The Garden of Burning Sand

by Corban Addison

  After a few miles, Zoe saw the sign for Vrede Retreat Center. The access road was bumpy and lined with tangled shrubs. Soon, however, the hilly terrain gave way to a vast meadow tucked in between rocky cliffs. Zoe parked in a gravel lot beside a white cinderblock building with a hanging sign that read: “OFFICE.” She left the SUV unlocked and greeted a lanky silver-haired man sitting on a deckchair. The man stood and shook her hand.

  “Welcome to Vrede,” he said in a polished voice. “I’m Robert Vorster.”

  “Zoe Fleming,” she replied, looking around. “It’s beautiful here.”

  “Heaven on earth,” he replied with a grin, and then explained himself. “Hemel en Aarde. It’s Afrikaans.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “I don’t believe we were expecting you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m looking for someone—Dr. Jan Kruger. His father sent me.”

  Vorster hesitated. “Do you have business with him?”

  She chose her words carefully. “I suppose ‘business’ is an appropriate description.”

  Vorster gestured toward a path that led into the trees. “Will you walk with me?”

  Zoe nodded. Another gatekeeper. Jan certainly knows how to protect himself.

  They strolled up the path beneath the boughs of evergreens and came upon a clearing at the foot of an old chapel. Beside the chapel was a fishpond surrounded by vegetation, and beyond the pond on the hillside was a cluster of whitewashed homes.

  Vorster took a seat on a carved stone bench. “Have you been to Vrede before?”

  “No,” she replied, sitting beside him.

  “Many would say this is a holy place. We’ve hosted opponents of apartheid, members of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, politicians, clergy, and cultural leaders, along with visitors from around the world. At Vrede everyone is the same. We are all people searching for peace in troubled times. There is only one rule: do no harm.” Vorster gave Zoe a direct look. “Does your ‘business’ with Dr. Kruger meet that standard?”

  Zoe watched a leaf tumble through the air and land in the pond. She knew she had to tell the truth. “I’m a lawyer,” she said. “I’m helping a child in Lusaka who was raped. The trial of her abuser starts in four days. Jan has information critical to the case. I need to talk to him.”

  Vorster was silent for so long that Zoe thought she had lost him. Then, suddenly, he stood and faced her. “After lunch, he went on a walk. I suspect you will find him at the falls. The trail begins at the bridge across the meadow.”

  “Thank you,” she said, offering her hand, which Vorster took.

  “Jan is a good man,” he said. “I urge you to remember that.”

  Zoe found the trailhead on the far side of a footbridge that spanned a highland stream. She took a slow breath, listening to the music of water dancing upon round stones, and then began to walk. Before long, the meadow gave way to more rugged terrain, dominated by shrub-like vegetation. Zoe followed the serpentine course of the stream, traversing groves of towering oaks and slowly trading distance for elevation.

  Eventually, she reached a fork in the trail. The main path led through a tangle of trees, and a second path—much narrower—led upward along a rocky defile toward the crest of the mountain. She could hear the sound of falling water nearby, but she couldn’t see it. She ventured into the thicket, pushing branches out of the way and stepping around exposed roots. Soon, she emerged on a patch of grass at the edge of a muddy pool. She saw the waterfall and the bench at the same time. A man turned and looked at her.

  It was Jan Kruger.

  If he was shocked to see her, he didn’t show it. Instead— paradoxically—he looked almost relieved. After a while, she sat down beside him and stared at the waterfall.

  “Why are you here?” she asked at last.

  He looked at her curiously. “If you don’t know, I should ask you the same question.”

  “Is this some sort of penance?”

  He angled his head thoughtfully. “Penance and peace are related but not the same.”

  “Peace without reconciliation is a lie,” she rejoined, repeating the words she had delivered to Sylvia months ago. “You seem fond of lies.”

  He waited a beat before responding: “I could say that we’re even.”

  “You could say, ‘Voetsak,’” she replied, pronouncing the expletive like an Afrikaner. “But we’re not even.”

