I asked how she had got started, and Gretchen said, ‘By herself. No pressure from anyone that I know of. She did meet some sailors in Lourenço Marques who told her about an Indian there who did a little peddling on the side. But I’m sure it was she who pressured him.’
She then added that Cato was also using the stuff but was only sniffing it. I asked her where she had learned such a term, and she said, ‘All the kids know about Big-H. That is, we know what we need to know.’ I told her I doubted that then asked how she was so sure that Cato was merely sniffing, and she said simply, ‘I asked him. And I looked at his arms. For a while he was popping, but he seems afraid of that now.’
She asked if I would talk to Monica, try to reason with her, and I said, ‘What can I do? She’s a grown girl over whom I have no control,’ but she corrected me: ‘She’s only seventeen and she’s got to have help.’ I told her that where heroin was concerned, I was powerless, but she said she was going to send Cato to talk with me.
He arrived wearing only shorts, and I hoped, from seeing his unscarred arms, that he had not progressed far in his use of heroin. I found him much subdued by his experiences in Africa, but I was ill at ease and found it hard to bring up the subject of drugs. He solved that quickly: ‘With me heroin is no longer a problem. I’ve tried the stuff and at first I thought it was a breeze. But one day it terrified me. So I quit cold turkey.’ I said this sounded like an arrogant boast, but he said, ‘You don’t believe those fairy stories about the man in the hospital who gets one shot of morphine and is hooked for life? I’ve sniffed it and I’ve popped it and I’ve quit for life.’
‘You feel cocky enough to play around with heroin and walk away?’
‘I’ve done it. I will never be hooked because I won’t allow it. So let’s drop that.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ I said.
Abruptly he said, ‘Monica’s in trouble, not me. She likes heroin. Needs it. She’s taking it regularly, and I’m pretty sure she’s mainlining. Anyway, she keeps her gear with
her all the time—the bottle cap for heating the stuff, that hypodermic she bought in Pamplona.’
‘Were you two using heroin at Bar Vasca?’
‘No. She bought the needle … just for the hell of it. Then, since she had it, she figured she might as well use it. Some American sailors got her started in Lourenço Marques. And she kept pestering me to try. And she eats practically nothing. And when we go to bed, mostly she sleeps. She’s lost a lot of weight.’ He continued his classic description of a young girl in the first stages of addiction, and from listening to him, I was ready to accept his assurance that he had indeed been able to move toward the brink of that precipice and voluntarily retreat. I was glad for him.
At dinner that night I had my first chance to study Monica, and outwardly she was more appealing than before, an enchanting young lady of seventeen with an ethereal beauty. Her exaggerated slimness made her additionally attractive, for now her pale face was more exotic. She wore a miniskirt with such style that everyone visiting the sanctuary was forced to stare at her. The only sign that betrayed her new explorations was a small skin-colored adhesive that Mrs. Gridley had insisted upon applying to the abscessed spot.
Monica sat on my right and took pains to charm me, keeping in rein the quick wit that sometimes offended older people. She ate sparingly, and during dessert, which she merely toyed with, I realized that she was quiet because she was at a low point in her cycle of euphoria-depression.
Later we visited the Gridleys, whom I had known in the parks in Rhodesia, and after he warned us that we must all get to bed soon, for we were starting at six to hunt for the sable antelope, Mrs. Gridley found occasion to maneuver me into the kitchen, where she said bluntly, ‘If you know Sir Charles Braham, you’d better cable him to get his daughter out of Africa and into a sanitarium.’
‘Sir Charles has no influence over her.’
‘But she’s suffering from dreadful malnutrition … because of the heroin. At seventeen. I could weep.’
‘Have you discussed this with her?’
‘I didn’t have to. When I treated her abscess, she knew I knew. Do you realize, Mr. Fairbanks, that she could have lost her arm? She has absolutely no resistance and was giving it no treatment.’ She paused, then asked me
directly, ‘The young Negro boy. He seems a decent sort. He hasn’t led her into this, has he?’
‘It was the other way around.’
‘He’s stronger. He can absorb such an experience. She can’t. Are they planning to marry?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Thank God. She’d destroy him, and he’d think she did it because he was a Negro. Fact is, she’ll destroy any man she marries.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because she’s one of the sick of this generation. Don’t you think we see them in Rhodesia? Our world has become too much for them to handle. They’re doomed, and speaking as a geneticist, the sooner they’re removed from society, the better.’ She returned to her guests, a stalwart woman who saw people precisely as they were.
