Ivory Ghosts (18 page)

After a fitful few hours, I woke with the memory of a terrified adolescent bull elephant getting sucked into the raging Victoria Falls. It had happened just after Sean had proposed and went off to get gin and tonics.

I noticed a small group of elephants crossing the strong current by swimming from tree island to tree island. The flow of the Zambezi was unusually strong that year, and an unfortunate young bull fell behind and drifted down past any possible exit points. He tried to escape the current just in front of the hotel, but there was a fence blocking him in, and the Zambezi had risen so much that there was no land for him to climb out on.

There was a commotion among the staff, and a gardener ran off to get some wire cutters to cut the fence as I looked on helplessly. The bull pressed his front feet against the chain-link surface, trying to gain a footing. I could see the terror in his eyes as his feet slipped. The current was just too strong. Finally, in his exhaustion, the elephant relented and let the current sweep him away.

Sean returned just as the elephant was turning in circles and was pulled over the falls. The tourists watching on the Zimbabwean side of the falls must have seen the horror of his legs and trunk flailing in the white wall of water as he silently plummeted to his death.

Strangely enough, reliving this memory was somehow a release. Like I, too, had fallen off a precipice, my quest to stop the doctor from killing more elephants no longer relevant as I plummeted into an abyss, feeling no fear, just acceleration. I fell into a deep sleep.

I shot the .458 from a crouched position
,
and the cannon blast nearly blew my shoulder off. I had aimed too high. His giant head and blood-smeared tusk
snapped up at me. He paused, mid-charge. I dropped the rifle, cursing at the shock of pain in my now-dislocated shoulder.

His tooth nerve dangled from his shattered tusk. A botched hunt by poachers with bad aim. This poor elephant bull was in more pain than I had realized.

As I lunged for the rifle with my good arm, he came for me again, but I was too late. The raging bull grabbed me in his trunk and flung me in the air.

I woke with a start, falling out of bed and hitting the cold concrete floor hard on my shoulder, then my head. I lay there, rubbing my sore head, breathing slowly for a few minutes to get my bearings. Finally, I got up with a splitting headache, splashed cold water on my face, and went to turn the hot pot on. The room came equipped with tea, milk, sugar, and mugs on the bedside table so that clients could have tea on a private porch overlooking the river before breakfast.

I sat on the misty porch of my rondavel with hot tea in hand, not as early as I had hoped because I had spent another tortured night in bed tossing and turning and trying to elude the mefloquine nightmares from the antimalarial drugs that Nigel lent me. When the morning came, I didn't want to face it. But I had paid for lingering with the final deadly nightmare that forced me out of bed.

My plan for the morning was to meet with the rangers and review their most recent elephant mortality reports, then pack a bag and run some errands in town. I figured that since Nigel was staying with Jon that night, it would be okay if I did as well.

After my second cup of tea, I got a text from Craig that immediately changed my itinerary. He had gotten permission for me to show Jon the photos of Geldenhuis's new partner. I was planning to print the images from my printer as soon as I got back to Susuwe and head to Jon's office.

Nigel arrived to pick me up and take me back to Susuwe. We had a colorful drive as he recounted the dinner conversation he had had with the Germans. They told him about their last trip to Namibia when they went rafting down the Kunene. “You wouldn't believe their bad luck, hey. Their bloody inflatable was attacked by a ten-meter croc.”

“What? Can they get that big? That's like
thirty
feet.”

“Apparently the crocs over there get bloody huge from dining off the dead cattle that get flushed down with the floods.”

“Their raft was bitten?”

“Their guide reckoned that the crocs got used to large, bloated inflatable objects as food.”

I laughed incredulously. “Oh my gosh, that's horrible!”

“Dumb bloody luck, isn't it.”

We both broke out laughing even though the thought was more terrifying than funny. As I watched Nigel laugh, I couldn't help feeling more and more comfortable in his presence. I appreciated the contrast to the tension that was always in the air with Jon—even though I couldn't help being drawn to the tension.

After packing a bag, charging batteries, and printing out the photos from the airstrip that I had refrained from showing Jon, I stopped at the Kongola post office on the way to Katima. I wasn't expecting mail, but I always liked to check anyway. It felt like checking on the lottery. There wasn't much going on back in the States, but since I wasn't allowed to give anyone my phone number—except for my father in case of emergencies—no one knew how to reach me otherwise. Not that I stayed in touch with anyone other than my old roommate from Berkeley, Ling-Ru, via email. But for security reasons I wasn't allowed to use my email address on my phone.

