Sundowner Ubuntu

by Anthony Bidulka

  Originally built in 1939, the CP Bridge is one in a series of bridges that span the South Saskatchewan River within city limits. The parking lot beneath the bridge overlooks a rushing torrent of water that spills over an invisible dam—the weir—in an otherwise docile Saskatchewan River. And, taking Errall and me by surprise, it was into this parking lot that the Nissan led us.

  Being as it was a rather bone-chilling night out, the parking lot was empty. The Nissan pulled into a spot, fastidiously parking between the marked lines. Good stalker. I slowed the Mazda down to a baby’s crawl, and Errall and I regarded each other and the car with questioning looks. Whoever was in that vehicle had lost interest in getting away, and more so, now seemed intent on a face-to-face meeting.

  “Now what, Mr. Private Eye?” Errall asked, tension obvious in her voice.

  “I’m kinda tired,” I responded. “I think we should head home.”

  “I’m howling with laughter inside,” she said in a way that hinted to me that she was lying.

  I turned the wheel and inserted my car into the spot next to the Nissan. In unison we leaned forward and peered into our neighbour’s window. It was impossible for us to make out the inhabitant of the vehicle. One of us would have to get out. Being the brave one was part of my job. If someone was paying me. I glanced at Errall. She screwed up her face as if to say: I’d go, but I left my gloves at home, and it’s cold outside. Big surprise.

  My hand reached for the door handle, and I was about to make my move when something happened.

  The interior light of the Nissan flicked on.

  A flabbergasted breath caught in my throat. It couldn’t be.

  I heard a sound coming from Errall’s throat, like the mewl of a newborn kitten, and all she said was a very quiet, “No.”

  Chapter 8

  The sensation of a plane hurtling downwards, only seven hours into a seventeen-hour flight, is not a good one. The rocking of the aircraft as it descended through layers of turbulent air jostled me out of a sound sleep. I checked my watch, recalculated time changes, and verified with my startled memory banks exactly where the heck in the world I was supposed to be. We’d departed Atlanta at ten-forty a.m. Thursday morning. We were scheduled to arrive in Johannesburg at ten-thirty a.m. Friday morning, including a seven-hour time change from Atlanta (eight from home). Problem was, according to my watch, it was only nine-thirty p.m. Thursday night. And we were going down.

  I jerked up in my aisle seat, the sudden motion waking the passenger next to me.

  “You okay?” she asked. She mustn’t have been asleep because she sounded perfectly awake and lucid and looked like a million bucks. Either that or she was one of those horrid creatures who could get up from bed a fully functioning human being. “You look a little worried,” she commented. “It’s only a little turbulence.”

  I glanced over at the woman, sort of a young Kathleen Turner type, very attractive and feminine but outdoorsy too, with shiny tresses of wavy, auburn hair that flowed attractively down both shoulders. “Uh, yeah, but isn’t it a little soon to be going down?” I replied, trying to sound as cavalier as I could manage, at the same time wiping sleep from my eyes.

  She laughed. “We’re just stopping for fuel on Sal and picking up a few passengers. Not many, I wouldn’t expect.”

  I blinked at her.

  “Sal Island,” she explained. “One of the Cape Verde Islands, Cabo Verde in Portuguese,” she said in a knowledgeable way. “It’s a group of about ten or so islands that form an archipelago off the northwest coast of Africa, near Senegal and Mauritania. You really should return here for a visit sometime—I mean for longer than an hour stopover to pick up fuel—Sal Island is beautiful: large sandy beaches, turquoise water, great windsurfing, the Cape Verdeans are lovely…what’s left of them.”

  I gave my drowsy head a shake. What was this woman talking about? I looked around and saw that most of the other passengers around us were still dead to the world after a couple of movies and wine with dinner. It was very quiet except for the gyrating sounds of the plane doing its bit to land us on some spit of sand somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. The cabin had that otherworldly feel planes sometimes get during lengthy, overnight flights; eerily lit by an occasional view screen or overhead reading light left on, filled with the barely perceptible buzz of music and movies played through earphones, the passengers tucked motionless into seats like moths in cocoons, all of us caught in the no man’s land between the world we know on the ground and the netherworld of thirty-five thousand feet in the air where we’re only temporary visitors.

