The Garden of Burning Sand (32 page)

Johannesburg, South Africa
May, 2012

Zoe spent the fifteen-hour flight from New York sleeping and scheming—making a list of influential friends and acquaintances and compiling numbers to call on the ground. Somehow, six miles in the air, her frame of reference had changed. It no longer mattered that Atticus Spelling had turned her down, that the decision of the foundation board was a crapshoot, or that her father had asked her to put on a show for the media in exchange for Kuyeya’s life. She would find a way to pay for the surgery. She couldn’t afford to fail.

When the plane parked at the gate, she checked her iPhone for email, hoping for a missive from Monica Kingsley. Instead, she found a handful of queries from reporters, which she deleted. She collected her bags and followed the crowd to customs and immigration. Thirty minutes later, she entered the cavernous terminal and saw Jan Kruger waiting for her.

He surprised her with a hug. “I just got a call from the orthopedic surgeon. She goes into theater in two hours.”

“You did it,” she replied. “You came through.”

He showed her the way to the parking garage and a black Audi
coupé. “I’ve been thinking, assuming all goes well, I’d like to spend some time with her.”

“You’ll have to work at it. She’s never had a decent man in her life.”

“Any advice?”

“Bring her Johnny Cash. She’ll love you forever.”

They left the garage and drove into a world alive with sunlight. Jan navigated the N12 to the Eastern Bypass and sped north to the N1, paying no attention to the speed limit. As they flew across the bronze hills of Gauteng, Jan surprised Zoe again. Beginning with the day he met Charity in a classroom in Livingstone, he told Zoe the story of the girl she was before he broke her heart, before Frederick Nyambo and Lusaka and prostitution and AIDS. Listening to him, Zoe knew that he had loved her and that in some ways he still did.

They left the expressway on the south side of Pretoria and drove through Wingate Park to Pretoria Wellness Hospital. Ultramodern in its design, the medical center sat on a sprawling, tree-shaded campus within sight of a golf course. They parked in the lot and entered the atrium-like lobby. Zoe was immediately struck by the warmth of the place. The walls were decorated with artwork and the air was full of natural light.

A woman at the reception desk directed them to a waiting area not far from the operating room. They walked together down a corridor lined with floral prints. Zoe imagined Kuyeya in theater, sleeping beneath the lights, a team of surgeons working to fuse her vertebrae and relieve the tension that could have severed her spinal cord.
You’re going to make it
, she thought.
I know you will
.

She found Joseph and Sister Irina in the waiting area.

The nun embraced her. “God will bless you for this.”

“Thank him,” Zoe replied, introducing Jan. “He made it happen.”

She turned to Joseph and all but ran into his arms. She had only been away for four days, but it felt like a month. “I missed you,” she said, nestling her head against his chest.

“I missed you, too,” he said, kissing her forehead.

After a while, he led her to a pair of chairs beneath a window. “Guess who I put in jail a couple of days ago?” he asked with a grin.

She felt a rush of excitement. “Dunstan Sisilu?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he said, shaking his head. “His name is Eddie Mpungu—the leader of the gang that attacked us in Kanyama.”

Her eyes widened. “You found him.”

“At Soweto Market. I charged him with assaulting a police officer and told him if he ever touched another girl without permission I’d turn him into a eunuch.”

Zoe laughed, feeling a deep measure of satisfaction. “What about the
Post
?” she asked. “Have they done anything with the story Sarge gave them?”

Joseph nodded. “It was on the front page yesterday. The reporter asked a lot of unflattering questions about the Nyambos and raised a hint of doubt about the Court. What is it you say in English? He smelled a rodent.”

She smiled brightly. “A rat.”

“Right. Sarge is confident he’ll continue to dig. Who knows what he might find?”

Around two o’clock, a fair-haired doctor entered the waiting area. He introduced himself as Dr. Jacobs, the orthopedic surgeon.

“Dr. Kruger,” he said, spotting Jan. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Pleasure,” Jan replied. “How did it go?”

