The Garden of Burning Sand (15 page)

Just after dawn the next morning, Joseph drove Zoe to the airport. In the aftermath of Election Day, the streets of Lusaka were eerily calm. The vendors that normally crowded the roadways were absent, and foot traffic was astonishingly light. The winner of the election had yet to be announced, and the media had begun to recycle bland pollingstation footage to fill the void.

“I’m worried about PF if Banda wins,” Zoe said. “They’ll never accept that it’s fair.”

Joseph frowned. “If MMD stays in power, PF might resort to violence. But I doubt it would spread beyond the compounds. Zambians are peaceful people.”

“Everyone said that about Kenya,” she rejoined. “Then the whole country blew up.”

They reached the airport as the sun rose above the plains. Joseph pulled into the drop-off lane and stopped beside the curb. He regarded her silently, and she realized that he was at a loss for words. Something had changed in their relationship the night before. She felt more comfortable in his presence, but at the same time she felt vulnerable, as if in giving voice to her attraction she had shed a layer of psychological clothing. From the look in Joseph’s eyes, she knew the feeling was mutual.

“I’ll call you when I buy my return ticket,” she said. She hesitated and then kissed him lightly on the cheek before climbing out of the truck.

After passing through security, she took a seat in the departure lounge. At some point, her eyes were drawn to a television monitor hanging from the ceiling. A newscaster from the BBC was giving an update on the primary race in the United States. In advance of the debate in Orlando, her father’s lead had tightened from fifteen points to eight, and a new challenger—the Governor of Kansas—had surged on a wave of anti-establishment rhetoric. The telecast showed the Senator waving to a cheering crowd, while the announcer, in voiceover commentary, questioned whether he could hold on to his advantage. Zoe shook her head. It was surreal to see her father surrounded by such adulation and controversy.

The flight to Johannesburg lasted a brief two hours, and she dozed through most of it. When the plane began its descent, she watched the city take shape through the skein of brownish haze. She saw the great flat-topped mine dumps of the Witwatersrand in the distance, and smiled. During her year in the judicial trenches with Judge van der Merwe, she had explored the many dimensions of the city—the gritty urban core, the not quite desegregated townships, the leafy suburbs and lush parklands—and had developed a deep fondness for it. While in many ways crass and dangerous, Johannesburg was the birthplace of the Soweto uprising against apartheid and the repository of the continent’s greatest legal treasure—the South African Constitution.

The plane touched down at OR Tambo International Airport at half past nine. An hour later, she left the airport driving a sporty Volkswagen coupé. She navigated toward the N12 and placed a call to Dr. Johannè Luyt. At first, the epidemiologist was skeptical of her request, but she warmed when Zoe told her about Dr. Kruger’s role
in saving Godfrey’s life. She took Zoe’s number and promised to call her back.

Traffic heading into the city center was a bumper-to-bumper mess of flashing lights and honking horns. Zoe’s iPhone rang in the midst of the gridlock.

“I spoke with Dr. Kruger,” said Dr. Luyt. “Can you come to Wits?”

“Of course. Where shall I meet you?”

“How about the steps of the Great Hall?”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Zoe arrived at East Campus of the University of the Witwatersrand a few minutes ahead of schedule. After obtaining a visitor’s pass, she parked in the lot at the top of the hill and followed a path to the terraced lawns of the quad. The campus was alive with activity—students hurrying to class, professors engaging in conversation, and rugby enthusiasts grappling with one another in the grass. She walked toward the imposing edifice of the Great Hall. A thin middle-aged woman in a white lab coat was standing on the steps.

Zoe waved. “Dr. Luyt,” she said, holding out her hand, “I’m Zoe Fleming.”

The doctor returned her handshake curtly. “Dr. Kruger is in the field today.”

“Will he be available tomorrow?” Zoe asked.

Dr. Luyt looked at her carefully. “I might be able to arrange a meeting, but I wanted to speak to you first. The findings of our recent study have generated an avalanche of interest. We have had to be cautious with our time.”

Zoe concealed her puzzlement with a fib. “I know of the study but not the findings.”

