Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  “She stabbed me,” Roger said. “Tell him in Swahili.”

  Instead, I used every apologetic word I knew in any language, while curtsying and making various “it’s not what you think” hand gestures. Finally, the Chief looked up, while Bopo grinned. The Chief began speaking. I asked Bopo to translate.

  “He says that Bunty will be back. You may stay tonight, but then you must go. The tour will come in the morning and you can return with them.”

  “Of course. You saved us, thank you. Thank you so, so very much,” I said in my best Swahili, though I wasn’t sure my dialect or accent would make sense. You are never more aware of your complete inadequacy in a language than when you want to convey real emotion and all you have are words like “toilet,” “embassy,” “bus station,” and the same “thank you” you would give to a bell hop. As usual, theoretical blew. It was like trying to make cheesecake with Velveeta. All I could do was shake hands fervently and hope he understood. I vowed in that moment to expand my phrases to things like “thank you for saving our lives,” “may all your children be blessed,” “you are my favorite man/woman in the world,” and “I owe you beyond measure.”

  The Chief spoke, and Bopo translated. “He says he is the grateful one. You brought the leopard.”

  “Just like catnip,” Roger said. I elbowed him.

  Bopo explained that they would have a feast that night, and handed me over proudly to a tall woman who took me to her hut. She was wearing one of my microfiber shirts over her high, pear-shaped breasts. It looked great with her native skirt and endless bracelets. It turned out she was Bopo’s mother and Akida’s sister, Shawana. She spoke a bit of English and asked if I had seen Akida. I didn’t quite know what to say. Instead, I fudged, pestering her with questions, as she offered me a skirt like hers and a few necklaces, which she placed around my neck. She coiled my hair and by then, it was dark and time for the party. I told her I would be right out and sat for a minute in the hut, almost overcome with all the unfamiliar smells: the cinnamony pomade Shawana had used on my unruly hair, the tang of damp straw, the sweetness of roasted yams, and the note of animal dung that seemed to underline everything. It was a heady mix and I took one more deep breath before I opened the door.

  I eased out into the smoky African night. The only light for miles came from the bonfire. I took a minute to look up. Growing up in the boroughs clearly limited your idea of what the sky could be. Here, it seemed every star, even the tiniest and furthest away, was visible, scattered like glitter. Here, the sky was everything. The people were the afterthought.

  I had traded sirens and car alarms for a whole new kind of high-pitched beeping—the yips of wild dogs, the bellows of hippos, and the caffeinated gobbles of vervet monkeys—at least Roger said they were vervets. I wouldn’t know a vervet from a Pop-Tart. I felt tiny and ignorant and breathless and full of wonder. Even if Bunty put a bullet in us later tonight, at this moment, it all seemed worth it. All my years of playing senior Bingo, all my years of saving unused frequent-flier miles, all my years of dating Bay Ridge blockheads—it was all worth it, if it had led to this, to being here on this pungent, star-infested night. All the things I had promised my clients about traveling were true.

  When Roger came up and took my hand, I squeezed back. We headed for the feast our gracious hosts had decided to give us instead of turning us over to heinous felons.

  The goat Bunty had brought was not so lucky. He was digging in his hooves and pulling on the rope as a bowlegged villager, who resembled a human wishbone, neared the creature with a machete and smiled at us, presenting the goat like a prize on Wheel of Fortune.

  “How do you say ‘no’ in Swahili?” Roger said.

  “Roger Claymore, don’t you dare. You can’t reject their hospitality. It would be incredibly rude. This isn’t San Francisco. These people saved our lives today, and if they’re kind enough to serve us one of their precious goats, then we’re going to eat goat, period.”

  “All right, this goat is on you,” Roger said.

  I couldn’t look as the man brought the machete down. There was one, brief sad bleat from the goat, then the sound of blood dripping onto dirt. Roger went pale. I felt faint. The man had the courtesy to take the goat away to skin it.

