Mabaku sighed and signed off with, “Thank you, Ian. You’ve really made my day.”
CHAPTER 38
The flight was every bit as uncomfortable as Kubu had expected, even though a flight attendant had offered the passenger next to him an alternative seat—an offer that was hastily accepted. After pecking at his tasteless dinner, Kubu had difficulty finding a comfortable position to sleep and anyway was concerned that if he did fall asleep, he would start snoring. So he read every word of the in-flight magazine, perused the emergency procedures, and read The Star, which he borrowed from a neighboring passenger.
Even walking up and down the aisle was problematic, though Kubu attempted it every thirty minutes or so to keep a promise he’d made to Joy, who was concerned about deep vein thrombosis. It was almost impossible to progress without brushing against the shoulders of passengers who were trying to sleep or stepping on feet that had strayed from under the seats. Kubu found himself apologizing at every step of the way.
The situation worsened when the plane landed at Dakar, which Kubu had not realized was a scheduled stop. Nobody left the plane, but quite a few boarded, filling the plane completely. The passenger originally seated next to Kubu was forced to return, and Kubu had to lower the armrest between them, which was no mean feat.
After takeoff, Kubu asked a flight attendant whether, in the interests of harmony in his row and the one in front of him, he could use one of the flight-attendant seats until they started the descent into New York. A quick glance at his bulk convinced her that a small violation of the rules was acceptable, and Kubu at last found a modicum of comfort.
* * *
WHEN THE CAPTAIN announced that they had commenced their descent into New York, and Kubu had returned to his seat, he started to feel excited. The Big Apple! JFK! Manhattan! The Metropolitan Opera! Central Park! The Empire State Building! Forty-Second Street! The Museum of Modern Art! Carnegie Hall! Broadway! All these places that he’d heard about for years were now going to become real.
He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing in the snow, eating roasted chestnuts and warm pretzels on the pavement—sorry, sidewalk. He smiled. He would go and watch people skating at Radio City Music Hall, wrapped in colorful scarves and holding hands, Strauss waltzes playing over the loudspeakers. For the first time in weeks, he felt a pang of hunger as he saw himself walking into a deli and ordering a Reuben sandwich and a blintz, whatever that was, to be washed down by a root beer float. And he would sit there and read the New York Times review of the current opera at the Met, surrounded by visitors from all over the world speaking languages he didn’t understand. How sophisticated. And nobody would know he was just a boy from Mochudi.
* * *
HIS ENTRANCE INTO the land of the free was not quite what he’d anticipated. He noticed that passengers whose skin color was not white seemed to take much longer to clear immigration. And when he reached the front of the line, he was interrogated as though he were a terrorist—until he produced his police identification. “Why didn’t you say so right away,” the immigration officer muttered, banging his stamp onto Kubu’s passport.
Then Kubu was pulled aside by a customs officer with an inquisitive dog and asked if he had any foodstuff. Kubu shook his head. “No, sir,” he said politely.
“Open your suitcase, please.”
Kubu complied, and the officer pulled clothes out and piled them onto the table. Eventually, his hand emerged grasping a small, gift-wrapped parcel.
“What’s in here?”
“I don’t know,” Kubu said, beginning to feel a little guilty. “My wife must have put it in my bag.”
“Open it.”
Before doing so, Kubu read the little tag attached to the parcel. On it was written “I love you” in Joy’s handwriting.
“See, Officer. It is from my wife.”
“Please open it.”
Kubu tore the paper to find a small packet of sliced biltong and another note: “You won’t find any biltong in New York.”
Now Kubu felt embarrassed.
The customs officer told Kubu that he couldn’t bring meat into the country, even if it was cured. He took the packet and threw it into a large barrel. “Next time, remember you can’t bring foodstuffs with you. Welcome to America.” He walked off, following the sniffing dog, leaving Kubu wondering how he was going to get everything back into the suitcase. Next time, he’d watch Joy packing more carefully.
