by Tony Park
‘Why is it,’ Michelle asked rhetorically, ‘that the busier a border post is, the slower the clerks work?’ An hour and a half later the Land Rover rolled onto the road and railway bridge that spanned the gorge between the countries. A bungee jumper leapt off the structure and, after a few bounces, ended up dangling like a tea bag over the one hundred and eleven metre drop.
‘I can think of better ways to part with a hundred bucks,’ Shane said.
Livingstone, on the Zambian side, was the fortunate twin sister of her Zimbabwean counterpart – an old girl who had suddenly undergone an extreme makeover. Zambia’s infrastructure and economy had crumbled away under decades of mismanagement after majority rule was granted to the former Northern Rhodesia in the sixties. The newly independent Zimbabwe had stolen a march on her poor neighbour after independence and the end of the bush war in 1980. Tourism had boomed in Victoria Falls as Livingstone had all but slid into the Zambezi River.
‘Wow, this place is heaving with people,’ Michelle said as they passed sign after sign offering accommodation and tourist activities, in search of somewhere to stay. Livingstone was undergoing a facelift on a grand scale, with new hotels and shops under construction and once-flaking old colonial homes being rejuvenated with paint and money, to be reborn as curio shops and cafes. There were still the moneychangers and the touts, but unlike the Zimbabwean side, there seemed to be more than enough tourists for the enterprising and the criminal to fleece.
African music blared from stores; backpackers wandered the streets consulting guidebooks, and a policeman with an AK 47 slung over his shoulder kept an eye on some youths leaning against parked cars. Livingstone was on the up while her sister city was on the slide, but it would still take some time before the Zambian side attained the same manicured finish that Victoria Falls had had in her heyday, and it would take time for the Zimbabwean side to fall as far into disrepair as Livingstone once had.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Michelle asked, handing Shane a dewy bottle of cold Coca-Cola as he leaned against the truck. They had stopped at a service station to fill up the Land Rover and the two hundred litre drum.
‘Africa.’
‘Some people would say there’s not much to smile about here. Rising international debt, AIDS, corruption, megalomania, tribal violence.’
‘The beat, the noise, the smell, the vibe. It’s like here and Vic Falls. Yesterday’s economic basket case is tomorrow’s tourism powerhouse.’
‘Or vice versa,’ she said.
‘Depends which way you look at it, I suppose.’ He paid the pump attendant with tens of thousands of Zambian kwacha. The skyrocketing inflation and devaluation of currency in Zambia used to be a source of jokes in Zimbabwe, but even if he could have bought diesel back on their side of the border he would have been counting out millions of Zimbabwe dollars.
They checked into separate rondavels at a small budget lodge on the banks of the Maramba River, a tributary of the Zambezi overgrown with weeds. What the river lacked in water, it made up for in birdlife. Michelle would have been happy sitting by the swimming pool with her field guide to southern African birds by her side, but there was a bigger natural marvel to take in.
They drove back to the Falls and walked along a winding track until they came to the edge of the drop-off, where they stared in awe at the millions of litres of foaming water falling away beneath them. On an island in the middle of the fast-flowing Zambezi, wild-eyed noisy backpackers leapt from a rock into a pool perched near the top of the gorge, white water roaring past them on either side.
‘That makes what you do for a living look safe,’ Michelle said to Shane.
‘What’s life without a little risk?’
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Still, I’ve never not done something because I was afraid of the risks or consequences.’
That made her think about Fletcher. She had been more than disappointed when she’d arrived at Isilwane to find Fletcher had left for Bulawayo. Deflated was a better word. She had been full of excitement, bursting with a mix of pleasure, curiosity and hope about what their trip to the Falls would involve, where it would take the two of them.
She’d sensed from Shane’s lack of conversation on the drive up that he was not exactly thrilled about being lumbered with her. Fletcher’s note had been full of apologies and promises to make amends, as well as three hundred American dollars in crisp new bills. That had weirded her out at first. Her initial reaction was that he was treating her like some kind of kept woman, but the more she analysed the gesture, and Fletcher, the more she realised he was just trying to do the right thing. He had explained in the note that he wanted her to spend the money on some clothes – which would have normally been out of her budgetary means – and a nice hotel. It was, he had said, money that he would have spent on her, rather than an advance on her salary. He assured her, too, that the cash was from his personal fund, and not from the money Chuck had donated to fund wildlife research.
She wished she could appreciate the full magnificence of the Falls, but she was too lost in thought. She had been afraid of the risks and the consequences of sleeping with Fletcher – workplace romances were hard enough in the Western world, let alone the isolated reaches of Africa – yet she had still gone ahead and done it. And now he was paying her extra.
In the shop in Victoria Falls, where she had tried on the dress while Shane waited for her (bored out of his skin, she imagined), she had made another rash decision – or rather, changed her mind. On the road, she had decided she would return the money, along with some polite advice to Fletcher about the inappropriateness of giving a girl money after sex. However, when she’d looked at the price tag on the dress she had decided to use it. Did that make her cheap, she wondered, or, in a funny way, even more self-assured – acknowledging that she could take his money and not feel like a tramp? She hadn’t bought herself anything nice in two years and, although she had trouble admitting it to herself, doing so made her feel special.
