by Katie Crouch
“And, of course, there were some targeted marketing efforts,” Amanda added.
“Yes. And then there was the article in the Post,” the Big A. said.
“Oh! That was me,” Persephone confessed, delighted. “My girlfriend from school is actually an editor at the Style section.”
“That was a mistake, of course.”
“What?” Persephone felt her cheeks go scarlet. She did not make mistakes. Ever. “Why?”
“Don’t misunderstand me.” The Big A. dabbed her lip with a napkin. “It was a fairly positive story.”
“Fairly?” She could feel Amanda giving her a warning glance. She didn’t care.
“It’s just—when we gave you our resources, ladies, we didn’t exactly think your organization would garner this kind of attention.”
“What resources?” Persephone protested. “You haven’t given us any—”
Amanda held up her hand, effectively silencing her. The ambassador looked amused at the discord.
“Well,” she said, “you’ve been using the Internet at your homes, which of course the government pays for. And then there are office supplies, which I happen to know, through PeerWatch, you’ve been ordering on Amazon through the pouch, another government-subsidized program.”
“PeerWatch?” Persephone put her fork down more forcefully than she would have liked, which was unfortunate, because it sprang off the table. PeerWatch was a particularly controversial unofficial State Department program that rewarded officers for delivering evidence of “unpatriotic behavior” shown by colleagues to their superiors. A remnant of the Cold War, PeerWatch kept State Department personnel and their spouses steeped in fear when, for example, they used their diplomatic passports to get good rooms on vacation in Cape Town, or snuck to Chinatown to get one of those beautiful and very illegal zebra purses. PeerWatch, in fact, was the very reason Persephone could not have cocktails—or associate at all, in fact—with Kathy Hanley, a charming friend from Hotchkiss who happened to live in Windhoek after marrying a Russian construction oligarch. Which was a real sacrifice, as Kathy had a private plane. And now this stupid policy was getting in the way of her cause?
“Who was it? Kayla?” Persephone growled. “Because I happen to know that she—”
She felt a sharp pain as Amanda kicked her shin.
“What can we do to solve this problem?” Amanda said, in a corporate tone with which Persephone was wholly unfamiliar.
“It’s not a problem,” the ambassador said. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s simply a matter of … credit.”
“But I—”
Amanda kicked her again. “Tell us more,” her friend said.
“The State Department isn’t about individual ideas. Persephone, you know that. It’s not about one person shining. It’s about our country doing the right thing in Namibia.”
“Who was shining?” Persephone cried. “What was too shiny?”
“The article was about you. The pictures, the work. But you are here to support the State Department. It’s not against the rules, per se. But since you used our resources, we think you should share the credit.”
“Well, that sounds fine,” Amanda said.
“Why does that sound fine?” Persephone trilled.
Down the hall, a door opened and shut briskly, and footsteps clicked toward them. It was Ellie, the Big A.’s assistant, bartender, and wineglass tracker.
“Miss Ambassador?” she said. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Excuse me,” the Big A. said. “Duty calls.”
Persephone and Amanda waited until the door shut again.
“Look,” Amanda said. “You need to cool it. Where is Charming Persephone? The one who dresses her kids like professional leprechauns? Because that’s who I need right now.”
“I can’t help it. I’m so mad.” She picked up her glass and took a gulp of water, then put it back down, as her hand was shaking. “I know Shoshana and Kayla spied on us. They’re so jealous.”
“It doesn’t matter, sweetie. Look at the endgame. Though I honestly had no idea this rhino thing was so important to you.”
“I don’t know … it was just…” What was it? Why was she getting so worked up? “Mila’s rhino … I keep … thinking about it. How it looked at me, and how we could hear it breathing. This enormous animal. He—Mr. Sharp—means something to me. Truly. And now we have all these followers. It’s like we’re actually doing something. I haven’t done anything in so long.”
Amanda patted her arm. “I understand. But just … cool it. Okay?”
“Right,” Persephone said. “Hold yo’ bek.”
