Graeme went on. “We feel pretty sure the journal—if it still exists—was stored near Timbuktu.”
“Or inside Timbuktu?”
“Possibly. We need to know more about the town. Can you tell us what Timbuktu was like when Mungo Park was here? Which buildings were in the town. How the economy worked. Do you have any books on that?”
“Ah, Timbuktu was very different in those days. But wait one moment, please. Permit me to find the sources.” He gave a slight bow, then stood and vanished into the maze.
“Is there any way the journal could be in the library somewhere?” Tillie whispered. She could see Mahamane Samouda climbing around on ladders and stools. “This place is incredible.”
“I asked him to check when I wrote to him. The journal’s not here.”
Mahamane carried three thin volumes back to his visitors. He arranged himself on a cushion and opened the first book.
“We do not have any record of Mungo Park’s visit to Timbuktu.” He began flipping through the pages. “Of course, such information presumably could be found in the journal you seek. But here I have a letter from a man named Laing to another man named Warrington. It was written on September 21, 1826, some years after Mungo Park’s death.”
Tillie leaned forward, trying to see the words inscribed in the old volume. “What does the letter say?”
“Many things. Mr. Laing tells Mr. Warrington that he has no time to give a full account of the city of Timbuktu because he is saving the details for his journal. But he does say . . . let me see . . . ah, yes. ‘In every respect except in size (which does not exceed four miles in circumference), it has completely met my expectations.’”
“But what were his expectations?” Tillie asked. “Had Mr. Laing heard of Timbuktu from someone else? from Mungo Park?”
Graeme took the packet of notes from his pocket and began leafing through them. “Remember Leo the African? Laing had heard the same tales of Timbuktu that Mungo Park knew.”
“You have done your research. Indeed, the only recorded description of Timbuktu available in the days of both Laing and Park was this—” he lowered the second book and opened it—“the writings of Leo Africanus. He speaks of this mosque, the Sankore Mosque. He tells of the palace erected in the time of King Mansa Musa. That was between 1312 and 1337. He speaks more of the king of Timbuktu in the time of his visit. At that time, the king was Muhammad Toure. Here Leo mentions the trade in fabrics, spices, copper, gold, ivory, ostrich feathers, and slaves. He tells of the fertile farming from the Niger River overflow. He says that the people of Timbuktu are hospitable and hold many celebrations. And here he speaks of the trade routes from Timbuktu to Venice, Genoa, and Cairo.”
Mahamane stopped reading and leaned back against the wall. Graeme had been taking notes as the scholar spoke, and he now began sorting his cards into small piles. Tillie watched as he worked.
It felt strange to see him doing something he had claimed to do from the start, but something she had never quite believed. Now she saw for herself that Graeme was indeed a writer. He was researching Mungo Park. He wanted to find the journal, not the treasure. Or rather, the journal was the treasure he sought.
But what was Mungo Park’s treasure? Something from the town of Timbuktu? Had Timbuktu in the Scottish explorer’s time looked the way Leo Africanus described it? Though two hundred years had gone by, it must have been nearly the same. Laing had come to Timbuktu after Mungo Park and had written that the city lived up to his expectations in all but size.
So what was the treasure? Could it be gold, as the amenoukal and Arthur hoped? Might it be ivory or silver or copper? Maybe Mungo Park had been given some treasures from the king’s palace. After all, the explorer had known the kings of the Niger.
Graeme looked up from his sorting and spoke to Mahamane. “Now what about Mungo Park himself? Do you have any information about what might have happened to him after he left Timbuktu?”
“Permit me also to find it here in my book.” He lifted the last volume from the stack and ran his fingers down one page after another. “You see, the Englishmen who had sponsored Mungo Park were upset when he did not return from his second journey to Africa. They made every attempt to find out what had happened to him. In 1810, a man named Isaaco volunteered to go and find out. He reached Sansanding. You passed it between Segou and Djenne, though you probably did not see it. There he found Mungo Park’s guide Ahmadi Fatouma.”
“What did the guide say?” Tillie asked.
