The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (15 page)

A
s soon as Lynn recovered from her jetlag, Helen and Rigby organized a small dinner party in her honor. It was late when the guests left. Lynn retired to her bedroom. The Croxfords sat alone on their veranda listening to the cricket concert. A pearl-spotted owl's whistle quieted the crickets.

“Rigby dear, I have something I need to talk to you about.”

“Anytime you call me ‘dear,' I know it's serious.”

“It's nothing bad. It's just something we need to discuss.”

“Let's hear it. I'm breathless with anticipation.” He pulled her in and kissed her on the cheek.

“Lynn has an American friend coming to Zimbabwe to visit her. Her friend's a man. I've invited him to stay with us.”

“So, what's the big deal? Lynn's a grown woman. What's the man's name?”

“Jesse Spooner. He's a black man.”

“When you say ‘friend,' what exactly do you mean?”

“I think Lynn's in love with him.”

“Helen, have you lost your mind? You know we don't mix the races in this country. Our friends will think we've lost the plot. That man is not staying on my farm. Helen, you're gonna have to make a new plan. What in God's name were you thinking? No sir, not on my farm. Maybe it'll happen one day. Thank God I won't be alive to see it.”

“Are you through? I don't care what our friends think. You claim to be this great champion of the blacks in this country, but when it means complete integration you go ballistic. I hate to enlighten you, but the world will change with or without Rigby Croxford. And another thing, this is not you
r
farm, it's ou
r
farm. I'm very disappointed.I'm not surprised, just disappointed.”

“You're disappointed! You should have asked me about this beforehand. I'm going to bed.” He got up, walked over to the wooden railing and flicked his cigarette butt into the blackness. “Helen, I love you, but you still don't understand Africa or Africans.”

The night was unpolluted by a moon. The stars seemed to reach endlessly into the blackness. Helen heard a distinctive series of whistles rising in sequence and ending in a “wheeoowheeoo” sound. It was the male owl warning his rivals. Maybe I don't know Africa, but I do know you. It might take a little of the silent treatment, but you'll come around. You just needed to show off your maleness. Just like the owl, only bigger, she continued thinking.

It didn't take the silent treatment to bring Rigby around. He apologized to his wife the next day. Of course it would be all right if the man stayed with them, just not in the same room with Lynn. Helen accepted her husband's change of heart with pride. It wasn't a total victory, but it was a step in the right direction.

What Helen didn't know was that her husband had plans for Jesse Spooner. Jesse was to land at the Victoria Falls Airport in five days. The town was over two hundred kilometers from the Croxford farm. Jesse's visit overlapped a previously scheduled Cape buffalo hunt. Rigby could have turned the hunt over to his partner, but that wasn't about to happen. He would pick Jesse up at the airport and take him out into the bush to finish the hunt. If his plan worked, Jesse would be headed home in a week.

***

Jesse slept for most of the fourteen-hour flight to Johannesburg. He waited in line with the other bedraggled passengers to clear customs at the airport. Finally, Jesse presented his passport to the uniformed agent who smiled and welcomed him to South Africa. When he slid his ATF weapons permit across the desk, her smile curled down into a frown.

“Sir, I need to check with my superior,” she said, folding the permit inside of his passport and then walking away. In a few minutes, the customs agent returned with a man following her. “Mr. Spooner?” the man inquired without smiling. He stared at his passport picture and then looked up at him reflectively. “Mr. Spooner, what's your purpose in South Africa?”

“I'm transiting through to Zimbabwe. My flight to Victoria Falls leaves in four hours. Is there a problem?”

“No problem. Your papers seem to be in order. The security rules changed after 9/11. I'm sure you understand.”

“Of course. Is there anything else?”

“If you change your travel plans and decide to stay in South Africa, you must contact my office. Goodbye, Mr. Spooner.” He handed him his passport.

Jesse checked his luggage at the Air Zimbabwe desk for the flight to Victoria Falls. He bought a copy of the foreign edition of the
London Times
and found a seat in the terminal.

A heavily accented woman announced the arrival and departure of flights to and from exotic sounding places like Katmandu and Lusaka. Bearded Arabs kneeling on their prayer rugs chanted quietly in the corners of the building. West Africans dressed in brightly colored robes and matching madras turbans studied the monitors for undated flight information.

A tall African sat down next to him. He was wearing a rumpled business suit and splayed tieup shoes. Jesse smiled and said good morning to the man, but got no reaction. He glanced at a flight monitor. He noticed the flight to Victoria Falls was flashing on the screen. The ticket agent was polite but nonchalant as she explained the flight had been delayed three hours. She told Jesse that he should check with her later to make sure the flight hadn't been canceled.

Bored and stiff from sitting, he walked out of the building and into the brisk morning air. A car stopped next to him. The driver stuck his head out of the window and shouted. Jesse moved closer to hear the man. “Mister, do you need a taxi?”

“Why not?” he said, getting into the backseat. “Why don't you give me a tour of the city? Were you born here in Johannesburg?”

“I'm from Mozambique,” the driver answered. He adjusted the rearview mirror to look at Jesse. He was missing his left hand and had trouble moving the mirror into position. “Are you from England?” the man asked.

“I'm an American.”

“America is number-one. In America, everybody's rich.” He made a finger-rubbing gesture of making money. “Would you mind if I collect a friend?”

“No, I don't mind.”

The road sliced through the industrial section of Johannesburg. There were factories topped in belching smokestacks on one side and squattercamps on the other. The camps were composed of squared shacks roofed in corrugated metal. The shanties were packed so tight they suffocated the land. A dusty haze blanketed the districts. Barefoot children with popping belly-buttons played soccer on the outskirts. Women hung clothes on the perimeter walls built to hide the eyesore. They turned down a dirt road. Jesse moved uneasily in the backseat.