Dr. Luyt’s voice grew passionate. “We worked with HIV-discordant couples—that is, one positive partner and one negative partner—and
introduced antiretrovirals early, as prevention rather than treatment. We had only one new infection in the study period—an astonishing result. We now believe that with early ARV treatment and prenatal treatment of HIV-positive mothers it may be possible to eliminate the transmission of the virus over the next generation.”

“Eliminate?” Zoe was astounded. “You’re talking about a future without AIDS?”

“It would take time, but yes. The only question is whether the politicians will give us the funding.” She began to walk down the path beneath flowering trees. “Tell me more about the young man Dr. Kruger saved.”

Keeping pace with her, Zoe filled in the details of Godfrey’s story. When she concluded, Dr. Luyt took out her mobile phone. “That’s what he told me. I’m sure he will meet with you.”

The telephone conversation was brief. Afterward, Dr Luyt regarded Zoe again. “There is a coffee shop called Sun Garden outside Cosmo City. He will meet you there.” She shook Zoe’s hand. “I am sorry for delaying you.”

Zoe nodded. “I hope you get your funding. It could change the face of Africa.”

Dr. Luyt looked suddenly wistful. “It could, indeed.”

Zoe found the coffee shop inside a plant nursery in one of Johannesburg’s northwestern suburbs. She left her car in the gravel lot and walked through the showroom, taking a seat on a bench beneath a shaded trellis of vines. At eleven in the morning, the place was mostly empty. A waitress approached her, and Zoe ordered a cappuccino.

On the drive, she had worked out a strategy for her talk with Dr. Kruger, but she was not excited about it. In fact, she felt a strong sense of guilt. She thought of Kuyeya, and the guilt became sorrow. If only Charity had finished her nursing degree, if only she had never met Darious, if only she had sought treatment in time, Dr. Kruger could have been left in peace.

She reached into her backpack and extracted Bella’s journal, placing it at the center of the table. The waitress brought her coffee, and she sipped it, looking toward the entrance. A few minutes later she saw him. He was as Godfrey recalled—fair-haired and blue-eyed. He caught sight of her and walked briskly to her table.

“Ms. Fleming,” he said, glancing at the journal. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Dr. Kruger,” she said, “thank you for your time.”

He sat down across from her. “How is Godfrey these days?” he asked, his pronunciation that of an educated Rhodesian.

“He’s trying to make a life for himself,” she replied. “Most of his family is dead.”

A shadow darkened the doctor’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that. How did they …?”

“AIDS, mostly.”

He shook his head. “We have so far to go.”

She took a breath to calm her racing heart. “I’d like talk to you about Charity Mizinga.”

In the silence that followed, she studied his face, searching for traces of pain or remorse, but she saw none.
Either you are an excellent actor, or you came prepared for this
.

“Charity,” he said eventually. “She was a talented student.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Zoe pointed at the journal. “She left you a gift.”

Dr. Kruger’s eyes narrowed, but he recovered quickly. “What do you mean?”

She gestured at the book. “See for yourself.”

He stared at her, ignoring the journal. “You asked me here on the pretense that you wished to speak about Godfrey. I don’t like being deceived.”

Zoe struggled to control her frustration. “Would you rather I’d told you that the student you regarded so highly spent the last years of her life as a prostitute in Lusaka? Would you have preferred me to say that she wrote hundreds of letters describing her debasement? Every single one of them is addressed to you. I want to know why.”

He turned his eyes toward the journal, wavering. Finally, he opened the cover. He scanned a number of pages and then set the book down again. “I don’t know why she wrote these,” he said quietly.

“When did you last see her?”

He fingered the journal. “She dropped out of school in her second year. I can’t recall which month. It came as a shock to all of us.”

“She didn’t give you a reason?”

“She didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Yet she wrote you hundreds of letters.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes students have infatuations. You understand that, I’m sure.”

Zoe looked at him skeptically. “Did you ever get the sense that she had feelings for you?”

The doctor shook his head. “Our relationship was strictly platonic.”

“How friendly were you?”