At six next morning we gathered at the gate which separated the rondavels from the areas where the wild animals roamed, and I was pleased to see how lively Monica was, as if breakfast had rebuilt her spirits, but Gretchen told me, ‘We’ve brought some sandwiches, because Monica hasn’t eaten a thing.’ Later, when we were well into the trip, Cato confided that she had taken heroin before going to bed and was now high. I looked for signs which would indicate this, but detected none.
In two cars we set out across the normal grazing areas, those to which tourists were admitted, along dirt roads that provided one spectacular panorama after another. ‘Keep your eye out at this next turn,’ Gretchen warned me. ‘Elephants.’
We were in a land of low trees spaced at twenty-yard intervals with high grass in between, and as we turned a corner the lead car, driven by Gridley, came to a slow halt. Ahead, in the middle of the road, stood three very large elephants. ‘They’re the ones that were on the airstrip yesterday,’ Gridley called back as the huge beasts stared at us without moving. We drove to within a dozen yards of them, our cars side by side, and Gridley said, ‘A couple of weeks ago they picked a small Volkswagen up and turned it over. Keep your gears in reverse.’
For about fifteen minutes we were blocked by the big
gray animals, but finally they ambled off; we were in an area where animals were kings, as in the old days. This feeling was enhanced when we left the forested area and came upon a series of large plains, where we saw before us a herd of nearly a thousand Cape buffalo, those dark beasts whose curious draped horns give them the appearance of wearing cloche hats of the late twenties. As we drove past, the males formed a protective ring, shoulder to shoulder, with their massive armament lowered as if prepared to charge.
In fields closer to the river we found immense herds of zebra, antelope and wildebeest, intermixed. I particularly remember Joe’s and Cato’s reactions. Joe said, ‘A thousand Cape buffalo make more of a dent on the landscape than a thousand human beings,’ and Cato, seeing the converging groups of animals, said, ‘I always thought of Africa as people … always black … always naked. Lourenço Marques and this place sure change images. The people who matter are white, and the permanent life is the animal.’ I did not ride with the girls, so I don’t know how the herds affected them, but certainly the young men were jolted by the sight. When we came upon our first pride of lions tearing a buffalo apart, with the vultures and the hyenas standing by, Cato, after watching two lions battle for a preferred position, cried, ‘How does that grab you?’ I could see that he was deeply moved by the savagery of the animals and their lack of consideration for anything but a full belly.
As we approached the river, along whose banks we would travel for an hour or more until we reached a ford which would throw us into the higher hills, I learned that the young people had not yet seen a hippopotamus island, and when I got a chance I called to Gridley, ‘Let’s go by the hippos,’ and we took a fairly long detour, which was one of the best things we did that day, for it led us through a veritable fairyland populated with all the birds one could imagine: large vultures, superb fishing eagles, flamingos, crested cranes of rare delicacy, and hundreds of low-flying birds of brilliant plumage. Among them moved large herds of impala, leaping and twisting as we approached, their fawn bodies gleaming in the sun. We saw that morning a combination of color and motion that nature sometimes provides the lucky viewer; anyone who liked music or painting or dance would intuitively feel that he was in the
world of another art. When we halted the cars for a cold drink, Gretchen said, ‘It’s like having your brain geared to slow motion and your eyes to a kaleidoscope. I could watch impalas all day.’
I told them that a few miles beyond waited an image of opposite quality, one they would never forget, and as the two cars approached a low, swampy area, the two girls spotted something which they supposed was what I had been talking about: a group of five large crocodiles sunning themselves on the riverbank. They looked like logs that had floated downstream from the mountains, hideous creatures covered with knobs and oozing malevolence.
‘Stay well back,’ Gridley warned as he and the black rangers who drove our cars unlimbered their rifles. The massive crocodiles watched us approach, saw the sun glistening on the rifle barrels, and slipped quietly into the river. That is, it looked as if they had disappeared; one, so well camouflaged it could not be detected, remained on shore, a tactic which the reptiles had found effective, and as Monica, elated by what she had been seeing, got out of the car and ran across the grassy bank, this great beast allowed her to come parallel to him, then with a mighty sweep of its long, fleshy tail, knocked her nearly into the water, from which two other animals leapt with their massive jaws open, while the one who had knocked her down came at her from the land.
