“Do you know the name of the man who took her to Lusaka?”
He shook his head. “I was only seven. All I remember is that he was a big man and wore a suit. Cynthia might know his name. She’s the one who told me all of this.”
“Do you know anyone named Jan? Margaret thought he might have been a white doctor who worked at the village clinic.”
Godfrey gave her an inquisitive look. “I remember a white doctor. But he worked at the hospital, not the clinic. He treated me for cerebral malaria. It was severe, and I almost died. He had light hair and blue eyes, like you do. I thought he was an angel.”
“What year was that?”
“It was before Charity left. She was the one who brought him to the village.” He glanced at her watch. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten thirty,” she replied, wishing she could ask him a dozen more questions.
He spoke in a rush. “I have to get back. Talk to Cynthia. Charity sent her letters.”
“Letters?” Zoe inquired.
He nodded. “Her husband is Mwela Chansa. He works at the Nkana Mine in Kitwe.”
“What’s your number?” Zoe asked, fishing in her backpack for her iPhone.
He recited the digits and hastened up the path toward the bridge. When he reached the top of the hill, Zoe noticed that something was missing from the scene.
The man in sunglasses was gone.
Unnerved again, she turned to watch the Zambezi race through the rocky teeth of the escarpment, frothing and tumbling to the base of the gorge. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you ask any questions,” she said to Joseph.
“I’m getting used to it,” he said with a dry laugh.
“We need to talk to Cynthia about the letters.”
He hesitated. “You can call her if you want, but I don’t have time for a trip to Kitwe. I need to focus on connecting the magistrate to Darious.”
Zoe nodded, trying not to show her disappointment. “So we go home.”
Joseph smiled enigmatically. “Our flight isn’t until the morning.”
She looked at him in puzzlement. “What are you thinking?”
His eyes twinkled. “A swim might be nice. Followed by a cruise on the river. I haven’t done that since I was a kid.”
After an afternoon relaxing by the pool, they changed clothes and drove to the Zambezi Waterfront, arriving a few minutes shy of four o’clock. They followed the steps down to the wharf and crossed the gangplank to the MV Makumbi. The riverboat was an elegant antique, its handsome wood trim showing the wear of years. They climbed stairs to the upper deck and took seats at the rear of the boat behind a group of chattering international students.
Zoe closed her eyes to the sun, enjoying the way the light suffused her eyelids. The wind blowing off the river lifted her hair and played with the fringes of her skirt. She opened her eyes again and saw Joseph staring at her.
“You could almost pass for an African,” he said, as the riverboat got underway.
Zoe was taken aback. She touched the small mole above her eyebrow, remembering how many times her mother had said that the finest people she knew were Africans.
“When it gets in your blood there’s no reversing it,” she replied.
“What do you mean?”
“Once you live here, it’s hard to leave.”
“But this isn’t your home.”
“I’m not sure I have a home,” she admitted, surprised by her own candor. He frowned. “Your family must miss you.”
She looked toward the far bank of the river. “I suppose,” she said, hoping he would let the subject drop. But her hesitation only seemed to intrigue him.
“What does your father do?”
“It’s not important.”
He tilted his head. “You asked me the same question a while ago.”
She took a breath. “He’s in government.”
After a moment he asked, “You’re father isn’t Jack Fleming, is he?”
Damn, she thought. That’s why I didn’t want to answer the question. “I really don’t want to talk about him. Do you mind?”
“That’s fine,” he said. He gestured toward the bow of the boat where the host, a middle-aged Zambian in a shirt and vest, was opening a bottle of wine. “Would you like—”
His voice trailed off, and Zoe followed his gaze. A large man had just climbed the ladder from below decks. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the floral-print shirt and sunglasses.
“How did he get on the boat?” she hissed.
“I don’t know,” Joseph replied. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“How did he even know we were here?”
“Good question.”
Zoe watched as the man got a glass of wine from the host and took a place at the railing. He didn’t look at them, but she was certain he could see them in his peripheral vision. Her fright turned quickly into anger.
“I’m going to talk to him,” she said, starting out across the deck.
Joseph put his hand on her arm. “There’s no need to bother him.”
“I thought you said he’s harmless.” she retorted.
She marched toward the man, her heels clicking on the wooden planks. When she was ten feet away, he glanced at her and turned back to the river. His indifference fueled her antagonism.
“Hey,” she said. “Why are you following us?”
The man took a sip of his wine, ignoring her.
“Who do you work for?”
When he failed to respond, she raised her voice: “You want me to make a scene? Why are you here? Did the Nyambos send you?”
At last he faced her and spoke, his voice hard. “I would be careful who you offend.” Then he shouldered past her and walked toward the stairs.
She watched him until he disappeared below decks, her heart hammering in her chest. She realized that everyone was staring at her—the host, the international students, the other guests. She turned toward the railing to conceal her embarrassment. Joseph joined her a minute later, holding a beer bottle and a glass of red wine.
“It looks like you could use a drink,” he said softly.
She accepted the wine without a word and watched the river move in the wind. Near the bulrushes on the opposite bank, a hippopotamus stretched its jaws. In a tree not far away, a heron took flight.