“We saw each other almost every day. She was very dedicated to the research. When Godfrey contracted malaria, she helped me save his life. I knew her fairly well.”

“Did you know she had a daughter?”

“What?” He appeared genuinely shocked. “She had a daughter in Livingstone?”

“You tell me.”

He shook his head. “When I knew her, she never talked about a child.”

“So her daughter was born after she dropped out of school?”

“I have no idea. How old is the girl?”

Zoe paused, meeting his eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

He sat back in his chair, his expression thick with mistrust. “Who
are
you?”

“Charity’s daughter was raped in Lusaka,” she replied, laying all of her cards on the table. “We believe the perpetrator is a young man named Darious Nyambo, son of Frederick Nyambo, the industrialist. I’m one of the attorneys working on the case.”

As soon as Zoe spoke these words, she knew she had lost him.

He stood up angrily. “You not only deceived me, you deceived Dr. Luyt. What happened to this girl is a terrible thing. But it has nothing to do with me.”

Gritting her teeth, Zoe threw her calculation to the wind. “Did you have an affair with Charity Mizinga? Is that why she wrote you all these letters?”

His eyes flashed. “How dare you come here and accuse me of such a thing? Please give Godfrey my best. But do not contact me again.”

With that, he turned around and left.

Zoe took the expressway back to OR Tambo and bought a ticket on the mid-afternoon flight to Lusaka. When the plane landed, she met Joseph at the curb and slid into the passenger seat, preempting the question in his eyes.

“The trip was an abysmal failure. There, I said it.”

He stayed silent until they left the airport complex. “Did you learn
anything
?”

“I learned that sometimes I need to keep my mouth shut. Oh, and I learned that a bunch of epidemiologists have proven that we could end the AIDS epidemic in a generation, but that the politicians might scuttle it by gutting foreign aid.”

He laughed under his breath. “You do speak your mind. What did you learn about
Jan
?”

She calmed down. “I think he’s hiding something. He explained the journal by suggesting that Charity had some sort of schoolgirl crush. I think something happened between them, but I have no proof.” She looked at him. “You think all this is crazy, don’t you? You don’t think it relates to the case.”

He shook his head. “When you have a hunch, you have to follow it. I can’t tell you how many cases I’ve broken that way.”

She took a breath, grateful for his vote of confidence. “So what did you do today?”

He glanced at her. “I found a link between the magistrate and the Nyambos.”

“You’re kidding!”

He smiled. “I had lunch with my friend at the Department of Energy. When I mentioned Thoko Kaunda, he told me that Kaunda’s father is high-level official in the Department of Water Affairs. He was hired by a certain Minister of Energy.”

Her eyes lit up. “Frederick Nyambo,” she said. Then she had another thought. “With Nyambo’s interest in Batoka Gorge, I wonder if they still have a relationship.”

“It’s possible. The link isn’t as direct as a personal friendship, but it raises doubt about the magistrate’s impartiality. Mariam is going to take it to the DPP tomorrow.”

Zoe looked out the window and saw that traffic was unusually light. “Have they announced the election results?”

“Sata is ahead, but it’s too close to call. PF is making a lot of noise about fraud.”

“If anything happens in Woodlands, you can stay over at my place. Kabulonga will be safer than anywhere else.” She regarded him and saw the weariness in his eyes. “You look tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Probably not.”

“Is it the case?”

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I have dreams. They keep me awake.”

“About what?”

“My sister.” He blinked as if trying to shake off the memories. “It’s too long a story.”

“Not if we get dinner. I bet Arcades is open tonight.”

He shook his head. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” Then he surprised her with a grin. “But I wouldn’t mind dinner. What about Plates?”

She laughed. “You’re on.”

The following morning, Zoe took a seat at the table in Mariam’s office. Joseph, Sarge, and Niza were already there. Mariam dialed the DPP’s number on the speakerphone, and Levy Makungu answered after three rings. His tone made obvious his displeasure.

“I heard about the decision on DNA. I presume you plan to appeal?”

