A Whisper of Danger

by Catherine Palmer

  “I do not know what is wrong,” he said, straightening. “Perhaps I shall have to take it out.”

  “Take what out?”

  “The motor.”

  “But it probably weighs several hundred pounds, Solomon. You can’t take it out. Besides, I have to get into town. I have an appointment with the headmaster of Splint’s new school. Can’t you just pour some water in the radiator or something?”

  The man stared at her. His dark eyes were hard, cold. “This car does not want to go to town today.”

  “Well, that’s just great.” She slapped her palm on the hood. “Fantastic. I don’t have a car. I don’t even have a telephone to let Mr. Ogambo know why I’m not coming.”

  Jess crossed her arms. It wasn’t just missing the appointment with the school headmaster that was a problem. She needed to mail some preliminary sketches to her editor. Without a phone, she’d had no contact with her publisher or with the Kima the Monkey books’ author, James Perrott, since she arrived on Zanzibar Island. She had no electricity, so she couldn’t send a fax or an e-mail message, even if she had a computer. For all she knew, they might have replaced her with a more accessible illustrator. She could have been dismissed from the Kima project, which would leave her an unemployed starving artist. Again.

  “Do you think you can fix the car soon?” she asked Solomon.

  “I will work on the motor this morning.”

  Jess let out a sigh. That told her nothing. “Look, I’m going to walk down to the village near the main road. Mdogo, I think it’s called. Maybe I can get a taxi or a bus. Will you tell Miriamu?”

  Solomon looked at her feet. “Those shoes will not wish to walk to the village.”

  “These shoes will walk wherever I tell them to. Splinter and Mama Hannah are over at Nettie Cameron’s house. They’ll be back around noon. If I’m not home by then, tell them where I’ve gone, okay?”

  “You will not be home by then.”

  “And if you get the car started, come to town and look for me. I’ll be at the school first, then the electric company, then the post office, and then I’m going to buy Splint’s uniforms. All right?”

  The man gave an unintelligible grunt and returned his attention to the Renault. Jess started down the driveway. The village wasn’t all that far. She could make it, sandals or not. Finding a taxi might be another matter.

  She brushed a hand around the back of her neck. The morning was going to be hot. So far, her visions of early-morning swims with Splinter and whole days of sketching and painting had barely materialized. She was doing well to spend any time at all with her son, whose fascination with the beach knew no bounds. Uchungu House demanded so much time—organizing, cleaning, and maintaining—that she’d managed to eke out only short stretches at her desk uninterrupted.

  Jess studied the thick growth of vines and shrubbery growing along the sides of the narrow road. As the artist for the Kima series, she had no doubt Zanzibar was the perfect place to live. She could paint each type of flower, each variety of grass, each species of leaf onto the pages of her books. The series had won awards for the lush details of its art, and she knew the island was fertile with images that would enrich her work.

  But could she ever get beyond the mounting problems that threatened her serenity? Her heart burdened with doubt, Jess plodded down the long dirt road. After twenty minutes, she finally walked into the little town that had grown up near the main thoroughfare. Tin-roofed shops lined Mdogo’s single unpaved street. Hand-painted signs in bright colors advertised the nature of each business—shoes, groceries, clothing.

  At this hour of the morning, the town bustled with activity. Children in patched and faded blue uniforms danced around in the yard of a small school. Women sauntered past the shops, large square tin cans of water balanced on their heads—the water drawn from a public faucet in an alley. Men strolled together discussing business and making plans. Few people offered even a glance at the white-skinned woman who had entered their town.

  Jess stepped into a small grocery and approached the counter. A basket of fresh eggs sat beside a pyramid of mangoes on the clear glass case. Cans of lard; bottles of shampoo; and packets of rice, tea, and sugar lined the whitewashed walls. Flip-flop sandals slapping softly on the cool concrete floor, a young African man walked in from the back to meet his customer.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said in perfect English. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so. Is there a bus going into Zanzibar town this morning?”

