Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  Faraji, his pecs pressing open the pockets on his cargo shirt, lifted the flap. There was a real bed with a mosquito net, chest of drawers, an eye mask, and a bathroom. Everything was white. There seemed to be running water and a toilet, though it was probably chemical. Still, the place smelled more like ginger than sewage, and now, at least, I could tell my clients I had roughed it.

  “If there’s anything else you need, there’s a walkie-talkie by your bed,” Faraji said. The walkie-talkie was the same creamy white as the bed. Did Barbra Streisand do their decorating? “Drinks in half an hour at the lodge. There’s organic bug spray in your bathroom. We’re trying to keep toxins out of the environment.”

  Screw that. With the size of these mosquitoes, I needed pure DDT. “Thanks very much, Faraji. Look, I need to speak to Mr. Claymore about his travel arrangements. Do you know where I could find him?”

  “I believe he’s with Cassandra. He’ll be at drinks.”

  “Thanks. Where can I charge my cell phone?”

  “No cell phones at Phoenix. We want you to achieve the peace of an earlier time.”

  “What about emergencies?”

  “Cassandra would evaluate the situation.”

  In the boroughs, people moved at the speed of light just to get a cannoli or some stamps. Here, no one was in a hurry, and if you were, they just pitied you.

  As I sat down on the perfect bed, I wanted Uncle Ray. I wanted a Jack Daniels. I wanted to crawl up in Roger’s arms and forget everything. Instead, I checked on Barry. He had no visible scars. As I lifted him out, I saw a paper folded in the bottom of the bag. I didn’t have time to read it, so I put it in my bag, found Barry a few bugs, and shoved down the three malaria pills I had forgotten to take over the last twenty hours. I figured they were the same as birth control pills—you just took more if you missed a couple. Afterwards, I took a sponge bath, basically, in bug spray.

  I considered changing, but I didn’t want to give Cassandra the satisfaction, so I donned my second best pair of heels and hurried to the huge stone lodge, which was covered in vines thick as pine trees.

  The A-line lounge looked out on the plains. You could just make out a sliver of sun above the horizon, the sky above it orange, pink, and Yankees blue. The room was built around a fireplace that would hold about four linebackers. Three other guests stood by the Colonial bar.

  “Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel,” I said, with my best professional smile. Every traveler was a potential client, even if they were wearing hemp. If you were going for a distinctive fragrance, hemp mixed with human sweat was the ticket. We went through the introductions as I reached for the hardest liquor I could find. Unfortunately, this was an organic cabernet from Zimbabwe. Sam and Helene Arnold shared matching Magellan safari suits and wrinkles. The other guest, Jason, wore rimless glasses and a pedometer on his beefy, undeveloped arm.

  “What did I miss?” I asked, offering them wine.

  “Mostly environmental instructions. At home green isn’t this…well, green,” Sam said.

  “Didn’t your travel agent brief you?”

  “We booked online.”

  “Ah.” I gave them a pitying look and offered my card. “I never send my clients anywhere I haven’t tried myself.”

  “Thank you,” Helene said. “I like your dress.”

  “Thanks. Sale.” Two other people came in.

  Helene pointed to a drab brunette. “That’s Emily. She has a lot of allergies. A lot.”

  Emily sneezed on cue. Sam looked out the window. “Helene,” he said, “zebras.”

  “I’m talking, honey.”

  I almost spilled my wine when Cassandra walked in on Roger’s arm. What was this, the nineteenth century? She was wearing another see-through outfit that flowed around her praying-mantis frame. It was so easy for tall women to have a flow. On me, things just sort of sat.

  Emily cornered Cassandra. I could hear the high-pitched whine of her allergic voice from across the room. I saw my opening and took it, following Roger to the window.

  “Hi. I was worried you wouldn’t come,” Roger said.

  “I wasn’t going to. But some things came up. Do you think you can keep yoga girl away for a minute?”

