Fever (5 page)

“I hate this crap. Anyway, my parents made their money in oil—olive and crude. The olive-oil business was my great-great grandfather’s in Italy. But Dad wanted to diversify, so he got into crude when the market was down. That was a smart move. When I was growing up, it was the thing to educate your children in Europe. I spent a lot of time in different cultures, volunteering in the communities and learning the languages.”

The more Sara talked about her family and their lives together, the more sober she became, as if the memories were too important to utter irreverently.

“My dad died of a stroke five years ago. He’d arranged for my mother and me to be cared for, so we converted everything else into philanthropic ventures. I know that prob’ly sounds lame to you, but it really means something to me—what I do.”

But Sara’s words lacked conviction and her eyes told a different story. What could possibly be missing from this woman’s life? It was perfect, by contemporary standards: power, position, all the benefits of wealth, and a more-than-willing woman. Sara seemed sad and lost in a way that Zak couldn’t understand until it occurred to her that they were alike. She was running away to Africa to reexamine her life too. Both of them had some sort of connection missing in their lives. It pleased and worried her that she and Sara shared something so essential. Then she realized Sara was looking at her, waiting for a response to her last comment.

“A person should care about what they do. It helps define them.”

Sara stared at her as though she’d made a unique, profound statement worthy of deep consideration. “You’re exactly right.”

“Ladies, we’ll be arriving in Mombasa in ten minutes. Prepare for landing.”

“You got me through the storm. I didn’t even realize it was over. Thank you.” Releasing her death grip on Zak’s arm, Sara cupped her face and quickly kissed her on the lips.

Zak was so stunned she had no time to withdraw from the touch or the kiss. Both connected with her skin like water on parched sand. She wanted to freeze the moment their lips joined and drink in the softness of Sara’s mouth. It was a simple gesture of thanks but so spontaneous and genuine that it registered deep inside Zak. She seldom received affection that wasn’t carefully calculated for effect.

Sara withdrew her hands, bringing them to her lips as though burned. “I’m so sorry. I—”

Zak turned away, not trusting herself to speak. This woman was gently poking at things Zak preferred to keep undisturbed. Outside the window, shards of ochre sunlight sliced through the receding darkness. The sky was decorated with layers of color ranging from inky black to shades of plum, cerulean, and white. The aqua waters of the Indian Ocean appeared almost invisible under a night that refused to depart quickly.

Zak was grateful the savannahs of the Masai Mara weren’t visible as they approached Moi International Airport. She could wait another day to see the country that felt more like home than her own and to acknowledge the feelings that this place demanded. Her skin tingled with anticipation as her eyes clouded and tears escaped onto her cheeks. She quickly brushed them away with the back of her hand and buckled her seat belt for landing. Even if she didn’t have a job anymore, Zak would remain in Africa. She had unanswered questions and things to settle.

*

Sara moved to her original seat and prepared for landing. Her lips stung from the kiss as she tried to make sense of it. She was prone to overt expressions, an impulse born of sheer joy at still being alive, a simple display of gratitude to a woman who knew exactly how to calm her. Rikki couldn’t quiet her fears, usually resorting to shushing her like a child. But somehow Zak understood that her incessant talking would distract her just enough. The kiss was pure whimsy, so why did it feel like more?

Girding her seat belt around her, she stole a glimpse at the mystifying woman across the aisle. She hadn’t responded to the kiss at all, simply stared out the window unaffected. She had reacted quite differently when Sara inadvertently groped her breasts. Her intellectual reply had been clear:
Find a replacement
. How could someone perceptive enough to intuit what would quiet her during a crisis be so emotionally contained?

She stared at the back of Zak’s head as if she could absorb the answer through osmosis. Zak appeared intent on the sunrise over Mombasa as they approached the airport. A soft glow seeped in from the window, casting a rainbow of light around her. She inhaled deeply and swiped at a tear track glistening on her cheek. Sara fought the urge to comfort her, knowing that this very private woman would neither accept nor appreciate it.

