"The Hippopotamus (Hippopotamus amphibius) is, by day, the very image of bovine contentment — a creature designed, it would appear, for the express purpose of floating. It emerges at night to graze, covering surprising distances on routes it has used for generations, moving with a certainty of purpose that the author finds, on reflection, instructive. A guide of the author's acquaintance once watched a bull surface beneath a moored canoe, lift it entirely clear of the water, and stand there with it — the expression, the guide reported, of an animal that has surprised itself and is unclear how to proceed. At a lodge near the Sabie River, a bull surfaced during a wedding ceremony and contributed, at volume and at length, until the proceedings concluded. The hippopotamus is, in the author's considered view, an animal of considerable placidity that should not, under any circumstances, be startled."
The letter had arrived with the supply vehicle, which came on Tuesdays and was reliable in the way of things that have been doing their best for a long time.
The Colonel recognised Constance's handwriting from thirty yards.
He did not open it immediately. He was occupied with his notes, and the hippo in the water below camp was displaying behaviour of interest, and there was tea to finish. He opened it at eleven.
It was shorter than the previous letter.
St Lucia had revealed itself, over the Colonel's ten days of residence, as a town that had made its accommodation with the hippopotamus and found the arrangement, on balance, workable. The animals used the streets at night. Not occasionally, not by accident, but as a matter of established routine — their grazing routes running through the town with the unhurried authority of something that has been taking this road since before the road was a road. Locals stepped around them. Visitors did not always know to do this, which provided the town with a steady supply of material for subsequent conversation.
The hippo in the water below camp was a large bull, resident and territorial, who had spent the morning with ears and eyes above the waterline regarding the Colonel's camp table with the settled suspicion of a landowner who has identified a potential encroachment and is considering his position.
The Colonel had noted this with the objective detachment of a field researcher and the slight unease of a man who knew the fatality statistics and had, on this occasion, positioned himself correctly.
He read the letter again.
It was at half past two that the reed incident occurred.
A younger animal — a sub-adult, perhaps four hundred kilograms — had wandered from the water onto the bank and found itself unexpectedly close to a walkway where two visitors from London were consulting a map. The hippo registered their presence. It assessed its options. Then, with the slow deliberation of an animal working through a problem in real time, it reversed carefully behind a single papyrus reed at the water's edge.
And stopped. And was still. Convinced, apparently, of its complete concealment.
The Colonel watched this from his camp chair with a scientific detachment that lasted approximately four seconds before he began to laugh — a genuine, unguarded laugh of the kind that had not, in Cetshwayo's considerable experience, been heard from that direction for some time. The hippo stood behind its reed. Both visitors stared. The hippo blinked. Remained absolutely still. Four hundred kilograms of animal, persuaded by the force of its own conviction that one papyrus reed had resolved the situation.
Everyone could still see the entire hippo.
The Colonel wrote: Sub-adult. Bank. Reed concealment attempted. Reed: insufficient. Animal: unaware of this.