My postbox was my only contact with the outside world other than my direct satellite line to Craig. I was glad I didn't need to use the one phone line that the post office made available for outside calls, as the line of people waiting to use it wrapped around the building. Many people had cellphones, but no one could afford to use them for calls. They just bought minutes so they could get the free text credit that came with the minutes.

The need for phone calls by the locals was building, but the only calls I could discern were complaints relating to mistakes made in orders placed through mail-order catalogs. As the local economy slowly grew after independence, money started to trickle in to the communities, and with it, the desire for more luxury goods from South Africa. Access to the Internet wasn't an option in most of the outposts I had seen, except those catering to tourists.

I slipped past the line to get to my postal box. I opened my box and the long hollow space stared back at me. I closed the door and left.

As I exited the building a man approached me holding an ax. He looked intellectually disabled so I wasn't too concerned about his intentions until he lunged at me, baring his teeth like a mad dog. As I leapt away, a woman immediately jumped out of line and stepped in front of him, waving her hands and yelling authoritatively, successfully steering him off his path. He snuck off with his ax dangling at his side.

I recognized the woman as Nandi, the induna's daughter whom I had met in their cornfield.

“Nandi, right?” I held out my hand.

The woman looked me up and down curiously, then recognized me, smiled, and took my hand. “Oh, yes, you are the elephant woman.”

“Catherine.” I nodded.

I could see by how casually she had treated the situation that she must have known that guy. “What's the ax for?”

“He took special medicine to get rich, but he did not take it correctly and now he is not well.”

I gave her an incredulous look.

Nandi shrugged. “Witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft. I see.” I didn't want to ask her to elaborate, so I changed the subject. “Listen, Nandi, I have to take off, but I look forward to seeing you soon.”

“I would like that.”

“Did you ask your father if I could come meet with him again?”

Nandi nodded. “But, you see, he suspects that you are not wanting to help with our elephant problems. He might not tell anything of what you are hoping. He told me you are going to work with the game guards to fill out forms about dead elephants. He thinks that is your real interest—to get us to inform for you. It is not our elephants that are dying. But it is our people that are suffering from the poison.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are people in the villages helping those very bad men transport ivory. Many, many ivories pass through the Caprivi.”

I didn't know what to say. I didn't want her to get scared if I asked the wrong question.

“My brother was put in prison because he was set up by those bad men.”

“So, whose tusks did the game guards find?”

“I do not know. He says they are not his. But these other men deal in many, many tusks, hundreds of them. Sianga is in jail while they are walking the streets and sitting in bars drinking beer. He didn't used to be a bad man. He was a good man.”

“Do you think he would talk to me about those bad men?”

Nandi shook her head. “It is very, very dangerous. You cannot tell the rangers about this. Please do not tell anyone what I just said.”

“Do you think your father would be willing to talk to me about your brother?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I don't know.”

“Can you ask him?”

Nandi nodded.

“Great, thanks, Nandi. I look forward to seeing you and your father in the next few days.”

“You will find me here.”

“Okay, good-bye then, Nandi.” I made a quick exit.

Nandi waved good-bye as I drove off, heading to Jon's office.

I stood in the doorway of Jon's dark office. He was sitting at his desk, focusing on a piece of paper he was holding. “Jon, why are you sitting in the dark?”

Jon turned his chair and looked distractedly out the window, playing with his pencil. “I've always wanted to open a restaurant,” he said in a wistful tone. “The Sated Rabbit. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?” He looked back at me with distant eyes. “My specialty would be rabbit stuffed with quail. Sounds wonderful, hmm, Catherine? Doesn't it sound wonderful?”

I picked up the piece of paper. Jon's case against Dr. Geldenhuis had been postponed until a key suspect, Ernest Mkanzi, had been found.

I threw the paper. “Jon, you can still do this.”

“I hope you are talking about a restaurant. I've already got the place picked out. A nice houseboat on the Zambezi.”

“No, I'm talking about Geldenhuis.”

“Then we have nothing to talk about.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged.

“I thought you said the photos would be enough for a trial.”

“Turns out our fine justice system is still subject to the same influences as always.”

“What happened?”

“They were thrown out.”

“Why?”

“The evidence was deemed inadmissible.”

My heart sank. “On what grounds?”

“Apparently, the judge didn't feel I was privy to that information. I have an appointment with the magistrate tomorrow to review everything.”