Even though Zak wore the latest high-tech sat phone like an extra appendage, it never rang. She hardly spoke unless responding to a direct question or giving instructions. Controlling her feelings seemed to be like breathing. But this woman’s chain mail showed scratches Sara had seen twice, and she was seldom wrong about people. What had caused Zak’s uncharacteristic lapse into the emotional?

As the wheels of the jet skidded to a stop on the runway, Sara knew she might never be any closer to an answer.

Royalty came to mind as Zak watched the pilot and chauffeur trip over themselves retrieving Sara’s luggage. Those who orbited in the galaxy of the wealthy must be accustomed to self-deprecation. She wasn’t falling into that trap, Zak thought when she stepped into the warm African air. The small dirty gray building that served as the airport terminal would be considered primitive by American standards, but it was one of the most active places in Kenya. Stalks of wiry grass stuck up through cracks in the worn asphalt, and potholes dotted the surface like a teenager’s acne. Time slowed to a more manageable pace as she took in the unhurried tempo of the workers. She threw her rucksack over her shoulder and sauntered down the steps.

“Do you know this driver?” she asked Sara.

“The Mombasa Serena sent him. They always do when we visit.”

“I mean do you trust him?”

“Of course, he’s worked with the hotel for years.” Sara gave her a look of skepticism mixed with annoyance. “Don’t be so paranoid.”

“Good. Would you mind getting two rooms in your name when you arrive? I’d prefer a second floor, ocean view. I’ll meet you there later. I have to arrange for some other supplies and equipment.”

Without waiting for a response, Zak sprinted to the nearest cab. She could finally take a chest-expanding breath without the tantalizing fragrance of Sara’s perfume floating up her nostrils. As the taxi pulled away, the sights and smells of Mombasa were much the same as she remembered. The air reeked from an overtaxed septic system, too many bodies too close together, and the lingering smoke of burning wood. Smells void of temptation. This island of seven hundred thousand inhabitants bristled with activity, especially around the resort areas and the busy import/export docks.

Snippets of conversations in Swahili, Arabic, Chinese, and Italian drifted into the vehicle. The blend of distinctive dialects comforted Zak with its familiarity, but at the same time disturbed her as she recalled the history of dissidence that remained an intangible undercurrent between these peoples. But Africa was a continent of contrasts, conflicts, and contradictions.

Zak remembered the hot and cold exchanges with Sara on the plane. Did her soon-to-be-ex client find everyone as difficult to get along with, or was Zak the problem? Leaving her at the airport with a half-assed explanation certainly wouldn’t help. But Zak couldn’t tell Sara that she’d left the Serena Mombasa Resort persona non grata after a business stay three years ago. That would require more information than Zak was at liberty to divulge. She couldn’t, shouldn’t, and wouldn’t tell Sara Ambrosini many things. Rule number one of the Company: Don’t admit anything, don’t imply anything,
don’t say anything.
The less Sara knew the safer they’d both be. That thought saddened Zak as she looked out the car window and another piece of her soul locked down.

The cab driver inched along streets lined with shanty shops displaying everything from live chickens to trinkets for sale. Aggressive salesmen bled over into the narrow road, making two-way vehicular traffic precarious. A young girl ran alongside their vehicle. “Madam, look. You buy. Twenty dollars American.” The child waved a fistful of bead necklaces, a broad smile lighting her dark features.

Zak handed her several bills, waved off the tendered item, and watched her run ahead to the car in front of them. She admired the ingenuity and determination of the African people. Children in this culture had family jobs by the age of six. Their chores, carrying water for the garden, pulling weeds, or herding goats, often contributed to the household income and strengthened familial and communal ties so vital to their traditions.

Memories of her family’s annual working vacations in Africa when she was a child tightened her chest with feelings she had not allowed to surface in years. She and her parents had interacted like the components of a precision instrument. She had calmed and distracted the children who came to her father’s makeshift clinic while he and her mother tended to their medical needs. Her role had seemed so vital that she’d briefly considered following her father into medicine.