“No idea,” Amanda said. “Just stop talking.”
The door opened again, and the ambassador returned, looking grim.
“Everything all right?” Amanda asked.
“Let’s finish this conversation,” the Big A. said, pushing her plate away. “At the end of the day, the goal is the same here, isn’t it? More protection, more attention. But I believe, if you’re going to continue, that you have to include more of the embassy community.”
Persephone sucked in her breath. “How so?”
“Obviously, our officers are very, very busy. Yet our spouses are not. And so I need you to include more people. Specifically—”
“Shoshana Levin,” Persephone said through gritted teeth, hoping she looked like she was smiling.
“Well,” the Big A. said. “Certainly. But I was going to say, specifically, the spouses.”
“No problem,” Amanda said. “We’ll make it happen. Of course, Persephone, as the head of Tusk!, will delegate duties.”
Persephone sat back in her chair. Oh. She would be in charge of Shoshana. Well, that would be okay. More than fine, in fact.
“Terrific,” the ambassador said. “And now I’m afraid I have two bits of bad news. The first is, I have to leave now, before dessert. Though you should have some. It’s chocolate mousse with bits of real cocoa. I brought the pods from Brazil myself. Chef wanted to make a milk tart, but I get so tired of it, don’t you?”
Persephone sniffed. No, she did not get tired of milk tart. Ever.
“The second item, I’m afraid, is much more serious. Apparently, some poachers broke into the Shilongos’ farm, and there was an attempt to poach their rhino.”
“Oh no,” Amanda said, covering her mouth. Persephone couldn’t process the words. All she could think of was little poached eggs.
“What do you mean?” she ventured.
“Someone shorted out a small portion of their electric fence on the north side. They cut the wire and went in by foot. Luckily, the caretaker was alerted by the electric disturbance and managed to chase them off.”
“So Mr. Sharp is okay?”
“Oh yes. You named the animal. I forgot. Yes. Grazed, but fine.”
Persephone felt a lurch in her stomach, firmly disagreeing with her chicken salad. “Do you think it was our fault?” she whispered.
The ambassador looked thoughtful. “You know, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe! That’s an interesting lead. I’ll get our security team on it right away.”
Amanda put her hand reassuringly on her arm. “Persephone, we didn’t give any locations. They couldn’t have tracked him from us.”
“We’ll look into it.” And with that, the ambassador stood and rang a bell on the sideboard. Ellie brought her bag and coat. “For now, just assure me that you’ll widen your circle. And look, you should feel proud of raising awareness! Even if you did almost kill this one rhino. At the end of the day, a gain is a gain. I’ll see you ladies.”
The front door slammed. Persephone wilted in tears over her mousse.
* * *
That night, after lulling Lucy and the twins to sleep by reading them an article from The Economist (a directive from Adam to prepare their young brains for the business world) Persephone poured herself a drink and logged on to Instagram to look at her pictures of Mr. Sharp.
Tusk! had posted thirty-five
photos total. Sixteen were of Mr. Sharp, taken by Mila’s caretaker, as well as Adam with his gargantuan lens. Persephone loved looking at the photos of the animal. His liquid eyes were placid and almost understanding, and she could still hear the loud, comforting rhythm of his breathing. She took another sip of whiskey and scrolled down through the profile. Who had commented? Had anyone left strange posts? Certainly there were a few serious rhino voyeurs. Fuzzylove, who said she was from Tokyo and represented herself with an image of a panda, had left short novels about rhinos on just about every post. Mr. Chakalaka, from Johannesburg, posted links to hundreds of rhino fan sites. There were comments under every posted photo (including some about how her own backside looked in white jeans—good Lord, why hadn’t she been monitoring this?), but the most popular by far were the photos of Mr. Sharp himself. One follower had even posted a portrait she had drawn of him, adding a party hat as a third horn.
And then she saw it. Numbers. A user with the name bearhunt245 had posted numbers right under the photo Adam had taken. She went to the other photos of Mr. Sharp. Under each of them, bearhunt245 had posted numbers. Different sets of numbers, but numbers all the same.
