by Wilbur Smith
"You do realize, Colonel Courtney," he used the rank again, deliberately, "that I'm obliged to take a most serious view of this entire business. It seems to me that there has been negligence and serious disregard for the safety of your clients and your own staff.
Zimbabwe is no longer a colony, and you cannot treat our people the way you did before."
"Before you make your recommendation to the director, I would like to clarify a few points for you," Sean told him.
"You are free to speak, Colonel."
"It's almost five o'clock now." Sean checked his watch. "Won't you allow me to buy you a drink at the golf club, and we can discuss it in more relaxed surroundings?"
Manguza's expression was inscrutable, but after a few moments" thought he nodded. "As you wish. I have a few small matters to attend to before I leave here, but I will meet you at the club in half an hour."
He kept Sean sitting on the veranda of the golf club for forty minutes before he put in an appearance. it had once been the Royal Salisbury Golf Club. However, the first two words had been dropped from the title lest they perpetuate the colonial past. Nevertheless, the first remark Geoffrey Manguza made after he had taken the chair opposite Sean and ordered a gin and tonic was. "Strange, isn't it? A few years ago, the only way a black man could have got in here was as a waiter, and now I am on the committee and my handicap is five." Sean let it pass and changed the subject to that of rhino poaching across the border with Zambia. Manguza made no effort to pursue that topic. He watched Sean through his silver-rimmed spectacles and, as soon as he stopped speaking, cut in immediately.
"You wished to clarify a few points for me," he said. "We are both busy men, Colonel."
This directness was disconcerting. Sean was preparing for a typically roundabout African approach, but he adapted his pitch.
"First of all, Mr. Manguza, I wanted to tell you what a high price I and my associates place on the Chiwewe concession." Sean used the word "price" deliberately. "I telephoned them this morning and explained this unfortunate incident, and they are anxious to have it resolved at any price." Again he used the word, and paused significantly.
There was a certain etiquette to be observed in negotiations such as these. To the Western mind it was bribery, but in Africa it was simply the "dash system," a universal and acceptable means of getting things done. Government might put up posters in all public buildings depicting a booted foot crushing a venomous serpent under the slogan sTAmp ouT coRRuptioN, but nobody took that very seriously. In fact, in a bizarre fashion, the posters themselves constituted official recognition of the practice.
At this stage, Geoffrey Manguza should have agreed that recoin, was due or given some other indication of his willingness to listen to reason. He said nothing, merely stared at Sean from behind those glinting lenses until Sean was forced to speak again.
"If you've finished your drink, why don't we take a stroll down to the eighteenth fairway?" The club veranda was crowded and the happy hour in full swing with too many listening ears. Manguza swallowed the last of his gin and tonic and without a word led the way down the steps to the lawn.
The last foursome was coming down the eighteenth, but Sean kept to the edge of the rough, and as the players and their caddies straggled past, Sean said softly, "I told my associates that you are the most powerful man in the department and that the white director is merely your rubber stamp. I told them you had it in Your Power to sidetrack an official inquiry and dismiss any charges arising from this most unfortunate incident. I was so certain that I laid a bet of ten thousand U.S. dollars with them. If I win my bet, those winnings are yours, Mr. Manguza, paid into any account you nominate anywhere in the world."
Manguza stopped and turned to face him, and Sean was taken aback when he saw his expression. Manguza's voice quivered with fury as he said, "Your assumption that I am open to a bribe is an insult to me personally. That I could tolerate, but it is also an insult to the revolution and the revolutionary heroes who died in the struggle to free this country of the imperial and colonial yoke. it is an insult to the party and our leaders, to the Marxist spirit, and ultimately to the African people as a whole."
"I only suggested a lousy ten grand, not the return of the monarchY, for the love of Allah."
"You may smile your supercilious white smile, Colonel Courtney, but we know you well. We know about your South African connections and about the bunch of Matabele hooligans you have gathered about you. We know that some of them fought with you against the forces of revolutionary democracy. They are counterrevolution ari and capitalist roaders, and you are their leader."
"I shot a lioness by mistake, and one of my capitalist roaders got bitten. That's the full extent of my counterrevolutionary activities.
"We are watching You, Colonel," Manguza told him ominouslY "You can be certain that I will make the correct recommendation in your case, and that The insult to me and my people will not be forgotten." Manguza turned and strode back toward the clubhouse. Sean shook his head. "So we say farewell to the beautiful Chiwewe s concession, he murmured. "I really blew that one! Despite his levity, he felt a sliding sensation of disaster in the pit of his stomach. The office of Courtney Safaris was in the Avenues, between Government House and the golf club. Reema was waiting for him in the outer office, its walls decorated with color posters of wildlife and photographic enlargements of satisfied clients with their trophies.
