by Giles Foden
The following day was a Saturday and as usual she drove to Kunduchi Beach. This was the main resort on the coast and she liked to come swimming up here. It was less of a ‘scene’ than the Yacht Club, and safer than Oyster Bay beach outside her house, where there had lately been some attacks and burglaries perpetrated on Western tourists. She didn’t like to be constantly worrying about her towel and sunglasses being stolen while she was in the water. So she had got into the habit of going up to the Kunduchi Beach Hotel, which was secure and sea-facing and anonymous. For a small fee, the hotel allowed people to change in its swimming-pool cubicles, and to rent a locker in which they could store their belongings.
After a brisk swim she went for a walk along the beach. It was quite crowded, being the weekend. Locals and tourists were out in force, picnicking and lying in the sun. She passed a group of boys splashing about in the water and struck out for a quieter patch of sand. Bound for this, with her eye trained on a finger of rock, she hardly noticed the figure approaching her; they had almost passed each other when she looked across and realised it was the young man she had seen the previous day. He seemed to notice her at the same moment.
Miranda, turning and hardly sure of what she was saying or why, spoke first.
‘Hey, didn’t I see you at the embassy yesterday?’
The man, who was wearing a pair of white shorts, received this overture with a puzzled stare. He took his hands out of his pockets.
‘Have we met?’
Now that they were facing each other Miranda was conscious of his height, his imposing tanned face and, mostly, the smooth skin on his chest.
‘I passed you in my car a little time after,’ she explained, hurriedly. ‘You were wearing a scuba tank.’
She gave him a mischievous look, a nuanced movement of the head. ‘Pretty alternative dress code.’
‘You think so?’ said the man, standing on his dignity. ‘I figured it was the most sensible way to carry it. You are?’
‘Miranda Powers. I work at the embassy.’
‘Right,’ said the tall brown man, nodding.
His wariness lessening, his face broke into a smile. He held out his hand in greeting.
‘Nick Karolides. I’m USAID on Zanzibar.’
She shook his hand. ‘I’ve been told it’s lovely over there.’
He nodded again. ‘Yeah, it’s fine. I’m on a reef protection scheme. Hence the tanks. I’m here about them now, getting them filled at the hotel. It’s cheaper than Zanz.’
‘Zanz? Is that what you call it?’
‘Er, I just made that up in fact,’ he said, looking a little sheepish. ‘Though I think it was called Zinj by the Arabs. Zinj el Barr. Coast of the black people. A guy told me … some such story.’
They had fallen into step side by side.
‘The tanks will be a while. Where you headed? Catching some rays?’
‘Guess. Over there, I thought.’
She pointed. She was acutely aware of the falling waves, of her bare feet in the sand, and the shouts of the children behind them.
After a few moments, he spoke again, vouchsafing something unexpected. ‘I used to come to the beach and play like that as a kid.’
‘Where did you grow up?’
‘Florida. Born and bred. But my family’s Greek. You?’
‘New York. Irish.’
‘Don’t tell me, your dad’s a cop.’
She laughed, then mimicked him, reproducing his tone. ‘My pa’s a cop, I’m telling you. Well, he was. Then he became a security guard when he retired.’
‘Safer.’
Her face darkened as she shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. The building he was guarding was a bank. He was shot in a robbery. In the chest.’
He stopped walking. ‘Christ, I’m sorry. I was only kidding around.’
She smiled slightly at this display of concern. ‘No problem. Why should you have known?’
He made a sucking noise with his teeth, and lifted one of his hands, as if unable to express himself properly.
‘It’s all right,’ she repeated, thinking he was rather unusual.
‘I lost my father too,’ he blurted.
‘Ah,’ she said, understanding now. ‘I’m sorry. Guess it’s what we have to put up with – at a certain age I mean.’
He strode forward, kicking the sand with his feet. ‘Guess so. It’s a demographic, right?’
‘Yeah, it’s a demographic,’ she said in agreement, although there was something a little challenging about the way he was speaking now.
