“Yes,” he replied, “he is the very one.” We carried on driving until we got to the boundary of the huge property and turned left. We drove alongside the imposing wall until we passed a huge black electric gate. Sitting outside was a security guard similar to the one I had seen sleeping in the early morning outside the front of the property on the beach. Strapped around his shoulder was an AK.47 machine gun. Hassan waved at the guard who responded by smiling and waving back.
“Why does this man have so many guards Hassan?” I asked as we drove past the gate. Again he shook his head. “Ahh this man, Mr da Costa,” he said, “sure, he doesn't want anyone to get inside that property. He is too cheeky!”
“Is he?” I asked.
“Very cheeky, very cheeky.” I shrugged my shoulders and we drove on beyond the stone wall and back onto the main tar that lead down the coast to the next town. Ten minutes later we arrived in the small fishing village of Jambiani. It had a similar feeling to Paje with the main population’s housing to the right and the hotels and lodges to the left. “Where would you like to go Mr Jason?” asked Hassan.
“Just take me for a bit of a drive around and then maybe a hotel where I can have a drink.” I replied. He did just that and we drove around for a while before he dropped me at a beachside resort called Jambiani Paradise. Hassan insisted on waiting in the taxi while I went inside. I told him that I would send a Coca Cola out to him with one of the waiters, to which he agreed happily. Although the resort was clean and well maintained, it was different to Paje in that there wasn't as much vegetation between the main road and the sea. Still, there was a pleasant round bar set under thatch, which I decided would suit me fine for a few hours. I ordered a Safari beer for myself and a coke for Hassan. I told the waiter to take it to him in the cab. There were a few German tourists sitting on the opposite side of the bar but they were deep in a conversation I couldn't understand, and I was quite happy to sit in the breeze and quietly drink my beer. I spent the afternoon there, occasionally talking to the barman, and taking in the scenery until I looked at my watch and saw that it had just gone 4pm. It was time to head back to Paje and get ready for the evening with Richard. I paid my bill and made my way back to Hassan who was by then asleep in his taxi. I woke him and we slowly drove back up north, passing the big stone wall and eventually arriving in Paje.
He showed me the main village with all its stores and tiny houses set amongst the palms and then I told him it was time for me to return to my hotel. We drove through the reed gates and parked at the reception. I gave Hassan three US$20 notes to which his eyes almost bulged out of his face. “Thank you, Mr Jason. Very kind, thanks very much,” he said gratefully. “Thank you Hassan, I'll call you if I need you again,” I said as I got out of the car. Cautiously, I made my way up the pathways towards my room. I really didn't want to run into Ineke or Helen again, especially as I had told them I wouldn't be back till later. Thankfully I didn't see them and I made it back to my room alone. By the time I had showered and changed it was 5.40pm and starting to darken outside.
If the previous evening was anything to go by, the two ladies would only arrive at the bar after dinner so I made my way down there to have a beer and wait for Richard to arrive. I was greeted by the smiling face of Robson, the barman who had been there the previous evening. He greeted me in his broken English and offered me a cold Safari which I accepted. We sat quietly talking to each other until I heard the sound of the quad bike racing down the beach towards us. The sound of the engine got louder and louder until it stopped nearby. Twenty seconds later, Richard Lewer-Allen stooped his tall frame under the coloured lights of the beach bar and stepped in. He was looking particularly smart that evening and was beaming from ear to ear. “Good evening gentlemen!” he said as he stepped up and pulled out a barstool.
“How’re you doing Rich?” I asked.
“Very well thanks,” he replied. He glanced at his watch briefly. “Well, I think we should have a quick drink before we leave,” he said, “is that ok with you Jase?”
“That's fine Rich, let’s do that,” I replied. He ordered two more Safaris and as we sat there chatting I couldn’t help notice that he looked a little flushed and excited. Perhaps he caught the sun this morning when we were fishing? I thought, or maybe he’s just had a fat line of coke? He drummed his fingers impatiently on the bar as we sat and before I knew it he had finished his beer. “Ready when you are Jase!” he said, as he plonked the empty bottle on the counter.