She jumped up from her desk the moment Sean came in. "The hospital called an hour ago, Sean. They have amputated Shadrach's leg."
For long moments Sean could neither speak nor move. Then he crossed slowly to the filing cabinet and took a glass and a half-empty bottle of Chivas from the top drawer. He sagged onto the sofa and poured a three-finger jolt of whisky.
"The ending to a perfect day," he said, and tossed back the whisky.
Reema left him sitting on the sofa. There were only two more drinks left in the bottle, and when they were gone, Sean went down to the Monomatapa, Hotel. The hotel was full of tourists, and among them was a blond Teutonic Valkyrie in full Out of Africa costume. She caught his eye across the lounge the moment Sean walked in and smiled at him.
"What the hell!" Sean said to himself. "It's cheaper than whisky, and no hangover either."
The German Friulein laughed delightedly at Sean's rudimentary German, and not long afterward it transpired that she had the presidential suite on the fourteenth floor all to herself. She ordered a bottle of Mumm's from room service, and they drank it in bed.
In the morning, while Reema filed a flight plan for him, taking a bag of dried meat down to air traffic control, Sean returned to the hospital.
They had taken Shadrach's leg off only inches below the hip.
The East German doctor showed Sean the X-ray plates. "Hopeless!" He pointed out the bone fragments. "Like confetti!"
There was no place to sit in the crowded surgical ward, so Sean stood beside Shadrach's bed for a while and they talked about the battles and the hunts they had shared. They did not mention the leg, and when they had run out of reminiscences, Sean gave the ward sister a hundred dollars to look after him and went out to the airport.
Reema had the flight plan for him and the Beechcraft was refueled and loaded with everything from fresh fruit and vegetables to toilet paper for the camp.
"You are a heroine, Reema," he said. Then, standing beside the aircraft, he described the meeting with Geoffrey Manguza.
"It doesn't look very cheerful," he ended. "You had better begin looking for another job."
"I'm sorry for you, Sean," she said. "But don't worry about me.
I was wondering how to break the news to you. I'm leaving for
Canada on September sixteenth. It's all arranged-I'm going to be the wife of a professor."
"You be happy," Sean ordered. For the first time he kissed her, and she blushed under her nut-brown skin, looking prettier than ever.
Sean made three low-level passes over the camp. On the third he saw
the Toyota puff out toward the airstrip with Job driving and Matatu standing in the back. He landed and taxied the Beechcraft into its cage of galvanized diamond-mesh wire, designed to discourage elephants from pulling the wings off and lions from chewing the tires.
When Job and Matatu arrived in the Toyota, they transferred the cargo to it. Then Sean told them about Shadrach's leg.
They had fought all through the bush war together and were hardened to casualties, but Sean saw the pain and grief in Job's eyes as he murmured, "We will need a new number two gun bearer.
Pumula, the skinner, is a good man."
"Yes, we will use him," Sean agreed.
For a while they stood silently, paying tribute to their maimed companion. Then, still without speaking, they climbed into the Toyota and drove back to camp.
Rather than pants, Claudia Monterro wore a dress for dinner that evening, a floating silk chiffon in pure white with silver and turquoise Navajo jewelry. Against her tanned skin and jet black hair, the effect was stunning. However, Sean made certain not to show his admiration and directed all his conversation at her father.
After he had told Riccardo about Shadrach and his meeting with Manguza, the evening was gloomy and cheerless. Claudia left the men at the camp fire, but they had not sat there long before Riccardo said goodnight and went off to his tent. Sean took a bottle of whisky from the dining tent and went down toward the servants" village.
Job's tent and those of his two wives were set apart from the others, on the bank of the river overlooking a deep pool where hippos lay like dark rock islands in midstream.
When Sean seated himself on the carved native stool across the fire from Job, one of the wives, a pretty young Matabele girl with Job's infant strapped on her back, brought two glasses and knelt beside him while he poured a large peg for each of them. She took the glass to her husband, and Job saluted Sean across the flickering flames.
They drank in silence and Sean watched Job's face in the firelight as he stared out across the river. The silence was companionable and comforting, and Sean let his thoughts wander back down the years as he rolled the smoky taste of whisky over his tongue.
He remembered the day he had first met Job Bhekani. It had been on a hill with only a number, Hill 3 1, a rocky hill, thick with stands of dense wild ebony and jesse bush where the enemy waited.