‘My dad died violently too. What’s the demographic for a shark attack?’
‘You mean he was killed by a shark?’
‘That’s right.’
Falling silent, she processed the information.
‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ she said, eventually.
He shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. Just bad luck, I guess. Same as you.’
She looked out to sea. ‘Are there sharks here?’
‘Here?’ He gave a cruel laugh. ‘Of course. There are sharks everywhere. But it’s kind of rare to see one close to the coast. There’s so much fishing, they learn to keep away.’
‘Good,’ she said, and gave him a smile.
They had reached a rock that jutted into the sea, then curved back on itself to form the shape of a question mark. As naturally as if they had known each other for years, they made themselves comfortable on its smooth warm flanks – Nick sitting in his shorts, feet dangling in the water, Miranda, her skin pale gold, stretched out like an odalisque on her side.
He circled his feet in the swell. He seemed quite distracted, she thought, gazing out to the horizon’s blue shimmer. The intense, near-blinding appearance of infinity was broken only by a container ship crossing to Dar port.
‘Kind of makes you think, doesn’t it?’ she said, following the direction of his gaze. ‘Makes you feel small – as a human being I mean. I always think that.’
‘Me too. And of all those stories about cities under the sea. The whole civilisation going under.’
‘That’s just legend, isn’t it? The deluge.’
‘It’s a hell of a legend to just make up. The idea of it, all those millions drowning. Imagine if you were the only one to survive. Like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes. Walking along the beach under the Statue of Liberty. The last man.
‘Or woman,’ he added. ‘Though I guess it wouldn’t make much difference. Unless you were pregnant.’
There was a pause before he said, ‘I mean, she.’
His clumsiness touched her. ‘Do you usually get talking to a girl like this?’ she asked, slyly. ‘When you’ve only just met her?’
‘You spoke to me first,’ he said defensively.
There was another embarrassed pause. Miranda tried to read the thoughts behind his face. Closer, its imposing qualities seemed more plainly cut; not ugly exactly, but there was a drift that way, a tendency: wide mouth, broad forehead, a nose that was slightly flat. Still, she reflected, he had something.
The tension was broken by the descent of a swarm of large African sandflies, which bit like pincers. Nick and Miranda started slapping at their flesh as the insects gathered round hungrily. Then, without thinking, they both ran shrieking and laughing into the sea.
It was rougher than they might have expected. Miranda fell under a breaking wave, turning upside down and catching her shoulder on the rough sand. She thrashed her limbs, panicking and choking.
Suddenly there they were, strong arms scooping her up. He held her gently under the armpits as she coughed sea water. She steadied herself, planting her feet wide in the sand.
‘I’m OK, I’m OK.’
He released her. ‘Careful. Like this.’ He balanced himself with his arms. ‘There’s strong currents in this ocean. You better get out.’
She shook her head, frowning. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but I want to swim.’
‘In that case you better come further out. It’s much safer away from wher
e the current hits the beach.’
She was about to reply, but he was already swimming. She could see the white soles of his feet as they kicked up. She followed at a slower pace, breaststroke in the wake of his freestyle. She was conscious of the place where the sand had rubbed her shoulder – conscious of that, and of the memory of his hands, holding her, then letting her go.
Further out, they trod water, facing each other, droplets on their hair and faces. Here the sea was calmer. Around them the water shifted from side to side, reflecting the sunlight in iridiscent panels.
‘What do you do at the embassy?’
‘I’m Diplomatic Security,’ she announced, somewhat formally.
‘No shit? You’re some kind of spook?’
‘No! We’re in charge of security procedures there, well, some of them. The Marines do the hard-nosed stuff. My job’s mostly hiring and firing, and technical stuff. You know, making sure we have the right kind of walls and fences and alarms. And the right local employees. No one who’s a threat.’
Nick laughed. ‘Who’s a threat to us these days? Not here, anyway. Well, I heard the Tanzanians were trained up to see us as the evil empire by Nyerere and his East German advisers, but I don’t think they ever took that very seriously.’