“Not exactly,” Mariam replied. “We believe the magistrate has an undisclosed conflict of interest. His family has a relationship with the family of the accused.”

The DPP took a breath. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

Mariam forged ahead. “We could file an application for recusal, but we’re certain he won’t remove himself without persuasion.”

“Just a minute,” Makungu said, and put the phone down. Seconds later, Zoe heard the sound of a door being closed. The DPP came back on the line. “Unless you have concrete evidence of bias, I’m going to hang up and forget you called.”

“Our VSU officer is in the room. Joseph, will you tell Levy what you found?”

Joseph rolled his chair closer to the phone and shared his findings and his source.

Makungu grunted. “I’m going to need confirmation.”

“I can give you his number,” Joseph said. “He’ll talk to you.”

The DPP took his time replying. “Mariam, what do you propose I do about this?”

Mariam shifted in her seat. “Give the information to the Principal Resident Magistrate. He’ll know how to handle it.”

“I have great respect for Flexon Mubita, but he assigned Kaunda to the case. What if he already knows about this?”

“I trust him more than anyone on the bench. But you’re right. It’s a risk we have to take.”

Makungu cleared his throat. “If the officer’s story checks out, I’ll talk to Flexon.”

Mariam looked relieved. “Thank you, Levy. I owe you one.”

“More than one,” he replied, and hung up.

Zoe spent the remainder of her morning polishing a brief she had written in another child-rape case. The client this time was an eleven-year-old girl from the Ng’ombe Compound whose great-uncle had molested her for years before she finally confessed to her mother and her mother went to the police. After threatening the child, the uncle had hired an attorney, and the attorney had threatened the mother. At Niza’s request, Zoe had drafted an application for contempt, but she expected the magistrate to overrule it. The accused and his attorney had denied making the threats, and the child’s mother was a poor widow standing on nothing but her word.

At lunchtime, Joseph announced that he was in the mood for
nshima
, and Zoe smiled at him, taking the hint. They drove down the street to Pamela’s, a favorite haunt of attorneys in the government quarter, and strolled across the grass to the outdoor buffet. A Zambian matron took their orders and spooned
nshima
, chicken, groundnut relish, and collard greens onto plates. After paying for the food, they sat at a table on the mostly empty lawn.

“Where is everyone?” Zoe asked, looking around.

“There were riots in Ndola. I heard it on the radio. PF thinks MMD is rigging the election in favor of Banda. I imagine a lot of people stayed home today.”

“Has there been violence in Lusaka?”

Joseph shook his head. “The compounds are restless, but nothing yet.”

“They need to declare a winner,” she said in exasperation.

They ate for a while, enjoying the sunshine and silence. Eventually, Zoe asked, “What are you going to do until we hear from the DPP?”

He finished off a bite of
nshima
, and then said, “I’m going to talk to some
ngangas
about HIV. I’m also going to talk to people in Kanyama outside Abigail’s neighborhood. I think Darious knew his way around the compound. Otherwise, he would have left Kuyeya closer to Los Angeles Road. He’s got a flashy car. If I’m right, I’ll find someone else who saw it.”

She frowned, only partly in jest. “Your job is far sexier than mine.”

He grinned. “An interesting choice of words.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

His expression turned serious. “If you want something to do, I have an idea. I handled a case a few years back. Two adolescent boys lured a girl into their house and raped her while their parents were away. After they finished, they threatened her and let her go. She was brave, and she was lucky. Her family took the case to the police, and the post commander gave it to me.”

The tale turned Zoe’s stomach. “Did you get a conviction?”

“We did. A neighbor saw the girl go into the house. Her testimony convinced the magistrate. I’ve been wondering what Darious did with Kuyeya between the time he picked her up in Kabwata and the time he dropped her off in Kanyama. Five hours is a lot of time.”

“You think he took her somewhere.”

Joseph nodded. “I’m wondering if he took her home.”

She gave him a dubious look. “He did a near-perfect job of covering his tracks. Why would he commit a crime on his own property?”