Job had been on the hill for two days, and his eyes were wild and bloodshot. Sean had parachuted in that morning with five sticks of his own scouts. They had fought side by side the rest of that day, and at dusk, when the hill was cleared and those of the enemy still alive had fled down the rocky slopes and disappeared into the forest, Sean and Job had helped each other to where the helicopter waited to take them out. They had gone down the hill slowly, wearily, dragging their weapons, their arms around each other's shoulders and their blood mingling when it oozed out from under the field dressings.
"Blood brothers whether you like it or not," Sean had croaked, grinning at Job from under the camouflage cream and soot and dust. A week later, when Job was released from base hospital, Sean had been waiting for him personally with his transfer papers.
"You've been seconded to Ballantyne Scouts, Captain."
And Job had smiled that rare wide smile and said, "Let's go, Colonel."
From his file, Sean knew that Job had been born on the Gwai River and attended the local mission school. He had obtained a bursary to the University College of Rhodesia and Nyasaland, from where he had graduated with a first in politics, history, and social anthropology. From there he had gone on with another bursary to Brown College in Chicago and gotten his master's the same year Ian Smith declared unilateral independence.
Only much later, when they had tried and tested their friendship, did Sean learn how Job had herded his father's cattle along the Gwai River and come, even as a child, to know and love the wilds.
Job's father was one of the grandsons of King Lobengula, son of the great Mzilikazi, so Job was a direct descendant of the royal Zulu line, and this was apparent in his carriage and his features. the powerful jaw and deep forehead, the dark, intelligent eyes and domed skull beneath the thick close-cropped curls.
During his studies and his sojourn in America, Job had come to abhor the communist doctrine and all its works, so it was natural that on his return to Africa, he had enlisted in the Rhodesian African Rifles and within a year had earned his commission.
After the war, when the Lancaster House Agreement had given the country over to Robert Mugabe and his people's democracy, Job had sat-and passed with honors--the civil service entrance exam, for government and politics were the high road to power and wealth.
However, he was branded a "sellout" who had fought the war on the wrong side, the losing side, and he was a Matabele when the power was in the hands of the Shana tribe. Every door to advancement was barred against him. Angry and disillusioned, he had come back to Sean.
"Damn it, Job, you are miles too good for any job I could offer you in a safari company."
Tracker, skinner, gun bearer, whatever you have, I'll take it," Job had insisted.
So they had hunted together as they had fought, side by side, and within a year Sean had made him one of the directors of Courtney Safaris. They always referred to these quiet evenings, drinking whisky around the camp fire, as directors" meetings.
It amused Job to adopt various roles for different circumstances.
In front of safari clients he shifted to what he called "plantation nigger mode," when he called Sean Bwana and Nkosi and acted out the charade of the bygone colonial era.
"Don't be a prick, Job. You demean yourself," Sean protested at first.
"It's what the clients expect," Job had reasoned. "We are selling them an illusion, man. They are playing Eagle Scouts and Ernest Hemingway. If they guessed I had a master's in history and politics, it would frighten the hell out of them." Reluctantly, Sean had gone along with the act.
When they were alone, as they were now, Job changed into what he called his "Homo sapiens mode" and became the thoughtful, intelligent, educated man he truly was. As they talked, they switched easily from Sindebele to English, each of them as perfectly at ease and comfortable in the other's language as they were in each other's company.
"Look, Sean, don't worry too much about losing this concession. It hasn't happened yet, and even if it does, we'll find a way around it."
"Give me some comfort. I could do with it."
"We could apply for another concession, somewhere in Matabeleland where my family still has pull. Down Matetsi way or even on the Gwai River. That's my home turf."
"No good." Sean shook his head. "After this fiasco I'll have the mark of the beast on me."
"We "could apply in my name," Job suggested. He grinned wickedly.
"I'd make you one of my directors and you can call me Bwana!"
They laughed together, their mood lightening, and when Sean left Job at his fire and walked back to the main camp in the darkness, he felt cheerful and optimistic for the first time in days.
Job had the power to effect that transformation in him.
As he approached his own tent, something pale moved in the moon shadow beneath the trees and he stopped abruptly. Then he heard the tinkle of silver jewelry and realized she must have been waiting for him.
"May I speak with you?" Claudia said softly.
"Go ahead," he invited. Why did that Americanism "speak with," rather than "speak to," irritate him so, he wondered.
"I'm not very good at this," she admitted. He gave her no encouragement. "I wanted to apologize."