  “It’s not what you think.” He took me by the elbow and moved me out onto the veranda. The sun was gone now, replaced by a deepening blue and the soundtrack from a PBS Nature show. Roger turned me toward him. “Okay, I know you’re upset with me, but you have to understand that when you…well, happened to me, it wasn’t something I planned. And it may not have been convenient, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.” He looked down at me and I turned to jelly. This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman with a long and varied boyfriend history. This was stopping, now.

  “Let me tell you about the last twenty-four hours I’ve had since I found out my plus one was a lying, cheating shit heel, okay? I found out my neighbor, Mrs. Barsky, was murdered by poison from a dart frog—I think the same kind that are in the suitcase—are they still in there?” Roger nodded. “Well, be careful. Then, I was kidnapped at gunpoint and tied up in a house full of unstitched reptiles.”

  “That’s why Magnum P.I. brought you in his helicopter? You were kidnapped? Come on, Cyd.”

  “Will you let me finish?”

  “Not willingly,” he said.

  “That’s not the point. Courtesy is hardly ever voluntary. Then, the embassy couriers stole Barry and we had to hide in an aid van, where a nineteen-year-old refugee from Outward Bound shoved a machete in my face and took my favorite shoes.”

  He started laughing. “Come on, Cyd, just forgive me. I really am sorry. You don’t need to make up a bunch of stuff to make me feel bad.”

  I had perfected the “whip around” by age twelve. Not being believed was a very sore subject for me. I planted my heels about ten inches apart, and put my hands on my hips.

  “First, I am not interested in you or anything about you except as it regards your travel plans. Second, I would never make up a story involving reptiles or guns to get attention from any man, especially one from California. Third, I have evidence.”

  He was still laughing.

  “Fine. Where the hell do you think I got this?” I said, as I jerked the revolver out of my bag. At least that took the grin off his face.

  “Gun!” Emily croaked from inside. The pedometer guy dove behind the bar.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Ms. Redondo, put down the gun.” I turned to see Cassandra holding a .357. I held mine steady.

  “It’s not real,” Roger said.

  “It is too real,” I said. “I cut a cobra in half with it this morning.”

  “Cyd, please. There’s no need to keep up the pretense. We’re among friends.”

  “Maybe you are.”

  He stood right in front of me and shook his head. Finally, I loosened my grip and he put the gun in the back of his cargo pants. His belt was hemp, of course.

  “Sorry everyone,” he said to the guests gathered in the doorway. “Just a little good-natured African gun play, Hemingway style.”

  Cassandra rolled her eyes but lowered her gun. Roger reached for that one too. “It’s my fault. I told her never to admit it wasn’t real. No harm, no foul?”

  Cassandra smiled at him, then turned to me. “Ms. Redondo, it seems you are not entering into the spirit of our lodge. Perhaps in the morning, as you are a travel agent, you can make other arrangements for yourself.”

  Although I had every intention of doing just that, there was no way she was winning this fight.

  “Ms. Phoenix, frankly I’m shocked that you would pull a live weapon on an unarmed guest. It’s a good thing I was able to document your behavior,” I said, having used my last shred of phone battery to snap a photo of her with gun aloft, looking completely deranged. Everyone nodded soberly when they saw the clear
digital image of the gun pointed right at me.

  “As Mr. Claymore always says, I’m just an orphaned Tupperware tart from Brooklyn, hardly a threat to someone with a loaded weapon. It is loaded, isn’t it Roger?” Everyone watched as he checked Cassandra’s gun and nodded. “I have prepaid an extremely high premium for this safari,” I lied. “I am a member in good standing of every major international travel organization and have twice been the president of The Bay Ridge Third Avenue Businessperson’s Association. I have acted in good faith and yet have already been denied the upgrade I paid for. And now, within an hour of my arrival, and while having a personal conversation with one of my clients, you have threatened me with live ammunition. I’m sure Fodors, The Rough Guide, The Lonely Planet, and Let’s Go! Africa will be grateful for this documented information, should this argument go any further. Now, I’m sure dinner will be delicious. Let’s eat, shall we?”