It was just getting light outside when Kubu emerged from the arrivals hall. He followed the signs for the taxi stand and walked through the sliding doors out into a cold New York winter’s day. The few snowflakes didn’t bother him, but he was totally unprepared for the cold. His coat was designed to ward off cold Botswana desert nights, where the temperature rarely fell below freezing. But it was nearly useless for the -3° F temperature that he had stepped into, made much worse by the howling wind that pushed cold air right through it. For the first time in his life, Kubu understood the meaning of the windchill factor. He gasped, thinking his lungs were going to freeze, and staggered back inside the terminal.
He stood recovering for a few moments, then decided he needed to find a place that sold hats and gloves. I couldn’t care what I look like, he thought. I’m going to find a stocking hat—and a big one at that. And if all they have is garden gloves, that’s what I’ll wear.
* * *
“HOW CAN PEOPLE live like this?” Kubu asked the Somali cabdriver, as he unsuccessfully contorted his neck to see the top of the buildings. “Everyone living on top of each other.”
“People don’t see other people. Just concentrate on where they’re going.”
“And the traffic! We’ve moved two blocks in fifteen minutes. How long till we get to the hotel?”
“Nearly there. Only a few more blocks.”
Kubu leaned back and closed his eyes. A power nap when I get to the hotel will be in order, he thought. But there was too much to see to keep his eyes shut, so he spent the rest of the time gazing in awe at the masses of people, the thousands of shops, the lights, and the slow-moving traffic, which was occasionally punctuated by cyclists weaving their way between the cars. And the noise! Everyone seemed to be hooting at everyone else. The cabbie behind nearly went apoplectic when Kubu’s driver looked down for a few moments and failed to close the ten-foot gap ahead of him. As though it made any difference!
Eventually, they made it to the hotel on Thirty-Seventh Street. “Broadway is two blocks in that direction,” the cabbie said, probably trying to be helpful to a fellow African. “If you go in the other direction, you end up at the Hudson.”
“Thank you,” Kubu said, paying him.
“You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”
The check-in was efficient, and Kubu soon found himself unlocking the door to his room on the twenty-seventh floor. He gazed around. I’ve paid over two thousand pula for this? he thought. The bed nearly takes up the whole room, and it’s only a queen.
He put down his suitcase and squeezed past the bed to the bathroom. He stopped, trying to figure out how he could get in and shut the door. It seemed impossible. After a few seconds, he decided that since he was the only person in the room, it didn’t matter if the bathroom door was closed. I understand now, he thought, how there can be so many people in New York. They’re packed in like sardines.
Having a shower also posed logistical problems, and Kubu was worried by the amount of water that found its way outside the tiny stall. He hoped that it wasn’t leaking into the room below. But what can I do? he wondered. The shower door opens inward, and once I’m in the shower, I can’t close it.
After he had dried himself—in itself a difficult undertaking because there was no room to spread his arms—he decided to have a nap, even though it was only eleven in the morning. He reset his watch to local time, set the alarm for twelve thirty, slid between the sheets, and within minutes, the room was filled with the sound of his snores.
CHAPTER 39
It was nearly three o’clock when Kubu woke up. He’d slept far longer than he’d planned and was now feeling very groggy. What happened to the alarm? he wondered. He had to rub his eyes several times before he could focus on the numbers on his watch. The alarm was set for twelve thirty. Had he slept through it? He’d never done that before. He looked closer. It was set for twelve thirty a.m., not p.m. Damn it! In his fumbling, he must have switched the display from a twenty-four-hour clock to the more conventional twelve-hour one.
He squeezed into the bathroom and splashed water onto his face. Then he found the number Newsom had left on his Botswana phone and dialed it.
“Good afternoon. Newsom Consulting.” This was a live version of the voice that invited people to leave a message, Kubu thought.
“Good afternoon. This is Assistant Superintendent David Bengu of the Botswana police. Please, may I speak to Mr. Newsom.”
“I’m afraid he’s not available. May I take a message?”