She drained her glass and went to find her cell phone. Petrus had once given her his phone number after too many Tafels at an embassy event. In case you need any computer help, he’d whispered in that sexy Namibian way he had. Well, perhaps they’d both had too many Tafels. Harmless. Her own mother had told her often that flirting was nothing more than a “Jane Fonda workout for one’s charms.”
“Hello?” Petrus rumbled now on the other end of the line.
“Petrus.”
“Yes?”
“It’s Persephone.”
There was a confused pause.
“Persephone Wilder.”
“Oh hey! Hallo!” There it was, that wonderful voice of his. “Good evening. What a surprise. Sorry, I was asleep.”
“Did I wake up your wife?”
“Not at all, not at all. Did I tell you we put Faiza in the International School? After your chat with my wife, we decided to make the move. It’s expensive, but she really seems to be doing well there.”
Hmmmm. Persephone didn’t even remember chatting with Petrus’s wife. Tafels, indeed.
“Are you fine, Persephone? Because, you know I wouldn’t know anything about where Adam is at this hour.”
“What?” Odd. “No, no. It’s a computer thing, Petrus. Instagram, actually. You said you might be able to help with these things?”
“Yes, my dear! Yes, of course.”
Oh, she loved that voice! It was like jumping into a warm bath. Naked.
“So—if someone has an Instagram account,” she said, “you can find out where they’re posting from, right?”
“It’s tricky. Lots of firewalls. But yes! Your Petrus can do it.”
“Oh, good man. Well, let’s meet as soon as possible. Stellenbosch? Noon? Tomorrow?”
“Fine, fine.”
“Petrus, sir, you’re going to help us save some rhinos.”
“Good, good.”
“Goodbye!” she said, before automatically adding, “I love you!”
Realizing what she’d just done, she threw the phone into the sofa cushions, hoping he hadn’t heard it.
Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear.
/ 22 /
Dear Mrs. Geingob,
This receipt acts as proof of payment for the goods to be received. We are very interested in the other artifacts you may have. Such objects, as I’m certain you know, are incredibly difficult to come by in this day and age. This is a free country, but in the interest of further business, we appreciate you keeping this exchange discreet.
Please send photographs of the other objects when you have a chance.
Yours,
Hans Eichler
P.S. My wife and I notice your last name is the same as the president of your country. Is there, by any chance, any relation?
/ 23 /
Mark sat outside the Windhoek International School, feeling more fucking awesome than he had in a long, long time. Mostly it was because he had called Jaime … who, as usual, had a great idea of how to go big.
“Let me get this straight,” his friend had said. “You were just fronting the cash before. Now you’re the gem dealer?”
“Not exactly,” Mark had said. “Or not yet, anyway. But I’m thinking of getting more involved. She wants to cut out the middleman, see, so we just sell directly to jewelers. We already go all over Namibia finding stones, and then we have them polished. So, really, why do we need anyone else?”
“And this is legal?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think so. It’s a lot of driving, mostly. And knowing the right people.”
“Give me the numbers,” Jaime had said impatiently.
“Okay—take, like, an amethyst. Usually you buy it raw for, like, fifty dollars a carat or so. We’ll pay twenty.”
“Then what?”
Mark spoke as fast as he could, pausing only to take short breaths. His heart was racing and his palms were cold. “We have it cut and polished. We’ve got a guy who does it for five percent. The usual is twenty percent, so that’s key. Then we sell it for market price. Like, a thousand for a good three-carat, polished stone.”
“Buddy. You sure those numbers are right?” Over the phone, Mark could hear Jaime typing. “Okay, so they are. This is good.”
“Right. I mean, it also matters who you get to polish them. We have this really great guy named Claus. He’s a Nazi, but—”
“You should run with this, man.”
Mark felt a combustion of excitement. As much as he hated it, Jaime’s approval meant everything to him. “You think?”
“Absolutely. Yes. Come on. Who do you know in this world who is an African gem dealer? It’s singular. Except you need to go bigger.”
