I looked at a poorly worded legal form with a shaky “X” in the signature line. It looked like a bad translation of a life insurance form. “Is this life insurance?”
“Bloody genius, isn’t it? Selling fake life insurance to our upstanding illiterate San elders that don’t have two pennies to scrape together to buy a loaf of bread.”
“How do you take it?”
Jon shook his head and shrugged. “I can’t, actually.” He looked down at his watch. “Listen, I have a stop to make. I’ll see you back at my place just now.”
“No problem. Take your time. Do you need anything?”
“No. Not a thing.” He hesitated. “One hour and forty-seven minutes.”
“That’s what time you’ll be home?”
“No, that’s how long it will be before that pure ambrosia hits your lips. Can you stand it?”
I smiled. “I’ll try.”
“Good. See you just now.” He tapped the glass of his watch face. “Now, now, in fact.” He looked up at me. “Come to think of it, I have something to show you.”
—
Jon and I bounced in our seats as his vehicle bumped along the track next to the river heading toward the Zambian border. He parked in the shade of a large acacia, and we got out and Jon read the meter stick.
“Good ole Draadie. Right on the money. Up a whole fifteen centimeters from yesterday’s ten.”
“What does that mean?”
“A flood.”
“Do you do anything to prepare for a flood?”
“It’s hard to cover the borders of the parks. Poachers get in and out by boat from many more access points. And the ivory deals get harder to locate.”
“How will you deal with that?”
“Better information. But, if they were smart, they’d head to the delta.”
“What if I were to help from the air? Wouldn’t wings make a difference?”
Jon shook his head. “Too conspicuous. We’re going to get the next deal from the Zambian side this time. Right over the border from Nigel’s place in Singalamwe. We’ve got their police involved this time.” Jon took my hand. “Come on. It’s getting dark. Gotta show you my ticket to getting out of here.”
We got back in the truck and turned down the river road toward the Catholic mission and the fish farm. As we passed the mission, Jon’s eyes lit up.
“Vera is my sanity, you know.”
“Who is Vera?”
“She will host the Sated Rabbit.”
“Along the river here?”
“Stunning view.”
“So, who is she? You never mentioned her before.” I suddenly realized that Jon could easily have had a life that I didn’t know anything about. But surely Nigel would have mentioned something if Jon had a girlfriend. Familiar feelings of jealousy arose at the thought of Jon having a woman in his life. Why hadn’t Nigel mentioned Vera?
“She’s my houseboat.”
I tried to hide my relief in surprise and asked, “You have a houseboat?”
Jon nodded with a faraway look in his eyes. “One of these days, Vera and I are going to be taking a very long trip.”
“Sounds exciting.” I almost laughed at how flustered I still was.
“Just about finished kitting her out when the Zambians pinched the solar panel last month. Got it on back order for next month as well as a diesel engine. But she’s mostly ready. Just installed an on-demand Geyser. Wait till you see the galley.”
We drove slowly down a bumpy chalky road just as the sun was setting. We parked next to the river and got out as the enormous red sun sank into the river. The glossy ibis passed and called hau di dau as it went. There in front of us was an aluminum pontoon houseboat with a covered deck that had two chairs and a roof tent on the top deck.
Jon waved a hand in front of the boat. “If it weren’t for Horseshoe and Vera, I’d have been in a straitjacket long ago.” He stepped aboard, took my hand, and pulled me onto the deck. “Come, let’s have a rock shandy.”
“Thought you said there was no power.”
“Been running the fridge battery down for occasions such as this.”
Jon fumbled with some keys, opened up a locked area at the back of the boat, and turned on a small lightbulb inside.
I touched my hand to the rich, red hardwood walls. “Wow, is this mahogany?”
“Rhodesian teak, actually. Some friends in Vic Falls refurbish old railway sleeper ties and gave me some of the off cuts.” He rubbed the wall. “Nice, eh?”
