But there is no one there with whom to split it.

For Ostlet cannot say to his assistant “enter the melancholy, like a reckoning” or “enter the malaise, like a frozen groundswell,” and so: a plan is formed. This aardvark is selected. The carcass will be preserved for the boat back to England, and the skin, skeleton, notes and all sketches, will be delivered to Ostlet’s close friend, the taxidermist Mr. Titus Downing of Royal Leamington Spa, the only man in the world, Sir Richard Ostlet believes, who might actually be able to do the aardvark justice.

The aardvark will make it to Leamington Spa.

Ostlet will not.

Late that night, the man, who is newly married to a slim, pretty botanist named Rebecca, and who, mere months ago, signed a lease on a lovely new flat on the lovely Gloucester Walk between Holland and Hyde, two of the loveliest parks in London; the man who participates in all the social “field clubs” such as the Midland Union, the Yorkshire Naturalists Union, the prestigious Cotteswold Club, which serves its members seedcakes and champagne; the man who, up to this moment, has been considered by all he knows to be wholly openhearted, privileged with a preternaturally optimistic disposition, one he has enjoyed since his youth, will find himself awake in the dark tent in Africa, driven out of his dreams.

Richard Ostlet will rise from his cot and root through his small wooden cabinet of gear, which is five rows of cork-lined drawers, each papered and stuffed with the accoutrements général of any naturalist: the chalk tins and marking pins, the white gum erasers, round prickly sponges, lidded glass jars, brown bottles of chloroform, and above all, numerous white lumps of camphor, which are necessary for the preservation of the specimens; and this is an irony Ostlet does not consider as he removes the camphor lumps from their drawers, grabs a bottle of whiskey, and, one by one, ingests them, pill-like, to his death.

* * *

The man at the door is wearing a purple and black FedEx uniform. He is carrying a FedEx clipboard and behind him, a white FedEx truck hums in the heat. It’s FedEx.

“Representative Wilson?” he says.

“Yes,” you say.

“Sign here,” he says.

The man is an average height, a bit on the round side maybe, and sports a long brown beard, these funny-looking thick eyeglasses, and you will swear that these are the only details about him you are able to recall when you are seated in front of a congressional committee for your impeachment hearing—but that has not happened yet. That will not happen for another six weeks. Right now your only concern is the very large cardboard box with your name on it, which is standing, upright, behind the FedEx man. There is no return address.

“What is it,” you say. “Who’s it from.”

The FedEx man does not answer. He checkmarks the clipboard, walks quickly back to the delivery truck and climbs into the driver’s seat. He drives away.