the bush. I felt restless in Bulawayo. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself, so when I heard the rumor about the lions, I just picked up and left for Botswana.”

“Did Andrew visit you there?”

“He did, but not as frequently. I sometimes think I shouldn’t have sold the house in Bulawayo. He didn’t know anyone in Gaborone—I had an apartment there—and when he was on break, he wanted to see his friends. Of course, Kim wanted time with him, too. Sometimes I would return to Bulawayo and stay in a hotel, but that wasn’t the same, either. He was an adult by then. A young one, but I could see he was beginning his own life.”

“What did he study?”

“He ended up taking a first in chemistry, and talked about becoming an engineer. But after he graduated, he became interested in precious gems, especially colored diamonds. He’s a diamond broker now, which means he travels to New York City and Beijing regularly. He was a good lad who turned into a fine young man.”

“I’d like to meet him one day.”

“I’d like that, too,” he said.

“Does he ever go back to Zimbabwe?”

“Not often. Nor do Kim or I. Zimbabwe is experiencing some difficult times.”

“I read about the land confiscation. Did that affect your family farm?”

Tru nodded. “It did. You should understand that there’s been a long history of wrongs committed in that country by people like my grandfather. Even so, the transition was brutal. My stepfather knew a lot of people in the government, and because of that, he thought that he would be protected. But one morning, a group of soldiers and government officials showed up and surrounded the property. The officials had legal documents stating that the farm had been seized, along with all of its assets. Everything. My stepfather and half brothers were given twenty minutes to gather their personal things, and were escorted off the property at gunpoint. A few of our workers protested and they were shot on the spot. And just like that, the farm and all the land was no longer theirs. There was nothing they could do. That was in 2002. I was in Botswana by then, and I was told that my stepfather went downhill pretty quickly. He started drinking heavily, and he committed suicide about a year later.”