  “They have their share of problems. Prolonged droughts,” the woman stated. “The harmattan wind produces these gawdawful, choking dust storms. I was nearly caught in one once. And then there’s all the volcanic and seismic activity, problems with deforestation, desertification, illegal beach sand extraction, overfishing.”

  The plane gave another hump that woke a few more of our fellow voyagers.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” I asked the woman. “Are you from Africa?”

  “No. If only. Atlanta. You?”

  “Canada.” I’m rarely more specific than that on first go-round.

  “What part?”

  “Saskatchewan; the prairies.”

  “Oh my. So you’ve already been flying a long way. When did you start out?”

  “I left Saskatoon—that’s the city I live in—yesterday, overnighted in Atlanta.”

  “How long is that flight, from your home to Atlanta?” I noticed she didn’t even attempt to pronounce Saskatoon or Saskatchewan, wisely going for the easier “your home.” Who could blame her?

  “About three hours to Toronto, then a couple more to Atlanta.”

  “I love Toronto. A mini New York. What’s the weather like on the prairies this time of year?” A standard Canada question.

  “Actually it’s been warm for March. When I left, the snow was beginning to melt.” I countered with my unexpected discovery: “It sure was cold in Atlanta though.”

  She nodded. “Yes, unseasonably so. It could have snowed.” She smiled, displaying a row of healthy white teeth, and held out a hand. “I’m Cassandra Wellness.”

  I shook the proffered hand, strong, tanned. “Russell Quant.”

  A voice came over the PA system to tell us we were going to be landing in several minutes and that we should do the usual stuff to prepare.

  “What do you do in Canada?” Cassandra Wellness asked as she shoved a sack-like purse under the seat in front of her and fastened her seat belt.

  I smiled a rather mischievous smile. Who needs playing cards or travel-size backgammon? One of my favourite airplane games is creating bogus life stories to try out on people I’ll never see again. I don’t suggest this activity for others; it can get tricky, and a believable story that isn’t your own is much harder to produce than you’d expect, but I use it for purely professional reasons as rehearsal for when I go undercover. “I’m the mayor of Saskatoon,” I told her offhandedly, as if it wasn’t a big deal and that maybe I was a little reticent about admitting to my lofty position.

  She sat back a bit and did an admirable job of hiding her surprise as she examined my face. “My, you don’t look like a mayor. And you’re so young. How fascinating.” She was quiet for a moment then, “Is that, er…full-time work?”

  I had to stifle a smile. “Keeps me busy. And what about you? How do you know all that stuff about Sal Island if you’re not from Africa?”

  “I spend a great deal of time in Africa. I’m a photojournalist. Freelance,” she added quickly. “But I do most of my work for one Atlanta magazine; it’s called Well-Spotted. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  I shook my head and guessed that it was about leopards. I was impressed. I’d never met a photojournalist before and wondered if one of the African pictures I’d admired on the Internet was taken by Cassandra Wellness.

  “It’s a nature and safari magazine. Have you ever been on safari, Russell?” she
asked.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Is that why you’re going to Africa, then, to go on safari?”

  I nodded and added vaguely, “I hope to.” She was beginning to ask too many questions, and not about what it was like to be a mayor, as I’d expected.

  We sat quiet for a little longer, but Cassandra wasn’t a sit quiet kind of gal.

  “Where are you staying in Joburg?” she asked.

  “Johannesburg is just a layover for me. I’m continuing on to Cape Town.”

  She jumped on that with an excited smile. “Really! So am I! I adore Cape Town! Which hotel?”

  This was Roy Hearn’s first coup. Clara Ridge’s travel agent had set me up in what I’m sure was a decent enough hotel, but Roy, upon hearing about it, quickly pooh-poohed it and used his considerable contacts to get me a hard-to-believe deal at supposedly one of the best places to stay in Cape Town. He called it his “welcome to South Africa” present for Sereena’s friend.

  I answered, “The Table Bay.”

  “You’re joking! So am I!” she repeated with a husky squeal, taking the opportunity to squeeze my right hand in delight.