  Jan gave a short laugh. “A curious expression, hey? You’re right. Your lie to Dr. Luyt was selfless; mine the height of selfishness.” He scratched his chin. “How did you discover it?”

  Zoe retrieved the first volume of Charity’s journal from her backpack. “She wrote about you,” she said, handing the notebook to him. “She loved you.”

  He turned the journal over in his hands. “This isn’t the one you showed me before.”

  “That was the third volume, written much later. This is the original one. She wrote her first letter soon after she left Livingstone.”

  He played with the cover but didn’t open it. “What does she say?”

  “That you were lovers. That you made love in your office late at night; that you were gifted, the most gifted doctor she had ever met; and that she wanted more than anything to be your wife. There was a time when she believed that was possible.”

  He winced. “I suppose I let her believe that.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You suppose? She was your student. She had lost most of her family to disease. She was in school so she could get a good job and take care of her grandmother and her cousins. I know Zambian women. They don’t make the first move.”

  Jan examined the waterfall. “It was an intense year,” he said eventually. “My research in Livingstone was meaningful but not essential. I had applied for a position in Cape Town, but I didn’t know if they would offer it to me. Charity was … I don’t know. She had a glow about her, a gift of insight and intelligence that I found irresistible.”

  He glanced up at a bird flying overhead. “When Godfrey got sick, we were with him all night. We were exhausted; the rainy season was miserable—so many malaria cases. And then, miraculously, he survived. Charity thought of him almost like a son. The next week she brought me a meal to thank me. We were alone in the hospital after hours. I made a mistake.”

  “If it was a mistake, why did you keep sleeping with her?”

  He shrugged. “I’d never met anyone like her. I was with her as long as I could be.”

  “Why didn’t you marry her? You could have made a life together.”

  “That would have been impossible.”

  The truth suddenly dawned on her. “Your family wouldn’t have approved.”

  He glanced at her obliquely. “My parents are not racists. But it was 1996. The tensions in the region were extraordinary. No one would have understood.”

  “So you left her. You got the job in Cape Town and you walked away.”

  He shook his head. “I did something worse than that. She went to Lusaka because of me.”

  “What?” Zoe demanded. “What do you mean? Frederick Nyambo took her.”

  “Yes,” he nodded, “but I was the one who suggested it.”

  All at once the whole story made sense. Everyone who knew Charity had been right and wrong at the same time. “How did it happen?” she asked.

  “Frederick came to the hospital from Victoria Falls,” he explained. “He had an advanced case of leptospirosis—a severe bacterial infection. He’d seen an nganga and gotten some potions that did nothing. By the time I saw him, he was a mess. I managed his case, but Charity tended to him. He was there for ten days. I saw the way he looked at her. So I started talking to him about her. I told him about her family, about her grandmother’s stroke. I told him how bright she was. I thought if I got her a good job in Lusaka—something better than she could have gotten out of nursing school—she would go there and forget about me.”

  “You did it so you could live with yourself,” Zoe said. “You bribed your conscience and then yo
u broke her heart.”

  “An elegant summary,” he replied, taking no offense. “Yes, I did it for selfish reasons. To be fair, she wasn’t guaranteed a job out of school. The economy in Zambia was turbulent in those years. But she was the best student in her class. She wouldn’t have starved.”

  Zoe pictured Frederick Nyambo convalescing in a hospital bed and chatting with Jan Kruger about Charity’s future. “Did you convince him, or did he convince himself?”

  “We convinced each other. He promised me that he would take care of her. I believed him. So I convinced her.” Jan’s voice trailed off, and he stared intently at the surface of the pool, as if the still water might conjure a reflection of Charity’s face.

  “In case it matters to you, he did take care of her,” Zoe said. “He put her up in a nice flat, made her his personal assistant. Your plan might actually have worked.” She took a deep breath, bracing herself. “There was only one problem. She was carrying your child.”