‘We have to do it by the book everywhere, you know.’
‘Suppose so,’ he replied. ‘Hey, I better get moving. I’ve got to collect those tanks.’
They swam back together. She matched him stroke for stroke.
‘Any chance you could give me a lift back to town?’ he asked, as they waded out of the water. ‘Save me getting a taxi.’
‘Sure, where d’you want to go?’
‘Well, I need to do some shopping. Food mainly … there’s things I can’t get on Zanzibar.’
‘Why don’t you come to the PX?’ offered Miranda. ‘The store at the embassy. I can get you in. You can get some good stuff there.’
‘Great,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘You’re certain it’s no trouble?’
‘No trouble at all. On Sundays it’s self-service and you just put it on your chit card. You can give me the money.’
‘I’ve only got shillings, not dollars.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll swap you. Unless you’re planning on buying the whole shop.’
‘Uh-uh. Just a little variety. I’m tired of fish and rice, rice and fish.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Sure, but what I want is chocolate, steak, ice cream.’
‘We’ve got ’em all,’ she said, in a crazy shopkeeper voice.
The sun dried them off as they continued down the beach, laughing and chatting. He went to collect his tanks from the dive facility. She retrieved her belongings from a wooden locker, the lock of which opened with the tired ease of overuse. Once she had towelled and dressed, she took a bit longer than normal doing her hair before coming out. Her eyes asked themselves questions in the mirror, and she wished she’d brought some make-up.
When she emerged, he was standing there with the twin cylinders beside him.
‘Sorry I took so long …’ The lie came so easy it shocked her. ‘I couldn’t get into my locker.’
‘No problem. I only just got done myself.’
He wore a T-shirt with pictures of fishes on it, the same white shorts he had swum in, and a pair of black sandals that fastened at the ankle with velcro strips. She thought she liked the look of him as he waited there, but she wasn’t sure. Not sure sure.
She opened up the trunk and he lifted the tanks inside. Then they drove back to Dar. A storm broke on the way, with attendant claps of thunder and flashes of lightning. Soon sheets of brown water were planing across the murram.
‘This isn’t monsoon time,’ he said, as the car splashed through the puddles. ‘Must be a freak.’
The rain brought a chill with it. She reached to turn off the air conditioning. Driving, she suddenly found herself amazed that her day had turned out like this. What would Ray say when she told him?
At the embassy, the marines let them in without Miranda having to wind down her window.
‘They know the vehicle,’ she explained. ‘Though really they should come out and check no one else is in it.’
‘Can’t blame them in this weather,’ he said, looking across at the camouflage outline of the Marine in his booth.
They ran across the sodden lawn as fast as they could, but were soaked all the same. As they went round the PX aisles, she was conscious of his gaze on her body through the wet cotton dress. She wasn’t sure if she liked it, although there was a kind of enjoyment in catching him looking away guiltily. But she was tempted, then, to consign him to the general run of male attention. Nothing special.
When they came outside, the storm was over. The sun was shining strongly once more, although the air still smelt wet and vegetal. It was a smell of death and decay which, like the poisonous flowers she had seen at Mto Wa Mbu, was another aspect of rain in the tropics. After he’d packed his stuff, they stood under the open, dripping hatchback, writing down each other’s telephone numbers and email addresses on bits of paper – under the watchful eye of one of the chancery security cameras, which had swivelled round to observe them.
The atmosphere had shifted subtly. After exchanging contacts, they parted with some formality. She dropped him off at his hotel, the Kilimanjaro in the centre of Dar. Through her rear mirror, she saw him standing in the exterior lobby with his tanks, as if waiting for her to wave. But she didn’t, and by the time she got home, the whole episode seemed like a strange dream. She barely gave him a second thought for a couple of weeks, neglecting even to tell Ray what had happened. Which wasn’t much, after all.
