by James Hornor
Undoubtedly, the mechanic had grabbed it out of her hand and flung it to the back of the woodpile as he manhandled her into the passenger side of the truck. Knowing that his phone number could be in the phone’s call history, he had come back to retrieve the phone and destroy the one piece of evidence that would link him to Jenny’s abduction. Charlie theorized all of this on his brief walk back into the house, and now he sat down next to the fire, still clutching the ice-cold phone in his right hand.
The entire face of the phone was completely fogged over, and Charlie noticed that ice crystals had formed beneath the screen. He instinctively placed the phone in his armpit, desperately thinking that once the phone returned to room temperature it would revive itself. After about thirty minutes, the phone was warmed up enough for Charlie to try turning the phone on. It was unresponsive. He removed the back of the phone and took out the battery. He noticed that the battery and the inside encasement were damp, and he took Jenny’s hair dryer to attempt to dry out the interior.
He could imagine some techie telling him later that, “You should never use a hair dryer to attempt to dry out a cell phone,” but with each step in the process, he was hoping to see the screen suddenly light up. After about an hour of failed attempts, he placed the disassembled phone on the kitchen counter and headed back up to bed. There was already a growing fear in his heart that he was in way over his head, that his support system was crumbling around him. His marriage, his job, and his relationship with his real father were all now in jeopardy, and time was working against him in every imaginable way.
If this had happened just six months earlier, he would have called his mother. She would know people in Canada who could bring back a semblance of normalcy and could begin a process of sorting things out. She had interceded for him on countless other occasions by her sheer force of character, by her remarkable demeanor that persuaded all sorts of people to come to her aid, even if she had only known them for ten minutes. Since her death, Charlie had attempted to transfer some of that dependence to Heather, but Heather often had her own agenda, and recently she lacked the initiative in social situations to navigate her way as successfully as Teresa. Heather now was not an ally, but rather another obstacle in the entanglement that was becoming his tragic reality.
As he drifted off to sleep, he imagined himself breaking the windshield of the truck with a crowbar, shattering the glass as the man attempted to put the truck in reverse. He imagined himself overpowering the man and throwing the keys to the truck into the woodshed. He saw himself standing over the man with the raised crowbar and demanding that he tell him what he had done with Jenny. In his exhausted state he imagined the Royal Canadian Mounted Police arriving and congratulating him for apprehending one of the most heinous sex offenders in the province of Alberta. In short, he imagined himself to be self-sufficient and heroic, two qualities that he often admired in others, but as yet had remained only a fiction of his adult life.
CHAPTER NINE
THE MEIKLES HOTEL IN HARARE IS REGARDED BY MOST as the epicenter of social, political, and governmental interaction in the capital. Like the Bulawayo Club and The Victoria Falls Hotel, the Meikles Hotel serves as a reminder of Zimbabwe’s colonial history as well as its forward-looking intentions as an independent African nation, and the clientele reflect both the legacy of Southern Rhodesia and the vibrancy of a newly formed Zimbabwe.
Our arrival at Meikles after an overnight train from Bulawayo was fairly uneventful, save for the early morning entrance of the porter in our double berth just as Melissa was standing completely naked at the sink. I was amazed at his composure as he asked without a blink whether we wanted coffee or tea to begin our day.
As we stood at reception, I contemplated whether we should again register as Mr. and Mrs. Monroe or as separate parties. I knew that the bill for our accommodations would eventually be submitted to AFREA in Nairobi, and I wondered how scrupulous the bursar would be about the charges. By this point Melissa and I were more than just travel companions, and I didn’t want to put her in an awkward position with the front desk. In the end we registered as husband and wife, although I knew that I would introduce her at the reception as Miss Melissa Samuel.
That afternoon I contacted my friend, Mr. Koffi Saungweme, Senior Program Officer for the African Capacity Building Foundation, and I invited him to join Melissa and me for a drink at Meikles before the reception. Like most Zimbabweans, he was extremely friendly and helpful, and I knew that he could bring me up to speed on hot topics that others would be chatting about at the reception.
Melissa decided to wear her dress from Maxine’s for the meeting with Koffi, since the reception would begin after our drink, and she took my breath away when she appeared from the bathroom at a few minutes before 4:00. As we emerged from the lobby elevator, Koffi was sitting in one of Meikles’ large wingback chairs, and he gave me one of his broad smiles.
“James, it is fabulous to see you again.”
“You as well, Koffi. I want you to meet my friend, Melissa Samuel.”
Whatever surprise Koffi may have been registering at my attending the reception with a woman was eclipsed by his equally instant infatuation with Melissa.
“Haven’t we met before, Miss Samuel?”
Koffi had been single for as long as I had known him, and he had learned some of the basics of how to talk to women. Melissa had already primed herself to be miss congeniality with all the prospective employers that afternoon, so I simply sat back and observed the two of them in action.
“I don’t think we’ve met, unless you’ve been to Australia.”