  Then Bopo led us to seats on the dirt of honor beside the Chief. Roger and I looked at each other through the spitting sparks of the fire and it was almost like we were back in Atlantic City. We drank a gourd full of baobab seed soda that tasted vaguely like Orangina mixed with charcoal. Everyone around the fire was smiling. I wasn’t used to a large family meal where everyone was smiling. My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a large wooden tray arranged with what looked like…well, intestines.

  Roger gave me a significant look, which I chose to ignore. Even I might have to come up with a religious reason not to eat raw goat intestines. The Chief began to manipulate the twisted guts with a carved stick. The villagers all leaned forward in anticipation. Finally, he rose, turned to Roger, and bowed. He spoke in Swahili, so I had to translate.

  “He thanks you for bringing such good fortune to the village. So, now he will—wait, now he will read your fortune in the guts of the goat.” I looked at Roger and shrugged. We both bowed to the Chief.

  The Chief said Roger was a man of great judgment who would have many children. That part, I translated properly. But when he said “and many wives,” I limited it to one, figuring I could have easily misunderstood. Then the Chief said something really strange.

  I leaned toward Bopo. “Did he just say ‘Beware of stuffed animals’?” Bopo nodded. Roger stared at me while I translated. Again, I shrugged. “Stuffed animals, that’s what he said.”

  “You are in danger. You will be tested and betrayed by a great evil that seems a friend,” the Chief said, nodding sagely at Roger. “But you will overcome this evil and live a long and healthy life.”

  “And become head of Fish and Wildlife,” I added, just because Roger was looking pale.

  “Really?” he said.

  “The guts never lie.” I smiled at him and we both bowed again to the Chief. I waited for my fortune, but the Chief threw the intestines into the fire. We wound up only having to eat the rest of the goat. And I mean the rest.

  By this time, the carcass rotated on the spit over the fire, looking particularly spindly, stringy and red, like an oversized tandoori gone wrong. This was the first time I remembered having a passing acquaintance with my dinner. It was a strange feeling. I’d consumed plenty of things my brousins had brought home from quail- and pheasant-hunts, but I hadn’t seen those animals when they were alive. I felt a strange kinship with this goat and thought of how he’d just had the bad luck to be traded for a leopard and to land here on the night they had guests.

  Roger and I ate our compadre cooked in spices. I have to say, it was completely delicious. The meat was tangy and moist and dripping with fat, which helped the fried grasshoppers and the monkey bread go down. All of it came with ugali. Roger and I laughed and ate happily with our fingers, red meat notwithstanding. Sitting there on the edge of the game reserve, with undeserved kindness all around me, and Roger smiling again, I thanked whatever Gods had gotten me here and just prayed they’d get me back in one piece, with my clients intact and without being excommunicated from my family.

  Bopo entertained us with stories about Akida as a boy, and asked if I would let him work for Redondo Travel if he could get to America. There’s no way I was telling a ten-year-old no, especially since by that age I was already booking hotels. He made me shake on it and stayed near us until his mother sent him to bed.

  When the feast wound down, the women led me and Roger to our respective huts. I was bunking in with the single women, so I didn’t really get a chance to say goodnight to Roger. I looked behind me as he walked away. He looked too.

  I might have spent more time thinking about this if I hadn’t needed to
go to the bathroom so desperately. I had been holding everything in all day, in fear of the slightly scary squat toilet shack at the edge of the village. I decided I was being a ridiculous American and headed out with my emergency toilet paper and my mini flashlight. I was sure the roaring I heard was just my imagination—until I saw a zebra’s ear on the ground. Yikes. Needless to say, I hurried like hell in the dark, my heels sinking in what I hoped was mud and aiming at what I hoped was the hole.

  My heart was still pounding when I got back to my bed. Finally, I fell asleep to the sound of mosquitoes and the occasional yowl of what Roger had said was a hyrax, as if that were the name of something. I dreamt of chasing a crocodile down Fourth Avenue.

  Roger woke me early, too early, as I had just figured out how to corner the crocodile. I had slept in a slip and threw a shirt over it as I tiptoed around my roommates. Outside, the morning smelled like old wood smoke, eucalyptus, and leftover goat skin.

  “Cyd? I’m going back to Bunty’s to try to get some evidence, so the mission won’t be a complete wash.”

