"Rhodesian spies!" repeated Mrs. Pollifax.
"Yes, spies. They are everywhere." With a jerk of his head to the left he added, "The police live over there."
Mrs. Pollifax glanced to the left and saw a cluster of corrugated tin houses down near the river, shaded by a circle of acacia trees. She started to speak but Homer's attention had turned to the guard who walked toward them, looking very official with a rifle strapped across his back. He wore a felt cavalry hat, blue khaki shorts and tunic, and around his legs a wrapping of heavy cloth from ankle to knee that could only be puttees, decided Mrs. Pollifax, remembering Kipling. He peered into the car and then shook hands with Homer and began talking in an incomprehensible language that Homer seemed to understand. At last the guard saluted, the bus was put into gear and they moved across the modest bridge over the river. "What language was it that you spoke back there?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.
"Nyanga," said Homer. "I speak Tonga, he speaks Luvale but we both know Nyanga. All the government people know Nyanga."
'Those spies you mentioned," began Mrs. Pollifax, and then found it even more difficult to be heard as they turned off the paved highway onto a dirt road marked by a sign that read chunga camp. "Those spies," she shouted above the rattles and bumps, hanging onto her seat with both hands to keep from hitting the roof of the bus.
"What?" shouted Homer.
"Spies," she shrieked. Just as she decided that the road had been cut out of a pitted lava bed it changed to brown dust beaten hard into corrugated stripes that placed her more firmly in her seat but vibrated her spine like a massage.
Homer neatly steered the bus around a hole and shouted back, "They spy on freedom fighters. In the Southern Province they used to cross the border from Rhodesia and kidnap people, set land mines and kill. There is not so much there now, but still they sneak in. A month ago they set a bomb in Lusaka, at private home, and killed Mr. Chitepo, Rhodesian black nationalist in the African National Congress."
"Who did?" shouted Mrs. Pollifax. "Who would do such a thing?"
Homer shrugged. "Mercenaries. Rhodesian police agents. Spies."
Mrs. Pollifax rested her voice while she attached this diverting piece of news to certain facts casually mentioned in the pamphlets that Bishop had deposited with her last week. She remembered that until recently Zambia bad been a lonely bastion of black independence in the center of Africa, bounded on the east by Portuguese-ruled Mozambique, on the west by Portuguese-ruled Angola, with Rhodesia flanking its southern border, backed up by South Africa below it. That had been Zambia's situation when it finally threw off the last shackles of white rule in 1964.
At the time of its independence, however, Zambia had found itself still bound to Rhodesia by roads, electric power, rail routes and economic ties. A man who loathed apartheid and who dedicated himself to working against it, President Kaunda had set out at once to loosen those ties, enlisting the help of the Chinese to build a railway to the north, and the Italians to build a new dam. The price of rejecting any dependence on Rhodesia had been severe: during one crisis the country had been forced to export its copper by trucks over a road that came to be called the "Hell Run." Zambia had survived, however, and she supposed that it was proof of President Kaunda's genius that it had not only survived economically but had remained involved in and supportive of the liberation movements in her neighboring countries. Those were the words the pamphlet had used: involved and supportive. Embroiled sounded more appropriate, she thought dryly; certainly nothing had been said about spies, land mines and kidnappings.
Now of course, both Mozambique and Angola had won their independence after years of guerilla warfare and bloodshed, and Rhodesia and South Africa stood alone as rigid defenders of white supremacy. But she had forgotten—it came back to her now—that sometime during the worst of the infighting Rhodesia had angrily closed her borders to Zambia, precipitating even more strains on the Zambian economy. A pity, she thought, that taking a stand on moral issues had to prove so lonely these days, but apparently the closure was only a formal one if spies streamed back and forth. She remembered that the phrase "freedom fighters" had been mentioned, too, in one of those pocket histories.
"Freedom fighters," she shouted at Homer's profile. "Who are they?"
"Liberation leaders," he called back at her. "Refugees. They escape to Zambia with a price on their heads, or prison sentences. They stay, they train, they go back. Quietly, you understand?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding. "I just didn't realize it was still—uh—continuing."