She screamed, seeing the gaping jaws closing in upon her from three sides, but Gridley and the rangers, followed almost immediately by Joe, sped to the scene and began battling the crocs. ‘Don’t fire!’ Gridley shouted to the rangers as they clubbed at the beasts with their rifles while Joe, with his stout Texas boots, kicked at their heads. As quickly as they had attacked, the crocs retreated, disappearing into the waters they had churned to a muddy brown.
Of us all, Monica was the least perturbed. Apart from her first warning scream, she had behaved with marked composure, and now brushed herself off and bowed to the four men who had saved her. ‘Lots of girls are attacked by wolves,’ she said, ‘but damned few by crocodiles.’
‘It was no joke,’ Gridley said. ‘If Joe hadn’t kicked that one in the head you’d be minus a leg … or worse.’ We were all badly shaken by the affair, and Gretchen said,
‘It was quite a surprise you had for us, Mr. Fairbanks,’ and I said, ‘That isn’t what I had in mind,’ whereupon Monica cried, ‘Let’s go,’ and we continued through the swampy area until we came to a slight rise overlooking the river. I waited to see who would be the first to spot what lay ahead, and finally Gretchen cried, ‘Oh my God!’
There, on a rather small island in the middle of the river, clustered together in one heap, lay not less than a hundred and fifty giant hippopotamuses, a mountain of heaving flesh and one of the most extraordinary sights to be seen in Africa. It was really unbelievable, this massive assembly of beasts, one lying atop the other in a sprawled-out community. From time to time some hippo would detach himself from the group and splash clumsily into the river, while others, satisfied with their morning swim, would slowly lumber out of the water and find a place for themselves in the pile.
After we had studied them for some time, we became aware of the fact that far more hippos lay submerged in the river—only their eyes and nostrils showing above water—than we saw on land, and the girls tried to estimate how many animals were there. ‘Four or five hundred?’ Monica asked, and Gridley nodded.
We returned through the swamps and started our long drive to the hills, arriving there about noon. We spread our picnic lunch and ate under some leafy trees, while Gridley with his binoculars surveyed the vast extent of sanctuary lying below us and pointed out one herd after another of animals we could not see with our naked eye. Passing the glasses from hand to hand, we were enjoying this long-distance tour, when Gridley grabbed the glasses, studied a wooded area much closer to us, and said, ‘Here are some beauties. Who knows what they are?’
One at a time we peered through the glasses at a herd of some forty large animals which, had I seen them in the American Rockies, I would have said were elk. Gretchen asked, ‘Are they the sables?’ and Gridley said, ‘The antelope will be much more beautiful. These are elands and we rarely see so many.’ Then, as if they were as curious about us as we were about them, the large animals came slowly toward us, over thirty handsome beasts sniffing the air and testing the terrain cautiously. They came very close, almost in single file, then froze in position for at least five minutes, while we finished our lunch and enjoyed
this strange floor show. Finally the lead buck sensed something he did not like, and with a flash of white tails the animals vanished.
‘Oh, I wish we had some music!’ Monica cried. It would make our day perfect,’ and the three young Americans agreed that what they really needed on this picnic was Harvey Holt’s tape recorder. ‘I’d even settle for his sappy songs,’ Cato said, but Monica protested: ‘Not that goo. I’d give anything to have Clive ride up here on an eland’s back, bringing his records so we could hear Octopus again, or Cream or Blind Faith. You know, something real gutsy, with a beat you can feel.’
Each of the four spoke of the hunger he or she felt for some strong music; and Gretchen, remembering how I had liked ‘MacArthur Park,’ made believe she was playing her guitar, and sang: ‘Someone left the cake out in the rain …’
They formed a band of imaginary instruments and ran through a repertoire of numbers I had come to know, and as I listened to them, I realized anew how this music sustained them. Gridley watched in bewilderment, but when Cato began to sing ‘Sic ’Em, Pigs,’ in which the police were ridiculed with grunts and other swinish noises, provided by Joe, he stiffened. In Rhodesia police were essential, and to denigrate them was to align oneself against the constructive forces of society. He said nothing, and a little while later, when the four were lying back in the shady heat of noon, still talking about music, he winked at me, an act whose significance I did not then comprehend.