  “The morning bus has already departed from Mdogo, madam. The next bus will leave at three.”

  “This afternoon? But I—” She stopped herself. “What about a taxi?”

  The young man smiled, strong white teeth shining in his dark face. “Oh, madam, you will not find a taxi in Mdogo. But perhaps you will ride with my brother, Akim. He is carrying five hens and a goat into the market on his bicycle this morning. You may ride on the back, if you wish. I am certain my brother will not charge you more than twenty shillings.”

  Jess stared at the shopkeeper. On the back of a heavily laden bicycle, she wouldn’t make it into town by noon. “Thank you, but I don’t think—”

  “Perhaps he may charge only fifteen shillings—if you will hold the goat.”

  “Hold the goat . . .”

  “In your lap.” The man smiled. “It is a small goat.”

  “I see. . . .” Jess blinked at the image of herself riding into Zanzibar on the back of a weaving bicycle—with a goat in her lap. She’d better come up with another plan. “Do you have a telephone I could use?”

  “Not here. You must walk down the road to the petrol station. There you will find a telephone. It is not more than two miles.”

  Feeling sick, Jess nodded. “Two miles.”

  “I will tell my brother, Akim, to look for you there. Perhaps you will wish to ride on his bicycle after you have made your telephone call?”

  “Perhaps.” She tried to summon a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Not at all, madam. Do come again.”

  Jess walked out into the blinding sunlight. She had no choice but to start for the gas station. At the very least she needed to cancel her appointment with the school headmaster. She could call the electric company, too, though she doubted they would do a thing toward restoring Uchungu House’s lights unless she went in and spoke with them personally. And what about her sketches? Jess gripped the envelope she had so carefully prepared. Could she entrust that precious parcel to a stranger on a bicycle?

  As she trudged down the shoulder of the main road, the occasional car blew past. Jess momentarily considered hitchhiking, but she abandoned the idea immediately. She was a mother, after all. She had responsibilities, and she knew thumbing a ride could be dangerous. Maybe she would find transportation at the gas station. She really needed to get into town. She had to buy Spencer’s school uniforms. It wouldn’t be long before—

  “Jessie?” A black motorcycle slowed to a stop beside her.

  She knew before she even looked that it was Rick. Oh, Lord. For the first time in years, she breathed a spontaneous prayer. Lord, help me. I can’t do this by myself anymore.

  “You’re walking?” he asked. “Where’s your car?”

  “Solomon’s working on the engine.” She tried to sound casual, like tramping down a road on blistered feet under a burning sun was no big deal. “I needed to make a phone call.”

  “I thought you were going into Zanzibar town to run some errands this morning.”

  “I was, but . . . I guess I’ll go another day.”

  He fell silent for a moment. The rumble of the motorcycle vibrated through Jess’s sandals into her bare feet. She knew she should start walking again, move away from him, show him how little she cared that he had stopped to check on her.

  When he looked at her again, his eyes were searching. “Can I give you a ride, Jessie? I’m on my way to my office.”

  She gave a disinterested shrug. “Oh, no thank
s. I may go in with another man I heard about in the village back there. He’s supposed to meet me at the petrol station.”

  “Okay.” He looked her up and down; then he turned away. She knew he wanted to say something, but she didn’t want to hear it.

  “Well, bye.” She started walking. Maybe he would leave quietly. Maybe she wouldn’t have to— “Memsahib!” A bicycle bell jangled behind her.

  “Memsahib, my name is Akim! My brother told me you may wish to ride to Zanzibar town with me!”

  The man swung his wobbly bicycle onto the shoulder just ahead of Jess. Five chickens tied by their scrawny yellow feet were hanging from his handlebars, wings flapping and feathers flying. A goat had been strapped to the rear rack, its spindly legs dangling on either side. Bleating, it regarded her with large brown eyes.