  “No you are not. They’ve already tried to kill you once.”

  “I’m just going to photograph some of the animals, that’s all. Bopo said he heard Bunty and his crew say they will be in Dar.”

  “That’s still insane.”

  “Yeah, and I thought you were insane to jump in the truck, but we’re both just doing our jobs.”

  It killed me to say it, but I had to. “I’m sorry I messed up your deal.”

  “Don’t be. They probably weren’t buying my cover anyway. I might be in that pile of slaughtered animals right now if you hadn’t shown up. Besides, if I’d been able to be straight with you, none of this would have happened.”

  “If you had evidence, could you skip the compound?” I dug Barry’s document out of my bag and handed it to him.

  “Where the hell did you get this?” Roger said, reading it.

  “It was in the diplomatic bag.”

  “Jesus.” He took a picture of it with his flash drive-sized spy camera.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a fake ‘captive bred’ certificate. Smugglers pay off officials to take a poached animal and stamp it ‘captive bred’ so it’s legal to import. A couple of countries are notorious for this bullshit.”

  “Like the United Arab Emirates?”

  “Yes. How do you know that?” I told him about Mrs. Barsky’s FedEx package. “Dammit, Cyd, why didn’t you tell me that in Atlantic City?”

  “I don’t know, because I thought you were a chiropractor? Because the sex kind of took precedence over paperwork?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. Where are the waybills now?” I dug in my bag and pulled them out. “Jesus. It takes a lot of bribe money to get those documents—whoever sent them wouldn’t be happy about losing them. And they were addressed to Mrs. Barsky?”

  “No. To Pet World. Does that mean she was in on it?”

  “Not necessarily. If Bunty’s her son, it would have been easy for him to use the pet shop as a front without her knowing. Still, he would have needed someone on the ground. Did anyone else ever open her mail?”

  My stomach fell to my knees. Jimmy. Of course Jimmy was in on this. He must be the “Brooklyn end.” He would certainly fit the “moron” bill. That’s why he was always in Pet World. This would kill Uncle Ray. I couldn’t tell Roger. He would just have to figure it out for himself—with any luck, after I’d gotten home.

  “Any chance I could have the documents? It would give us probable cause to arrest the slimy Under Under guy at least. And maybe get Belk reassigned to Iran” Roger said.

  I thought about it, but I might need them to save Jimmy. “You can have the Barry one, but only if you let me keep Barry. He and that document need to be separated.”

  “You can keep him for now.”

  “You don’t need to go to Bunty’s now, right?”

  “I still don’t have enough evidence on him.”

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll grab some photos and the Interpol guys will pick me up. I have backup if I need it. I’ll be fine.”

  “So you’re not coming back?”

  “That’s up to the boss. You’ll be okay either way. Faraji is bringing the tour to the village this morning and he’ll take you back to the Phoenix complex with them.”

  “What about the Giannis?”

  “They’re fine. They’ve been released.” My shoulders came down at least two inches.

  Bopo shouted to Roger. He nodded. “I have to go.”

  “So that’s it? I have to go?”

  Roger looked down at me and pulled me to him. I could feel the snaps on his shirt digging tiny round impressions into my skin. The kiss was like a thin strip of fire that flicked down my spine and the inside of my thighs and made it hard for me to remain upright. I breathed in Roger’s sweat and the faint remains of herbal aftershave and iodine.

  “Do you need my compass?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I’m not going to take it. Good-bye, Cyd. Be careful.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  I stood in my overshirt outside the hut, watching Roger and Bopo disappear. I realized there were about fifty questions I’d forgotten to ask. Would Bunty gun me down one day in Brooklyn? Did Roger leave me my gun? The other forty-eight were basically different versions of “are we over?” I was so distracted, I almost didn’t hear the Phoenix Tours jeeps approaching. While Faraji and my fellow travelers piled out and toured the village, I said a formal good-bye to the Chief and a friendly one to Shawana. She’d put the gift I’d asked for in my two-cup Tupperware bowl. By the time the tourists were ready to leave, so was I.

