by Katie Crouch
/ 27 /
Amanda stood in the driveway, watching Mark’s car pull away. She was a woman who always knew what to do, but right now she really had no idea. She could taste the anger in her mouth; her legs were shaking. No one was there—no gardener, no housekeeper—so she peeled off her clothes and jumped into the pool.
As she swam along the bottom, she could barely make out a deflated pool toy, along with the bodies of a few dead geckos. The water hadn’t been cleaned in quite a while, mainly because Amanda didn’t know how to do it, and Mark had been doing whatever it was he’d been doing. Oh God. Would she have to divorce him now? What would Meg do? At the thought of telling her, Amanda let out an untimely sob and, choking on the algae, shot out of the water.
Then she remembered. Despite this personal Armageddon that seemed to be happening in their family, Meg had a performance at International Day she’d been going on about for weeks. What time was it again? What time was it now? How many seconds, she thought, did it take to blow up your life? She scrambled out of the water, crouching at her nakedness, and ran into the house to get a towel. And what to wear, she wondered, when everything actually was imploding? She decided on a skirt and a tank top—an ensemble that would make Meg be happy to have a normal, stable mom. She shoved her feet into sandals, pulled a brush through her hair on the way to the car, and got her phone out to pull up the performance time: 2:00 p.m.
“Shit,” she said aloud, peeling out of the compound.
It was just before 2:00 now—exactly the time that white workingmen in Windhoek ambled back to the office after coming home for lunch. The streets were snarled with huge white trucks. By the time she’d gotten to the other side on Mandume Avenue, traffic was at a standstill.
And Esther. Esther. Who the hell was Esther? Amanda gripped the wheel, trying to place when that would have been. Would she have been a freshman in college when this was happening? Would Esther have been older than her? What did she look like? Who had she been?
Mark had had plenty of girlfriends before her. Actually, Amanda knew that he’d had a truly unseemly amount. In the first months of their relationship, the part she thought of as giddy and innocent, they’d played the how-many-have-you game, and his number had been downright frightening. Yet the fact that there were so many was comforting, actually, because after all that time, he’d chosen her. Now it turned out she was second to a dead woman. Knowing that at the beginning would have been fair, but finding it out now seemed—
Wait, Amanda thought, turning off the radio with a snap to listen to a small, faraway voice from a distant corner of her brain.
Esther. You know Esther.
The air around her thrummed. She was unable to breathe.
And what’s more, Esther knows you.
Driving was suddenly an awful idea, so she pulled over and put the car in park. It was 2:10 now. Everyone would be there.
The school was about a mile away—a short distance for a runner. She locked the car behind her and began to sprint as fast as she could.
The road was busy and dusty, and the shoulder treeless, lined only with thorny shrubs. Whenever Amanda had seen people walking along that way to work, she’d always been tempted to stop and pick them up, as it looked so treacherous. Now she tried to breathe deeply and calmly as she ran over the roasting ground. Her shoes were slipping, so she kicked them off and held one in each hand. The fiery asphalt scorched the soles of her feet as they hit the ground, so she ran faster, taking lighter steps.
The line of cars started half a mile back from the school, as everyone was waiting to get to the International Day festivities. As she huffed past, she could feel the inquisitive eyes of the parents as she ran past their cars.
“Amanda!” Kayla Grant yelled, poking her head tentatively out of the comfort of her air-conditioned car. “Whatcha doin’, girl?”
Amanda waved, trying to look normal, as if a regular day usually consisted of finding out her husband had brought them to Namibia to look for another woman he’d loved more than her. As if it were typical to learn that Mark had taken hold of her life savings. As if it was routine to realize, before he did, that her husband’s long-lost girlfriend was actually alive.
Don’t worry, Kayla! It’s all cool!
She burst through the entrance, looking around wildly for her husband or child. “Miss?” the security guard asked, in a rare effort to police the area. “Are you fine?”
Amanda froze as she gazed across the parking lot, where excitement was brewing over what looked like a slight collision. It was Mark’s rental car, she saw now. He’d rear-ended a black SUV. It was—
—Mila’s SUV.
Amanda could just see him behind the car now, talking to someone.
“Mark!” Amanda cried. Yet it was just like one of those dreams she’d had when she wasn’t on time to a meeting, or her wedding. Or the nightmares where she’d called and called for her mother, but no matter how loud she was, she couldn’t be heard.
/ 28 /
Five hundred kilograms of meat, Persephone thought crossly. And wouldn’t you know it, all these people wanted were the Canadian pancakes.
It had been quite cold for Windhoek over the previous weeks. Chilly enough to provide Persephone with the false hope that International Day would be as crisp and refreshing as one of those delicious fall festivals back home, the ones where you sipped on cider and could wear a cream fisherman’s sweater. (Persephone looked terrific in raw wool.) But no, the cold snap had passed, and here she was with ninety-eight-degree weather again. Persephone had already had to change twice—once because Kayla spilled matcha all over her, and the other time because she’d perspired so much she could have competed in a wet T-shirt contest (the only downside of white). Luckily, Doni had taught her long ago to keep backup outfits in the trunk of her car, just in case. No one ever said looking effortlessly perfect really was effortless.
