Free The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles by Katherine Pancol Page B

Malindi and Mombasa, the best-known part of Kenya. It was ruled by the sultan of Zanzibar until 1890. The Arabs, the Portuguese, and then the British all fought over Kenya, which became independent only in 1963. But enough history for today! I’m sure you’re asking yourselves what Daddy is doing in Kenya? Before answering, I have a question: Are you sitting down, darlings?
    Hortense smiled indulgently and sighed. “That’s Dad for you!” Joséphine couldn’t believe it.
Kenya! Alone or with Mylène?
The red triangle hanging above the toaster seemed to taunt her. She had the impression it was blinking.
    I’m raising crocodiles . . .
    The girls’ jaws dropped in astonishment. Crocodiles! Even Hortense was startled, but she went back to reading the letter, taking a deep breath between each word.
    . . . for a Chinese guy! I’m sure you know that China is fast becoming a major industrial power, making everythingfrom computers to cars. Well, now the Chinese are getting into crocodile farming! Mr. Wei, my boss, established a prototype in Kilifi and hopes that soon this farm will produce lots of crocodile meat, crocodile eggs, and crocodile bags, shoes, and wallets. Mr. Lee, my associate, told me they filled several Boeing 747s with tens of thousands of crocodiles from Thailand. The Thai farmers were struggling because of the Asian crisis, and were forced to sell them: the price of crocodiles had plummeted 75 percent! They got them for a song. They were reduced for quick sale!
    “Daddy’s funny,” said Zoé, sucking her thumb. “But I don’t like that he’s working with crocodiles. Crocodiles are dumb.”
    They have them living in the river estuaries, separated by steel netting.
    They were looking for a deputy general manager. Well, that’s me, my loves! I’m the deputy general manager of Croco Park!
    “That’s like being a big executive,” declared Hortense, after some thought. “That’s what I put down on the student-information forms we had to fill out at the beginning of the year when it asks for your father’s occupation.”
    And I rule over 70,000 crocodiles! Imagine that!
    “Wow!” Zoé exclaimed. “Seventy thousand crocodiles! He’d better not fall in the water.”
    The Chinese workers they sent here work long hours and sleep together in cramped bungalows. They laugh all the time. I sometimes wonder if they even laugh in their sleep. They are very funny looking, with skinny little legs sticking out of shorts several sizes too big. The only problem is that they get attacked so often by the crocodiles they have lots of scars on their arms, legs, even their faces. And do you know what? They stitch themselves back up! With a needle and thread! There is a nurse on location whose job it is to sew them back up, but she mostly takes care of visitors.
    Because I forgot to tell you that Croco Park is open to tourists: Europeans, Americans, and Australians who are in Kenya for safaris. They pay a small admission fee and aregiven a bamboo fishing pole and two chicken carcasses to tie to the end of the line. They can have fun dragging the pieces of chicken in the swamp waters and feeding the crocodiles. We keep reminding visitors to be careful, but sometimes they get too close and get bitten. Crocodiles can move very fast and they have very sharp teeth.
    “I guess that’s bound to happen,” said Hortense. “When I go there, I’m only going to look at them through binoculars!”
    Joséphine listened to all this, dumbfounded. A crocodile farm?
    But don’t worry! I don’t take any chances, and I keep the crocodiles at a safe distance! I don’t get close. I leave that tothe workers. The business looks like it’s going to do really well. I live in what they call the Master’s House. It’s a big wooden two-story structure in the middle of the farm, with several bedrooms and a beautifully maintained swimming pool. The pool is surrounded by barbed wire in case a crocodile ever thinks of taking a dip. It