“He told Isaaco the story of what happened to Park. He said that the Scotsman decided to stay on board his little boat and never land, so he would not have to pay ransom to the kings of the Niger. He made enemies everywhere. The boat was under constant attack. At Timbuktu, Park and his crew were attacked by three canoes, but they held them off and finally killed the attackers. When they got to Yauri, Mungo Park sent gifts ashore for the king.”
“What gifts?”
Mahamane smiled at Tillie’s riveted attention and thumbed through his book. “Ah yes, five silver rings, powder, and flints. But the king of Yauri was displeased. He put the guide, Ahmadi Fatouma, in irons.”
Tillie looked at Graeme. “Maybe Ahmadi Fatouma never gave the king any gifts. Maybe he hid them for himself.”
Graeme cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe. What happened next?”
Mahamane went back to his book. “Later Ahmadi Fatouma was freed, but when the boat reached Bussa, it was ambushed. Now here is what Ahmadi Fatouma told Isaaco about that attack: ‘They threw everything they had in the canoe into the river and kept firing. . . . Mr. Park took hold of one of the white men and jumped into the water; Martyn did the same, and they were drowned in the stream in attempting to escape.’”
“But how did Ahmadi Fatouma escape?” Tillie asked.
“Good question,” Graeme said. “There’s another problem with the guide’s story. Mungo Park knew how to swim.”
“I don’t believe that guide was telling the truth,” Tillie said. “He must have made the whole thing up to absolve himself of guilt—and to keep the treasure a secret.”
“Treasure?” Mahamane leaned forward.
Graeme placed a hand on Tillie’s arm. “The treasure in some of the Tuareg legends. I’ve been looking into their stories for clues to finding the journal.”
Tillie glanced at Graeme. It was obvious he didn’t want Mahamane Samouda to know about the treasure or the document in the amulet. But why not? The African’s mind was a library of resource material. With all the information at hand, couldn’t Mahamane help them find the journal? She fingered the silver chain around her neck.
“You’ve been very helpful,” Graeme was saying. “This information has added a lot to my understanding of events.”
Mahamane folded his arms in contentment. “It is my pleasure to assist you, Mr. McLeod. To know that I speak to a descendant of Mungo Park is an honor.”
Graeme grinned and stood up. “One last thing, Mahamane. Have you heard any news of an Englishman here in Timbuktu, a fellow from the British embassy?”
The Malian’s dark eyes narrowed. “Many tourists come to Timbuktu from many lands.”
Tillie spoke up. “His name is Arthur Robinson.”
Mahamane nodded slowly. “I have heard this man has come to our city from Bamako. An old African woman is with him. Small, like a bird. She does not wear a burka. They say she is a Christian.”
“That’s Hannah.” Tillie let out a breath of relief.
“I do not know where they are staying.”
“We’ll find them.” Graeme turned to Tillie. “Why don’t you go have a look at the rest of the mosque while I get some details about present-day Timbuktu from Mahamane? I’ll see about a hotel and a gas station.”
She frowned for a moment. Why did he want to send her off now, when they were ready to go? Did he want private information from the librarian? Or did he expect her to scout around and turn up another clue to the missing journal?
“I’ll se
e what the doorkeeper can show me,” she said. “Mr. Samouda, I’m privileged to have been allowed in the library of the Sankore Mosque. Thank you.”
“No, no, not at all.”
“Excuse me, then.” Tillie glanced at Graeme again and padded across the soft carpeting to the door. As she walked out into the darkened hallway, she could hear Graeme’s voice—low and urgent—as he spoke to the librarian.
Leaning back against the wall, she peered through the crack of light that filtered from the open door. She could see the two men standing between the bookshelves. Graeme’s forefinger jabbed as he spoke, as if making a point Mahamane Samouda must not miss. The other man’s head began to nod in agreement. Then Graeme stuck his thumb out toward the door behind which she hid.
She swallowed and shrank back into the shadows. Something moved behind her. She glanced down the hallway. Was someone watching her? She’d had this feeling once before, at the market in Bamako.
Chills prickling down her arms, she peeked back into the dimly lit library. What was Graeme up to?