“Are you sure we don't have to take anything with us Rich?” I asked, “perhaps a bottle of something?” “
Jase, we’re going to Carlos da Costa’s house,” he said smiling, “I can assure you, everything is taken care of at his parties.”
“Ok then,” I said, “let’s do it.” We said our goodbyes to Robson the barman and made our way down to the quad bike which was parked on the beach. Richard fired up the engine, I hopped on the back and we were off. In the rapidly fading light we passed the various hotels and the water-sports centre. I glanced briefly up the sand road from where the muggers had come. There was no one in sight. To my left, the expanse of the sea had gone from dark blue to gun metal grey. I knew when the moon rose it would turn silver again as it had done the previous night. The breeze from the ocean along with the wind from the speed of the bike blew in my face and hair as we rode. Soon we came up alongside Richard's hotel. He revved the bike harder and we sped off up the beach towards the big house of Carlos da Costa.
Chapter Twelve - The Party
There was no slowing Richard down as we sped through the semi-darkness. On our right was the thick, lightless jungle that I had run past in the morning. Eventually, we rounded the bend and the lights of the big house began to come into vision. As we pulled in and stopped at the base of the corner of the great stone wall, I noticed the guard who had been stationed there in the morning was back for his night shift. Instead of being asleep, this time he was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. He crushed it out as we arrived and stood to attention. All along the base of the wall were weather-proof spotlights at ten metre intervals. They shone upwards making it look all the more imposing. We got off the bike and walked toward the guard.
“Good evening, can I help you?” he said in a thick Swahili accent.
“Yes please,” said Richard, “it’s Richard Lewer-Allen and guest, for the party this evening.”
“I was not told anyone was coming this way,” the guard said nervously, “please wait while I radio Tintin to check if it is ok”
“That's perfectly fine,” said Richard, “please go ahead.” The guard swung the AK47 around his shoulder and reached for a hand-held radio that was strapped to his waist. It crackled and whistled as he spoke into it in rapid Swahili. “Your name again please?” asked the guard. The upward shining lights at the base of the wall gave him a spooky appearance as he spoke. “Richard Lewer-Allen and guest.” There was a brief exchange of words with whoever was on the other side and the guard put the radio back into his belt. “Tintin says it’s OK for you to come this way, please follow me.”
“Thank you,” said Richard, and we began walking up the sandy slope toward the heavy black metal gate I had seen in the morning. “Tintin?” I said to Richard as we walked. He turned and smiled, “Tintin works for Carlos, he’s in charge of security here, sort of a right hand man.” We eventually arrived at the gate, it was ten feet tall with ugly spikes at the top. The guard immediately started fumbling in his pockets searching for a key. When he eventually found it and unlocked the gate, it squeaked as it opened. “Please enjoy yourselves,” said the guard as we walked through. “Thanks,” said Richard, “we’ll see you later.”
I followed Richard up a steep and winding set of tiled stairs until we got to the first landing which was level with the front wall. It was only then that I saw the true scale of the place. To my left was an infinity pool tiled with marble that stretched for at least thirty metres along the top of the wall. All around was luxu
rious garden furniture and thick, white cotton covered loungers. Tall white classical statues of semi naked ladies stood at intervals along the length of the place. The house itself was staggered into three separate levels and the whitewashed Mediterranean architecture of the bottom level, where we stood, was at least a hundred metres long. We paused to look out to the sea and back at the house which was lit by cleverly hidden lights. All around the bottom level were huge terracotta pots that held meticulously pruned palm trees. The place was without a doubt, the very last word in luxury. Somewhere in the distance I could hear what sounded like a live band playing along with the constant chatter of a group of people. I shook my head in amazement at the sheer scale of the place. “Wow,” I said quietly, “this is some house.”
“It certainly is,” replied Richard, “and this is only the bottom. The party will be on the second level and the top is Carlos’ private area.”
“Oh right,” I said, “so how many people are expected?”