He nodded vigorously. "But the leaders begin to talk now. South Africa grows very worried, she fears a race war in Africa and pushes Rhodesia to talk, loosen up. We have a saying: 'Ukupangile nsofu kano uli ne fumo. Before you can talk of killing an elephant you must first be equipped with a spear.'" He grinned and slowed the minibus. "And speaking of elephants, there is your first elephant, everyone. You wish pictures?"
Exclamations rose from the rear, but Mrs. Pollifax could only gasp and stare. Her first elephant stood scarcely fifteen feet away, grazing contentedly on the leaves at the top of a tree, his huge gray frame bleached by dust, his flaplike ears cocked as if he knew very well they were there. Slowly he turned his ponderous head and looked at the minibus with beady interested eyes. Mrs. Pollifax was certain that he stared directly at her. She gave him a delighted, grateful smile before she lifted her camera and snapped his picture.
They drove on, reaching another road barrier, this one manned by an amiable young park guard. After slowing down to allow a family of baboons to cross the road, Mrs. Pollifax glimpsed the thatched tops of buildings ahead. They entered a clearing, passed a gas pump, a cluster of rondevaals with thatched roofs, and coasted to a stop near a sloping riverbank.
"Is this Chunga camp?" called Mrs. Lovecraft.
Homer shook his head. "This is noncatering section, for weekend campers only. We wait now for the boat. There should be a boat," he said, frowning, and climbed out and stared across the river at what looked to be an island.
Mrs. Pollifax opened the door beside her and jumped down to stretch her legs. The others stirred too, and climbed out, smiling at each other a little uncertainly. Mrs. Lovecraft strolled over to join Homer, and after a moment Mr. Mclntosh and Mr. Kleiber followed her. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, draining all color from the landscape, and Mrs. Pollifax felt suddenly very small under the huge silvery sky as she waited for a mysterious boat that showed no signs of appearing on that vast flat expanse of silky gray water.
'There," said Homer suddenly, pointing. "The boat."
A small speck had appeared on the gray water, looking almost spectral as it rounded the point. It veered, grew larger, became an object totally unlike a boat, and then as it moved toward them, one man at the stern, she began to hear the sound of its motor and she realized it was a pontoon boat, nearly flat and propelled by an outboard motor.
"Good, let's help with all this luggage," Dr. Henry said, and walked around to the back of the bus and began handing suitcases to Chanda. There was a whispered discussion between them and then he said, "No, no, you give it to her." Holding up Mrs. Pollifax's gay umbrella he said, "Chanda tells me this is yours?"
"Yes, but how on earth did he know?" she asked in surprise.
Dr. Henry laughed. "I couldn't possibly tell you, but he always knows these things. He says he looked inside of you and saw colors to match. Mukolamfula was the word which, if the little Bemba I've learned is right, means rainbow."
"I'm very touched," she said, smiling at Chanda.
The boy handed her the umbrella, grinned, ducked his head shyly and went back for another suitcase. Behind her the boat had just landed, the slant of its bow dovetailing perfectly with the slant of the riverbank. Homer said, "The boat will come back for the luggage, it is very safe here. You will get in now, please?"
They distributed themselves on packing cases; the boat was pushed away from the shore, the motor sputtered, they turned and
began the trip toward the distant shore, any conversation rendered frivolous by the awesome silence of the river. The only sounds were of the water streaming past the bow, leaving a frothy wake behind them, and the murmur of Homer's voice as he spoke quietly to the boy at the wheel. The air was cool, full of fragrances, and as they chugged their way toward the opposite bank the smell of a wood fire became distinct.
Suddenly the sun reappeared, very low on the horizon now, and as the boat rounded the point Mrs. Pollifax had her first view of Chunga camp. She saw another sloping riverbank cut out of the trees, with a narrow wharf jutting into the water. Smoke from a campfire drifted lazily across the clearing, threading its way through the palms. Off to the left there was a long white building with a thatched roof, and behind this, spaced at intervals up and down a gently sloping hill, stood narrow cabins built of reed and thatch.