  Cassandra gave a small nod and moved toward the table, apologizing to the other guests on the way. Roger and I followed.

  “Gun, please,” I said.

  “No.”

  “People are after me,” I said. He kept walking. “People from the government.” He ignored me. “I’ll start screaming.” Finally, he handed it over.

  “Keep the safety on, for God’s sake. I’ll find you after dinner.”

  We all sat down. I was starving. In fact, I could have used an enormous piece of undercooked meat, but this was, of course, at Roger’s request, a vegetarian tour. I muttered an obscenity under my breath and reached for the mashed yams.

  As I bit into the chewy, bitter potatoes, I tried not to make eye contact with the pedometer guy on my left, whose name was Jason and who was staring at my breasts. Asthmatic Emily gave me several dirty looks. Jason said the trip had been a present from his parents in hopes he’d not spend so much time on the Internet. He was about to explain how many steps he’d taken today when Cassandra saved me by standing up and tapping her glass. We all looked up from our mangoes.

  Under other circumstances, I might have admired her guts. After all, to come to Africa and start a camp like this and make a go of it was no small feat. I couldn’t even keep my clients out of jail or keep a guy for four days. Who was I to judge?

  “The joke’s on her,” Jason said, pointing to Cassandra. “You can’t keep people from the Internet. It’s our inalienable right.”

  “Wait, you have the Internet here?”

  He nodded. “You could come to my tent,” he said. Oh boy, here we go.

  “Great. I’ll come by later.” He must have a power source and my phone was completely dead. It was going to be tricky, but I’d been a longtime virgin and knew how to keep men at bay without anyone getting violent. Too bad I hadn’t done it with Roger.

  After dinner, Cassandra told the group Faraji had sighted a pride of lions near one of the watering holes, so we were heading there before first light. She reminded us to drink water, take our malaria pills, and pull the mosquito net down fully. Faraji accompanied us back to our tents.

  The trail was gorgeous at night, shimmering with mosquito torches every few feet. The tents were as see-through as Cassandra’s blouses. I didn’t know what was worse, dressing in the dark in the jungle or having everyone know the kind of shapewear I needed to make this dress fit. I opted for dark.

  Mosquitoes the size of travel umbrellas buzzed and bumped against the tent flap. I was just down to my Spanx when there was a knock on the tent. God, was Roger here already? I grabbed a nightgown and long peignoir I’d brought for just this kind of occasion. It was a very light pink chiffon with marabou trim and matching mules. I’d gotten it at a fire sale at La Petite Coquette in the West Village. I put all my new bronze bracelets on at once, creating a solid shimmer all the way to my elbow. How was my hair? Did I need my gun? I looked out of a slit in the tent. It was Jason.

  “I know you wanted to use my charger and the Internet, so I thought I’d bring everything over. You shouldn’t be wandering alone out here at night.”

  I could smell his aftershave from three feet away. This was bad. “That’s very kind of you,” I said.

  “Can I come in?”

  “I was just changing clothes. Give me a second.” I threw on my leopard print rain poncho over the marabou and let him in. He unloaded his bag: aside from his laptop, nothing looked bigger than a pack of Camel Lights. Then he held out a tiny black box.

  “Solar-powered generator,” he said. “I got it for contributing to NPR.”

  “The Charlton Heston guys?” I figured playing that dumb might scare him off. Sadly not, as he just moved a little closer. “Any chance I could charge my phone?”

  “Sure, do whatever you want.” Still staring at my breasts, he handed me the charger. My phone made a comforting little chirping sound. It showed multiple messages. I reached for it.

  “No, don’t.” He grabbed my hand. I disentangled it carefully. “You have to wait for it to charge at least half an hour. It’s no problem. I’m happy to hang out.”

  “Okay. Can we check CNN International?”

  “Sure.” He sat down on the bed with his laptop. I locked my knees together, just like the nuns taught me. “You’re really pretty,” he said. “Most of the women I meet doing eco-tourism are, well, hairy. But not you. You look great, whatever you’re doing. That dress you were wearing earlier. Wow.”