“Usually about fifty or sixty,” Richard said, “live band, full spread, you name it. Carlos’ parties are the best in Zanzibar, come along Jase, you ain’t seen nothing yet!” I could see he was excited and was eager to get going. I followed him past the back of the infinity pool and along the huge building towards a grand sweeping, double staircase that obviously led up to the middle level. As we made our way up, the sound of the music and the chatter of the guests got louder and louder.
When we arrived at the middle level, the scene in front of me was pretty much what I imagined an 'A' list Hollywood party would be like. All around was lush green lawn dotted with flaming bamboo torches for lighting. Beyond that was yet another marble tiled pool with thousands of water lilies floating on the surface for effect. To the right of the pool and stretching out with a wooden balcony was a paved seating area. Again, the expensive looking tables and chairs were covered with crisp white linen. Silver champagne coolers and cutlery adorned each table which were individually lit by windproof candle lights. To the left of the seating area was a purpose built stage and dance floor. Above the seven piece band hung a large glitter ball on a custom-built lighting rack. It spun slowly, sending a sparkling effect over the entire scene.
The band was playing mellow lounge music and a few guests were shuffling and turning on the dance floor. To the left of the dance floor was a huge bar area which was manned by at least four barmen in uniform. Their waiters moved effortlessly between the bar and the seating area delivering bottles of champagne to the many well-dressed guests of all races, who mingled around clinking crystal glasses and made small talk. To the left of the bar area, and near the main building of the second level of the mansion were the food tables. Although it was obvious that they were not yet serving anything, I saw at least three chefs, complete with uniform, fussing over what I imagined would be a very impressive dinner. We stopped to take in the scene in front of us. Richard turned and smiled at me, his hands out stretched. “Well Jason, what do you think?” Again, I noticed his excitement and responded accordingly. “Well Rich, I've got to say, it’s pretty impressive.”
“I think we should go get ourselves a drink and a table!” he said. We walked across the grass and through the seating area. A few of the guests nodded politely in greeting to us. We both reciprocated and I could see that Richard was unfamiliar with the majority of the guests. Eventually we found an undisturbed table near the dance floor and took our seats. Somewhere in the distance, sticks of incense were burning. The combination of the smell, the music, the lights, and the dancing was intoxicating. Someone had gone to great effort to create the atmosphere and it had worked extremely well. “I'm off to the bar Jase, what would you like?” asked Richard, looking pleased with himself.
“I think I'll have a Scotch please Rich,” I replied, “somehow I don't think a Safari would fit in here.”
“You’re right,” he said standing up, “I'll be right back.” He made his way across the dance floor to the bar area to order. I took a look at the people around me. There was a mixture of white, black, Indian, and mixed race. They all seemed to be between the ages of forty and seventy. Some of the men were overweight and sat like toads with sweaty scowls on their faces. I imagined they would be government officials or hotel owners. The party was very obviously for the crème de la crème of Zanzibar society. The men were all dressed smart casual while the women wore elegant evening gowns. At that moment, a waiter approached me with two bottles of champagne on a linen covered tray. “Good evening sir, I have brought you some champagne, Cristal or Dom Perignon?” I chose the Cristal and he carefully placed the bottle in the silver cooler in the centre of our table. Richard returned to the table with the drinks and took his seat. As he sat, he glanced around at the guests like I had done. I lit a cigarette and held my glass up to toast him. “Well thanks for inviting me Rich, and cheers,” I said.
“It’s a pleasure Jase, thanks for coming along with me,” he replied as our glasses met.
“So,” I said, looking around at the guests, “where is the man of the house? Is he around?”