The sound of the boat had brought a handful of people down to the landing, all of their faces black. One in particular stood out from the others, a broad-shouldered young man in forest-green tunic and shorts. His smile as the boat reached the weathered gray dock was as broad as his shoulders, a brilliant slash of white that met and warmed two laughing eyes.
"Welcome to Chunga," he said as the boat slid up to the wharf. "I'm Julian, your safari manager. If you will come in and register—?"
Mrs. Pollifax was the first to enter the small office near the landing. Julian handed her registration forms and a pen and she brought out her passport and copied down its numbers. Over her shoulder Julian called instructions to the boy who had brought them in the boat, and a moment later she heard the sound of the motor on the water. "Besides the luggage," he explained to her, "there are two more guests coming soon from Lusaka."
"Yes, I know," she said, "I met them."
His huge white smile blossomed again. "Then you have already two friends, good. Moses takes you up now, you'll be in Leopard cabin."
Moses wore dusty sneakers and bright-blue slacks. She turned and followed him up a gravel path. The reborn sun was meeting the horizon now, its light no longer clear gold but a hot amber that rusted the soil a deeper red. Along the path leaves crackled underfoot like dry parchment, and Mrs. Pollifax shivered in the sudden coolness. When they reached the cabin marked Leopard, Moses carried her suitcase up four wooden stairs and placed it beside the door, and then he stood and explained that there was a shower and pointed vaguely off into the distance. Mrs. Pollifax, her mind now on sweaters, blankets and hot coffee, shook her head, thanked him and scurried up the steps into the cabin. As she turned to close the wooden door behind her the sun slipped over the horizon with finality. Homer had been absolutely correct: it was just six o'clock.
CHAPTER
5
It was dim inside the cabin. Two small screened windows were heavily shaded by the thatch roof but an electric-light bulb dangled over the night table and Mrs. Pollifax snapped it on. The pair of narrow beds looked oddly bridelike: they were sealed inside of white mosquito netting that flowed like bridal veils from the ceiling and were tucked firmly under each mattress, rendering each bed nearly inaccessible. Frustrated, she deposited her suitcase on the floor until she saw a luggage rack behind the door and placed it there instead, and then, looking around her she said aloud, "Well—I'm here."
And so, presumably, was Aristotle, she reminded herself.
It was incredibly, starkly quiet . . . Something fell to the ground outside her cabin; it sounded like fruit dropping from a tree. A faint breeze rustled the reed walls and then subsided, and she could hear the distant hum of a generator. Presently voices inserted themselves into this bottomless quiet; she heard a girl laugh, a man reply and recognized Cyrus Reed's voice: so he and Lisa had arrived. She opened her suitcase and quickly changed into a heavy sweater, combed her hair, checked the film in her camera and picked up her jacket. When she opened the door a lizard slid across the step and vanished under the cabin. Carrying her flashlight she walked down the path toward the water, hesitated, and then passed through an empty, brightly lighted bar into the dining hall. Just beyond its low wall a campfire was burning in the cleared area overlooking the river. A dozen chairs encircled it, and one of them was occupied by John Steeves.
Seeing her he rose and gave her a quick, rather shy smile that lighted up his serious face. "I don't believe I know your name," he said, holding out a hand. "I'm John Steeves."
"Emily Pollifax," she told him, shaking hands with him. "Do sit down. I love this fire. I'm going to sit as close as I dare because actually I'm freezing."
"I know," he said, nodding. "It's really early spring here, and a rather late rainy season too, they tell me, which is why the roads haven't been graded yet. As perhaps you noticed," he said with a grin.
She realized that he was much older than she'd thought at first. Everything about him was boyish—his relatively unlined face, his slouch, his vitality—except for his eyes: there was something haunted about his eyes, as if they'd seen too much. They were what her son Roger would call the eyes of an old soul, so that she now added quite a few years to her original impression and guessed him to be in his middle thirties.
"Looking forward to the safari?" he asked, and Mrs. Pollifax realized that she'd been staring at him.
"Oh yes indeed," she told him warmly. "And you?"
He nodded. "Bit of a rest for me. Too much traveling spoils one for resorts and the really plush places."
"You travel a great deal, then?"