She walked beside Shane away from the Falls, the spray delightfully cool on her bare arms and the back of her neck, back to the Land Rover. She still had change from the three hundred – more than enough to find a nice hotel room – but she had drawn the line at using Fletcher’s funds to stay somewhere different from Shane. That would have been downright rude.
‘The cook gave me a list of things he can’t get in Zimbabwe. I have to find a supermarket – do you want me to drop you at the lodge?’ he asked her as they neared their accommodation.
‘No, I’ll come with you, if you want me to, that is.’
He shrugged. A man of few emotions, as well as words.
Shane parked the Land Rover outside the Barclays Bank in the centre of Livingstone town and they were immediately surrounded by a gang of young boys, all jostling and calling for attention. ‘Let me mind your car, sah!’
Michelle looked at an urchin, dressed in the dirty remnants of shorts and a T-shirt. His forehead was creased with a nasty cut, which wept blood and clear fluid. ‘How did you do that?’ Michelle asked.
‘One of the older boys hit me,’ the lad said. ‘He tried to take money from me.’
‘Oh my God, that’s terrible,’ she said, and looked across at Shane.
Shane peeled off five thousand kwacha – the equivalent of one American dollar – and handed it to the boy. ‘There’ll be more if the truck’s still here when we get back. Which boy hurt you?’
The youth pointed across the square to an older teenager affecting a rapper’s beanie despite the heat. Shane nodded and started walking across to the other boy, who had been watching the transaction but now pretended to be engrossed in a chat with another young man.
Michelle watched and waited for Shane to return. Other youngsters pestered her to buy carved wooden elephants and precious rubies and emeralds. She declined, politely and persistently, knowing full well the ‘precious’ stones were ground-up glass from broken
traffic lights. She didn’t hear what passed between Shane and the standover merchant but, after a brief moment of concern when the teenager squared up to the taller man, the boy turned and walked away from the car park.
‘What did you say to him?’ she asked as they crossed the busy main road.
‘Enough.’
It seemed he was being only as polite as he had to in order to discharge some duty to his boss. Still, the last thing she wanted was for Shane to become interested in her. It was hard enough working out how to deal with one man, let alone two. Their visit to the cluttered, fragrant, eclectic Indian trader’s store that sold everything from coriander to coffins, took her mind off men for the moment, though the following trip to the crowded OK Supermarket reminded her of her mother’s sage observation that men were useless shoppers. Shane had left the cook’s list in the Land Rover, and had decided he could remember enough of it.
‘Maybe you’ll be overseeing the kitchen from now on?’ he commented, as she insisted that he buy two large sacks of potatoes, instead of one.
She scoffed. ‘I can barely boil an egg. Besides, what makes you think I’m moving to Isilwane?’
He shrugged and pushed the wonky, overloaded cart down the aisle. As they neared the checkout, the lights went out in the supermarket. Zambia might be moving ahead faster than Zimbabwe, but it was still part of Africa.
After waiting half an hour in the queue for the power to come back on and the tills to work again, they loaded their groceries into the Land Rover. Their young car guard was grinning in anticipation and there was no sign of the older thug. Shane told him to stay with the vehicle a little longer. ‘Maybe we can get a decent coffee in this town,’ he said to Michelle. They started walking back down the main road in the direction of the Falls.
‘These houses must have been beautiful in their day,’ Michelle said, as they passed a third colonial-era villa under renovation.
They stopped outside another old home, which was now a cafe and curio gallery. While they waited for a latte and a cappuccino, Michelle browsed amongst the carvings, jewellery and printed fabrics. She tried on a bracelet of twisted brass and copper, holding it up to the light.
‘Nice,’ Shane said. ‘Coffees are ready.’
She paid for the bangle and joined him at an outdoor table in a shady garden. Water bubbled in an ornamental pond beside them. ‘This place is an oasis,’ she said.
He sipped his cappuccino and closed his eyes. ‘You should ask Fletcher to buy an espresso machine for the lodge.’
‘What makes you think he’d listen to what I say?’
‘The way he looks at you, you could make him jump through a hoop and fetch your slippers.’
She laughed, wondering where that had come from. ‘I think you might be reading too much into things.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re staying at the lodge, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but only for a couple of days. I don’t have any plans on moving in full-time, Shane.’
‘I’m guessing it’s a lot nicer than wherever you live at Main Camp.’
He was right, of course, but she didn’t like his inference that she was selling out in some way. ‘I’m my own person. I’ll live where I want to.’
‘Sure, but wouldn’t you prefer a four-poster, a swimming pool and a Jacuzzi?’
The waitress came and cleared away their empty cups, leaving the bill. Shane reached for it but Michelle beat him to it, snatching up the piece of paper. It allowed her to ignore his last question.
‘Boss paying for that too?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair.