  “You see, memsahib,” the man said, stopping the bike in a skid that sent up a small cloud of dust. “You can sit here on the rack.”

  “Well . . . there’s, uh . . . there’s a goat on the rack.”

  “You may hold my goat on your lap. You will keep her safe.”

  Jess glanced at Rick. His lips were working hard as he fought to suppress a smile. “I don’t think so,” she said to the man. “But thank you very much.”

  “Only twelve shillings. A good price for such a long journey.”

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll just walk to the station over there and make my phone calls.”

  “Ten shillings. It is a small goat. You will hardly notice it.”

  Jess gave the goat a skeptical look. “That’s kind of you, sir, but—”

  “Eight shillings. A very good price, madam.”

  She glanced at Rick. He raised his eyebrows. “It is a nice little goat, Jessie.”

  Biting her lip, she faced the cyclist again. “I appreciate your offer, sir, but . . .” Finally she made up her mind. “But I think this motorcycle would be faster. I have an appointment in town, you see. I need to be there in half an hour.”

  “I see.” The man nodded. “But this man will charge you much more than eight shillings. Perhaps next time you will ride with me.”

  Giving her a resigned smile, he pedaled off, his goat blinking at Jess as its owner wobbled toward town. Rick pulled his cycle onto the shoulder and let it idle. Turning toward her, he offered his helmet.

  “It’s a little damp,” he said. “I was diving this morning.”

  Unable to make herself speak, Jess studied the helmet. How many miles of African roads had she and Rick flown along together in the old days? It had been their greatest pleasure—wind whipping at their clothes as miles of open grassland rolled by. Her first taste of freedom had come on the back of Rick’s motorcycle. She had envisioned them riding forever, always together, always in love. But years ago, he had taken that motorcycle and ridden off without her.

  “Put on the helmet, Jessie,” Rick said in a low voice. “Come with me.”

  “Motorcycles are not really my thing anymore. I guess I’ve grown up some.”

  “We both have. I use it to get around, that’s all. Best way to get where you want to go in Africa.” He stuck a thumb in the direction of the black machine. “Transportation. Coming?”

  “Better you than the goat, I guess.” She settled the helmet on her head and fastened the chin strap. Against her better judgment—or what was left of it—she climbed onto the bike behind Rick. When he pulled out onto the road, she had no choice but to grab two handfuls of his T-shirt. It was damp from his swim, and she could feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton knit.

  Praying that she could hang on, Jess vowed she would not drape herself over the man’s back as she had when she was a girl. In those days, nothing had felt better than wrapping her arms around his chest and laying her cheek on his hard shoulder. No way would she do that now. Not even if it meant flying off the motorcycle and landing in a ditch.

  The countryside flashed by, a blur of palm trees, small houses, blue sky. Rick navigated the potholes in the bumpy road, and he managed to steer his way between two humpbacked old cows without nudging either one. Jess hung onto his T-shirt until the fabric stretched into two big wads in her fists. Never—not in all her imaginings—could she have pictured herself riding a motorcycle again with Rick McTaggart.

  At least she was on her way to town. She would make it to her appointment with the principal. She could take care of her errands. And maybe she was even conquering some of her revulsion for Rick. Revulsion was not the right word any longer, Jess had to admit. She was still angry with him, and she was more than a little fearful of him and of what he might do in regard to Splinter. But he didn’t sicken her. He didn’t enrage her. She was actually beginning to tolerate the undeniable fact that he was back in her life.

  “You want me to take you to the school?” he asked. He turned around and leaned back into her. “It’s right down that street.”

  “Yes.” She barely managed the word. His face was inches from hers, so close that she could see salt from the dried seawater dusting his brown skin. Tendrils of still-damp hair curled around his ears. His blue eyes seemed to drink her in.

  And then he turned to watch the road again. In moments, he was driving up to the front of a tidy white-and-blue school building, its lawn rimmed in bougainvillea and hibiscus. When Rick stopped the motorcycle, Jess practically jumped off. She whisked the helmet from her head and thrust it at him.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I owe you one.”