I looked around at the small but stylish galley, which included a gas oven. “Perfect for rabbit.”
“Precisely!” He smiled dreamily. “I have big plans for Vera and myself. I might have to expand the galley, though.”
I leaned against the wall and smiled. Despite all the failures around him, Jon still had enough in him to keep his own dreams alive. I couldn’t help but be drawn in by that. “Where to first?”
“Wanted to take her down to Hippo for the Zambezi Classic, but that didn’t work out.”
“What’s second on the list?”
“I’ll take her down to the eastern floodplain for a test run. Then onto the Chobe. Wanna come with?”
“I’d love to.” I looked out at the fast-flowing golden river, imagining untying the boat and just letting the river take us away.
As Jon searched in his twelve-volt fridge for ingredients, I couldn’t help but place myself in the fantasy, remembering the ad that I’d seen in that old conservation magazine in the ministry office—Zambezi River Tours. It struck me that the reality was much more alluring than the photo.
Jon poured soda and bitter lemon with some drops of bitters on top. He handed me a glass and held out his. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” We clinked glasses. “To Vera,” he said.
“And to the Sated Rabbit,” I countered with a smile.
“Yes!” He took a sip. “Come on, we have to sit on top for this.”
Jon took my drink and helped me up the small ladder to the upper deck. At the top, the higher vantage afforded an even more stunning view, more striking than those at any of the lodges I had seen downriver. This stretch of the Zambezi, just south of the border of Zambia, was wild and untamed—gnarled mangrove trees lined the Zambian side of the bank; sand banks and tree islands dotted the river down as far as the bend to Katima with not a hint of civilization. The water roared from the rocky rapids upstream just under the bridge to Zambia.
In the far right corner of the boat was an L-shaped reed wall built onto the open deck. I walked around the wall and stood over a large oval metal tub. “Wow, that’s some bath.”
Jon shrugged and put a light hand on my shoulder. “Any fool can be uncomfortable in the bush.”
My eyes followed the copper piping that led below deck. “And hot water.”
“Of course. Just hooked up the Geyser yesterday.”
“I might ask for your advice on that.”
He pulled my hair to one side. “Might need a pitcher for rinsing all this lovely hair, though,” he whispered as he let my hair go and leaned against the railing. “Hadn’t accounted for that.” He took a sip of his drink. “I must remember to pick one up at the Dollar Store.” He rubbed his hair. “There are benefits to hair loss.”
I laughed. “Your hair isn’t thinning.”
“You Americans are worse liars than I thought.”
“You really have it in for us, don’t you?”
“I’ve had some bad experiences, I can promise you.”
I stood next to him with our arms touching as we looked out at the river, leaning against the railing, my head still tingling from the touch of his hand on my hair. “I hope I can at least provide a sample size of one decent American.”
He laughed and shifted his weight, putting a hand over mine, looking at me. “I’m leaving that possibility open.”
I looked out at the water again. As Jon drew his fingers down the veins of my hand, I felt the tranquility of the setting and
the noise of the river offering an escape to counter the frustrating realities, both political and practical. As much as I wanted to, I didn’t dare turn toward him or we would have fallen into a kiss.
He took his hand away and combed it through his hair. I sensed that we both were hesitating, like we had found ourselves in this position too early and didn’t know how to navigate it. We stood there awkwardly, each waiting for the other to shift their weight, allowing us to step away tactfully.
There was a loud rustle of vegetation along the shore to our right that broke the uncomfortable dynamic. We both ducked down to see that something large was moving slowly through the reeds.
Jon put a finger to his lips, took my hand, and led me down the stairs. He locked the boat and we stepped off onto the rise above the riverbank and waited to see what would emerge from the papyrus.
Chapter 29
We climbed down the bank as we watched a man standing in a mokoro pole his way through the dense reeds and paddle to shore. Jon called down to the man, “Need any help down there?”
