Larger Than Life (Novella) Read Free

thatched huts with luxurious furnishings. And then there is the place where the rest
     of us live: small, spartan buildings with kitchenettes and box fans, and toilets that
     work about half the time you need them to.
    My cottage is at the end of a long row, set apart from the other huts inhabited by
     researchers, as if it were an afterthought. This is due to seniority—I was the last
     to arrive, and thus am the farthest from our communal office space. It is not usually
     something I complain about, except for the times I’ve had to walk home alone on a
     moonless night and have been scared out of my wits by a warthog running across the
     path. Tonight, though, I’m grateful, because my cottage’s location will make it easier
     to hide what I’ve brought back to camp.
    I’m grateful, too, for the darkness. Walking through the bush as the day bled out,
     tethered only to the umbilical leash of the calf, I felt like I had a target on my
     back. The bright neon eyes of the jackals and bush babies became a lion’s or a leopard’s
     in my imagination; every flutter of a bird’s wing and crack of a branch made my heart
     skip a beat. But now night’s a veil, a curtain that lets us slip past the watering
     hole, past the
boma
where the paying guests are enjoying their dinner, toward the residences.
    The only buildings even farther down the road than my cottage belong to the rangers.
     The local Tswana men who are lucky enough to have those jobs sleep there in barracks.
     They are often four or five hours’ drive from their home villages, and get only a
     few days off a month. Sometimes, their families will come to visit, staying overnight
     in the rangers’ village. We all know and like the rangers and get on easily with them,
     but when the sun goes down, they amiably go their way and we go ours. The otherresearchers and I will convene in the office to open a bottle of wine or play cards
     while the rangers’ lights are all out before 9:00 P.M . They will be up at 3:30 A.M . servicing the vehicles and sweeping the reserve to assess what’s happened overnight—a
     hyena that has finally given birth, a dead giraffe, the tracks of a leopard stalking
     its prey.
    When I get to my cottage, I tie the elephant to the wooden post of the porch. My door
     faces the bush (another stroke of luck), so someone walking by will not immediately
     be faced with the reality of a calf hitched up like a horse at a saloon. I dash inside,
     making a quick inventory of the food I have in my small pantry. Stale crackers, processed
     cheese, a bag of almonds, a ginger beer. Nothing that would help the calf. I can hear
     her stomping around, knocking against the post. I stick my head out, and she stops.
     “You need to be quiet,” I whisper. I put my finger up to my lips.
    She lifts her trunk and blows a raspberry.
    “Stay here,” I say, and I slip silently down the path to the office we researchers
     share. In addition to our computers and research logs, there is a ratty couch and
     a few armchairs that have coughed out their stuffing.
    I hesitate at the door, peeking to see Anya, another researcher, dealing cards to
     Lou, who has been here longer than anyone. Taking a deep breath, I step inside.
    Anya looks up first. “Where have you been?”
    “Battery died on the Land Rover,” I say.
    “So you walked back?” She whistles. “You’re either very brave or very stupid.”
    You have no idea
, I think. I was traveling with what any big cat would consider an appetizer.
    “You want to be dealt in?” Paul asks.
    “No, I’m wiped out,” I say. I start rummaging through the cabinets where we keep our
     coffee supplies. There are sugar packets, which have caked into tiny bricks in the
     humidity, and pods of instant coffee. But the tin that contains our powdered milk
     is empty. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
    Anya glances at me. “I know, it sucks. The shipment was due in two days ago. I’d tell
     you the