The Eden Legacy

FOURTEEN
I

Rebecca drove the Mitsubishi down to the beach to wash off the blood and put on clean clothes before continuing on to Pierre’s house. It was dark and deserted when she pulled up, and there was no sign of his car. No great shock, frankly, for it was a full day’s drive back from Antananarivo; but she was surprised not to see any of his wives or children.

Pierre had built himself the kind of throwback colonial life that was only still on offer in places like Madagascar. His father had been in the French army, stationed out here before Independence. Convinced it would be the next tourist paradise, he’d bought this whole stretch of coast and forest, including the Eden Reserve. But nothing had come of it, and he and his wife had been killed in a car accident. Pierre, their sole heir, had flown out intending to sell up; but he’d never left. He’d realised that, by living prudently, he’d never have to work again. And the women here were so beautiful.

Mating strategies fascinated Rebecca. Every living creature was the product of an almost infinite regression of successful reproductions: yet each itself had only a limited chance of leaving offspring. To an evolutionary biologist, therefore, sex was war; children victory. It was a battle Pierre had set out to win. He’d started by building guest cabins, even though no tourists had ever come here back then, and had recruited a string of young Malagasy women, ostensibly as staff, but in reality to share his bed and bear his children. Even that hadn’t been enough for him, however. After he’d sold her father a good chunk of his land on which to set up the Eden Reserve, more and more zoologists and other intrepid travellers had started making the trek up here.

A Dutch marine biologist called Cees had arrived for a week with his fiancee Ardine, an otherworldly young woman with crinkled red hair, freckled soft white skin and long, bony witch’s fingers that had glittered with silver rings and semiprecious stones. When Adam had taken Cees diving one day, Pierre had pressed Ardine to let him show her a sacred grotto in the spiny forest. Rebecca had been perhaps ten years old at the time. Without being quite sure why, she’d found herself deliciously titillated by this, and so had followed. The forest trails were difficult if you weren’t used to them. Pierre had kept catching Ardine when she stumbled, plucking thorns from her clothes. The climb down to the grotto itself was narrow and awkward. Pierre went first, then reached back up for Ardine, letting her hips slide through his hands so that her top had rumpled up and his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts.

Rebecca had stretched out on the rocks above the pool to watch Pierre strip naked then dive into the water. Ardine had been wearing bikini bottoms beneath her trousers. She’d paddled in the shallows. There was a natural stone bench in the water. Pierre had teased her until she’d sat beside him. He’d taken her hand and talked passionately; she’d blushed and looked away. He’d put a hand behind her head to hold her as he’d kissed her. She’d flapped and struggled, but not for very long. There was something about Pierre that women seemed unable to deny.

Afterwards, Rebecca had often watched Pierre go to work on their female guests. He was powerful, handsome and capable of immense charm. And he had absolutely no shame. Rebecca had learned from him how often people simply defer to strength of purpose. It didn’t much matter what that purpose was, only how fiercely it was held. Some male mosquitoes loiter above salt-water hatcheries, pouncing on females as they struggled from their shells, impregnating them before they could defend themselves. Male Heliconius butterflies punched holes in chrysalises to force themselves upon the females inside. Pierre had something of that ruthlessness. Vulnerability thrilled him. To cuckold gave him joy.

Her father had known all this, but when you were the only two Europeans within a day’s travel, friendship was the only sane option. Besides, Pierre had proved useful. Running a reserve here meant endless bureaucratic meetings in Antananarivo, the constant greasing of palms. Her father had hated that side of Madagascar, but Pierre relished it. He enjoyed, too, delivering papers written by her father at Antananarivo’s never-ending cycle of wildlife conferences, like the one he’d just been at this past week, so that he could then use his tales of life on the frontline to seduce any impressionable young delegates.

‘Becca! Becca!’ Rebecca turned to see a Malagasy woman in pale clothes approach over a grass-topped dune, an infant in one arm, another in a sling around her neck. ‘Becca!’ she screeched again, waving exuberantly.

Rebecca squinted through the darkness. ‘Therese?’

Of course Therese! Had Rebecca forgotten her old friend so quickly? Had she aged that much? For all her scolding, Therese radiated such joy to see her that Rebecca couldn’t help but be warmed. As far back as she could remember, Therese had been part of her life, for she’d developed such a passion for medicine and nursing as a young girl that she’d spent her free time helping Rebecca’s mother out in Eden’s clinic. In fact, she was now running it herself the two mornings a week it was open, as well as in emergencies.

‘Michel?’ asked Rebecca, indicating the child in Therese’s arm.

Therese shook her head shyly. ‘She mine. Xandra Yvette. Xandra for Pierre’s grandmother. Yvette for your mother. She so kind to me.’

‘She’s beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ beamed Therese proudly. She opened the flap of her shawl. ‘This is Michel,’ she said. ‘Your nep’ew.’

Rebecca took him in one arm. He was smaller than she’d expected, yet heavier. He had tight purple slivers of lips, dark upturned nostrils and clenched eyes. He looked so like Emilia that Rebecca’s chest fluttered. She touched his cheek. His eyelids sprang open, revealing the shiny conkers within. He grasped her finger and pulled it towards his mouth.

‘He like you bery much,’ beamed Therese.

Rebecca couldn’t tear her eyes from him. From nowhere, she had a sudden, wild vision of taking him back with her to England, rebuilding her life around him. But she stamped down on the treacherous thought. She was here to rescue Emilia, not bury her.

‘You hab news?’ asked Therese.

‘Nothing,’ said Rebecca.

Therese pulled an anguished face. ‘Your bu’ful sister, so kind, so young. Your won’ful father.’

Rebecca’s heart tightened. ‘We’ll find them. We’ll get them back.’

‘Yes.’ Therese brushed her cheeks with the heel of her hand, then smiled radiantly again, sunshine after a squall. ‘Sure! We get them both back, now you are here. But tomorrow, yes. Tonight you eat. Not go Eden. No food at Eden. All dark and empty and nasty. Yes. First eat, then sleep, ebryt’ing better in morning. Okay! Yes!’ She crooked a finger at Zanahary, standing by the Mitsubishi. ‘And you too, li’l boy. Come eat. Come. Come.’

They walked down the dunes to a blazing fire, three of Pierre’s women and nine of his children eating and laughing together. Therese heaped a plate high with boiled white rice and fish stew for her. It was hot, spicy, delicious and filling. Tiredness quickly overwhelmed her; she fought a yawn.

‘Bed for you,’ said Therese, noticing. ‘I show you now.’ She carried the two infants with her. Michel began to squirm and bawl, setting Xandra off. Therese peeled back her shirt, gave them a nipple each. ‘I miss Emilia so much,’ she said sadly. ‘We hab our babies together. We share ebryt’ing. Ebryt’ing.’

The way she said it, it was like she was trying to communicate something. ‘Everything?’ asked Rebecca.

‘Ebryt’ing,’ confirmed Therese. ‘It much easier when you hab good friend.’ Rebecca watched fascinated as the infants suckled; she couldn’t tear her eyes away. ‘You be good mother,’ said Therese suddenly. ‘Why you not hab children yet?’

‘My life isn’t right,’ said Rebecca, who’d forgotten how direct Malagasy women could be. ‘Maybe one day.’

‘One day!’ snorted Therese. ‘Yes’day one day. Today one day. You get busy, girl, or one day soon be gone.’