  Jan sat back against the bench and closed his eyes. In the silence that ensued, nature reasserted its dominance. Water trickled down the rock, clouds sailed the sky-sea overhead, and birds called to one another. At last he opened his eyes again. “How do you know?”

  She pointed at the journal still in his hands. “Read it for yourself. I dog-eared the page.”

  His fingers trembled as he opened the cover. He found the marked passage near the end of the volume and scanned the text. When he finished, his shoulders slumped. “It’s possible I am the father,” he said slowly. “But it’s also possible she was wrong.”

  “There’s a way to be certain,” Zoe replied, and outlined her plan.

  He looked toward the pond. “I need to think about this.”

  She struggled to contain her impatience. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Give me until morning,” he said.

  Chapter 26

  Lusaka, Zambia

  April, 2012

  Three days before the trial of Darious Nyambo, Dunstan Sisilu appeared outside the CILA office driving the gray Prado. He parked on the opposite side of the street and watched the parking lot, making no attempt at concealment. Joseph was the first to see him, and he informed Zoe and Mariam. Mariam, in turn, called an emergency all-staff meeting. Ten minutes later, all twenty employees took seats at the conference table. Most were perplexed; a few were unsettled.

  “It’s obvious they want Anna back,” Mariam said, glancing out the window toward the gate. “But what lengths will they go to to find her?”

  Joseph spoke up. “I suspect their focus will be on Zoe and me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they watch the rest of the legal team.”

  “I’ll alert the guards,” Mariam replied. “I don’t want anyone leaving here unescorted until the trial is over. Travel in twos or threes. If you have security at home, put them on notice.” She paused. “What do you think we should do about our witnesses?”

  “If we tell them, they won’t testify,” Niza said. “It would be one thing if we had knowledge that they’re in danger. But we don’t.”

  Zoe nodded. “I agree. He’s known where they live for months. They’re as safe now as they were before.”

  Sarge leaned forward. “I suppose there’s a bright side to this. They aren’t certain Flexon Mubita is on their side.”

  Joseph looked dubious. “The magistrate isn’t their only concern. If Anna talks publicly, her story could damage the Nyambos’ reputation. Mubita is still a wild card.”

  Silence descended upon the room. Zoe saw the weight of uncertainty in her colleagues’ eyes. She felt it as much as they did, but she felt something else, too—anger. It gave her the will to fight. She almost spoke up, but a glance at Mariam made her hesitate. Instead of doubtful, the field-office director looked determined.

  “You know,” Mariam said, putting her hands on the table, “at the beginning of all of this, Niza predicted that the Nyambos would treat this case like an act of war. That’s exactly what they’ve done. There’s no way we can control them. We can’t control their thugs. We can’t control the Court. But we don’t need to. Our task is to prosecute Darious. If we do that, we dignify Kuyeya and every Zambian girl who lives in fear of rape.”

  As she spoke, heads began to nod, including Zoe’s.

  “I’ve been in this seat for seven years,” Mariam continued. “I can’t count how many times my heart has been broken. This case might break it again. Then again, it might not.” She paused, looking at each face around the table. “Let’s make this the best trial we’ve ever put on.”

  At the end of the workday, Joseph drove Zoe home in his truck. Sisilu shadowed them, keeping his distance. The next day and the day after that, they followed the same routine, as did their stalker in sunglasses. As Joseph had predicted, Sisilu was not alone. Sarge and Niza also noticed strange vehicles shadowing them by day and watching their houses at night. The mood among the legal team was tense. In the crucible of trial preparation, patience wore thin and tempers flared. Even the unflappable Sarge seemed agitated.

  The evening before the trial, Zoe and Joseph joined the Prentices on the terrace for a feast of lamb kebobs and couscous and cucumber salad. The autumn air was cool, and the sky was full of stars. Tom and Carol kept the conversation lively with tales of their misadventures in Africa. Zoe chimed in with memories of her mother, and Carol picked up the narrative thread, sharing stories about Catherine’s life that Zoe had never heard—her meeting with Nelson Mandela before the fall of apartheid; the pressure she had put on the Clinton administration not to interfere with African countries distributing generic ARVs in violation of American pharmaceutical patents; the Deputy Secretary of State who had hit on her at a party after too many drinks; the ambassadors who had loved her and those who had despised her. Through all of this, Joseph seemed distracted. At one point, Zoe caught him staring at a cypress tree across the yard.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said and returned to his food.

