CHAPTER
3
On Saturday Mrs. Pollifax left early for New York to spend an afternoon at Abercrombie's before her plane departure. She was already flushed with triumph at finding a new hat for traveling. It was not precisely a cork helmet but it looked so remarkably like one that she no longer felt deprived. It was a bulbous white straw with a single red feather that began in the back and ran up and across the top of the crown and down to the tiny brim in front, where it was held in place by a clip. The narrow line of scarlet relieved the hat's austerity and added a dashing touch to her two-year-old blue-and-white-striped suit.
Nothing had prepared her for Abercrombie's, however. It was true that she had once or twice poked her head in the door out of curiosity, but she had never before
entered the store with purpose, or with a safari waiting in the wings. Now, given carte blanche, she lost all inhibition, especially after discovering that the five pounds she'd lost during the winter placed her unexpectedly in a pair of size 12 slacks. In only half an hour she dealt with her wardrobe: two pairs of khaki slacks went into her suitcase, a trim bush jacket, a heavy turtleneck sweater, and a long pale-blue cardigan with a sash. Her remaining creativeness she saved for Abercrombie's accessories, which left her in a state of ecstasy. She succumbed immediately to a pair of enormous tinted round sun-goggles which gave her the look of a Martian; she found herself wondering how she could have survived for so long without them. She bought a flashlight and then a pencil flashlight. Regretfully she decided against a set of aluminum dishes that folded one inside of another until they fitted into a small pouch. She bought a dust veil because there was always the chance that she might be caught in a dust storm; she added a silk kerchief with zebras racing across it, and believed that she had concluded her purchases until she saw the umbrella.
"It's rather large," the clerk pointed out, watching her with a fascinated eye.
"Yes, but isn't it beautiful?" she said in an awed voice, admiring its rainbow effect of scarlets, yellows, blues, pinks and oranges.
"I believe the rainy season has ended in Zambia."
"True," she said reflectively, "but then it's really a matter of semantics, don't you think?"
"I beg your pardon?" he said, startled by the non sequitur.
"I mean that an umbrella could just as easily be called a parasol, don't you think? If the rainy season's over there'll be sun. A great deal of sun, I should imagine."
"Yes," said the young man, intrigued. "Yes, that's certainly true. Sun and dust."
She nodded. "And I shall have my dust veil and a parasol."
"Yes you will," he said, beginning to follow her line of reasoning.
"And then if one falls in love with something," she confessed, "one is always sorry later one didn't buy it."
"Exactly," he said warmly. "Of course you must have it then."
Mrs. Pollifax agreed, and bought it, and was not even sorry when the airline classified it as a weapon and she had to watch it dropped down baggage chutes all during her trip. It was, she thought, a very minor inconvenience when it was such a glorious umbrella. Or parasol.
And so at ten o'clock that evening Mrs. Pollifax set out on her flight to London, suitably vaccinated and carrying her suitcase full of drip-dries, khaki and other small treasures. Not for her the luxury of magazines: once in flight she efficiently brought out her book on Central Africa animals and read, "The roan antelope is, in general color, a pale reddish brown, slightly darker on the hind quarters, the hair short and coarse," and then she fell asleep. Upon waking she read, "The sable antelope is rich deep brown, the old males jet black," and fell asleep again. At Heathrow airport she napped for a few hours in a day room, and at eight o'clock in the evening she boarded the Zambia Airways plane and resumed her trip to Lusaka.
Here she met with her first disappointment. Since Zambia was a new country, roughly a decade old and developing fast—the Third World, she thought solemnly— she had expected a few exotic companions on her flight, but instead she appeared to be surrounded by British families on holiday with babies and small children. The only bright notes provided were the lovely black stewardesses in their orange minidresses.
Mrs. Pollifax dozed and woke, determined not to miss her first glimpse of Africa. Very early in the morning, at first light, she opened her eyes and looked out over a floor of wrinkled clouds to see a bright-orange sun slip out of the dusk and trail a line of soft pink behind it. All drowsiness vanished as she sat up in anticipation. Gradually the clouds brightened and dispersed, the sun shed a warm clear light over the sky, and Mrs. Pollifax, looking down from the plane, saw Africa.