  It was a good thing I was taking a shine to Ms. Wellness, because it looked as if we were going to be in each other’s company for a good while longer; Johannesburg was still eight and a half hours away, and Cape Town another two hours after that.

  We chatted companionably for the duration of the landing and well into the hour turnaround time on the ground at Sal Island. Cassandra Wellness had led a fascinating, adventurer’s life, and she loved to tell a good tale, many of which I thought were, if not Indiana Jones-worthy, at least Romancing the Stone-like. So fascinating in fact were her sagas that my attention was diverted only once, when the Cape Verde passengers boarded the plane.

  Cassandra was correct in her guess about the number of add-ons; there were only three that night. The first two were giddy, beach-blond gals who probably worked at the Sal Island Earls. The other, the last to get on the plane, was a man so big and burly he barely had enough room to navigate down the narrow aisle of the plane, his head skimming the ceiling of the cabin, his hefty hips brushing against seats as he passed by them. He wore a decidedly non-beach wardrobe of a dark coloured suit and tie and a white shirt, and his small forehead seemed perpetually creased above beady eyes that roamed the faces of everyone aboard as he plodded to the back of the aircraft, as if looking for someone. As he approached where Cassandra and I were getting to know one another, his pill-sized, sinister eyes took a bead on me and never left my face until he moved past our row to his seat somewhere behind us. For the rest of the trip I swore I could feel his gaze burning two holes through my seat cushion and directly into the back of my skull. And I thought a plane hurtling groundwards was an uncomfortable feeling.

  Lying at the foot of its most famous landmark, Table Mountain, Cape Town is situated at the southern tip of Africa, on a small peninsula that juts out into the Atlantic Ocean. The city is South Africa’s premier tourist destination, enriched by a unique blend of cultures including Dutch, British, and Cape Malay influences. As the massive bulk of our plane floated majestically downwards toward the international airport, Cassandra pointed out the flat-topped mountain and layer of cloud pouring over its sides that, she informed me, was often referred to as the “tablecloth.”

  We touched down at two-thirty p.m. to a balmy, sun-filled day, and Cassandra kindly offered to share her ride—a private van she had arranged before arriving—to our common hotel. The vehicle’s progress—much of which seemed to take us right down the centre of one of the largest slums I could ever have imagined—was slowed considerably by an influx of thirty-six thousand cyclists for an annual event called the Argus (which I’d never heard of, but which Cassandra was quite pumped about) and a damaged bus abandoned on the freeway. But, in due course, the little van made its way into the stunningly beautiful Victoria & Alfred Waterfront area, down Breakwater Boulevard, and pulled up in jaunty fashion to the entrance of the glamorous Table Bay Hotel.

  I was a little agog at the place and hoped Cassandra—who was probably paying full rack rate—never found out the deal Roy Hearn had gotten for me. Together we followed our bags down a long, fig-tree-lined, one-and-a-half-storey, glassed-in tunnel into a massive foyer dominated by a huge spray of sunflowers, a welcoming sitting area, and a geometric-patterned marble floor so shiny it appeared to be under a layer of crystal clear, cool water.

  Cassandra and I parted ways as we approached the bustling front desk to take care of checking-in details. When I was done and preparing to head for my room, I looked around to say so-long, nice to meet you type stuff, but Cassandra Wellness was gone. Oh well, I thought, it was becoming a little tedious pretending to be the mayor of Saskatoon anyway.

  My bright room—a junior suite no less (I love Roy)—was actually two separate rooms—a sitting area and a bedroom—connected by two doors thrown open between them, plus a lovely bathroom. Multiple windows revealed a most astonishing view of the busy V&A Waterfront and Table Mountain beyond it. I took a seat at a small writing table in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and pulled out the Visitor Guide map the front desk clerk had handed me. I quickly identified through the window Quays 5 and 6, Jetty 1, the Victoria Wharf Shopping Centre, Market Square at Quay 4, and the Nelson Mandela Gateway to Robben Island, which I understood to be about eleven kilometres out to sea.