She scrutinised him. Had he peeked inside the envelope Fletcher had left for her and seen the three hundred bucks? God, she hoped not. Suddenly she felt cheap again, though he was right about her wanting to move into the lodge. She’d started allowing herself to fantasise about it that morning, lying in her single bed at Nantwich after Fletcher had left.
‘He’s given me some money for expenses, yes.’
‘For both of us, or just you?’
‘As a matter of fact, he told me to pay for both our hotel rooms and left some money for that,’ she lied.
‘Really? He didn’t say anything to me about it. I should have checked us into the five-star joint down at the Falls.’
She laughed. It was good to see Shane Castle off balance for a change.
Later, over a simple dinner of grilled bream and chips in the lodge’s open-walled restaurant, she said, ‘I had a nice day, Shane. Thanks for bringing me.’
‘Me too,’ he said, meaning it, though he felt bad for baiting her in the coffee shop.
‘I’m sorry if I came across as rude last night, talking about you killing people for a living.’
‘It’s cool.’
‘It’s just that . . . what I was trying to say was, do you think you’ll spend your whole life hunting other people? Being a soldier?’
‘I hope not. You’d have to be a nutter to want to go out and kill people.’
‘And you’re not?’
He smiled. ‘It’s a catch-22 situation. If you’re crazy enough to want to kill people, the army won’t let you join. However, when you do join, you have to be able to do it. That’s the difference.’
‘Sounds like a fine line to me,’ she said, sipping her South African white.
‘What I’d like,’ he said, ‘is a little piece of Africa all of my own. A game reserve or a farm.’
‘For hunting?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no problems with what Fletcher and his clients do, but I’ve got no urge to kill for sport.’
‘Just for business.’
‘Now you’re teasing.’
‘You know, I was staunchly anti-Iraq,’ she said.
‘So was I. My guys and I killed plenty of Iraqis.’
‘That’s not very funny. I marched.’
‘I fought. And no, it wasn’t very funny at all. But it was my job. I did it as well as I could, and we didn’t use any more force than we had to.’
‘Aren’t you worried about the danger? Are you ever frightened?’
‘Sometimes – to both. Sometimes war is as boring as hell. Hours, days, weeks of watching, waiting, doing nothing at all. But once things start happening, instinct and training take over from fear.’
She shook her head. ‘I could never kill another human being.’
‘Everyone is capable of killing.’
‘Not me.’
‘What about if you had a family – kids – and they were being threatened, and you had to kill to save them?’
‘I don’t have kids and don’t intend on having any in the near future.’
‘No wedding bells with Fletcher?’
She pursed her lips, as though the question were none of his business. ‘Fletcher and I are friends. Good friends. And you changed the subject. How do you feel, after you’ve killed someone?’
He drained his wine glass. ‘Another bottle?’
‘If it’ll make you talk.’
‘Maybe you should be getting to bed.’
‘I’m a big girl. I decide when I’m going to bed.’ She summoned a waiter with a wave. ‘Same again, please.’
He looked down at his glass as the waiter refilled it.
‘Shane, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘Nothing,’ he said.
She looked at him quizzically.
‘You asked what I feel, after I’ve killed someone. Nothing. That’s what I feel.’
She sipped her drink, and he wished she would say something right then, but she stayed silent. It was an interrogation technique, though he doubted she knew about such things. If she stayed silent he might say something more, just to fill the void. ‘I guess that sounds pretty weird, huh?’
She shook her head. ‘At least you’re honest. But you must feel something. I don’t know – sad . . . elated that you’ve survived?’
He looked into her beautiful, innocent eyes. ‘If I try to analyse it, the fighting, the ri
sk, the action; all produce some intense emotions. Fear, elation, the whole box and dice. But when I think of the men who’ve died, the ones I’ve killed, I feel nothing for them. And that worries me.’
Fool, he told himself. Why was he going on like this? Acting like some headcase. He had to get out of this situation before it got out of control. He heard a munching noise behind him, from across the weedy river. ‘Hey, look!’
She followed his line of sight and saw the elephants, feeding under the cover of darkness. They watched in silence, along with the other dozen patrons in the restaurant, as the big matriarch waddled down the slope to suck from a gap in the choking water hyacinth. Behind her, a tiny baby half walked, half belly-skidded to her side.
Shane looked at the simple beauty of the family feeding and drinking together, caring for each other, watching out for each other, and felt a lump rise in his throat. Get a fucking grip, he said to himself. He thanked God for the darkness, and the distraction.
In the shower, as Michelle soaped herself and touched the tenderness in her armpits and at the tops of her legs where the parachute harnesses had bitten, she thought about Shane.
In the aeroplane, in the dress shop, in the supermarket, she’d felt totally at ease with him, and she realised now that for those brief few moments she had stopped agonising over her blossoming relationship with Fletcher and just enjoyed being in a man’s company.
She was not scared of him – worried that he might be some sort of psychopathic killer – but she was acutely aware that he was suppressing things more terrible than she could imagine, and that she should not try to coax him into revealing any more to her. It was not fair on him, her, or even Fletcher.
Instead of thinking about the future she let her mind drift back to the previous night. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sensation of the hot jets of water pummelling her body, and of her own touch.