  “Make it up to me, then.” He searched her eyes. “Have lunch with me today, Jessie.”

  “Oh, Rick. Really, I . . . I have a lot to do in town.”

  “You gotta eat sometime.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I know I’m better company than the goat.” When she smiled in spite of herself, he leaned forward. “I’ll meet you at the Kilau Coffee House on Baghani Street at noon. They make a mean shrimp-and-egg curry. And the mango milk shakes . . . unbelievable.”

  Jess could feel herself weakening. He was back, the old charmer. Smiling at her with his brown hair all windblown and his T-shirt molding to his chest, Rick looked like a million bucks. Worse, he hadn’t done one thing to antagonize her. He was nice. Perfectly, wonderfully nice.

  But it was all a front. She was sure of it. Underneath that gentleness, he must still be an irresponsible rogue. People just didn’t change that completely. Did they?

  “I have to buy uniforms for Splinter,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the town’s center. “I’ll just get a bite somewhere.”

  “Kilau’s has cappuccino.”

  “Really?”

  “And créme caramel.”

  “You’re a rat, you know that? You really are.”

  He grinned. “That’s what you’ve been telling me.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Only way you’ll know for sure is to hang around and find out. I might surprise you, Jessie.”

  “You’ve surprised me enough for a lifetime just by being in Zanzibar.”

  “I told you that was no accident.”

  She studied his blue eyes, trying to read the truth in them. Sometimes these days he looked so different to her. It was as if the rage inside him was gone. Something about him was calmer . . . more at peace.

  “Baghani Street,” he repeated. “Noon.”

  “Maybe,” she called as he pulled away. “And maybe not.”

  As she turned toward the school building, she had the terrible feeling that just at noon Baghani Street would draw her like a magnet.

  The best elementary school on Zanzibar Island made no special provisions for its intellectually gifted students. Mr. Ogambo assured Jess that her son’s precocious intelligence would be more than stimulated by the mixture of races, cultures, and languages at the school. There would be field trips to forts dating back three hundred years, to the city square where slaves once had been sold, and to the museum where students would examine memorabilia of Dr. Livingstone and Mr. Stanley. Spencer would be able t
o study the purest Swahili spoken anywhere. He would visit clove, copra, and fabric factories. And he would learn the history of the greatest market and meeting place in Africa.

  By the time Jess walked out of the school building, Mr. Ogambo had convinced her that in exchange for modest school fees—though they seemed steep to her—Spencer would be receiving the finest education imaginable. Not only would he learn the essential academics, he would gain firsthand a sense of appreciation for the people and cultures of his world.

  Jess fairly floated out into the street. As long as the Kima the Monkey series continued to sell well in the children’s market, she believed she could afford the school fees. She hurried into the city center as she imagined the doors that would open for Spencer. With such a rich international background, he could go anywhere in the world. Do almost any job. Live successfully in any culture.

  The relaxed, almost somnolent culture of Zanzibar Island nearly proved Jess’s undoing in the next hour. She managed to get into the office of the electric company’s manager, but he was reluctant to return service to Uchungu House. All the wires would have to be inspected, he said, and many would need replacing. It could take months.

  At the post office, Jess had to wait in a long line at the single open window. No one was in a hurry, and Jess forced herself to calm down and adjust her timing to the tropics. Around her, good-natured laughter filled the cavernous office building. People chatted, read books, ate sack lunches. By the time Jess got up to the window it was nearly noon. She handed over her precious sketches and watched in trepidation as the clerk stamped the packet and set it on a counter behind him.

  “That envelope must go to England today,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, madam. It will go.”

  “By air. Not sea.”

  “Yes, madam. We have good postal service in Zanzibar. Very few parcels become lost.”

  “That’s not just any parcel, you know. It’s very important to me. I don’t want it lost.”