14
Nick thought a lot about Miranda Powers on his return to Zanzibar. But he only had the vaguest intention to follow up their meeting. He didn’t know what he felt about her, exactly. She was certainly very desirable and smart, and they seemed to bond a little even in the short time they were together. But, well, he didn’t know. His positive feelings were clouded by that solitary, self-sufficient tendency in him which refused claims on his affections. Yet she had not made any such claims, and perhaps it was ridiculous for him to assume she might do so. He wondered whether the truth was that he quite liked leaving it up in the air, all in potential.
In any case, another kind of adventure was at hand. Now his scuba tanks had arrived, he could go to Lyly. It was easy to clear this with Nagel at the USAID office in Dar as legitimate work. Having ascertained from Leggatt that there was fresh water on the island, he was looking forward to spending a week, if not longer, alone there.
He laid his plans carefully, drawing up lists of what he would need. Leggatt helped with fishing equipment, lending him two rods and an array of hooks, weights and lures. Then there was food: he had all the stuff he’d bought in Dar, which included chocolate and a variety of tinned soups. To this he added various provisions acquired in Stone Town market, namely a small sack of best basmati rice, a packet of macaroni, a box of biscuits, a plastic bottle of Mazo oil, salt, pepper, curry powder and two large boxes of matches.
Da Souza, who made it clear that he thought the enterprise nothing short of lunacy, supplied him with a jar of instant coffee, some tea bags, powdered milk and, since he was sceptical of the water supply, a crate of bottled water from the hotel bar. He also added some bottles of beer at Nick’s request, although these, the Goan reminded him with some seriousness, would have to go on his monthly bill. As far as tools and other equipment went, he had only his fishing knife. So on his trip into town he also bought a pair of pliers, a machete, a small axe, a mess tin, a frying pan, a tin cup, knife, fork and spoon, and a boiling billy. For lighting, he thought candles and a storm lamp, together with a tin of paraffin oil, would probably suffice. For writing, he had his ledger and a few ballpoint pens.
He packed his sleeping bag and also another lighter one that he’d had run up out of cotton sheets by a Stone Town tailor. He added a roll of something h
e had always found useful on camping trips back home – black plastic garbage sacks. Before packing the roll, he tore off a couple of sacks and put a few items of clothing into them: jeans, a heavy sweater, two T-shirts, extra shorts, and a pair of heavy boots – his father’s old Marine issue. Inside the boots, to stop them getting wet, he stowed the big essential: ten packets of cigarettes.
Nick said goodbye to da Souza and set off, full of excitement. He made the crossing quicker than before. He was following the same bearing he had taken off Leggatt’s yacht, when the island of sleep was unknown to him, and Leggatt himself an enigma. This time he felt confident, secure, able to let the throttle out and bounce along the waves more rapidly than previously. On he went, under a canopy of sun-gilt cloud, until he saw the island appear in the distance above the prow of his boat, gathering in mass above the succession of waves. Coming closer, he saw the tip of the lighthouse poke out from the forest, then the outlines of the other buildings.
He turned off the engine and upended the outboard, allowing the dinghy to coast into the beach. Once it had nosed its way onto the sand, he jumped out and waded up. He stood for a moment on the shore, hands on hips, sniffing the air, taking it all in, then went back and pulled the dinghy up behind him. He tied it, very carefully, to a palm tree whose cluster of young green coconuts looked like a necklace on a slender young girl. Thinking again of Miranda – he was conscious he at least ought to have emailed her to say thanks for letting him shop at the PX – he began unloading his cardboard boxes of food and equipment onto the warm sand. As he did so, he realised he’d scratched his ankle on something – a sea urchin? – getting out of the boat. The saltwater made it sting painfully.
He carried the first of his boxes up the beach. Square and solid, built of coral block that gleamed in the sunlight, a white house faced him as he made his way up, with the box against his chest. At first the house looked splendid, there in the sun. But on closer inspection, it turned out to be rather forlorn and tumbledown.