I thought of my own flirtatious conversation with Melissa before her rescue at the Devil’s Pool. She was very adept at this kind of playful banter.
“I’ve been to Perth, but that was on a container ship when I was much younger.”
“Perth is a continent away from Melbourne and Sydney, but at least you can say that you’ve been Down Under—which is less than James can say.”
Normally I would have said something in response, but I simply smiled, hoping that Koffi would be content with a brief introduction to Melissa and leave it at that.
“How are things at ACBF?”
I knew my inquiry would also play to his conversational strengths, and as I had hoped, he took the bait.
“Capacity building in Africa is such a slow process!”
I could tell that he was giving us a preamble to a twenty-minute explanation in which he would attempt to impress Melissa with his knowledge of capacity building in sub-Saharan Africa, including all of the outreach programs that he had helped to initiate.
I took the opportunity to wander over to the registration desk, where I hoped to see the guest list of those invited to the reception. Standing next to the desk was David Fortran, a fellow WB employee who I had not seen in over a year. David and I trained together at AFREA in Nairobi, and while I had been assigned to Zimbabwe and Mozambique, David had remained in Kenya, content to work on WB projects that focused on improving infrastructure in the Rift Valley and on the coast near Mombasa.
He had a reputation at AFREA as a womanizer, and during the six months that we trained together, he kept a running count of his weekend conquests that included women from every continent with the possible exception of Antarctica. Despite his exploits with women, he was a very effective analyst, and he was often called upon to sort out some donor-related juggernaut where Bank interests were being compromised by overreaching government regulations. He was also somewhat humble about his work-related accomplishments, since we both had learned early on that the culture of the Bank required an understated efficiency that was often disarming in our work with international clients. Frequently a negotiation would turn upon our ability not to reveal the Bank’s potential involvement in a project, and thus pressure the other side to make a greater financial commitment.
“How are you, David? You must have twisted their arms for them to allow you to leave Nairobi.”
He wheeled around and I could tell that he was struggling to put my face to a name. In true diplomatic style, he retrieved my last name at the last possible second.
“Mr. Monroe! The Bank actually sent me down here to check up on you. Now that I’ve seen you, I can return to Nairobi.” We shook hands, and in that split second he remembered my name and used it to exonerate himself of any temporary lapse in memory. “How are you, James?”
“Never been better, and I’m actually headed up your way next week to have lunch with a former Indian official from Maharashtra.”
“That road project has been in the planning stages for at least five years. If they don’t get off the dime, we are going to pull the funding. Problem is the bidding process in Bombay. It has been out for bid three or four times and the government always finds a reason to start over. The corruption is overwhelming.”
“David, I want you to meet a friend of mine, but you have to promise to leave her alone.”
“I only make promises when it involves Bank business. Otherwise all bets are off.”
We began to walk towards Koffi and Melissa, and I noticed that they had been joined by Ibrahim Saungweme, the editor of The Economist, a very timely and informative journal whose many contributions included both government and private sector people of influence—the core constituency of Zimbabwean commerce.
“Melissa, I want you to meet my colleague, David Fortran. We trained together in AFREA in Nairobi.”
Melissa, already surrounded by two men, was pleased to add two more. I was surprised when she stole Koffi’s earlier question as it seemed repetitive and out of place, especially with Koffi still seated next to her.
“Mr. Fortran, I feel like we’ve met before?”
David was quick on the uptake. “You just stole my line.”
“And mine.” Koffi was mumbling under his breath and winked at Melissa.
Before Melissa had a chance to respond, I quickly changed the subject to our drink order, and I motioned over one of the waiters who was circulating through the lobby. I now recognized why Melissa thought she had met David. He and the man who rescued her at the Devil’s Pool could have been brothers. It was their similar physique, but more than that, it was their facial bone structure. I thought of how Melissa and the man at the Devil’s Pool were locked together in their common desire to survive, and I began to imagine how firmly those moments had been imprinted on her subconscious.
When our drinks arrived, we all headed into the hotel ballroom, and I was chagrined to see Melissa slip her arm through David’s elbow as we progressed into the reception. It was only a friendly gesture, but I had imagined her next to me at this moment countless times since our departure from Victoria Falls. In any event, Melissa wasted no time in her quest to circulate through the entire room, and she used David, Koffi, and me as her anchors to produce the multiple introductions she needed to find “the” contact who might mention a job opening.
As I predicted, Pierre Jonquin was in the room, and when I introduced him to Melissa, they both started chatting in fluent French. Several other Francophone countries were represented as well, and now Melissa was in an animated discussion with four French diplomats.
She was remarkably at ease with people she was only meeting for the first time, and I noticed that she had the endearing habit of lightly touching the arm of the person she was addressing, a tactic that focused his full attention on her and added a slight flirtation to the moment. Her statuesque demeanor, her perfectly tailored black dress, and the effervescent glow of her lovely face and hair reminded me of the image of her floating goddess-like above the lip of the Falls. Melissa was able to draw energy and confidence from any milieu that provided a challenge—whether the inexorable current at the Devil’s Pool or finding a job in a room full of diplomats.