I reached into my pack and pulled out some of the additional photos I had taken on the airstrip of Geldenhuis and his apparent new accomplice, hoping they would be useful to the case. “I might have some new information that could help.” I tossed the photos onto his desk.

“What is this?” Jon picked up the photos and shot out of his chair. “When were these taken?”

“Same day as the others I gave you. On the Sioma Falls airstrip in Zambia.”

“
Je'sus
bloody Christ! Lazarus has come back from the dead.” He quickly sifted through the images.

“Who is that other man?”

“It's bloody Ernest!”

“Ernest? So, he wasn't eaten by a croc?”

“Apparently not.”

“What about last night? Did you find anything at the Piggery?”

“Useless. But we did hear that Geldenhuis's lodge manager got picked up on the main road outside Katima.”

“Alvares? Did he have anything on him?”

“No, but the Portuguese don't just stroll around for their health in this region. If he was without a vehicle it was for a reason. I'm keeping that in the back of my mind. Bloody Portuguese.”

“You think he was one of the people in the car at Liadura?”

“Quite possibly.”

I sat down. “So, we still have a case, don't we?”

Jon looked at me with tired eyes. “Things looked a lot different a few days ago.” He picked up the photos again. “But these have brightened my day.” He rubbed his hand down his face. “Listen, I don't want to be morose, but the only thing to look forward to around here is gastronomical. Wait till you see the choice leg I got from the butcher.”

I hesitated. “We don't have to do this if you're not in the mood.”

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to me. “I suppose I could get in the mood by celebrating the endless potential for the human race to be clever.”

I looked at a poorly worded legal form with a shaky “X” in the signature line. It looked like a bad translation of a life insurance form. “Is this life insurance?”

“Bloody genius, isn't it? Selling fake life insurance to our upstanding illiterate San elders that don't have two pennies to scrape together to buy a loaf of bread.”

“How do you take it?”

Jon shook his head and shrugged. “I can't, actually.” He looked down at his watch. “Listen, I have a stop to make. I'll see you back at my place just now.”

“No problem. Take your time. Do you need anything?”

“No. Not a thing.” He hesitated. “One hour and forty-seven minutes.”

“That's what time you'll be home?”

“No, that's how long it will be before that pure ambrosia hits your lips. Can you stand it?”

I smiled. “I'll try.”

“Good. See you just now.” He tapped the glass of his watch face. “Now, now, in fact.” He looked up at me. “Come to think of it, I have something to show you.”

Jon and I bounced in our seats as his vehicle bumped along the track next to the river heading toward the Zambian border. He parked in the shade of a large acacia, and we got out and Jon read the meter stick.

“Good ole Draadie. Right on the money. Up a whole fifteen centimeters from yesterday's ten.”

“What does that mean?”

“A flood.”

“Do you do anything to prepare for a flood?”

“It's hard to cover the borders of the parks. Poachers get in and out by boat from many more access points. And the ivory deals get harder to locate.”

“How will you deal with that?”

“Better information. But, if they were smart, they'd head to the delta.”

“What if I were to help from the air? Wouldn't wings make a difference?”

Jon shook his head. “Too conspicuous. We're going to get the next deal from the Zambian side this time. Right over the border from Nigel's place in Singalamwe. We've got their police involved this time.” Jon took my hand. “Come on. It's getting dark. Gotta show you my ticket to getting out of here.”

We got back in the truck and turned down the river road toward the Catholic mission and the fish farm. As we passed the mission, Jon's eyes lit up.

“
Vera
is my sanity, you know.”

“Who is Vera?”

“She will host the Sated Rabbit.”

“Along the river here?”

“Stunning view.”

“So, who is she? You never mentioned her before.” I suddenly realized that Jon could easily have had a life that I didn't know anything about. But surely Nigel would have mentioned something if Jon had a girlfriend. Familiar feelings of jealousy arose at the thought of Jon having a woman in his life. Why hadn't Nigel mentioned Vera?

“She's my houseboat.”

I tried to hide my relief in surprise and asked, “You have a houseboat?”

Jon nodded with a faraway look in his eyes. “One of these days,
Vera
and I are going to be taking a very long trip.”

“Sounds exciting.” I almost laughed at how flustered I still was.

“Just about finished kitting her out when the Zambians pinched the solar panel last month. Got it on back order for next month as well as a diesel engine. But she's mostly ready. Just installed an on-demand Geyser. Wait till you see the galley.”

We drove slowly down a bumpy chalky road just as the sun was setting. We parked next to the river and got out as the enormous red sun sank into the river. The glossy ibis passed and called
hau di dau
as it went. There in front of us was an aluminum pontoon houseboat with a covered deck that had two chairs and a roof tent on the top deck.