“She’s lucky to be alive,” the surgeon replied. “The subluxation of the atlas was so pronounced that she could have been crippled getting
out of bed. She’ll be in a hard collar for three weeks and a soft collar for several months, but she should be okay.”

Zoe closed her eyes, her relief complete. “When can we see her?” she asked.

“She’s sleeping now,” the surgeon said. “The nurse will let you know when she’s awake and can take visitors.”

After he left, Zoe gave Sister Irina a long hug.

“I was afraid we would lose her,” the nun said. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“She’ll be back in the garden soon,” Zoe said.

She sat down beside Joseph and checked her email again. Her heart skipped a beat. She had a new message from Monica Kingsley. She opened it with trepidation.

“Damn it,” Zoe said under her breath. Though the board’s decision didn’t shock her, it disappointed her greatly. She stood up and turned to Joseph. “I need to make some phone calls. Text me when the nurse says we can see her.”

She ignored his questioning look and grabbed her backpack, heading to the lobby. She took a seat in a coffee shop just off the atrium and opened her MacBook, pulling up the list of contacts she had assembled on the plane. At the top she typed: “Trevor Fleming—$10,000. Jan Kruger—R90,000 / $12,000. Monica Kingsley—$2,000.”

She made her first call—to a friend from Stanford, now the founder of an Internet company worth half a billion dollars. She got his voicemail and left him an urgent message. Her second call went to her childhood best friend whose mother presided over a society club that hosted regular benefits for charity. She left a second voicemail. On her third call, she finally got through. Sam Rutherford was a retired real-estate tycoon who sat on a number of nonprofit boards. He and his wife were in the Founders’ Circle of the Catherine Sorenson Foundation.

“Zoe,” he said, “it’s been years. How are you?”

After a bit of small talk, she got down to business. Sam listened carefully, dropping little phrases that indicated interest—”poor girl,” “sounds like a great cause,” “glad to see you following in your mother’s footsteps”—but at the end he posed the unanswerable question: “I imagine your father has pledged his support?” When she offered a lame answer, he seemed to vacillate. “I need to talk to Margaret. You know how she is. I’ll get back to you.”

Zoe scrolled to the fourth number on her list, but the thought of her father kept her from placing the call. She brought up the Senator’s campaign website on her computer. It had been two days since she left the Vineyard—enough time for him to sell a story about her to the press. When the “Media” page loaded, she read the top line of text. Instead of a hyperlink to a press conference, she found an interview announcement. The Senator and Sylvia were scheduled to appear on
Piers Morgan Tonight
on May 21—tomorrow. Zoe sat immobilized, wondering how her father would spin her appearance in the Senate. Suddenly, she caught herself.
He can say whatever he wants. I don’t care anymore
.

She picked up her iPhone and placed two more calls—to a psychotherapist and bestselling author who was also a childhood neighbor,
and to her roommate at Stanford who was the daughter of a Hollywood director. When no one picked up, she left two more messages.

She looked at the sixth name on her list and felt suddenly queasy. What if her friends didn’t return her calls? What if they found excuses not to help? It was an implausible scenario. She knew too many people with money to fall short of such a modest goal. But the stress of the moment made her waver. At last, she dialed the number, praying for an unscripted voice.

“Pronto!”

The emphatic Italian greeting brought a smile to her face.

“Alex,” she said, “it’s Zoe Fleming. Let me guess: you’re in the Adriatic.”

Alex Denver was a child prodigy—fluent in seven languages, a celebrated concert pianist, and the holder of three patents in biomedical technology. He was also the son of the fifth richest man in America. After earning a master’s degree from Stanford at the age of eighteen, he had set sail around the world while ostensibly working on a PhD. He had never come back.

“Zoe!” he exclaimed. “
Amore mio
. Tell me why we aren’t still together.”

She let out a wry laugh. “If I recall, you found a new girlfriend.”

“What was her name? I don’t remember. You, I can never forget.”