Kubu left the name and phone number of his hotel, as well as his Botswana cell number. “Please ask Mr. Newsom to contact me as soon as possible. It’s quite urgent. It would be better in the evening, because I’m attending an Interpol conference from tomorrow.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll leave him a message right away.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”
Kubu dressed and prepared to find a clothing store he could afford that had a coat for a real winter. The receptionist gave two recommendations, Marshall’s on Sixth between Eighteenth and Nineteenth, and Big and Tall on Sixth between Fifty-Second and Fifty-Third. As he prepared to brave the cold in search of a cab, she shouted out, “I think Macy’s also has a big and tall. West Thirty-Fourth between Sixth and Seventh.” Kubu waved a thank-you, pulled on his newly acquired stocking hat and gloves, and pushed through the rotating door. Again, the cold nearly took his breath away.
He stood on the sidewalk and raised his hand when a cab approached. It went straight past. A few moments later, the same thing happened. And again. And again. There was a man nearby who had left the hotel a few minutes after Kubu and was also trying to hail a cab, so Kubu turned to him.
“Why don’t those taxis stop?”
“They already have a passenger or are going to pick one up. Look at the cab number on the roof. If it’s got a light, it’s free. If not, you’re out of luck.”
Kubu thanked the man and continued waving his arm. Eventually, a cab veered from the other side of the road and stopped. Kubu moved forward, thankful that he would be protected from the cold for a few minutes. Just as he was about to open the door, the other man nipped in front of him, opened the door, and jumped in. “Have a nice day,” he said as he closed the door. And the cab roared off.
For a moment Kubu stood in astonishment, then he retreated to the sidewalk. I’ll try for another couple of minutes, Kubu thought, then I’ll go inside and warm up. As luck would have it, two cabs stopped to disgorge a family—mother and three kids in one; father and two kids in the other. All the kids must have been under the age of ten, Kubu thought. How do the parents cope?
Kubu stepped forward and guarded the door of the first cab until all had alighted. Then he climbed in, enjoying a blast of hot air. “Big and Tall on Sixth Avenue between Fifty-Second and Fifty-Third,” he said, feeling quite sophisticated. He leaned back and gazed in awe at the crush of people on the sidewalk and what appeared to be a perpetual road jam on the street. How do people do it? he wondered. No space to swing a cat.
* * *
AN HOUR AND a half later, Kubu returned to the hotel sporting an enormous winter coat that felt like something an explorer would wear to the North Pole and a scarf wound many times around his neck, mouth, and nose. He was exhausted. He was carrying two shopping bags from Big and Tall. One contained his thin coat; the other, two pairs of slacks that had fitted off the shelf, something that never happened in Gaborone, and two dressy casual shirts in strong colors. Everything was relatively cheap and well made, and they had given him a special 10 percent discount because it was his first time in New York City. Probably added 20 percent before giving me the discount, he decided. But nevertheless, the shopping was amazing—the service was good, and nobody questioned his credit card from Botswana.
“Are there any messages for me?” Kubu asked the receptionist as he headed for the elevator.
“You’ll have to check your phone, sir. The voice mail is all automated.”
Kubu nodded his thanks.
As he went up in the elevator, he wondered whether Mabaku would authorize the expenditure for a real winter coat. He’d tell the director that he would have frozen to death had he not bought one. Then he grimaced as he thought what Mabaku’s response would be.
When he reached his room, he was excited to see the message light flashing. It took him a few moments to work out how to retrieve the message and, when he did, was disappointed to hear Mabaku’s voice. “I thought you would want to know that the chief in Shoshong was killed by a shot in the back with a small-caliber bullet. Definitely not from the police. Make sure you don’t screw up my speech.”
Kubu was surprised at the message. It meant that someone at the riot wanted the chief dead, no matter what. It wasn’t just a consequence of unruly behavior. He wondered what the implications were.
He tried to find a second message but was disappointed that there were no more. He wondered if Newsom had received his message. So he made himself a cup of tea and phoned the hotel reception for a recommendation for a good steakhouse, not too far away and not too expensive.