Well, obviously this weather was the hand of God, probably wielded by some curse from Mila. And Mila would be right to do it, too. How could Persephone ever have thought that she could run an event this large in Namibia better than an actual Namibian? Why had she been so nasty to her just now? Why hadn’t Adam warned her? (Well, she supposed he had warned her. As had Amanda.) What was it about her DNA that made her think that as an American, she knew best? Was it her upbringing? Was there subliminal messaging of general superiority in the Pledge of Allegiance, which she had to recite at Hotchkiss every week?
But she was getting distracted now, and God knows she didn’t have the time. A downside of the Uniform was that she could be spotted from miles away, which was not so terrific when everyone had questions for her, from the beverage dealers to the soundman to her ex–tennis partner from Sweden who wanted to know if she’d canvassed the food for shellfish, because little Bjorn had an allergy.
“There are twenty-eight booths and thousands of kilos of food, Anka,” she’d said, trying to control herself. “I can’t be certain that a sea snail hasn’t gotten into the mix.”
What else? Argentina was next to Namibia, and they were both selling grilled meat. Brazil’s sand was getting all over Turkey’s rugs. Separating the adulterous kindergarten teacher from the year four assistant hadn’t solved the problem, as the wronged wife had come over and dumped a pot of jollof rice on the perpetrator’s head. It was 2:00, and many of the fathers were already drunk—some lying spread-eagled on the grass, blocking the pathways. Was there any way they could pull an emergency measure, Kayla was asking, and raise the price of the liquor?
“I don’t think I can change prices,” Persephone said. “Mila said if we did that, we’d be Zimbabwean grocery store owners. Whatever that means.”
Headmaster Pierre was at her arm.
“It’s time for the performances,” he said.
“Thank the Lord!” Persephone crowed. “Anything to give me a break.”
“If you think this is a break,” Pierre said, “you’ve got another thing coming, I’m afraid.”
/> Persephone squared her shoulders, preparing herself. No matter what Headmaster Pierre said, this was actually the moment she’d been waiting for. Last year had been her first International Day, and she’d been stuck at the Canadian booth for eons, doling out poutine and pancakes. Persephone had been covered in maple syrup: her hair, her hands, even her delicate silver-painted toes. She hadn’t even complained. It was for the school, she’d told herself sternly. We international women are in this together! And then, out of the corner of her eye, she’d seen Mila’s motorcade arrive. Their fearless leader, it seemed, had been running a mission control center from the backseat of her air-conditioned car. Then she emerged as refreshed and beautiful as a sphinx in a pink and silver dress, taking her place under the tented state at the microphone, while the other mothers, her underlings, remained in the scorching sun. Persephone remembered standing there in the heat, sweating syrup, as Mila had coolly received accolades from the head of the board, several ambassadors, and other diplomats. Adam had been onstage also, serving the ambassador.
“I would have had you onstage with us,” he’d said later. “But you looked so disheveled. Though didn’t that Shilongo babe do a great job?”
Well. Now it was Persephone’s turn. She gave her ponytail a quick toss and followed Headmaster Pierre to the stage. Only, as she ascended, she wasn’t experiencing the reverent hush she remembered from last year. In fact, though she was determinedly tapping on the microphone, there was no change in the volume level at all.
“Welcome to … Hello? Can you please … Hey. Hey!”
“Let me try,” Headmaster Pierre said, patting her shoulder lightly. He grabbed the mike. “Angolan coup d’état!”
Hundreds of heads swiveled in his direction.
“Kidding. Kidding!” He grinned at Persephone. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Folks, it’s the hour you’ve been waiting for. Your adorable children are now going to perform for us, class by class.”
The buzz that had ceased instantly began again, and several parents headed to the beverage tent to fortify themselves.
“But first, a few words from our organizer, Mrs. Persephone Wilder.”
Persephone took a deep breath, beamed at the crowd, and stepped up to the podium again.
“Thank you, Pierre. First, I wanted to thank all of the volunteers who made today such a great success. And all of the housekeepers and gardeners sent by the volunteers. You’ve all done a terrific job. International Day is an old WIS tradition, dating from—”
She was cut off by the sound of the marching band, which someone had signaled to begin early.
“Let the procession begin!” shouted Pierre, as Persephone wondered for the fiftieth time that day why nothing was going right.
The students, dressed in various international outfits, began streaming into the gym.
“They look adorable,” said Kayla, who was standing next to her. And Persephone had to agree, other than the year twos, who, at six and seven years old, were representing Brazil by wearing spangled bikinis and briefs. Parents were crushing into the gym now, which was steamy hot and smelled of old fried chicken and sweat. The veterans had brought camping chairs and were jockeying for position at the front.
The kindergarten class started the festivities with a lip-synched rendition of “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye. Persephone could see that some of the fresher American parents looked shocked.
The majority of WIS families, though, were weathered diplomats who had been through many International Schools. They knew the drill, which was that I-School teachers everywhere in the world are bound to an ironclad curriculum. Every unit, chapter, and topic was strictly assigned, and every student was stringently tested to see how they were faring against the public school kids back home. As a result, the beaten-down, underpaid international teachers had one place to express themselves: the choreography of student assemblies. Which meant that all over the world, if your children were enrolled in an International School, at some point they were going to get up on a stage and do something completely inappropriate.