She stifled another laugh. “I have a favor to ask,” she said, and told him Kuyeya’s story.

“How much do you need?” he asked, turning serious.

She did a quick mental calculation. “Around $50,000. I’m not sure yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll cover it.”

“All of it?” She was astonished. At Stanford, he had talked about poverty as if it were the fault of the poor. It was one of many reasons they had broken up.

“Of course,” he replied. “I just put in at Sardinia. I can get it to you inside a week.”

“What happened to you?” she had to ask.

“You mean to the kid who gave bums foreign change?” He laughed at himself. “I met the real world. It gave me a heart.” He paused. “I signed the Giving Pledge.”

Now she was stunned. The pledge was a commitment by some of America’s wealthiest individuals to give at least half of their wealth to charity.

“Dad isn’t thrilled,” he went on, “but his opinion won’t matter when he’s dead.”

“You’re beautiful, Alex,” she said, surprised by the affection in her voice.

He laughed. “If you ever want a holiday, I’m always looking for a pretty first mate.”

Some things never change
, she thought.

When the call ended, she sat back in her chair. She had done it. She had covered Kuyeya’s costs without her trust, without her father, solely by appealing to the decency of people with means. It was the alchemy her mother had so prized: turning nothing into something so that something else—a disease, a famine, a war—could be negated.

She went to the receptionist and asked for an estimate of charges for Kuyeya’s surgery.

“It will take me a few minutes,” the woman replied. “Do you wish to wait?”

Zoe shook her head. “I’ll take a walk.”

She left the hospital and wandered down the hill, making a slow loop around the parking lot. Ten minutes later, she approached the receptionist again.

“Here it is,” the woman said, handing her a printout. “The cost for
the hospital stay will be 279,000 rand. The doctors charge separately, but the total should not exceed 425,000 rand.”

It was less than Zoe had expected. She turned away, thinking to send an email to Alex, when the receptionist stopped her.

“By the way, a man came by a minute ago and asked about Kuyeya. He looked rather flustered. If you see him wandering around, perhaps you can show him the way.”

“What did he look like?” Zoe asked, confused.

The receptionist turned curious. “Actually, he looked a bit like you.”

Zoe was thunderstruck. It had to be Trevor, but his visit made no sense. She had left him at JFK airport less than two days ago. To reach Pretoria so soon, he had to take a flight immediately after hers.
Or maybe he took one of Dad’s jets
, she thought. It was possible, but it only deepened the enigma.

She walked quickly down the corridor, passing two doctors deep in conversation and a woman bouncing a baby. At the top of the steps, she froze. In the hallway below her were three men. Two of the men were dressed in bulky suits straight from central casting, and the third man was tall with graying hair and the build of an athlete past his prime.

It was her father.

“Zoe,” he said. “Will you take a walk with me?”

She stood motionless, staring at him. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days. His skin was sallow and his blue eyes were clouded like an overcast sky.

“What are you doing here?” she asked softly.

“I had to see you. A phone call wasn’t good enough.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“Walk with me,” he said again, gesturing down the hallway. When still she didn’t move, he turned imploring. “I had a speech scheduled
for tonight, a primetime interview tomorrow. I rescheduled them. I flew nineteen hours to be here. Please.”

“Okay,” she said at last. She walked beside him away from the waiting room, away from Joseph and Sister Irina and Jan and Kuyeya, toward a glass door that led to a courtyard with trees and a fountain and a few scattered tables. She sat down at one of them, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart.

“I told Harry Randall,” he said when his bodyguards were out of earshot.

She looked at him in shock. “And?”

“He wasn’t surprised. There have been other allegations.”

Her eyes flashed. “All swept under the rug, I’m sure.”

His guilty look confirmed the truth.

“And the press?” she asked. “What are you going to tell them about me?”

“I’m not going to say anything. Neither is Sylvia.”

She let out the breath she was holding and waited for an explanation. His words, when they came, seemed disembodied, almost trance-like. She had seen him like this only once before—on the night the call came from Somalia.