Mahamane knelt to the floor and lifted the three books he had shown them. Her heart faltered as Graeme unbuttoned his shirt. The librarian handed him the slender volumes one by one, and Graeme slipped them into his clothing.
As he began to fasten the buttons, Tillie turned away. Oh no, Lord! Dear God, this can’t be. She felt sick. Nauseous. She had to get away from the door. He mustn’t find her.
She ran down the hallway toward the silhouette of an arched niche. An alcove. Dark. Quiet. She could think. She darted into it and collided full force with the wiry old doorkeeper. Gnarled hands grasped her arms. An angry voice sputtered in French.
“Let me go.” She pushed at his hands. “Let go!”
“What’s going on?” Graeme’s voice rang down the hall. “Tillie?”
The old man released Tillie’s arms and evaporated into the darkness. She sagged. “Graeme. I’m here.”
He rounded the corner. “Tillie, what happened? I heard you cry out.”
“It was that . . . that . . .” She put her hands on Graeme’s chest and felt the hard outline of one of the books hidden under his shirt. Her lip trembled. “I brushed up against something. Never mind.”
His breath escaped in a hiss. “I thought the Tuareg had you again. Let’s find a hotel and get some rest.”
“I want to talk to Hannah.”
“We will.” He led her through the mosque toward their shoes. “This place is amazing. If I could spend a few months in here, I’d be in paradise. You interested in coming back to Timbuktu after everything blows over?”
She looked up as she tied the laces on her suede boots. “Me?”
“Partners.” His tone was light, relaxed. “Remember?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe Timbuktu or maybe partners?”
“Just maybe.”
She tried to shift her thoughts from the scene she had just witnessed—from the undeniable proof that Graeme was involved in the book thievery ring Arthur had told her about. She would have to tell Arthur what she’d seen. She would have to admit what a fool she’d been. Graeme was no writer. He was a thief.
“Now what kind of an answer is that?” He draped his arm over her shoulders. “Didn’t Leo the African’s description of Timbuktu fire you up? And all that stuff about Ahmadi Fatouma, the guide. There’s no telling what’s hidden in that library. I’d be back in a flash if I could get my hands on those old books.”
I’ll bet you would. Tillie shook her head, dismay and disbelief eating at her stomach. Graeme took her hand as though nothing had happened, but everything felt different now. Frighteningly different.
She noticed that the doorkeeper was absent from his post as they passed through the gate. Had he been spying on her while she spied on Graeme? If so, why? Did he suspect Graeme and Mahamane Samouda of their crime? Or was the doorkeeper a partner with them in the thievery?
She could do nothing to stop the assault of questions and doubts as she walked beside Graeme down the stairs and out into the silent street.
“We’ve got to talk about all this,” he said. “After listening to Mahamane Samouda, I’ve come up with some new theories to add to our collection. I’d like to sound you out on them.”
“Sure,” she said. The thought of spending one more minute with Graeme was torment. She wanted nothing more than to escape, to find the quiet—and the time—to put it all in place. To understand.
It didn’t take long to find the Azalai, a dingy but air-conditioned hotel, the kind of place where Arthur would be likely to stay. Graeme and Tillie walked across the cool lobby to the front desk. The clerk, a sleepy-looking young man, assured them they could have two rooms.
“Do you have other guests?” Tillie asked.
“We have thirty-nine rooms, but only three are occupied, madame. With the famine and the end of Air Mali, we have few tourists these days. You have come from Bamako? Would you like for me to arrange a tour of Timbuktu in the morning? A camel ride?”
“No,” Tillie cut in. “No camel rides, thanks. Do you have a guest named Arthur Robinson? An Englishman from the British embassy?”
The young man studied his register. “No Robinson here. He may stay at the government rest house. Shall I ring it for you?”
“I’ll call from my room.”
She could hardly wait to shut the door on Graeme, call Hannah, and pour out everything. Just the sound of the old woman’s voice would ease her heart. The walk was a short one, down a narrow hall and up a flight of stairs. The room was small but comfortably furnished with a bed, a small table, a couple of chairs. Tillie dropped into one of the chairs.