“My mother used to say that light turns water into music,” she said, trying to salvage the moment. “I always liked the metaphor.”
Joseph was quiet for a while. “My mother died when I was five. I barely remember her.”
His spontaneous confession surprised Zoe. “I was fourteen,” she said. “She was on a humanitarian mission to Somalia.”
He studied her thoughtfully. “Then Africa owes you a debt.”
“No. She told me Africa saved her.”
“Do you know what she meant?”
“The way she told it, she grew up in a glass house,” Zoe said. “Her father was a shipping magnate. She almost never saw him. Her mother was from an old Boston family. She spent money and had affairs. It was a shallow life. After college, she traveled for a while and then went to Kenya with the Peace Corps. She said it was like being reborn. She might never have come home if her parents hadn’t died in a boating accident.” She paused. “I take it you’ve heard of the Catherine Sorenson Foundation?”
He nodded. “That’s her?”
“She liquidated the entire fortune. She kept two things: a house on Martha’s Vineyard and this ring.” Zoe held up her hand to the sun, allowing the diamonds to catch the light. “It’s funny—almost all of my memories of her have something to do with Africa. She wasn’t much of a homemaker. Trevor and I spent a lot of our childhood with nannies. But when I got old enough, she brought me with her. Her passion for this place rubbed off on me.”
Joseph regarded her without speaking.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, feeling self-conscious.
“My grandmother once told me that the souls of the seers
are like the grass of the savannah. They only appear to die. Then the rains come and they return. When I look at you, I wonder if I’m looking at her.”
His words pierced Zoe like a surgeon’s blade. All her life men had praised her, but their words had been insubstantial things, and she had never believed them. With a single insight Joseph had redeemed the very notion of a compliment. She faced the river again, trying to hide the blush on her skin.
“You have a law degree,” she said. “Will you practice?”
He shook his head. “I want to be Inspector General of Police.”
She whistled. The IG was the top law-enforcement official in Zambia.
“The system rarely works for the poor,” he explained. “I intend to change it.”
“That’s a tall order,” she said. “Why do you think you’ll succeed?”
“Because I made a promise.”
“To whom?”
He looked suddenly reflective. “I think I will tell you someday. But not yet.”
She turned her gaze toward the sun, sinking into the haze above the horizon, and thought of Darious sitting smugly in the dock, of Frederick Nyambo pulling strings and Magistrate Kaunda dancing like a marionette, of the threat delivered by the man in sunglasses.
“To justice,” she said, holding up her wine glass, “no matter what it takes.”
He touched his bottle against her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
Chapter 13
Lusaka, Zambia
September, 2011
On Election Day, Zoe awoke in a sweat-stained tangle of sheets. She had spent the night—indeed the past three nights—slipping in and out of dreams. It was as if probing the mysteries of Charity’s past had unlocked a hidden vent in her subconscious, releasing a torrent of memories. One moment she was on her father’s yacht helping Trevor hoist the mainsail; the next moment she was walking the streets of Johannesburg, fearful of a mugging; after that, she was in Joseph’s truck in Kanyama, gang members pounding on the roof. The coup de grâce—and the thought still lurking in her mind—was Clay Randall’s hands pressing her into the hot Vineyard sand.
She threw aside the mosquito net and stumbled into the bathroom. Don’t go there, she thought, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She showered and put on shorts and a linen shirt over her swimsuit. In honor of the election, Mariam had given everyone the day off. She ate a bowl of cereal and then called Joseph. She had seen him only once since their return from Livingstone. When he didn’t answer, she left him a message.
“Hey, it’s Zoe. I’d love an update about the magistrate. Give me a call.”
She dialed a second number and listened to the ring. Come on, Godfrey, pick up. But there was no answer. She left a voicemail—the third in as many days—and sent him a text message, asking for Cynthia’s phone number. Then she ran a Google search for Nkana Mine. She called the main number and learned that the personnel manager was not in the office. She left a recording, requesting contact information for Mwela Chansa, Cynthia’s husband.
Unable to sit still, she went for a swim. She did ten laps at a leisurely pace, allowing her brain to rest. When she finished, she treaded water in the deep end. It was then that the thought came to her. She had forgotten something—something critical. She pulled herself out of the pool and dried her hands on her towel. Picking up her iPhone, she conducted another Google search and called the number for Livingstone General Hospital.
“Is Dr. Mumbi doing rounds today?” she asked the receptionist.
“He on the ward,” the woman said curtly. “You talk to me, please.”
“It’s urgent that I reach him today. Can you give me his mobile number?”
“Not possible.”
“I spoke with him recently about a child I’m trying to help,” Zoe protested, wishing she could hand the phone to Joseph to converse in Tonga. “Can you at least give him a message?”
There was silence on the line. Zoe heard the woman put the phone down and engage in a muffled conversation. Soon, her voice returned with a crackle of static.
“Tell name and number. I pass along.”
