The Leopard Hunts in Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page A

Pickering. Henry is a senior vice-president
of the World Bank – listen and you’ll hear all those billions of dollars clashing around in his head. Henry, this is Craig Mellow, our boy genius. Not even excluding Karen Blixen, Craig
is just one of the most important writers ever to come out of Africa, that’s all he is!’
    ‘I read the book,’ Henry nodded. He was very tall and thin and prematurely bald. He wore a dark banker’s suit and stark white shirt, with a little individual touch of colour in
his necktie and twinkly blue eyes. ‘For once you are probably not exaggerating, Ashe.’
    He kissed Sally-Anne’s cheek platonically, sat down, tasted the wine that Ashe poured for him and pushed the glass back an inch. Craig found himself admiring his style.
    ‘What do you think?’ Henry Pickering asked Craig, glancing down at the open portfolio of photographs.
    ‘He loves them, Henry,’ Ashe Levy cut in swiftly. ‘He’s ape over them – I wish you could have seen his face when he got his first look – loves them, man,
loves them!’
    ‘Good,’ Henry said softly, watching Craig’s face. ‘Have you explained the concept?’
    ‘I wanted to serve it up hot.’ Ashe Levy shook his head. ‘I wanted to hit him with it.’
    He turned to Craig.
    ‘A book,’ he said. ‘It’s about a book. The title of the book is “Craig Mellow’s Africa”. What happens is you write about the Africa of your ancestors,
about what it was and what it has become. You go back and you do an in-depth assessment. You speak to the people—’
    ‘Excuse me,’ Henry interrupted him, ‘I understand that you speak one of the two major languages – Sindebele, isn’t it – of Zimbabwe?’
    ‘Fluently,’ Ashe answered for Craig. ‘Like one of them.’
    ‘Good,’ Henry nodded. ‘Is it true that you have many friends – some highly placed in government?’
    Ashe fielded the question again. ‘Some of his old buddies are cabinet ministers in the Zimbabwe government. You can’t go much higher.’
    Craig dropped his eyes to the photograph of the elephant graveyard. ‘Zimbabwe,’ he was not yet comfortable with the new name that the black victors had chosen. He still thought of it
as Rhodesia. That was the country his ancestors had hacked out of the wilderness with pick and axe and Maxim machine-gun. Their land, once his land – by any name still his home.
    ‘It’s going to be top quality, Craig, no expense spared. You can go where you want to, speak to anybody, the World Bank will see to that, and pay for it.’ Ashe Levy was running
on enthusiastically, and Craig looked up at Henry Pickering.
    ‘The World Bank – publishing?’ Craig asked sardonically, and when Ashe would have replied again, Henry Pickering laid a restraining hand on his forearm.
    ‘I’ll take the ball a while, Ashe,’ he said. He had sensed Craig’s mood; his tone was gentle and placatory. ‘The main part of our business is loans to
underdeveloped countries. We have almost a billion invested in Zimbabwe. We want to protect our investment. Think of it as a prospectus, we want the world to know about the little African state
that we would like to turn into a showpiece, an example of how a black government can succeed. We think your book could help do that for us.’
    ‘And these?’ Craig touched the pile of photographs.
    ‘We want the book to have visual as well as intellectual impact. We think Sally-Anne can provide that.’
    Craig was quiet for many seconds while he felt the terror slither around deep inside him, like some loathsome reptile. The terror of failure. Then he thought about having to compete with these
photographs, of having to provide a text that would not be swamped by the awesome view through this girl’s lens. He had a reputation at stake, and she had nothing to lose. The odds were all
with her. She was not an ally but an adversary, and his resentment came back in full force, so strong that it was a kind of hatred.
    She