I admired her because I had seen both sides of her—ice in her veins in some situations and incredible warmth and affection in others. I envied her innate spirituality and her intellectual interest in philosophy. Even as I watched her conversing in fluent French, I imagined her equating something just said with her knowledge of Camus. There was a universality about her that allowed her to reflect a goddess-like power combined with an intense personal desire to live every moment to its fullest degree. Beyond her physical beauty, it was this capacity for intensity that set her apart. She was able to draw upon that flaming sword when the situation called for it, and as I watched her shoulders pull back and relax, I knew that one of the French diplomats had just offered her a job.
Back in our room that evening, Melissa’s joy at the job offer was tempered by her mention of a simultaneous request for a reference from the French embassy in Sydney. Even though she would be working for the French consulate in Nairobi, she thought there was a reasonable chance that someone in Nairobi would know a former colleague in Sydney.
“How can I sidestep the reference request? I should never have mentioned Sydney in the first place.”
As she said this, she moved closer to me and I helped her unzip her dress. I felt like we were a married couple discussing the pros and cons of an evening out as we readied for bed.
“If they call the ambassador, there’s a chance he will ruin my chances.”
“Why would he do that?”
Melissa was now standing in just her black underwear in front of the full-length mirror, and she was brushing out her hair. I pretended to be busy composing a Telex to Nairobi, but even though I had seen her naked before, she looked even more provocative this evening.
“I had this very awkward weekend traveling with the ambassador to Auckland. It happened about six months before I left the embassy.”
Melissa paused from her hair brushing and looked directly at me as if to emphasize the point.
“He assumed way too much. When we arrived at the hotel in Auckland, he had only booked one room. When I insisted on having my own room, he pouted and barely spoke to me that weekend or when we returned.”
I thought of how I didn’t disturb Melissa when she had fallen asleep fully clothed in my room at The Victoria Falls Hotel, and how careful I had been the first night on the train to be content with her sleeping by my side. Until this moment I had no idea how prescient that strategy had been, and now I began to second guess my initial assumptions about where she had been late at night at the Bulawayo Club. Yes, she was undoubtedly flirtatious with men, but that flirtatiousness might only rarely transition into promiscuity. If that was the case, the week we had spent together became even more significant. She was allowing me into her world, the same world that she had barred from other interested men.
“Who from the French consulate offered you a job?”
“His name is Gerard Hugel. He gave me his card.”
As it turned out, I had worked with Gerard Hugel on a Bank project in Tanzania. The French were one of the three or four Western donors, and Gerard was representing their interests from the French embassy in Cairo.
“I know Gerard. We worked together in Tanzania. If you want, I will talk to him about your suitability. He certainly can’t question your knowledge of French.”
As she had done several times previously, she crossed the room and kissed me.
“Can you talk to him in the morning?”
“Let’s find out if he’s staying here.”
I dialed the front desk and asked to be connected to M. Hugel. As soon as the call was put through, I hung up the phone.
“He’s here. I’ll intercept him at breakfast in the morning. I’ll mention to him that he should snap you up before you take another offer.”
“I did actually get another offer.”
“Let me guess, David Fortran offered you a job.”
“He’s looking for an administrative assistant at AFREA in Nairobi.”
“Of course he is. He wrote the job description as you two walked into the reception together. What did you tell him?”
“I told him that I would be in Nairobi by Tuesday and that we could talk more then.”
“I thought you were meeting Kate and Trevor in South Africa next week?”
“That doesn’t make much sense if I have a job offer in Nairobi.”
“Does that mean we are traveling together to Nairobi?”
“Only if you don’t mind your new best friend tagging along?”
Melissa turned off the two floor lamps and the bathroom light and sat next to me on the bed. Her long curls fell across her neck and shoulders and cascaded over her breasts. She placed her left hand lightly on my side and leaned over to whisper in my ear.
“Whenever this stops feeling right for either of us, we need to agree that we will end it without further expectations.”
It was an odd and unexpected comment from her, and a proviso that I had failed to follow when I intuitively knew that earlier relationships had run their course. I began to respond, but as I did, she placed two fingers across my lips and then carefully removed my shirt. My imagination was racing in anticipation of what might come next. But instead of crawling into bed next to me, she allowed her head to rest on my chest, her left ear over my heart, her right hand gently massaging my hair.
We stayed like this for several minutes and I began to sense that Melissa wanted our intimacy that evening to be something beyond just the physical, that she wanted the two of us to experience a spiritual oneness that had been the source of my initial attraction to her our first day together at Victoria Falls.
As if to verify my intuition, Melissa now sat next to me, her back perfectly straight, her feet and ankles tucked neatly under her in a meditative pose. She began to lightly touch my face, shoulders, and neck, allowing one finger to trace behind another until this transitioned into a quick successive touch of fingertips that felt like showers of raindrops.