“I’m pooped,” she said.
Please, Lord, let him leave. Send him away so I can think.
Graeme tossed his bag to the floor and flopped into the other chair. “I can’t get over this—air-conditioning. All the comforts of home. Man, I’m famished. Are you? The lobby clock said twelve-thirty. We’ll get something to eat as soon as things start to stir around here in the morning.”
Fighting for control, Tillie studied him. That familiar dark hair she knew so well. Those honest blue-green eyes. His smile. How could this man be a thief? He was a writer. She had seen the note cards.
She also had seen him stealing books.
“Graeme—,” she began and couldn’t go on. What could she say to the man she had thought she loved? A man she now felt she didn’t even know?
His mouth melted into a smile. “I planned a brainstorming session and a few winks of sleep. But now I look at you.” He sat up and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’d like to spend time with you, Tillie. Alone and safe. But we’re never going to have time to ourselves if we don’t get this thing worked out.”
She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I want to find answers as much as you do.”
Maybe more. She tried to read his face and saw nothing but openness. Honesty. Concern.
“Then let’s get to work. Give me just a second, okay?” He picked up his bag. As he walked toward the bathroom, he began unbuttoning his shirt. “Why don’t you call the government rest house? You’ll feel better once you’ve talked to Hannah.”
He shut and locked the bathroom door. As Tillie waited, she knew he was removing the books from his shirt. Putting them in his bag. Would he pass them to someone else? Lord, Lord.
She reached for the phone. In spite of the primitive surroundings— clay mosques, a single paved road, thatched roofs—she had the rest house on the line in less than a minute. A servant answered; then he went to summon Hannah to the lobby.
The familiar voice was soft, gentle, comforting. “Habari gani, toto?”
“I’m okay, Mama Hannah. It’s been . . . it’s been a long trip.”
“Mbona unasitasita?”
Tillie smiled. Hannah wanted to know why she was hesitating. She had read her toto in an instant. Switching to Swahili meant they could speak in private.
“Arthur Yu
ko wapi?” Tillie whispered.
“Anasimama pale mlangoni pake. Simameni kiaskari.”
Arthur was standing beside his door. Like a soldier. Tillie let out a breath. That sounded like the Arthur she knew. It would be almost a relief to see him. She might not love him, certainly didn’t intend to marry him, but at least she could count on him to look out for her.
“Habari, Mama?” she asked, just to make sure Hannah was all right.
Instead of giving the expected “ehh” of reassurance, the old woman fell silent. Finally, she whispered into the phone, “Mgomba una maembe.”
The banana plant has mangoes. Tillie frowned. What did that mean?
“Hannah—”
“Sst. Sikiliza, toto! Kikulacho ki nguoni mwako.”
Another of Hannah’s favorite Swahili sayings: That which bites you is in your clothes.
“Hannah, please don’t start with the proverbs. Tell me—”
“Usije, toto. Usije. Tutaonana.”
The phone went dead. Chilled, Tillie looked up as Graeme walked back into the room. Hannah had instructed her not to come to the rest house. Don’t come, toto. Don’t come.
She’d never known Hannah to be anything but calm. The eye of the storm. Father, what do I do? She had to protect Hannah. But from whom? And what had she meant by all that business about mangoes and banana plants and having ants in your clothes?
Surely Hannah was okay. Arthur was standing guard over her. What could she be afraid of?
A thought hit her with undeniable certainty. The Tuareg had found the rest house. They were waiting for the arrival of Tillie and Graeme. If the Tuareg were camped nearby, Hannah would want to make sure Tillie didn’t show up.
Should she tell Graeme? Could she trust him with anything now? She rubbed her temples.
“Time to get to work.” He set his bag by the small table and pulled the note cards from his pocket. He sifted through them, sorted them into piles, and placed them on the tabletop. “I think I’ve got this in order. Here are the notes about Mungo Park’s first trip to the Niger.” He looked up. “Tillie?”
She shook her head. “Go on. What do we need to remember about that trip?”
A Kiss of Adventure Page 22