The man jerked his head up to see us standing on the bank just above him. It was Alvares. “Oh, didn’t see you there.” Flustered, he climbed out of the mokoro and approached us through the reeds. Behind him, bags of mealie meal lined the bottom of the boat. A woman sat on one of the bags at the back, holding her hand over her face.
“Ah, Alvares! Serenading the great gray greasy Zambezi at night, are you?” Jon said.
“Figured you for a Kipling fan.” Breathless, Alvares held his hand out. “Howzit?”
Jon shook his hand suspiciously. “Nothing less than. So, what brings you out here on this pleasant evening? Bit of sightseeing?” He waved to the woman. “Good evening, Chastity!”
The woman turned away, still holding a hand over her face.
“A fine night for a lullaby across the Zambezi!” Jon chortled. “How’s the baby?”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Had to take the guys back across the border.” Alvares nervously ran a hand through his slick thinning hair. “Got some new ones working at the deli.”
Jon assessed the bags of meal from afar. “Zambian cashiers? I hear they’re remarkably diligent at their task.” He pointed at the bags. “Do rations come with the job?” he asked sarcastically. “I’m sure their wives are happy. Should throw in some of that U.S. aid cooking oil—God knows it’s not being handed out for free. It goes right off the donation trunk and into the looters’ hands. But it’s pretty easy to get hold of for a small fee—it’s all relative, really. Shame. Those Americans do have good intentions.”
Poking out from underneath the bags were black triangular shapes like the butts of automatic weapons.
Alvares shifted the bags to cover the cargo underneath. “It keeps their fingers out of the till, if that’s what you mean.”
Jon laughed. “Right. Well, bloody good of you to escort them.”
“If I didn’t, no telling what they’d get up to on this river.”
“No telling,” Jon spat under his breath and then changed his tactic suddenly. “Listen, gotta run, but cheers, hey?”
I hesitated, confused as to why Jon didn’t ask what else was in the boat.
Alvares nodded in relief. “Cheers.”
Alvares watched us nervously from the riverbank as we got into Jon’s truck and drove away.
“Christ!” Jon pounded his fist on the steering wheel in frustration.
“Why didn’t you ask to see what was in the boat?”
“I’ve been through this a number of times, trust me. Weapons are not my jurisdiction, and just as they dropped our photos of Geldenhuis, if I make inroads outside of my jurisdiction, they could throw this out as well.”
“But arms are being traded for ivory throughout Africa. And anyway, aren’t poaching weapons within your jurisdiction?”
“Can’t prove they’re poaching weapons, can we? This could easily be a drug or diamond case. We need to catch this guy properly.”
“So, who can you go to?”
“I’m going straight to the police and hope they catch him in the act. I’ll drop you off at your car. Don’t want them to see you tied into all this.”
“Okay.”
“See you at the house just now.”
It took about ten minutes to get to Jon’s place, where I pulled into the driveway and waited for him to show up. I made a quick call to Craig to let him know that Jon had recognized Ernest as the man in the photo with Geldenhuis. I also told him what was going on with Alvares. Whatever the local jurisdiction was, I wanted WIA to know about it, and I wanted to make sure that others knew about Alvares being found on the road last night in case it turned out to be important to our case. Now that there were weapons tied into the mix, things were that much more complicated—and dangerous.
Twenty minutes later, Jon showed up. He got out and looked up and down the street like he was looking for someone, and then walked over to me.
“How did it go with the police?” I asked as I got out of my car.
Jon squinted into the darkness up the road. “Nigel here yet?”
I shook my head. “Haven’t seen him.”
“I spoke to the guys,” he whispered. “They’re on their way over there.”
I followed Jon through the dusty gray yard toward the house. Even in the dark, I could see that there was only a sprig or two of green within the entire fenced area.
“Don’t mind the empty garden.” Jon touched his temple. “My gardener doesn’t have much upstairs. I think the empty space soothes him—poor cretin.”
I laughed. I could tell he wasn’t going to give me any more details about how it went with the police, so I let it go for now.