“Del Frisco’s,” came the immediate reply. “Sixth Avenue at Forty-Ninth. All cabbies know it.”
“Thank you. Will I need to make a reservation?”
“I’ll do that. How many people for what time?”
I’m sure people in a city like New York eat late, Kubu thought. “How about eight o’clock, just for myself.”
“I’ll take care of that, sir. I’ll call back if there’s any problem.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
To kill the time before dinner, Kubu turned on the TV. For the next hour he flicked through the channels, amazed at how difficult it was to find anything worth watching, despite there being a seemingly infinite number of stations. When he did find something that caught his interest, the program was interrupted every few minutes by advertisements. No wonder America is a consumer nation, he thought. I’m sure people buy stuff in the hopes that the ads will go away!
Eventually, he turned the TV off and lay down for another brief power nap—being careful to make sure his alarm was properly set.
* * *
THIS TIME, KUBU had little difficulty hailing a cab, and he arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. Fortunately, they were able to seat him immediately on the third floor. He gazed around at the wooded opulence. Three tiers of dining, chandeliers, thousands of bottles of wine, and immense windows with a view onto the city’s skyscrapers. Amazing, he thought. Probably more people lived in one of those buildings than lived in the whole of Gaborone.
He perused the immense drinks list, wincing at the prices. He’d planned to limit himself to two glasses of wine, but the sight of exotic cocktails made him change his mind. One cocktail and one glass of wine, he thought.
He ordered a pomegranate martini and a glass of a California Cabernet Sauvignon that he’d never heard of to enjoy with his steak. About 140 pula for the martini and 100 pula for a glass of wine! He could get a bottle of a decent South African for that price. Some of these bottles were over $1,000! He couldn’t imagine that they were really worth it. He did a quick calculation: $1,000 was equal to about 10,000 pula. For that, he could buy between sixty and eighty good South African reds. He shook his head. Why would anyone spend that sort of money for only one bottle, when they could have so many?
Then he turned to the menu. His mouth watered at the pictures and descriptions, even thoug
h he didn’t understand some of it. Tchoupitoulas sauce? Transmontanous caviar? Maque choux corn? Chateau potatoes? Fortunately, the steak dishes needed no elaboration, and he understood all of them except for the wagyu longbone, which anyway was out of his price range at $95, even though it was for thirty-two ounces. He scratched his head. What was thirty-two ounces in real measurements? I think it’s about a kilogram, he thought. That’s a lot!
Eventually, he made up his mind. “I’ve never had oysters before,” he told the waiter. “So I’d like to have them for a starter. On the half shell. Then I’ll have the porterhouse—medium rare, please.”
“Anything on the side, sir?”
“I’m not sure I know what that means?”
“You know, like vegetables.”
“The steak doesn’t come with vegetables?” Kubu asked.
“No, sir. They’re extra.”
Kubu glanced quickly at the menu again and ordered asparagus and sautéed mushrooms. As the waiter walked away, Kubu added up what this was going to cost. A martini and a glass of wine—$30. Oysters—$20. Porterhouse—$60. Veggies—$29. And probably $15 for dessert and coffee. Total about $155 before the tip. That was 20 percent, if the hotel receptionist was to be believed—another $30. He shook his head. This was going to cost him nearly 2,000 pula. For one meal!
The glimmer of a smile crossed his face. It wasn’t going to cost him 2,000 pula. It was going to cost Director Mabaku 2,000 pula. “Serves him right for sending me away when I should be trying to find my father’s murderer,” he said out loud.
That thought immediately soured the evening. He’d put Wilmon’s death out of his mind from the moment he’d boarded the South African Airways flight in Johannesburg. On arriving in New York, he’d been so overwhelmed by the whole environment—its size, its difference, its reputation—that he hadn’t thought about it then either. But now, it insinuated itself once again into his head, and he knew it would be difficult to dislodge. Suddenly, the food didn’t sound as appetizing as it had a few minutes earlier, and he didn’t feel as hungry.
A Death in the Family Page 17