The driver stopped in front of a dilapidated building. A man left a group of four men and approached the car. The man's dreadlocks looked dirty. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. The driver rolled down the window. They talked in pigeon Zulu. The man with the dreads smiled over the top of his shades and then slid into the front seat. Jesse touched his 9-mm. Jesse watched the other men run to a pickup truck. The car pulled away with the pickup following close behind. The driver's cell phone rang; Jesse guessed it was someone in the truck.

“You aren't going to give a tour, are you?” The man riding in front reached for something in the glovebox. Jesse grabbed a fistful of dreads and pressed the barrel of his revolver against the man's temple. When he looked back, the truck was gone. “What were you going for?” he asked, pointing at the glove compartment. “Take it out slowly.” He yanked the man's head back. The man retrieved a book entitled: The Tourist Guide to Johannesburg. Jesse released his hair and slumped back inside the seat. The man whispered to the driver.

“What did he say?” Jesse asked. “He asked me if everyone in America is crazy. Mister, do you still want the tour?” Jesse stared at a group of children waving at him. “Forget the tour. Take me back to the airport. Sorry, I got carried away.”

***

The archaic DC-9 landed with a thump at the Victoria Falls Airport. The terminal was in need of paint. The airport's baggage handlers were barefooted and could have passed for beggars. They fought over the more expensivelooking luggage. One of them tried to strike up a conversation with Jesse, but he ignored him.

As Jesse stood in line with the other disembarking passengers he saw the man who had been described to him. Rigby Croxford stared back at him. They acknowledged each other with smiles. Croxford was bigger than he had expected. Deep laugh wrinkles spread from the corners of his eyes. His hair was clipped in a buzzcut. He wore khaki shorts and sandals. Jesse wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.

Rigby felt out of sorts and he didn't know why. Jesse Spooner was lighterskinned than the Africans standing around him. Rigby shrugged off his reluctance and stepped forward. “You must be Spooner. I'm Rigby Croxford.” They shook hands, but their eye contact was brief.

“I can't believe your flight made it,” said Rigby. “It's bloody amazing. There's not a spare part in Zimbabwe. Our planes are held together by bailing wire and electrical tape like everything else on this buggered continent.” Rigby omitted the local joke about the perils of flying with black pilots. He handed Jesse a warm bottle of beer. “This'll help settle your nerves. We better collect your luggage before someone pinches it. Let's hope they put your bags on in Joburg.” He omitted another local joke, about the idiocy of Africans running the airlines.

“They can't lose my luggage with only five passengers.”

“This is Africa. Anytime something can go wrong, it usually does.”

The men walked over to the suitcases. “I see my bag.”

“Grab it. I'll bring up the vehicle,” Rigby yelled over his shoulder.

The road to Victoria Falls had no traffic except for one donkeydrawn cart hauling firewood. Heat waves curled up from the tarmac like gas fumes. The dry wind made Jesse's eyes feel sandpapery. Both men had practiced what they would say to each other, but had trouble cracking the silence. “How's Lynn doing?” Jesse asked.

“She's fine. How was your stopover in Johannesburg?”

“It was interesting. Look Rigby, there's something I need to get off my chest. I hope you're all right with me coming over here. I mean, with the blackandwhite thing.”

“It's not a problem. C'mon, man, you're in Africa now.” Rigby stuttered slightly as the words lodged in his throat. “I'm glad that's over. I can't tell you how much I worried about meeting you. To tell you the truth, I never thought a woman like Lynn would ever give me a second look. She's very special.”

“She is indeed. Do you mind if I smoke?” He lit a homemade cigarette before Jesse could respond.

“Those things will kill you.”

“Spooner, you'll discover that everything on this bloody continent is keen on killing you. Smoking is about the safest thing we do in Africa.”

Jesse's confession released the tension. He propped his head against the window and closed his eyes. Rigby glanced over at him. He remembered his wife's words, “Please, just give him a chance.” Helen hasn't got a clue, he thought.

They drove over the Masuie River Bridge just as a troop of baboons were crossing. The dominant male lagged behind giving his troop time to cross. His redbottomed females slung their babies under their bellies and loped down the embankment. The troop leader swaggered behind them. Without warning, he sounded a thunderous bark, which evoked panic in the troop. When they reached the river bottom the flareup ended.

Two skinny women waved from the far end of the bridge. They had babies strapped to their backs. Rigby pulled over, and said something to the women. They jumped up into the back of the truck.

“They're members of the Shona tribe.

“Interesting,” said Jesse, glancing back at the women.

Vic Falls had atrophied in recent years. The road ran downhill and disappeared into some mopani trees. Beyond the trees there was mist rising from the waterfalls. “The Shona named this place
Musi oa Tunya—
it means the smoke that thunders,” Rigby explained. When he slowed down at a railroad crossing, the hitchhikers swung down off the back of his truck and merged into the throng of natives.

Croxford drove at a snail's pace, giving Spooner time to absorb the primal scenery. Raggedly dressed women carried bundles of firewood and sacks of cornmeal on their heads; their bowed legs seemed too frail to support their loads. Their husbands, unburdened by portage, led the way. Feral children harassed white tourists with offers to exchange currencies. I wonder what he's thinking, Rigby thought glancing over at Jesse.

Jesse stuck his head out of the window. Strange odors fought for supremacy of the air, but to Jesse the town smelled like a musty barn. “My God, it's wonderful, isn't it?” Spooner remarked.