  “I was worried people would judge me because it’s synthetic.”

  “It is? I thought pretty much everything came in natural these days.”

  “Nothing that fits really well,” I said. “CNN?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape outside the tent.

  “I see what you mean about tourists in trouble.” Jason pointed to the box on the left of the screen. “There’s dysentery on a cruise ship and these old people just got arrested for smuggling snakes at Heathrow.”

  I gave a small scream. There, on the front page of the CNN International website, were two more of my clients from Bay Ridge—the Giannis. They had flown out of Dar es Salaam the day before Roger and I arrived. Mrs. Gianni was the kind of person who wouldn’t even stand in front of the yellow line on the subway or cheat during Lent. There is no way she had brought an endangered monitor lizard through Customs. The story featured their mug shots: Mr. Gianni’s wispy comb-over was unsettled and, without makeup, Mrs. Gianni’s eyebrows and lips had all but disappeared. The looks on their faces pierced right through my underwire and straight into my heart. What the hell was going on? I needed my phone.

  Jason was staring at me. “You know them?”

  “Since I was eight,” I said. “I booked their trip. Can I check my messages yet?”

  “Another few minutes, to be safe.” Then he grabbed me and shoved his tongue down my throat.

  “Hey.” I kicked him hard in the shin until he loosened his grip. He yanked his charger away, sending the phone flying across the wooden floor, and threw everything into his bag.

  “I thought you were different, but you’re just like every other green bitch in the world.” He stormed out, knocking one of the tent pegs loose.

  Shit. I didn’t mean to upset him. I decided to offer him upgrade vouchers and ran out of the tent, marabou flying in my wake. I stopped mid-flight, arrested by the sight of Roger walking down the path with Cassandra.

  There was a loud hiss, then impact.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Something red and sticky was all over me. Was it blood?

  “Murderer! Fur wearer! No furs! No skins! No synthetics! Save the Earth!”

  Emily stood in an unflattering nylon poncho. She pointed the spray can at me again. I felt the weight of the bracelets on my forearm and aimed all of them right for her runny nose.

  “Tahhhh,” she screamed, the yelp full of phlegm. “Violence is murder.”

  Jason had appeared behind her and several other travelers we
re gathering.

  “This is marabou, you moron,” I said. “They shed. No birds died for this negligee. And by the way, hasn’t anyone told you you could do something with yourself if you wore a little blush and a two-inch heel?”

  “I don’t want to be a whore like you, chasing the only eligible man here.” She gazed at Jason, who’d moved beside her.

  “Yeah. Prick tease,” he said.

  “She’s nothing of the sort.” Roger was suddenly behind me. “Let’s all calm down.” He moved between me and my attackers and pushed me into the tent. Emily made another lunge with the can just as Roger pulled the main flap shut. Outside I heard Helene scream, “Atmosphere killer! Chemicals suffocate the planet!” and a large thud. Honestly, was this what vacations were like? Maybe I needed another profession. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and did a silent scream.

  “It’s just paint,” Roger said.

  “I know that,” I said, “I know it’s paint and it’s never, never going to come out. Would you excuse me a minute?” Although the poncho had taken most of the hit, my peignoir still looked like the victim of a blender accident. I lifted the clothes off, trying not to get paint on anything else, then dropped everything in the tub. I walked back in, wrapped the duvet around me, and sat down. A few drops of paint fell onto the creamy organic cotton.

  “I’ll wash my hair later.”

  He shook his head. The melee outside seemed to have died down, but there was still one willowy shape outside the tent.

  “Roger? Should I wait for you?” Cassandra and I both waited for the answer.

  “I’m going to get try to get some sleep. I’ll come by in the morning, before I leave,” he said.

  “Fine.” I knew that particular delivery of “fine.” It was a classic of my mother’s and basically meant “screw you, you jerk/daughter/mechanic/gynecologist.”