  After the Prentices went to bed, Zoe and Joseph walked through the bungalow as they did every night, checking the locks on all doors and windows. Then Zoe led him to the bedroom and tried to entice him with a kiss. Joseph, however, showed no interest in sex. He changed out of his clothes and slid under the covers, pausing only to say “goodnight” before his head hit the pillow. In less than a minute he was asleep.

  Zoe slipped in beside him, enjoying his warmth. She lay awake and listened to the night birds and the gentle sound of his breathing. She thought of the future as it ought to be—of Kuyeya safe from men like Darious; of Trevor and Jenna tying the knot; of Joseph and love and what? A long-term relationship? A lifetime commitment? Was it possible? Sensible? What would that even look like? By midnight, her eyelids grew heavy and she, too, fell asleep.

  The next sound she heard was a scream.

  Her eyes flew open and her addled brain struggled to wake up. She heard a crash in the far reaches of the house. She glanced at Joseph and was struck with a blinding terror.

  A human shape was leaning over the bed.

  This time it was Zoe who screamed. The shape stiffened and she could almost see it looking at her. Then it vanished. In the grip of fright, she couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only react. Her hand shot out and threw back the mosquito net while her other hand found her glasses. Whirling around, she saw Joseph reaching for his rifle.

  “Stay here!” he hissed and bolted toward the door.

  To Zoe, however, staying behind felt like a death wish. She leapt off the bed and ran after him—down the hallway, through the guest quarters, and into the living room. She heard another scream and recognized the voice of Carol Prentice. A man shouted: “No!” Then something heavy hit the wall and Carol screamed again.

  A moment later, Zoe saw a shape emerge from the hallway to the Prentices’ quarters and retreat into the darkened kitchen. Something glinted in its hand.

  “He’s got a weapon!” Zoe yelled, as J
oseph raised his gun into firing position.

  She was utterly unprepared for the foot that appeared out of nowhere and tripped her. She sprawled headlong across the tile floor, losing her glasses. Before she could recover, strong arms lifted her off the ground, and she felt hot breath on her neck. The breath was followed by a blade.

  A voice spoke loudly beside her ear. “No move! I kill!”

  “Help,” she choked out even as the knife bit into her skin.

  Joseph’s reaction was instantaneous. He pivoted on his feet and trained his rifle on the man who held her life in the balance. She looked down the barrel of the gun and shivered uncontrollably.

  “Let her go,” Joseph commanded.

  Her assailant tightened his grip. “Where is woman?” he barked.

  At once Zoe understood. The intruders believed Anna was in the house.

  “She’s far away,” said Joseph.

  “Where?” the man yelled.

  The next two seconds seemed to happen in slow motion—Joseph taking a step backward and saying, “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you”; the blade on her neck relaxing; the sudden muzzle flash; the momentous report of the blast; the searing pain at the tip of her ear as the bullet shot by a fraction of an inch off-target; the smell of acrid cordite and coppery blood.

  Zoe shrieked and twisted out of the dead man’s grasp as he crumpled to the floor. Her mind was frozen in a state of shock, her ears ringing. She wanted to collapse on the couch and weep. But the second intruder was still at large.

  She shoved her glasses into place and focused on the outline of Joseph’s face. They ran together toward the kitchen. The room was lit by a dim glow: the servant’s door was open. They stopped on the threshold beside a bank of light switches and scanned the shadows for movement. The night was perfectly still—no voices, no footsteps, not even a hint of wind.

  “Where is the guard?” Joseph spat, as Zoe’s heart hammered in her chest.

  He threw the switches and flooded the yard with light.