Jon waved a hand in front of the boat. “If it weren't for Horseshoe and
Vera,
I'd have been in a straitjacket long ago.” He stepped aboard, took my hand, and pulled me onto the deck. “Come, let's have a rock shandy.”

“Thought you said there was no power.”

“Been running the fridge battery down for occasions such as this.”

Jon fumbled with some keys, opened up a locked area at the back of the boat, and turned on a small lightbulb inside.

I touched my hand to the rich, red hardwood walls. “Wow, is this mahogany?”

“Rhodesian teak, actually. Some friends in Vic Falls refurbish old railway sleeper ties and gave me some of the off cuts.” He rubbed the wall. “Nice, eh?”

I looked around at the small but stylish galley, which included a gas oven. “Perfect for rabbit.”

“Precisely!” He smiled dreamily. “I have big plans for
Vera
and myself. I might have to expand the galley, though.”

I leaned against the wall and smiled. Despite all the failures around him, Jon still had enough in him to keep his own dreams alive. I couldn't help but be drawn in by that. “Where to first?”

“Wanted to take her down to Hippo for the Zambezi Classic, but that didn't work out.”

“What's second on the list?”

“I'll take her down to the eastern floodplain for a test run. Then onto the Chobe. Wanna come with?”

“I'd love to.” I looked out at the fast-flowing golden river, imagining untying the boat and just letting the river take us away.

As Jon searched in his twelve-volt fridge for ingredients, I couldn't help but place myself in the fantasy, remembering the ad that I'd seen in that old conservation magazine in the ministry office—
Zambezi River Tours
. It struck me that the reality was much more alluring than the photo.

Jon poured soda and bitter lemon with some drops of bitters on top. He handed me a glass and held out his. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” We clinked glasses. “To
Vera,
” he said.

“And to the Sated Rabbit,” I countered with a smile.

“Yes!” He took a sip. “Come on, we have to sit on top for this.”

Jon took my drink and helped me up the small ladder to the upper deck. At the top, the higher vantage afforded an even more stunning view, more striking than those at any of the lodges I had seen downriver. This stretch of the Zambezi, just south of the border of Zambia, was wild and untamed—gnarled mangrove trees lined the Zambian side of the bank; sand banks and tree islands dotted the river down as far as the bend to Katima with not a hint of civilization. The water roared from the rocky rapids upstream just under the bridge to Zambia.

In the far right corner of the boat was an L-shaped reed wall built onto the open deck. I walked around the wall and stood over a large oval metal tub. “Wow, that's some bath.”

Jon shrugged and put a light hand on my shoulder. “Any fool can be uncomfortable in the bush.”

My eyes followed the copper piping that led below deck. “And hot water.”

“Of course. Just hooked up the Geyser yesterday.”

“I might ask for your advice on that.”

He pulled my hair to one side. “Might need a pitcher for rinsing all this lovely hair, though,” he whispered as he let my hair go and leaned against the railing. “Hadn't accounted for that.” He took a sip of his drink. “I must remember to pick one up at the Dollar Store.” He rubbed his hair. “There are benefits to hair loss.”

I laughed. “Your hair isn't thinning.”

“You Americans are worse liars than I thought.”

“You really have it in for us, don't you?”

“I've had some bad experiences, I can promise you.”

I stood next to him with our arms touching as we looked out at the river, leaning against the railing, my head still tingling from the touch of his hand on my hair. “I hope I can at least provide a sample size of one decent American.”

He laughed and shifted his weight, putting a hand over mine, looking at me. “I'm leaving that possibility open.”

I looked out at the water again. As Jon drew his fingers down the veins of my hand, I felt the tranquility of the setting and the noise of the river offering an escape to counter the frustrating realities, both political and practical. As much as I wanted to, I didn't dare turn toward him or we would have fallen into a kiss.

He took his hand away and combed it through his hair. I sensed that we both were hesitating, like we had found ourselves in this position too early and didn't know how to navigate it. We stood there awkwardly, each waiting for the other to shift their weight, allowing us to step away tactfully.

There was a loud rustle of vegetation along the shore to our right that broke the uncomfortable dynamic. We both ducked down to see that something large was moving slowly through the reeds.

Jon put a finger to his lips, took my hand, and led me down the stairs. He locked the boat and we stepped off onto the rise above the riverbank and waited to see what would emerge from the papyrus.