Three Weeks in December (9781609459024)

In the late 1890s, by the River Tsavo, in the country now called Kenya, two lions began to kill and eat people. Working in concert, they preyed on Africans, Indian railroad workers, and British administrators.

Dozens of men hunted the cats. Extensive barricades were built up around all human habitation. Still, every few nights, the lions would somehow appear by the firelight inside a camp or village. They seemed bigger than any lions previously recorded, and stronger. They would drag someone away. In the darkness the screams of the victim were suddenly cut off.

They ate over a hundred people.

 

T
hree hundred miles from Mombasa, the steamship Goliath happened upon an Arabian dhow becalmed on the Indian Sea. The sail hung slack, the rope trailing loose, and no person was visible aboard. The steamer rumbled deep in its guts to begin its emergency halt.

Carrying his iced tea, Jeremy got up from his lounge chair to walk to the railing where he could view the boat better. Even at eight in the morning, he narrowed his eyes as he stepped into the weight of the tropical sun.

As the shadow of the steamer crept over the tiny wooden boat, its single sail slapped listlessly from side to side. Peering down, it took Jeremy a moment to make out the sprawled forms of the five Mohammedans, their white robes appearing at first like discarded sailcloth. Only their faces showed, burned so dark they appeared black. Although none of them were able to sit up, two of them beckoned weakly as they stared up at their rescuers. A crew member from the steamer unrolled a rope ladder down the side of the ship and then clambered down, balancing a cask of water on his shoulder. For the next few minutes, the five men took turns drinking. One of them cupped his fingers over his mouth after each turn as though to ensure no water trickled back out. Jeremy could see them talking, but could not hear, over the steamer's rumbling engines, what language they used. The white man listened attentively, asked a few questions and then clambered back up the ladder to head toward the bridge. Jeremy watched him in the cabin there, reporting to the captain. The captain's face was obscured by a harsh streak of sun on the window, leaving only his white uniform facing Mombasa, their destination. At no point did the captain turn toward the stranded men.

After what seemed a long wait, the crew member reappeared at the head of the ladder. He did not climb down this time, but just lowered another cask of water on a rope, yelled some last words down to the Mohammedans, pointed emphatically twice in a westerly direction, and then rolled up the ladder. The engines surged and the ship chugged away.

Surprised, Jeremy watched the dhow bump off the steamer's side and twist in its wake.

He stopped a crewmember walking by. “Where are they trying to get to?”

“Get to?” asked the purser. “Those poor buggers? Dar es Salaam, sir. They ran out of water two days ago. They're lucky we stumbled onto them.”

“Will they be all right?”

“What, them?”

Here, he would be working for the British: a detail about his employment he rather regretted. They frequently repeated questions as though shocked at the rest of the world's lack of basic comprehension. Already, he had met several men who each spoke with as much stiff-necked propriety as though the papers to the whole of the ever-expanding British Empire were secreted about his clothing. The titles to the Suez Canal and Canada stuck down his collar; Uganda and Nigeria tucked into his socks; Singapore and Australia snug along his thighs; India supporting the small of his back; British East Africa, Rhodesia, and all the rest in the armpits. No matter what exotic sights passed by, no matter who tried to interact with him, the man's expression stayed internal as he struggled not to perspire on the paperwork.

“Why, they're Arabs,” said the purser surprised. “They'll be fine, sir. Like camels, they are. Be able to deal without water much longer than you or I could.”

Pausing, the purser leaned forward to add confidentially, “You know, those people still buy and sell slaves in this day and age. That boat could be heading into port to pick up part of a caravan and auction them off in Persia.” He shook his head. “Inhuman what they do.”

Jeremy threw one last look astern at the dhow getting smaller in the distance, bouncing in the steamer's wake. Three of the men had struggled up into a sitting position, turned to watch the boat steam away. The distance made it impossible to see their expressions.

T
he moment the two of them stepped into her office, she didn't like their smell. The younger one reeked of cigarette smoke, as well as an over-reliance on hair gel. He said his name was Stevens, head of R&D, and he didn't wait to find out if she would hold out her hand for a handshake, but instead he picked her hand up from her side in order to shake it. Eye contact was something he could manage all day.

The older one was called Roswell. Wafting along with him came the essential oils of lavender and lemongrass—aromatherapy—unexpected from the CEO of a pharmaceutical. Since Stevens was still busily pumping her hand up and down, he just nodded to her.

Max stepped back as soon as she could. Took away her hand, rubbed it on her hip. “Yes?” she asked, sitting down behind the safety of her desk.

“As we said over the phone, we have a job proposal we think you might be interested in.” Stevens's voice was rich and emotive, the kind a morning-talk-show host might have.