She recited the information and hung up, at once berating her forgetfulness and blessing the cold water for helping her to remember. His name was on almost every page of Bella’s journal—Jan. Like the narrator in a nineteenth century novel, his presence lurked behind every thought Bella had written. The whole sordid story of her exploitation had been written to him.
Minutes later, her phone rang. “Hello?” she said.
“Ms. Fleming?” replied a polished African voice.
Dr. Mumbi! “Yes, doctor, thank you so much for calling me back.”
“Pleasure. You are looking for information about a child?”
“No, I’m helping one. I need to know if a doctor named Jan worked at the hospital in 1996, when Charity Mizinga was a student.”
“Yes, Dr. Jan Kruger. He was with us for two years doing a study on HIV and childhood illness. He’s now one of the leading authorities on AIDS in Africa.”
Zoe’s heart raced with the thrill of discovery. “Would Dr. Kruger have known Charity?”
“Of course. She was one of his assistants in the study.”
My God, Zoe thought. “Where is he now?”
Dr. Mumbi took a breath. “After he left us, he went to the University of Cape Town. He was involved in the Khayelitsha study.”
“You mean with Médecins Sans Frontières?” she asked, remembering an article she had read about MSF’s pioneering research into ARV distribution in Cape Town’s largest slum.
“Correct. I believe he is still at the university.”
“Is he South African?”
“He is from Zimbabwe. But I believe he has family near Cape Town.”
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how helpful this is.”
The doctor paused. “Did you ever find Charity’s family?”
“Yes,” she replied, avoiding the trap of a more complex response.
“I’m glad. If you talk to Dr. Kruger, please give him my best.”
Zoe thanked him and hung up. She tapped in a query for HIV research at the University of Cape Town and placed a call to the Desmond Tutu HIV Centre.
“Dr. Kruger, yes,” said the woman who answered the phone, her voice carrying the brogue-like notes of Afrikaans. “He is on the faculty of the Institute for Infectious Disease and Molecular Medicine. But he is currently participating in a multi-national study on HIV/AIDS at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg.”
“Is there a way I can reach him? It’s very important.”
The woman put her on hold and came back a minute later. “Dr. Johannè Luyt is the director of HIV research at Wits. I’m sure she can put you in touch with Dr. Kruger.”
Zoe walked around the pool, wrestling with how to approach Dr. Luyt. From what Dr. Mumbi had said, Jan Kruger was an epidemiologist of renown. And Bella’s journal was a catalogue of horrors. Their connection was forged fifteen years ago, when she was still Charity Mizinga, a promising nursing student. The fact of her degradation and death wasn’t the kind of thing to spring on him without warning. Or was it?
She heard her phone ringing again. She rounded the corner of the pool and lifted it off the chair. She smiled when she saw Joseph’s name on the screen.
“Thanks for calling me back,” she said. “Where are you?”
“The Lusaka Golf Club,” he replied.
She heard voices in the background. “This isn’t a good time, is it?”
“Not really. What are you doing for dinner?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“I would say let’s meet at Arcades, but nothing will be open on Election Day.”
“You could come over here,” she said, feeling a little flutter in her stomach.
“You mean to your flat?”
“Yes. As you know, I’m a good cook.”
He hesitated. “What time?”
Her smile broadened. “Ho
w about eighteen hundred?”
“Good. I’ll be there.”
Zoe put down the phone again and resumed her pacing, struggling not only with the dilemma of Jan Kruger but also with her feelings about Joseph. She probed her heart, wondering whether, and when, her respect for him had become attraction. Finding no answers, she stood motionless in the sunlight, enjoying the prickle of grass between her toes and contemplating how to tell Dr. Kruger about the way Charity’s life ended. She stared at the surface of the water, an idea taking shape in her mind.
I need another airline ticket.
Joseph arrived at Zoe’s flat at dusk. She met him at the door in an apron and led him to the kitchen. Looking at him, dressed casually in a polo shirt and khakis, she was glad she had selected capris and a cardigan instead of a sundress.
“I hope you like Indian food,” she said. “I didn’t make it to the store before the election, but I had the fixings for curried chicken and rice.”
“That’s wonderful,” he replied.
“Do you want beer or wine?”
He grinned. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
She stirred the chicken a final time and turned off the burner, placing her apron on the counter. “We’re eating on the deck. I’ll bring everything out.”
When he left, she fixed two plates and set them on a tray, together with a basket of flatbread and two glasses of chardonnay. She took the tray onto the terrace and found him looking out over the gardens. She distributed the food and wine and lit a few candles. They took seats across from one another and Zoe said, “Bon appétit!”
“This is really good,” he said, eating with gusto.
She smiled. “Did you find anything at the golf club?”
He shook his head. “The magistrate isn’t a member. I went to the University of Zambia, too, thinking maybe he and Darious were classmates. But Darious didn’t study there.”
She took a bite of chicken, enjoying the spice of the curry. “What about their childhood? Perhaps they were friends in primary school.”
“Or secondary school. They could have been neighbors; their families may know each other; Darious might have dated Kaunda’s sister, if he has a sister. Lots of possibilities.”
The Garden of Burning Sand Page 14