Africa at last, and not a dark continent at all, she thought exuberantly, staring at the strange world below. From this height it looked as if the earth's skin had been peeled back and cooked into a dull-orange crust and then lightly sprinkled with green lichen. Oddest of all were the upheavals appearing here and there in the earth. Really, she thought, they looked just like bubbles in a thick stew on the stove.
Soon the view grew softer, and the pale dusty green turned into rich chenille, defined by narrow red-clay roads like seams in a garment stretching to the horizon. Once she leaned forward, certain that she saw a village of huts below, and it thrilled her to think of natives waking to the dawn without realizing that she saw them from the sky. She began to grow excited about landing on this earth spread out below her, she began to consider what lay ahead ... In her purse she carried vouchers sent her by the tourist bureau in New York, and she recalled that she was to be met at the airport by a tourist guide and whisked off to the hotel ("Transfer from Lusaka International Airport to Hotel Intercontinental: $6.60"), and she would remain in Lusaka for roughly six hours ("1430 departure Hotel Intercontinental to Chunga Safari Village, KT/3"). But before she left for Kafue Park at half-past two this afternoon she had every hope of contacting Farrell, and this gave an added fillip to her arrival.
Ever since leaving New York she had found herself wondering what Farrell might be doing in Zambia, and now she tried once again to fit what she knew of him into the rust-colored terrain below her. She remembered that when she'd first met Farrell he'd been running an art gallery in Mexico City, but he'd also been a bona fide painter himself. He'd mentioned smuggling guns to Castro in the early days of the revolution, and she knew that at one time he'd operated a charter boat out of Acapulco, and somewhere in there he'd also begun to work for Car-stairs. Now he was retired.
Zambia was a land-locked country, so there would be no charter boats; its revolution had ended in 1964, so there were no guns to smuggle. What would Farrell have found here? "Perhaps an art gallery," she thought, and as she turned this over in her mind she began to like it very much. He would collect Zambian art, she decided, specializing in wood carvings, thumb-pianos and spears, which he would sell to tourists; but of course he would paint his own pictures, too, and she would buy one. Definitely she would buy one and carry it home and hang it in her apartment. She continued weaving pleasant little fantasies about his new life in Zambia, adding a beautiful wife because he would, she felt, make an excellent husband—retired rakes so often did—and perhaps there was a child by now.
She realized the No Smoking-Fasten Seatbelts sign had been blinking at her for some time, and now a voice interrupted her speculations to announce their imminent landing. Mrs. Pollifax tucked away her book, fastened her seatbelt and tried to discipline her excitement. This was not easy, because after two nights spent on planes the effect of her arrival on a new continent was rather like an overdose of adrenalin laced by large amounts of caffeine.
The 707 descended, taxied past a line of Zambia Airways DC-8s and came to a stop before a handsome modern terminal building. Mrs. Pollifax disembarked and immediately learned that African mornings could be cold. Shivering, she moved through Passport Controls, where she filled out a tiresome number of forms in a room hung with signs that read practise humanism, and humanism
MUNTU UZYI BANTUIVYINA UL
ALEMEKA BACEMBELE. She
then walked out into the waiting room to a wall of people waiting behind ropes. One of these people detached himself and moved toward her, a smiling young black man in a blue zip-up jacket tossed over a plaid shirt. "Mrs. Pollifax?"
"Yes," she said in relief.
"I'm Homer Kulumbala. Welcome to Lusaka."
"How do you do," she said, beaming at him.
They waited for her suitcase, and then for her umbrella, which appeared to startle Homer. After one look at it he said sternly, "This could be easily stolen. You must guard it carefully while in the city. It is very beautiful."
"Yes, isn't it?" she agreed happily.
A few minutes later they were speeding toward town in a VW bus emblazoned with the tourist bureau insignia. Mrs. Pollifax's first impressions were of space and newness, and a great deal of bougainvillea, and when they drew up to the hotel—which was also spacious, new and surrounded by bougainvillea—Homer told her that it was he who would be driving her to Chunga camp at half-past two, and that she would see more of the capital later, on the trip out of town. She thanked him and gave her suitcase to the porter, but the umbrella she carried herself.