The kindergartners finished their sexy dance to thunderous applause. Next were the year ones, who were lining up to hump each other Britney-style to “Womanizer.” A thousandth hand tapped her shoulder to ask a question. Trying her very hardest not to look weary, Persephone turned around.
“Petrus!” she said with relief.
“My daughter’s out there,” he said proudly, his hands on his hips. Today he was looking massive in a tracksuit and bright yellow trainers. Again, she inadvertently imagined being crushed by all of that wonderful Namibian weight.
Stop it!
“She’s the one in the white leather boots.”
“Adorable.” Persephone pointedly applauded extra-hard for the gyrating children onstage.
“My dear,” he said. “I must talk to you. Can we go outside?”
“Sure,” she said, blushing. Really? He was going to talk to her about his crush now? Still, she needed a breath of fresh air, and since her husband was nowhere in sight, why not?
Petrus led her around the far side of the gym. “I was thinking we could meet for lunch to go over this, but things have been moving too fast.”
“They have?” She couldn’t help but flutter her eyelashes a bit. She was a woman, after all.
“I went over the stuff you gave me. You’re right. All of those accounts you gave me are suspicious. I did some mining, and they’re all sourced right here in Namibia.”
“Oh.”
“I think those numbers are some sort of code. As to when and where to meet.”
Persephone concentrated on shifting gears. From sex to Tusk! She could do this. “Do you know who in Namibia it could be?” she purred.
“I’m getting there. I just need a few hours, but your husband”—he rolled his eyes—“put me on this other thing.”
“Oh. Drat.”
“Yes. And this thing they’re about to do … it’s dishonorable and disgusting. But it’s not your fault, my dear.”
“Wait. What?” She felt her brow wrinkle unbecomingly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean … Adam saw that I was looking up the IP addresses of those rhino followers.”
“Yes?”
“Well, he was impressed that I could do that at all. So he had me … use it for something else.”
“Petrus,” Persephone said, the alarm rising in her voice. “What are you talking about?”
“Petri Dish, my man!” Adam boomed, tossing his arm around Petrus’s shoulder. Persephone winced. Anyone could spot the dislike on Petrus’s distinguished face from a mile away. “What are you two talking about here?”
“Nothing, Adam,” she said.
“Hello, darling,” he said.
“Darling.”
“Oh, you,” Adam said, disentangling himself from Petrus and encircling Persephone’s waist. “You and your rhino club. You are brilliant, you know that?”
Persephone bristled. Actually, she was quite aware of her higher-than-average intelligence. Thank you very much.
“Your club ended up opening the door to a huge win. The Big A. will be so fucking happy with us. It’s my pièce de résistance. A surprise.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your rhino thing. The IP information. It paved the way for a huge win. You’ll see.” He pulled her close and dropped to a whisper. “And it’s not a CIA matter, so I’ll get all the credit.”
“I thought the State Department wasn’t about personal credit,” Persephone said.
“Darling, don’t get into a tizzy about this arrest ruining your PTA party. POTUS tweeted something inappropriate last night, and we need a distraction. I didn’t totally clear it with the ambo, but for once, I’m taking initiative, yes? If anything, it’ll make your event the only one people remember.”
“But what are you—”
“I’ll see you later. Just make sure you do some crowd control, okay? It might get a little nuts. And keep up those hobbi
es, darling. This one was a home run.” He kissed her cheek and disappeared.
“Oh, Petrus,” Persephone said. “I sort of hate my husband.”
“That’s quite a coincidence,” Petrus boomed. “Because I do hate your husband.”
“Well.” Life was falling apart, but it was nice to have an admirer in this middling phase of life. “This will be disruptive, right on my big day. Which I suppose is fine, in the end. For our country.”
“Really?” Petrus said. “I think it is not fine at all. That man is a donkey. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I’d do almost anything for you. You know that.” He looked at her gravely. “I do need my job.”
“It’s okay, Petrus. Thanks, though.”
Luckily, the moment was interrupted by a blast of rap, turned up even louder than the other grades. It was Amanda’s daughter’s class, 3A.
Where was she, anyway? Persephone wondered.
They were treating the audience to their rendition of “Love the Way You Lie” by Eminem. Above their heads flickered a film of burning forests. Persephone had seen the program, of course, and had been quite stern with the teachers about using the Kids Bop! version sans profanity, but it seemed that corner had mysteriously been cut.
Tie her to the bed and set this house on fire! Eminem screamed.
Oh dear.
Suddenly the music was switched off. Persephone looked around for the aggressive parent who had gotten there before she had. British, maybe. No one else would have bothered to do anything about it. But then something confusing happened. Namibian policemen were swarming the stage. Persephone saw them talking to Miss Ruby, who pointed, reluctantly, to a corner where two girls were huddled together, clutching hands.
Persephone gasped when, like a falling elephant, the realization of what was happening thundered down upon her.
The cuffs were already out. The police were here to arrest two children: Meg Evans and Taimi Shilongo.