He nodded, extended one lean leg and poked at the fire with his shabby boot. "Write travel books," he said.
"Steeves," she mused. "I'm afraid—"
"I know," he said with that sudden blaze of a smile that so transformed him. "People never remember authors' names."
"Tell me the titles of your books, then."
"Mmmmm . . . Lost in the Himalayas, At Home in the Andes, followed by Over the Chinese Border and One Hundred Nights in a Mongolian Yurt."
"But of course," she exclaimed. "I read Over the Chinese Border and enjoyed it tremendously. You disguise yourself and live among the natives."
He grinned. "You might say disguise is the main ingredient of my success, yes. A bit of the actor in me, you know, I love fooling around with makeup. Actually I began as an actor, but it's much more fun applying it all to dangerous situations."
"You like danger?" she asked curiously.
"It certainly beats the humdrum routine of ordinary living," he said ruefully.
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Pollifax, smiling faintly. "The exhilaration. The things one learns about oneself. The total immersion in the moment."
He looked at her in surprise, as if he'd not expected this from her. "You seem to have experienced something of it—" His glance moved beyond Mrs. Pollifax and he stopped speaking, a curious expression on his face. She turned and saw Lisa Reed walking toward them, her father just emerging from the dining hall behind her.
Steeves rose to his feet, looking impressed. "I say—good evening. You weren't on the bus with us, are you in the safari group too?"
Lisa had changed into bluejeans and a denim shirt and in them she looked younger, more vulnerable, her fashionable leanness replaced by a fragile quality. It occurred to Mrs. Pollifax that she was blushing; certainly her gamine face had turned a darker color but her voice when she spoke was impersonal. "Yes, we came by car from Lusaka. I'm Lisa Reed."
"And Cyrus Reed, parent," added her father. Sinking into the chair beside Mrs. Pollifax he smiled at her and said, "Good to see you again."
Steeves looked pleased. "Americans, are you? I do wish you'd sit down over here—I've not met an American in years. Perhaps you can explain to me what's been happening in your country."
"Lisa can if anyone can," said Reed. "A biased account, naturally."
Steeves flashed his quick, radiant smile. "But all accounts are biased, surely? You had something called a watershed affair?"
That won a smile from Lisa. "No, no," she said, sitting down next to him, and began spea
king with quick gestures, her face very serious, her slender hands cutting the air with incisive slashes.
Her father turned to Mrs. Pollifax. "Thought you'd like to know, by the way, that someone was asking for you at the hotel when I checked out."
"Asking for me?" gasped Mrs. Pollifax. "Was he tall, with dark hair and blue eyes and—"
Reed shook his head. "Zambian. Short black chap. Dressed in a kind of—well," he said, looking pained, "it had hibiscus all over it. Or bougainvillea. That sort of shirt, with black trousers and sneakers."
Puzzled, Mrs. Pollifax said, "And you're quite sure he was asking for me!"
"Clearly," nodded Reed. "Couldn't help but overhear. Asked for your room number, the clerk said you'd already checked out, he left."
"How very odd," said Mrs. Pollifax, frowning. "There's that advertisement, of course, but it won't be published in the Times of Zambia until tomorrow morning."
Her companion nodded. "Unless the typesetter knows someone who knows someone who knows your friend. Or perhaps the travel bureau sent a chap along to make sure you'd gotten off on time." With a gesture toward the other two he said, "Damn glad to see there's someone young and male for Lisa."
Mrs. Pollifax wrenched her thoughts away from the mysterious man at the hotel. "I thought," she said, "that your daughter blushed when she saw him."
His brows lifted. "Thought so, did you?" He turned and gazed at Lisa with interest. "Amazing I missed that."
"You were standing behind her."
"So I was. Seems an engaging fellow, Steeves."
John Steeves was certainly being very attentive, thought Mrs. Pollifax, glancing at the two across the campfire: those haunted eyes of his were fixed intently on Lisa's face as he listened, his quick smile occasionally transforming their sadness. It was a rare person who listened like that, reflected Mrs. Pollifax, and thought it a quality difficult for any woman to resist.
The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax Page 27