“Bigger?” Mark echoed doubtfully.
“As in, don’t waste all of this time on the little deals. Go for broke, you know? These small deals are going to be a tax nightmare. The bigger deals end up being less work for you, so then you can do more. Get it?”
“I guess. Yeah.” The excitement was curdling into anxiety. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’m proud of you, man,” Jaime said. “You’ve really made this Africa thing work for you. And hey, let me know how this project goes. If it takes off, I’d love to invest.”
“You got it.” Suddenly he desperately wanted to get off the phone. “Thank you, man. Seriously. So I—”
“Oh hey, and how’s the Fulbright?”
“What?” Could he feign a lost connection?
“The proposal I wrote. Are you doing any research at all?”
“Yeah … Listen, I gotta go. My kid’s just coming out of school.”
“All right. Well, keep it up, man. I’m seriously impressed.”
When Mark hung up, the elation returned. Rarely, in recent years, had Jaime been impressed by anything he was doing. He threw the phone on the seat and climbed out of the car to surprise his daughter. There she was, whispering conspiringly with that pretty little snob she liked to hang out with. What the hell? Was she a teenager already?
“Meg!” he yelled across the yard.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the coiffed international mother heads over at the PTA shack swivel his way.
“Dad? What are you doing here?” His daughter’s voice practically dripped with disdain.
“Greetings, Mr. Evans.”
“Hi, er…”
“Taimi, sir.” The little girl danced in front of him. “I dined in your home.”
“Of course, I remember. Greetings, Taimi.”
“Ah! There is my mother’s assistant to pick me up. I must go. Meg, enjoy your time with your father. He works very hard. You should be glad he has the time to be with you.”
Mark waved as she trotted away. Meg regarded him sulkily from under her hat.
“I thought I’d surprise you and that we could g
et some ice cream,” Mark ventured.
Meg shrugged. “Mom takes me, like, every day.”
“Every day, huh?” He put his hands into his pockets, wishing he could let her in on his new profession. Would she be more interested in her father if she knew he was heisting tanzanite? Well, he considered. Probably not. “Want to feed the ducks in Zoo Park?”
“Dad. I’m nine.”
“Right. Okay.” He was really failing here. What had Anna said the other day? That’s a fail. Then he remembered her mentioning someplace where he could take Meg. “How about the Independence Museum?”
“Sure,” she said, surprising him. “That sounds cool.”
“Okay,” he said with a grin of relief, leading her back to the car. After pulling out of the snarl of the school parking lot, he made his way through Northern Industrial to the mayhem of downtown. The Namibian Memorial Museum had been erected as a monument to an independent Namibia. Funded and constructed by the North Koreans—who, at one time, had a keen interest in Namibia’s uranium, as well as the country’s potential socialist tendencies—the hulking building squatted over a slight hill one block north of Independence Avenue, casting its shadow over the center of town. The local joke was that it looked like a coffee maker, though in Mark’s opinion what the building really resembled was an enormous golden toilet.
He parked on the street, negotiating with an idle man who offered to “watch the car.” It had taken a broken car window during their first month in Windhoek for him to learn that if one turned down the car-watching, no matter how politely, one’s car would definitely be robbed. He led Meg past the Stalinesque rendering of Sam Nujoma, the country’s first president, and rapped on the ticket window, where the attendant reluctantly tore herself away from her phone to sell him two tickets for ten Namibian each.
“This might not look like much,” Mark lectured Meg as she looked up at the toilet. “But it’s an important symbol to all the people here who fought or died to get out from under South Africa’s iron fist.”
“Yeah, it’s cool,” Meg said. “I like the glass elevator.”
“Me, too,” he said.
They rode up together, looking at the town. Despite the frantic scrabblings in the five-block center, the rest of the streets were generally quiet. The museum was on an upper floor, below a rooftop bar. Afrikaans rock dripped down from above, but the gallery was empty. Meg’s dirty sneakers squeaked ahead on the linoleum floor.