As soon as Mrs. Pollifax reached her hotel room she did not stop to relax; she paused only long enough to extract her striped flannel pajamas from her suitcase and then she reached for the telephone directory on the shelf under the phone. Sitting down on the bed with the book on her lap—she was surprised to see by its cover that it encompassed the entire country—she eagerly turned the pages until she found Lusaka.
"A ... B ... C... D... E ... F," she murmured, and running a finger down the list of F's she ticked off Farmer's Co-operative Society of Zambia Ltd., Farmers Prime Butchery, Farmers Produce Association, Fashion Mart Ltd. . . . the name of Farrell was conspicuously missing.
Impossible, she thought, frowning, and resolutely began again, attributing the oversight to tiredness: Farmer's Cooperative Society of Zambia Ltd., Farmers Prime Butchery . . .
There was no Farrell listed among the F's.
Thoroughly frustrated now, she began thumbing through pages at random, checking out Fs in towns with names like Chingold, Kazimuli, Kitwe, Kabwe. There seemed to be very few family names listed, and a vast number of government offices and co-ops. In small towns with only a dozen or so entries she noticed that telephone service was available for only a few hours each day, but none of these listed a Farrell either. Extensive research lay ahead, and she realized that in only six and a half hours she would be leaving for Chunga.
This time she began at the very beginning of the directory, but after an hour's diligent study she had still found no John Sebastian Farrell. Yet Bishop had reported that he was here, and that all of the checks sent to him in Lusaka had been picked up and cashed.
Barclay's Bank, she thought abruptly and, reaching for the telephone, dialed the front desk to ask what hours the banks were open. From eight o'clock to twelve, the desk clerk informed her.
It was half-past eight now. "And the afternoon hours?"
There were no afternoon hours.
Mrs. Pollifax thanked him, and with a wistful glance at her pajamas she picked up her purse and went out
Cairo Road
was a bustling main street lined with modern shops. A strip of green divided its double roadway, and there were pleasing, tree-lined cobbled spaces inserted between the buildings, restful to the eye. Women in long bright skirts, blouses and turbans mingled with women in smart frocks and sandals. Almost all of the faces were black, and almost all of the voices she overheard had unexpected and very charming British accents.
It was a noisy, cheerful scene, with a great deal of tooting from the small cars, motor scooters, Land Rovers and bicycles that streamed up and down Cairo Road
.
Mrs. Pollifax paid her driver and walked into Barclay's Bank to the window marked inquiries—mail. The man behind the counter looked forbidding, his black face buttoned into bureaucratic aloofness. She cleared her throat to gain his attention. "This is where mail is picked up?"
"Yes, madam," he said, regarding her with expressionless eyes. "Your name is—?"
She shook her head. "I'm not looking for mail, I'm looking for a man who receives his mail here. For three years his mail has been directed to him in care of Barclay's Bank, Lusaka. I don't have his address," she explained, "and I've come all the way from America and I find he's not listed in the telephone book."
"This is rather interesting," he said politely.
"His name is John Sebastian Farrell," she told him. "I thought perhaps after three years you might be forwarding his letters to an address?"
His gaze remained aloof, but after a moment he turned and called, "Jacob?"
The beaming young man who appeared was of a different generation; his tie was flaming red and his face eager. Mrs. Pollifax repeated her query to him, and he promptly said, "No address, he still gets his mail here."
"Personally?" asked his superior, who suddenly gave evidence of understanding exactly what Mrs. Pollifax wanted.
"I've never seen him," said Jacob. "A boy picks it up."
"Always?" faltered Mrs. Pollifax.
"I have never seen this man either," said the older clerk. "There has been some curiosity about him, of course. I too have only seen a boy ask for Mr. Farrell's mail. Not often, sometimes not for three months. A different boy each time."
"Oh," said Mrs. Pollifax, her heart sinking. "Oh dear. Are there—perhaps I shouldn't ask—but are there any letters waiting for him now, so that someone might be picking up his mail soon? I could write a note," she explained.