“Because it’s the one place he can completely control. I haven’t been inside the walls, but I would guess he has a separate house or a wing to himself. What if his parents were gone? What if he took her home and did the deed and then drove her into Kanyama? The neighbors and the guards wouldn’t have seen anything. There’s only one person who might have seen something.”

“Who?”

Joseph smiled. “Their housekeeper.”

“How do you know …? I mean, I’m sure they have one, but it’s a monumental guess.”

He shrugged. “You may be right. But you handled Doris so well I thought you might be interested in talking to her.”

“How do you propose I do that?”

“Wait outside the house until she leaves. I’m sure she takes a regular trip to the market. Someone drives her, but I’d be willing to bet she shops alone.”

At once Zoe felt fear. “Why would she talk to me?”

“She might not. But you could get lucky.”

After a moment, Zoe nodded. “I’ll talk to Mariam.”

When they returned to the CILA office, they found it deserted, except for Sarge who was sitting in the conference room typing on his laptop. He looked up at them and said, “There was violence in the Copperbelt. The office is closed until the election is announced.”

“Why are you still here?” Zoe asked, feeling anxious again.

“I have a hearing in the High Court next week. I have to finish the brief.”

Leaving Sarge to his computer, Zoe followed Joseph outside. At once she realized how quiet it was. Situated near the center of one of Lusaka’s busiest districts, the office was usually awash in street noise. This afternoon it was as serene as a botanical garden.

“Well,” she said, “I can’t offer you a river cruise, but I do have a pool.”

“A swim sounds nice,” Joseph replied. “As long as you have a radio.”

They returned to Zoe’s flat and spent the afternoon lounging by the pool along with half of the residents of the complex, all on temporary leave. When the shadows grew long on the grass and the sun disappeared into the trees, Zoe invited Joseph to a makeshift dinner of ham sandwiches and apples—all she had left in her refrigerator. Afterward, they retired to the living room to watch movies, keeping Zoe’s iPhone tuned to the ZNBC news broadcast.

The hours marched on without an announcement. When the credits began to roll at the end of
District 9
—an alien invasion film set in Johannesburg—Zoe yawned and checked her watch. It was past midnight. She was about to make a trip to the bathroom when she heard the voice of Chief Justice Ernest Sakala of Zambia’s Supreme Court come on the radio. She turned off the TV and increased the volume on her iPhone, holding her breath as Sakala began to recite the vote count.

“Michael C. Sata of the Patriot Front: 1,170,966 votes. Rupiah B. Banda of the Movement for Multiparty Democracy: 987,866 votes. Hichilema Hakainde of the United Party for National Development: 506,763 votes …”

Zoe turned to Joseph and heaved a great sigh of relief. “It’s over, thank God. And PF has nothing to complain about.”

Joseph gave her an enigmatic look. “The people wanted change. But
they chose another old man to lead them. I wonder what they will say about Sata in four years.”

Zoe imagined President Banda sitting in his palace, contemplating the end of two decades of MMD rule. How many of his friends had benefited from his patronage? How many in his government now feared for their livelihoods? She had a terrifying thought. He still had the military at his disposal. In Africa votes were paper things, no match for men with guns.

“Will Banda concede?” she asked. “What if he uses the army to force a recount?”

Joseph looked at her quizzically. “What is this worry? You are usually so confident.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, feeling strangely vulnerable.

He shrugged. “Who knows what will happen? But life will go on. The President doesn’t make the world turn.”

This simple reassurance found deep purchase in Zoe’s heart. Her pulse increased, and she scooted closer to him. She couldn’t remember the last time she had responded this way to a man. All of her previous relationships had been transient things, inspired more by passing attraction than by compatibility or genuine passion. Watching her girlfriends receive rings and walk down the aisle, she had often thought that something inside her was broken. Every time she pictured herself in their place, she felt Clay Randall’s hands driving her into the sand. With Joseph, however, she felt safe. His dark eyes were only kind.

She placed a hand on his chest and leaned toward him. He grazed her cheek, and his touch made her shiver. Just before their lips met, she closed her eyes, wondering what it would be like to take him to her bed.

Suddenly, she felt fingers on her lips. “Not yet,” he said softly.