Jon walked me inside his large and very empty government-issue home. “Oh, and don’t be alarmed at the lack of furniture. Courtesy of the Zambians. Took every damn thing I had but my prized fly that won me the largest tiger fish in the Zambezi. At least they showed me that kernel of respect.” He showed me to a small room with a bed. “Make yourself at home. Not that this is any kind of home for a sane person. The neighborhood dogs will ruin your night, I promise you.”
I laughed and put my bag on the bed. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Tea? Or perhaps at this hour you drinking types would prefer a beer. I’m sure Nigel would join you.”
“I’ll have tea first. Sounds great.”
Jon led me through to the kitchen, where torn screens wafted through broken louvers.
I sat down at the table in front of a moldy pile of dried sausage.
Jon lit the stove under the kettle.
I couldn’t help but ask one more question. “Do you think they’ll get there in time?” I asked casually, staring at the rotting meat, wondering why it was there and whether it was evidence of some kind.
“Bloody better.” He held up a box of Lucky Strikes. “Do you mind?”
“Please, go ahead.” I nodded, amazed that I hadn’t seen him smoke earlier.
Jon lit his cigarette, inhaled, and then exhaled discreetly upward and away from me. He started fidgeting as if all of the concerns of Katima were crashing back down on him. I had never seen him quite this on edge.
I turned my attention to the newspaper under the moldy meat. The headlines were several months old, so the meat had probably been sitting there for some time. I scanned a headline—something about the head of the game-capture division stealing sable antelope and selling them on the black market.
Jon nodded toward the sausage with a distant smile. “Wonderful wors. Made it on my mate’s farm south of Windhoek. Can’t get better than the flesh of a gemsbok.”
I didn’t have the nerve to ask if he thought the grizzled green sausage was still edible. I didn’t want to know, nor did I want to have to back out of a taste test. I was saved by a knock at the door.
“Come in!” Jon called from the kitchen through to the front door.
Nigel walked in with a six-pack of Tafel Lager unde
r his arm. “Right, Jon, your place still looks as empty as Katima Hardware. I thought you were getting some furniture delivered today.”
“Despite Alvares’s claim, the only thing a Zambian knows how to be thorough about is stealing. Who knows, maybe they stole my new furniture before it even arrived.”
Nigel laughed, cracking open a beer and handing it to me. “Cheers.”
“Thanks, but I’ll have tea first. I’m a little dehydrated.”
“Smart.” Nigel held the bottle up to toast and then took a large swig while Jon went about preparing his kitchen for the roast.
I looked around for something I could do. “Can I chop anything?”
Jon took a cutting board and knife and placed them on the table in front of me. Then he took a large butternut squash that had been sitting next to the wors and placed it on the cutting board.
“How would you like this cut?”
“Cubes. We’ll steam it with a bit of butter.” He put his fingers to his mouth and kissed them. “Beautiful!”
Nigel sat down with me while I started chopping. “Would you like some help with that?”
“That’s okay. I got it,” I said, though chopping butternut had never been my forte.
Jon started rubbing garlic reverently into a large leg of lamb. “You can’t believe it, hey, Nigel? Natembo drove in for a service at the government garage and when he went back in to pick up the vehicle, it was sitting on blocks with no tires.”
Nigel laughed. “Bloody typical.”
Jon giggled. “You should’ve seen the smoke coming out of his ears when they told him that his tires were on back order.”
I struggled with my chopping. “So, I gather he had tires going in?”
“Of course he drove in with four bloody tires. How else would he have gotten the vehicle there?”
Smiling, I shook my head. “How do you stay sane?”
Jon put on a ghostlike expression. “Don’t get me started.”
The kettle whistled and Jon put down his garlic and poured me some rooibos tea. “Milk and sugar?”
“Sure.”
He brought the mug over with a teaspoon and put it down. “I don’t know how long you like your tea to steep.”
Ivory Ghosts Page 18