Now they were both gripped by her problem, touched by her dismay, their eyes sympathetic. "It would be good for you to write a letter to your friend," Jacob said earnestly, "but only two weeks ago Mr. Farrell's mail was collected. I myself gave it out—a small boy again, with the note authorizing him to gather it—"
"I see," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Yes—well, I thank you very much, both of you."
"You must write him," the older man said firmly. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course." She walked outside into the sun again, crossed the road to the center strip and sat down on a bench under a tree. She felt almost inconsolable, and very close to tears, which was probably the result of two nights of spasmodic sleep, but it was also due to a sense of acute loss. It was not just that Farrell was part of her assignment, it had nothing at all to do with her assignment. She was genuinely fond of Farrell and she had anticipated seeing him.
A newspaper lay beside her on the bench and she picked it up and opened it to conceal her tears. She saw that it was this morning's Times of Zambia, and out of some vague hope that she might find Farrell listed in it she turned to the back page and prepared to read the entire paper. On this last page, however, she found herself staring at classified advertisements, and at a column marked Personals in particular. She read:
GOOD SAMARITAN: befriend suicidal and despairing. Write Box 1-
A or telephone . . .
LOST: Mercedes keys left on counter National Commercial Bank Ltd. 10:30 Monday. Finder please return to ...
Mrs. Pollifax turned thoughtful; she hadn't lost any car keys but she'd lost Farrell; she wasn't suicidal, but at the moment she felt disappointed almost to the point of despair. She glanced at the masthead of the newspaper and made her decision. Taking the paper with her she retraced her steps to the bank and inquired the way to the Times office. Directions were given her, and ten minutes later she entered the Times of Zambia building, only a few blocks down Cairo Road
, and was given a form to fill out.
She wrote her name and her address in the United States, and then:
JOHN SEBASTIAN FARRELL: here for safari, love to see you. Back June 16 Hotel Intercontinental. Duchess.
As she completed this she became aware that a man had begun writing out a similar form across the desk from her, and glancing up she found him staring at her.
He was a big man, se
veral inches over six feet tall, with a seamed, deeply tanned face and a thatch of white hair. Meeting her glance he nodded. "Good face."
"I beg pardon?" she said, startled.
"Good face," he repeated in a voice that marked him as American. "Look old enough to not mind my saying so."
"Old enough, yes," she said, smiling at him.
"Lost my wallet," he explained with a huge gesture encompassing the desk, his pencil and the office.
"I've lost a friend," she said, and carried her message to the young man at the counter. "How soon can you put this in your newspaper?" she asked him.
The young man accepted her copy and annoyingly read it back to her in a loud, clear voice. " 'John Sebastian Farrell: here for safari, love to see you. Back June 16 Hotel Intercontinental. Duchess.'" With a glance at his watch he assured her that it would be in tomorrow morning's paper without fail, and that it would cost her one kwacha and twenty ngwee.
"Roughly two dollars American," put in the huge American, waiting beside her, and peering into her change purse he pointed to one of the larger silver coins. "There's your kwacha, the little one's the twenty ngwee."
"Yes—thank you," she stammered, gave the coins to the man and hurried toward the door. Behind her she heard the American say, "Morning. Cyrus Reed's my name. Lost a wallet."
Out on the street she found a taxi discharging a passenger at the building next door and firmly captured it. Once back in her hotel room again, she climbed into her pajamas and resolved to put all thoughts of Farrell aside for the moment. She had done all that she could; if he was still in Zambia he'd see the advertisement, and the rest would be up to him. In the meantime, she thought, animals and Aristotle lay ahead of her. Smiling, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER
4
Her alarm awoke Mrs. Pollifax at one, and she jumped out of bed and eagerly approached her suitcase. She opened it lovingly and removed the new bush jacket and the new slacks, reached for a drip-dry blue turtleneck blouse and brought out her comfortable walking shoes. There was a small delay while she fumbled with price tags, but once she was in her safari clothes the effect was dazzling: the old Emily Pollifax, vice-president of the Save-Our-Environment Committee and secretary of the New Brunswick Garden Club had vanished along with the straw hat she'd packed away in her suitcase. She looked —swashbuckling, she thought, admiring herself in the mirror, yes, definitely swashbuckling. Tarzan, she felt, would have approved.
The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax Page 25