Free Mrs. Pollifax on Safari by Dorothy Gilman

cavorting with ponderous mischievousness, one of the bolder ones swimming out near the launch to give them all a curious stare.
    Mrs. Pollifax laughed, and when the launch resumed its trip upriver the others were smiling too and began to talk and move about the boat. McIntosh peeled off his jacket and came to stand next to Mrs. Pollifax, his camera at the ready. Without his jacket, only a short-sleevedpolo shirt remained and she thought it made him look rather flat-chested. His posture was not good but then, she thought forgivingly, it would be impossible for anyone to stand erect if they insisted on peering out at the world from under their eyebrows; a certain amount of slumping was compulsive. She noticed that his longish black hair badly needed a shampoo but the threads of white in it were dramatic against his tanned face.
    “I hope you don’t mind,” he said with his faint smile, and sat down on the edge of the bench next her, his eyes on the shoreline.
    “Not at all,” she said. “That’s a handsome camera you have. I’ve been admiring it.”
    He glanced at her, his smile deepening, and told her what kind it was.
    “Lovely,” she said, not understanding a word, and then with a bright smile, “Where do you make, your home, Mr. McIntosh?”
    “Pretty much out of my attaché case,” he said, smiling.
    “But you’re American, aren’t you?”
    “An American citizen, yes.”
    “Then do you,” she asked reasonably, “live in the United States?”
    “Not really,” he said, smiling. “I come and go.” He lifted his camera and snapped a picture of the riverbank, and then as Crispin called out “Egret!” he slipped away from her to the rear of the boat.
    Behind her Amy Lovecraft leaned forward and said, “He’s impossible to talk to, isn’t he? I couldn’t even get a direct yes or no from him on whether he’s married. I mean, surely that’s something you could answer yes or no to? A man either has a wife or he hasn’t.”
    Mrs. Pollifax turned to smile into her vivid sapphire-blue eyes. “You have a point there, although of course these days such matters are sometimes—”
    “What’s more,” said Mrs. Lovecraft, lowering her voice, “I don’t think McIntosh is his last name at all.”
    At this Mrs. Pollifax turned completely to face her. “Good heavens,” she murmured, “really?”
    Mrs. Lovecraft nodded. “When we registered at Chunga,” she said, her voice becoming conspiratorial, “I was standing next him and I caught a glimpse of his passport. McIntosh is his
first
name. There was an entirely different name following it, something that began with an M too, but I couldn’t make it out. And,” she added indignantly, “I’ve never seen an American passport with the last name first. Julian may have accepted him as Mr. McIntosh because he doesn’t
know
, but take a look at your own passport sometime: the last name
doesn’t
come first.”
    “Amy,” called Steeves from across the aisle, “you wanted to see some impala, take a look over here.”
    Mrs. Lovecraft jumped up, leaving Mrs. Pollifax to digest this interesting piece of information.
Not
a sensible woman, thought Mrs. Pollifax, watching her leave; stupid of her to go about saying such things, indebted as Mrs. Pollifax was to her for the news. She might have thought it exposed McIntosh, but it also betrayed her spitefulness at being ignored by him. She wondered if Amy Lovecraft’s life had been difficult: she was a very attractive woman and must once have been lovely, but so very often beautiful women grew up lopsided or didn’t grow at all. She thought there was a curious hardness about her, as if her beauty was a deceptively rich topsoil, thinly spreadover rock.… Finding that no one was looking in her direction, Mrs. Pollifax reached into her purse and surreptitiously examined her passport. Mrs. Lovecraft was absolutely right: there was no juxtaposition of names, the given name came first.
    “Having fun?” asked