Over the years, he had seen other clients who would have become enraged. They had been promised so much and were spending so much and came from such privilege that they managed to forget where they were: a world where a group of trained men created civilization in one small spot for a night and then tore it all down, leaving as the only remnants tire tracks, flattened grass, a fire pit （or two）， and the bones of whatever game they had cooked. Benjamin had had women berate him because they chipped their nails and men castigate him because the dining tent lacked the right bourbon. Their behavior was always embarrassing and sometimes it was dangerous. It was perilous for Benjamin because a person could be fired for this sort of fiasco, and it was hazardous for the guests because, in the midst of their tantrums, they might stalk from the camp and wind up bitten by a snake or mauled by any one of a dozen different kinds of wild animals before a ranger or porter could bring them back to the safety of the tents. Benjamin himself had had to retrieve one American who had something to do with oil, and who, when they had run out of brandy after dinner—and the meal was a meat he complained was too gamy—had wandered off in a huff toward a candelabra tree. He was drunk, and it was evident that he was about to see if this particular euphorbia was as toxic as he had been told. Benjamin had grabbed him just before he’d attempted to snap one of the candle-like branches, which would inevitably have released the latex that would have burned him at best and blinded him at worst. The next morning, the American had grown sheepish when Benjamin had shown him the lion tracks on the far side of the tree. He would never know if the lion had been there at the same moment that he had been dragging the American against his will back to the camp, but the very idea caused his stomach to roll over.
When the movie star had learned that her bath would be delayed until after dinner and she and her husband would have to dine with the stink of bug dope on their clothes and the dust and dirt from the savanna on their skin, she’d shrugged and told Benjamin she was sorry that the porters would have to boil more water. He could see the great perspiration stains down her back and even on the seat of her trousers, because the plastic cushions they used in the Rovers grew so sticky and hot it almost seemed like you could cook on them. Then the actress had moved the luggage stand away from the swamp in that corner of the tent and said to her husband, “David, I’ve moved the rack. Be careful you don’t walk into it if you get up in the night.”
“Got it,” her husband had said.
“A drink?” she’d asked him.
“I always supposed actresses were vain.”
“Oh, we are. Trust me: we are. But you saw me when I was a three-year-old spilling my orange juice.”
“It’s true. I was a witness to that. I think I also saw you wet your pants in Central Park when you were four.”
She motioned at her khakis and Benjamin would have preferred not to be present for this exchange, but the Americans didn’t seem to care. “This is only sweat, I promise. And I think Kidogo will still mix me a gin and tonic, even if I am a bit grubby for the likes of your gallery.”
“But not for the gallerist.”
“Good.”
She turned to him. “Thank you, Benjamin,” she said.
Then the two of them left him alone to throw some sand on the mud and replace the bathtub. He was pleased that already this Katie Barstow knew both his and Kidogo’s names. Yes, he was staff, but he was still a man. There would be guests in some groups who wouldn’t bother to learn the names of anyone but Patton the entire time they were together with them in the Serengeti.
He liked most of these Americans, though he had a particular fondness for Katie because she was kind and for Terrance Dutton and Reggie Stout because they were competent. Dutton was one of only three Black men he’d ever had as a guest, the other two being London bankers. Stout was a movie publicist and, Benjamin had overheard, a war hero.
At one point he had seen Dutton alone at the end of the day, standing with a pair of binoculars at his eyes and a gin and tonic on the ground beside him. Benjamin had stood motionless because he didn’t want to frighten away whatever bird or animal the actor was watching. But the man had sensed the porter behind him.
“It’s okay,” the actor said, and he brought the binoculars down from his eyes and leaned over for his drink. “I think that’s a purple grenadier,” he continued, pointing at a tree thirty meters from the camp.
Even without the binoculars, Benjamin could see that he was correct. “It is,” he said.