  For a moment I allowed the enormity of what I’d just been through, where I was and what I had yet to do, to wash over me in a mixed tide of exhilaration, apprehension, and appreciation. Already, I could feel that inexplicable pull of Africa so many visitors claim, and I was happy to be experiencing it.

  After a speedy unpack, I fell onto the plush king-size bed and shut my eyes, my body begging for sleep.

  But nothing.

  No way.

  Each time I closed my eyes, my brain went into overdrive.

  I was too wired from the long trip. And I was in Africa, for Pete’s sake!

  There was one more thing occupying my already overloaded mind. A thing that had been pinching and teasing and toying with the grey matter in my skull for a couple of days now: the woman in the car at the weir back in Saskatoon.

  It turned out to be Kelly Doell. Errall’s ex. My high school buddy. The woman who’d left Saskatoon—and Errall—and everyone else—a few years before without a backward glance. She was back.

  It was a surreal and awkward moment for me—for all of us, I think—coming face-to-face again in a parking lot. I hadn’t known if I should wear my detective hat or my friend hat, and in the end opted for my babbling inquisitor hat. I had asked about a million questions, each a different take on “Why are you here? Are you staying? Where have you been?” and “Why the hell didn’t you call me?” I had pretty much reached the conclusion that Kelly had missed Errall—go figure—and was back to reclaim her woman (and her dog, Brutus?) when I became aware that neither woman was paying me much attention. I had been a talking head with an audience of zero.

  I’d put aside my own insatiable desire for answers and explanations and let Errall and Kelly go off on their own that night; after all, they had a lot to catch up on. Errall was the spurned ex-lover. I was just the lowly spurned friend. The next morning, I’d left for Africa with no time to find out more.

  Still, lying in that bed, I couldn’t help but volley about a few possible reasons for Kelly’s unexpected reappearance. Eventually I was interrupted by a niggle from my detective’s brain telling me: “Quant, forget Kelly. Forget sleep. You’re here. Now get your ass off this bed and get to work.” So, after a refreshing shower and change of clothes, I did just that.

  It was still very warm outside but coming onto evening, so I opted for long pants for my trip into town and, hopefully, to Matt Moxley’s home. The hotel doorman did his bit and hailed me a cab, and I was on my way. As I dug around in my pockets for Matt Moxley’s address I directed the driver to head out of the waterfro
nt area into the city proper. We had just passed something called the BMW Pavilion when I found the piece of paper. I handed it to the guy and sat back to enjoy the ride.

  It was a short one.

  The cab driver stopped with such immediate precision, the action jolted me forward in my seat, and I narrowly avoided hitting my forehead on the headrest in front of me.

  “Whaaaaa…?” I wisely inquired.

  “No, no, no,” he explained fully, thrusting the piece of paper back at me and motioning for me to get out.

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand,” I protested.

  “No, no, no,” he repeated for clarity. His face was half-serious, half-friendly, as if he himself was not sure whether this was all some big joke or a big waste of his time, in which case he’d become all-serious.

  I just wasn’t getting what was going on. I took the paper and looked at it, but it gave no clue. “Can’t you take me here? I’ll pay you, right?” I assumed taxis worked the same here as they did at home.

  “No, no, mister. Out. You get out tonight.”

  I get out tonight? Did that mean he didn’t want to take me to the address tonight but would be happy to oblige some other day? Or were we simply not communicating? “Out?” I asked. “You want me to get out of the cab?”

  He turned away noiselessly and seemed to be studying the street in front of him with great concentration. I guessed the conversation was over. I got out. The taxi roared away.

  Not an auspicious start to my South African investigation.

  I stepped to the curb, at the ready to hail another taxi. I held up my right arm, puckered my lips in proper whistle formation, and scanned the oncoming traffic. I waited like this for several minutes. Then a few more. But not a single taxi appeared on the busy street. And here I’d thought the difficulty I’d have in Africa would be finding Matt Moxley. Hell, I couldn’t even find a cab willing to give me a ride.

  I consulted the map of the V&A, plotted a course back to the hotel, and began walking. I fully expected that eventually I’d come across the secret taxi hiding place—known only to non-tourists—and continue to my original destination. But no such luck.