But she succumbed to the Company’s aggressive recruiting efforts, promises of worthwhile causes, travel, and generous bonuses. After her employment, her relationship with her parents had disintegrated. She had to keep her visits brief between assignments in out-of-the-way destinations to keep everyone insulated and safe. The closeness they shared slowly eroded through the years. Since her father’s death she had seen her mother only twice. Back in this country, she felt the loss more profoundly and painfully.

“Where we go now, madam?”

The cab driver had stopped in the middle of the street and was waiting for Zak’s instructions. She gave him their next stop and for several more hours she begged, bargained, bribed, or bought the remainder of the items on her procurement list. By midafternoon she returned to the hotel, satisfied that she’d done everything possible to make Sara’s trip inland successful.

As Zak slipped into the Serena Mombasa Hotel, she took in the Swahili village resort with whitewashed walls and mangrove-beam trim nestled among gardens filled with bougainvilleas. The setting was ideal for relaxation and romance. Unfortunately, her mission didn’t include either. Dodging eager employees, she made her way through the lobby toward the poolside restroom. She changed into a pair of shorts with her T-shirt, took off her boots, and grabbed a bottle of sparkling water and a
Daily Nation
newspaper on her way to the beach.

She dropped her bag against the trunk of a coconut palm, dug her toes into the warm sand, and sprawled back. As soon as she settled, local entrepreneurs swarmed her like mosquitoes. Everybody had something to sell. She waved them off and immediately regretted it. She wanted to help them all, but the entire balance of her well-stocked bank accounts wouldn’t dent Africa’s financial inequity. When the natives lost interest, she looked at her surroundings for the first time in appreciation instead of reconnoitering or evaluating it.

Warm salty air swept across her and brought with it the pungent aroma of fish and seaweed. The variegated turquoise hues of the Indian Ocean stretched before her, and lateen-rigged dhows bobbed lazily, waiting for their next passengers. Tourists wobbled back and forth atop camels that ferried them along the shoreline.

Windsurfers sliced across the surface of the sparkling water like gulls diving for prey. One woman in a bright green bikini that almost blended with the watery background caught her attention. She flexed and extended gracefully with the breaking waves as the wind and spray lapped at her shapely body. Such strength and control weren’t easy to acquire. This woman had obviously worked hard to master the sport. Zak watched as the surfer made a few more laps then sailed toward shore.

As she got closer, Zak realized the woman was Sara Ambrosini. She beached her board and bent over to lower it onto the sand. Her bathing suit was practically see-through, but Zak didn’t need transparency to appreciate the full breasts and round hips she’d admired on the plane. One more degree of tilt and those luscious mounds would tumble from her bikini top and entertain the entire resort. A slow burn started in Zak’s lower abdomen and blazed between her legs. She kicked at the sand covering her toes and cursed her weakness. Couldn’t Sara be more discreet? Zak had learned to slip through the world comfortable in its shadows, but obviously
low-key
didn’t fit Sara’s job description. She couldn’t afford to be seen with Sara, or at least not be seen as too familiar with her.

Zak opened her newspaper and hid behind the pages, hoping Sara hadn’t spotted her. She scanned the front page, then skipped to the local section, mindlessly skimming until a bold headline caught her attention. T
ITUS
W
ACHIRA
T
O
H
EAD
N
AROK
D
ISTRICT
. The stirrings of arousal she’d felt watching Sara turned to irritation as she read the article.

She had seen no news of Wachira in three years, even though she’d asked her contacts for periodic updates. She thought of him every day, this man she blamed for her father’s death. The fact that Wachira was not only still on the police force, but being promoted, gouged at a sore spot in her chest.

The pain she associated with this country still existed, fresh and bottomless. It swept through her like a wildfire on the arid savannah. She crumpled the edges of the paper in her fists and ripped it apart.