She opened her eyes. “Why?” she whispered.

He searched her face. “Good things should not be rushed.”

She didn’t know what it was that restrained her, but the anger she felt passed as quickly as it came.
If he wants to wait, I can wait
, she thought, nuzzling into him.

After a while she led him to the door and kissed him chastely. “Be safe tonight.”

“This was a good day,” he replied, and turned toward the stairs.

That night Zoe had one of the most vivid dreams of her life. She was standing on Los Angeles Road in Kanyama watching the gang leader in the green bandana and a hundred other kids celebrate PF’s victory when a convoy of trucks rumbled to a standstill, carrying soldiers with AK-47s. Shouts were exchanged and then the army opened fire on the revelers. As the street filled with bodies, the gang leader leered at her and said, “The fun is only beginning.”

In the morning, Zoe awoke with a sense of dread. She opened her MacBook and checked ZNBC, certain that the night had been consumed with violence. What she found astonished her. Rupiah Banda had called a press conference and was expected to deliver a concession speech. She read the story in disbelief, marveling that such a bitter contest could end without bloodshed.

After breakfast, she called Mariam and learned that the CILA office would reopen at noon. Remembering Joseph’s suggestion the day before, she pitched Mariam about approaching the Nyambos’ housekeeper. Mariam hesitated at first but eventually agreed.

“Please be careful,” she said. “If anything happens, phone Joseph right away.”

Zoe dressed quickly in jeans and a pullover, drew her blond hair into a ponytail, and put on her sunglasses and a baseball cap. She looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head. The glasses hid her blue
eyes, but otherwise her Caucasian features were impossible to miss. She grabbed her backpack off the floor and stuffed it with enough reading material to occupy her for a few hours. Then she locked her flat and drove her Land Rover out of the gate.

It took her barely a minute to reach her destination. As she had done before, she pulled to the shoulder as far from the house as she could without limiting her view of the gate. She studied the guard sitting outside the wall. He had the same muscular physique as the night guard, but he didn’t seem as intent on his duties. He was leaning back in his chair, absorbed in a newspaper.

She took out her iPhone and pulled up another satellite image of the property. She had given little thought to the outbuildings before, but now she studied them carefully. The larger one sat beside the driveway and resembled a garage; the smaller one stood beside the outer wall in the shade of a tree—probably the housekeeper’s cottage. The cottage faced the rear of the house and had a direct line of sight across the pool to the larger outbuilding.

She sent Joseph a text, letting him know where she was.

His reply came swiftly:
“Watch the guard. If he gets suspicious, leave. Call if you need backup.”

She looked down the street. The guard had not budged from his seat. She switched on the radio and lowered the volume. She wanted to hear Banda’s press conference but none of the commentary. She took out her copy of
Swann’s Way
and immersed herself in Proust.

Around nine o’clock, President Banda came on the radio. Zoe listened as he addressed the nation. There was an undercurrent of sorrow in his voice, but his words were generous and conciliatory. He spoke with deep feeling about the country that had elected his archrival to replace him, and he prevailed upon all Zambians to ensure a peaceful transition.

When he concluded, Zoe had tears in her eyes. Never before had
she heard an African politician concede defeat with such dignity. Names flashed through her mind: Idi Amin, Joseph Mobutu, Charles Taylor, Muammar Al-Gaddafi, Robert Mugabe—the self-appointed dictator kings of Africa. The list was long and littered with the dead. By presiding over an orderly transfer of power, Banda had not only prevented carnage in the compounds, but he had also refuted the cynic’s song that Africa was an irredeemable land.

Zoe was so enthralled by the moment that she almost missed the Toyota sedan leaving the Nyambos’ property. She blinked in the bright sunlight and realized what she was seeing. Two people were in the vehicle: a man in the driver’s seat and an older woman in the back, dressed in
chitenge
. The sedan turned left out of the gate and headed in the direction of Bishop’s Road. She keyed the ignition and fixed her eyes on the guard, fearing the sound of the engine would attract his attention. But he seemed oblivious to her.