  “Faraji?” I said. He stiffened. “As a travel agent, I truly appreciate how difficult it is when someone doesn’t stick with the itinerary. I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused you and the tour. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  He nodded and gestured toward the second jeep. I went pale. The last place I wanted to be was in a confined space with Jason and Emily, who were both giving me death stares. I responded with my most dazzling smile, climbed into the backseat and kept my purse in a defensive position as I waved good-bye to the village. It made me feel like a fashion ambassador to see some of my outfits scattered among the women. Shawana nodded to me as we turned a corner, and then we drove out of sight.

  I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Cassandra, especially since I needed her help. She stood at the entrance in loden green cargo pants that must have cost five hundred dollars. I barely suppressed the desire to tackle her and pull out hanks of her carefully colored hair. Faraji gestured to my original tent. It was hard to believe I’d only been gone one night.

  Once I was inside, I had the distinct feeling someone had been there. I decided it was just paranoia and stashed my carry-on, then put Barry in the sink. With all the low buzzing in the tent, I was hoping for a lizard smorgasbord. What was going to become of him? Could I keep him? Would he like Brooklyn? Did he eat bedbugs? Maybe Roger could arrange it. But that would probably make me just another sleazy smuggler.

  I cleaned up, then put on my last emergency outfit: creamy silk/nylon blend palazzo pants with a pumpkin-colored boat-neck top. I was reaching for my eyelashes when Cassandra raised the tent flap.

  “Someone from the embassy flew in looking for you.”

  Shit. “Is he still here?”

  “He left rather suddenly.”

  I could hear the tiny slap of chameleon tongue against some unlucky insect’s wings. I casually closed the curtain to the bathroom.

  “Look, Cassandra, one businesswoman to another? I’m going to leave the tour, as you requested. But it would really help to make a few phone calls first. Is there anything I can do for you, as a travel professional, that might make up for bending the rules a tiny
bit?” I knew she would say no, but I had to try. I heard Barry slurp up another doomed insect.

  “Fifty-thousand Marriott Rewards points and two British Airways upgrade vouchers,” she said.

  I calculated my relationship with Sally at the Marriott desk. British Airways was a no-brainer.

  “Done. Of course I’ll need phone and Internet to arrange it.”

  She sighed. “Follow me.” She walked me through the camp and into the lodge, delivering me to a room far away from the guests. For a green, au naturel safari owner, Cassandra’s private quarters were strictly American consumer. I guess at this point, she figured I wasn’t in a position to judge her. She was wrong, but I couldn’t say anything—her diesel generator was too loud. She had not one but two flat screens, a full computer setup with desktop and laptop, and inset halogen lighting.

  “Please lock the door when you leave, Miss Redondo.”

  As soon as she was out of sight, I plugged in my phone and booted up her laptop. She had a picture of herself with an elephant as her screen saver. It explained the halogen lighting: in regular daylight, she was due for some organic Botox and she knew it. First I did some quick online research on Madagascan chameleons to make sure I had Barry on the right diet. Note to self: he needed more ants and fewer wings. Then I went straight to Google.

  I found a tiny article in the London Times online, saying a Brooklyn couple had been cleared and released by Customs. I breathed a sigh of relief, and blessed Roger. Beside the story about the Giannis, there were several links on “smuggling” and “airports.” Eager to avoid a call to Joni to say her brother was a wanted, potentially matricidal psychopath, I hit a link, figuring there might be one or two stories: there were hundreds.

  There was a woman who had a real tiger cub mixed up with some stuffed animals in her luggage, and a man who blurted out “I have a monkey in my pants” at LAX. One businessman had eight hundred-seventy endangered tortoises in his suitcases, rolled in socks—eight hundred-seventy. Two men with “visible erections” were stopped at JFK when the erections started squirming. The thought of snakes in any kind of proximity was terrifying enough, but down there? Really? The stories went on and on. I felt validated when I read an envoy from Indonesia had been caught with a chimpanzee in his diplomatic bag, and Dennis had been right about the Chinese using rhino horn dust as an aphrodisiac. Why couldn’t they just use three margaritas like a normal person?