“No,” he replied, “I can't see him anywhere, I’m sure he’ll be down shortly though.” At that moment I noticed a huge black man appear from the darkness behind the stage. He had long dreadlocks tied behind his head and he wore a full tuxedo. In his hand he held a two way radio and he was busy talking into it as he walked. He must have been at least seven foot tall and he had the build to match his height. His huge shoulders were almost splitting the material of the tuxedo as he made his way between the stage and the bar area towards the dance floor. He stopped just short of the dance floor and spoke into the radio once again. Although I was mesmerised by the sheer size of the man, I noticed that Richard had also seen him arrive. “That's Tintin,” said Richard raising his hand and waving in an effort to catch the man's attention. It obviously worked because the man waved back as he continued speaking into his radio. I could see he had a deep scar running from his right temple down to his chin and his dark, unsmiling eyes met mine briefly as he spoke. A few seconds later, the radio conversation finished and the huge man made his way over to greet Richard. Richard stood to greet him and even with his six foot something frame, the man towered above him. “Hello Tintin, how are you? Long time no see!” said Richard smiling.
“Yes Richard, long time, I am fine thank you,” the man’s voice was deep and loud. Once again his dark eyes darted at mine. “This is my friend Jason Green, he is my guest tonight,” said Richard. I stood up to shake hands and was again aware of the colossal size of the man. “Pleased to meet you,” I said holding my hand out. His hand enveloped mine like a bunch of bananas. His grip was tight and his flesh was cold and sweaty. “Welcome Mr Green, I hope you enjoy yourself,” he boomed. As he spoke he looked at me once again and for a brief moment everything appeared in slow motion. His eyes were dark and cruel. The deep and menacing scar on his face shone with sweat and I knew, by pure instinct, that this was a very dangerous man indeed. Our hands parted and the moment was over. “So where is Carlos, Tintin? I haven't seen him yet.” said Richard cheerfully. At that moment the radio the man was carrying squawked and he paused to listen to the message.
“He is coming now, Richard. I must tell the band, please enjoy yourselves,” the man turned and made his way to the band. He bent over and spoke to the leader, who was playing an alto saxophone. The musician immediately motioned to the other band members who promptly stopped the music. Suddenly they restarted with a slightly louder volume and a new song. I instantly recognised it as the old Frank Sinatra Broadway hit New York, New York.’ Then the band leader spoke into his microphone as if he was introducing some famous personality. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “please welcome your host for the evening, Mr Carlos da Costa!” I looked around me and saw many of the guests clapping, a few of them cheered politely, all of them seemed to be focused on a stairway near the food tables that obviously led to the upper level of the mansion. Then I saw Carlos da Costa for the first time. F
rom a distance he struck me as a slightly comical figure dressed in a white suit over a colourful tropical shirt. He made his way down the stairs at a quick pace, waving at the crowd with his right hand. In his left hand he held a large cigar. He reached the end of the stairs and immediately went to greet the guests at the bar shaking hands with the men and kissing the women on their cheeks. I was struck at how short the man was. Even with the heels of his white shoes, he was no higher than five foot. Richard turned to me, grinning and shaking his head. “What a character,” he said above the music.
“He certainly is,” I replied, “he made quite an entrance there.”
“He always does that,” said Richard, “he’s a great chap.” I sat there sipping my whisky, enjoying the atmosphere, and watching the host as he moved from guest to guest. He made his way slowly, from the bar through the dance floor and to the tables behind us. Richard kept turning and watching the man as he greeted his guests. It was as if he was anxious, almost desperate to see him. Eventually Carlos da Costa finished with the tables behind us and started making his way back to the bar in our direction. Richard stood up and turned to face him as he came nearer. He stopped dead in his tracks when he was two metres away and held his hands up in a welcoming gesture of recognition. “Epa Reeechard, my friend, long time! Why you no come to see us?” The man had a thick Portuguese accent and a loud, deep gravely voice. The voice of a showman. It sounded like he had been a very heavy smoker most of his sixty-something years. I was struck once again at how short he was. It was as if he had no neck at all and his fat bald head was attached directly to his shoulders. His face was very sun-tanned and it showed up against his white suit and tropical shirt. His short body was not overweight but was squat and solid and thick black hair was visible on his hands. The flesh around his eyes was dark and shiny in the lights and as he made the final steps towards Richard, I saw that he walked with duck feet.
The Jason Green series Box Set Page 21