She cocked her head, listening, but kept her eyes directed down toward her papers. She could listen better without the distraction of faces, especially those of strangers.

She strongly doubted this job proposal would be realistic. Just three years ago, Genzyme had four separate expeditions out in the field; Sanofi had two. Now there was nothing. Still she had to listen. Her postdoc ended in a month. The only offers she'd gotten had come from the fragrance industry.

These men, however, seemed serious. From the edge of her eyes she could see them lean toward her in their chairs: big men, ruddy skin, the sheen of expensive clothing, their hands clasped in front of them in a position reminiscent of prayer. On the phone, making the appointment, Stevens had said they were flying in from Denver just to talk to her.

This pause was too long. It must be her turn to talk. She still sometimes had difficulty with the rhythm of conversation, understanding what was required.

“Yes,” she said, “Go ahead.”

Stevens ran his hand over his tie, smoothing it down. Maybe he'd thought she was about to refuse even to hear the proposal. The combination of her height and averted gaze could make her seem haughty. He skipped over the pleasantries. “Three weeks ago a rather battered envelope arrived in the mail, addressed to a chemist in our labs. Inside was a vine. Not much of a sample, three, maybe four ounces. Badly preserved and wilted. Still the chemist gave it to her lab tech to run a crude extract.” He angled his head a bit, trying to get his face closer to the path of her vision, preferring to look into a person's eyes. She was surprised he didn't work in sales.

Roswell's voice was flatter, more factual. He was the CEO, didn't have to charm anyone. He cut to the point. “The extract contained five times the beta-blockers of anything known to science.”

At this, her eyes jumped, involuntary. The two of them. Heavy faces, manicured hair. Human eyes. Like touching an electric fence. The glittering shock.

She turned away, to the window, to the oak outside. On the wall behind her, the clock whined and thunked.

“Five times?” she repeated.

They nodded.

“Also a mild vasodilator,” added Roswell.

“Any vine left?” she asked.

“No.”

“The crude extract?”

He shifted in his chair. “Tossed. Before the tech read through the printed results.”

She studied the oak outside. It was at least 100 years old. Earlier in the fall she noted it had a mild case of anthracnose, the brown blotches spreading across the leaves. With luck, this winter would be severe enough to kill the fungus. “Any description of what the vine looked like? The shape of the leaf? The type of branching?”

“From the tech? He's just out of college, doesn't notice plants.”

Max was derailed for a moment, trying to imagine that. Then continued, “Foreign or domestic?”

“What?”

“Where'd the vine come from?”

“Virunga National Park, Rwanda.”

“Foreign.” She eyed the oak. She'd always been honest to a fault, uncomfortably honest. “Well, I'm sorry then. This won't work. You won't be able to get the plant out through customs. Not legally. It's the property of another country.”

Stevens responded, his voice smooth. “The Rwandan president himself has given us the go-ahead, requesting immigration render us every assistance possible.”

She was careful this time to glance only so far as his mouth. A mouth wasn't as shivery as eyes, not so shocking. His lips were stretched in a proud smile, indents at the corners of his mouth from the contraction of the buccinator muscles. However, none of his teeth were revealed.

“How'd you manage that?” she asked, turning back to the oak. Plants were so much more understandable. This tree, for instance, whatever gesture it made was how it grew, its limbs hardening into its intent. She could comprehend it at a glance, its past struggles for water and sun, its future needs there in the angle of its trunk, the reach of its branches. Never a hidden agenda.

The two men looked at each other. Then Roswell said in his flatter voice, “Since the genocide, the country's not doing so well economically. They
need
money.”

Stevens continued, “If any drug made it to market, the Rwandan government would get a share of the profits. Also we're in preliminary negotiations to build a factory in Kigali.”

She glanced over. His smile wider, lips parting, visible teeth.

(Most humans were born able to read the facial expressions of others—not even knowing they should be thankful for that immense power. They could afford to be sloppy, satisfied with approximations of sincerity. Max, on the other hand, had labored for a solid year before college, studying flashcards and videos. Her mom and her, on the couch, went frame by frame through
Bambi
and
Dumbo
, analyzing each close-up. Animated talking animals were much less threatening and had such telegraphed emotions. They became her seminar in humanity. She could reel off every facial muscle. Zygomaticus major, caninus, procerus. She'd memorized action units and rules.)

Stevens's grin wasn't honest, for it didn't extend to the muscles under his eyes.

Her mother had always repeated that, yes, Max had deficits, but through them she could attain unusual strengths.

“You're not going to build a factory there, are you?” she guessed.

A beat passed. His voice wasn't quite as smooth when he responded. “That hasn't been determined yet. The important thing, in terms of us getting hold of this vine, is that Rwanda
needs
this facility.”

Five times the beta-blockers of Carvedilol, she thought. She noticed her hands were flapping slightly, patting her knees as though she were keeping time. She consciously stilled them in her lap. Her whole life spent imitating the normals. “To get hold of that vine, not just the government has to sign off. The era is over in which we can make nice with a shaman for a few days in order to learn priceless botanical secrets. The shamans are onto us. The tribes have lawyers.” No one who didn't know her well would detect excitement. In the field of science, the monotone of her voice helped her, sounding dispassionate. “Harvard's latest expedition is being sued by over fourteen different indigenous—”

“—No tribes are involved. No people at all,” Roswell interrupted. “This vine, it grows several thousand feet up in the mountains, in a national park.”

This caught her for a moment. She turned the fact over in her mind, examining it. “Where'd you . . . Who found the vine?”

“Gorillas.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mountain gorillas.”

“Look,” said Stevens. “Jaguars were the ones to first use quinine, gnawing on bark from a cinchona tree whenever they had malaria. Pigeons discovered the power of coffee beans. For thousands of years humans have learned about drugs from watching other animals. Primates are especially sophisticated at botanical pharmacology. Female muriqui monkeys, for example, utilize over forty plants for everything from parasite control to contraceptives.”

Max said, “Contraceptives?”

“During famines, the females consume a plant that's high in a progesterone-mimicking compound so they won't waste energy on pregnancy.”

“Damn.”

“Can we get back to the subject here?” Roswell used shorter sentences, a sort of staccato delivery. “Dubois is her name. The person who sent in the vine. She's French. A primatologist working with gorillas in the Rwandan mountains. She noticed the adult males would crush leaves of the vine in their mouths, then spit them out. Got curious about possible bioactive properties. Sent a sample to her college roommate who's a chemist.”

“A chemist who happens to work for us,” Stevens said.

Roswell continued, “We know gorillas are genetically prone to heart disease. Among the males in captivity, it's the biggest killer. Half the great apes you see at the zoo are on Lipitor.”

Stevens held up one finger, waiting for the pause. He was proud of this next bit of information. “Contrast those gorillas with the ones in the mountains where this vine grows. The area happens to be where Dian Fossey set up her research station in the 1960s. For the decades since then, scientists have been doing postmortems on every dead gorilla they've found in the area, recording the results.” He added, “No sign of heart disease. Ever. No myocardial infarctions, no dilated cardiomyopathy, nada. Even in the ones that die of old age.”

Roswell said, each word slow and enunciated. “This vine might be why.”

“Fuck.” Fricatives so satisfying. “Fuck.” On bad days she used to not be able to stop her swearing. Now she used it as a control valve, letting off steam when necessary. Done this way, it sounded almost the way others swore.

The men went still. They were surprised, but not necessarily displeased.

Max closed her eyes, breathing, concentrating on finding errors in their logic. “Gorillas are a different species. What works on them might not . . . ”

“You ever talk to a vet specializing in great apes? They fill the prescriptions at CVS. The only difference is dosage.”

Max said, “The primatologist? What about her?”

“Dubois?”

“Yes, she found it. She's got a prior claim.”

“Well, about her, there are pluses and minuses.” Stevens chose his words with care. “She did sign away her claim.”

“A big plus,” said Roswell.

“She signed in exchange for us paying for park guards to patrol the mountains for the next decade. I guess hunters in the area tend to kill the gorillas. She's a big softie about the apes.”

Roswell said, “Paying for the guards works for us. We'll be protecting the world's remaining mountain gorillas. The advertising department will love it.”

“And the minuses with her?” asked Max.

“She won't send us more of the vine or show us where she found it.”

“Why not?”

“God knows,” Stevens said. “She's weird.”

“Dr. Tombay, listen.” Roswell thumped his finger on the arm of his chair as methodically as a metronome, beating out a rhythm to his words. “Because we're paying for the guards,”
thump
, “she'll let you stay at the research station.”
Thump
. “You can search as long as you want.”
Thump
. “She thinks no one can find the vine.”

Max didn't worry about this part. She was good at finding plants. She had what might be called a single-minded focus.

“Look,” said Stevens. “We're doing this right. Taking care of the gorillas, working with the government. This could be the role model for the future, the case that reopens ethnobotany for the 21st century.”

Fuck the gorillas, she thought. It was the vine she wanted. Those beta-blockers.

So this was the point when she leaned forward in her chair, ready to bargain.

And at her movement, the men smiled, for the first time sincerely. They settled back, relaxing into their new position. The chairs squeaking, the audible shift of power.

She'd never studied matters of negotiation, never learned how to bargain. Perhaps like Rwanda and the primatologist, she didn't end up striking the best deal.

To her, it didn't matter. She was going to Africa.