December 1
Mwalimu J. K. Nyerere
International Airport
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania
Dar es Salaam. The name translated as “safe harbor”-at least, that’s what the guidebooks Jerusha had read claimed. Jerusha hoped they were right.
They flew into Mwalimu J. K. Nyerere International Airport. An aide from the American Embassy was there waiting for them-that was certainly the Committee’s doing-and he walked them through Customs. Jerusha didn’t attract much notice as they walked through the airport, but Wally certainly did. She saw people pointing and whispering, heard them chattering and calling to each other. A crowd followed at a judicious distance as the aide shepherded them from the airport lobby and out to the waiting limo.
The heat and humidity of the outside air hit them like a physical blow as the doors opened. “Cripes,” Wally said. “It’s hot here.”
The aide was openly grinning. “Welcome to Africa,” Jerusha told Wally. “We both need to get used to it.”
As they drove eastward back toward the city, she stared out from the darkly tinted windows. The area directly around the airport was dominated by industry: warehouses and businesses served by a double-lane divided highway. The landscape was rather barren: between the buildings there was bare, brown earth punctuated with scrub brush. It reminded Jerusha of the American Southwest and the parks her parents had worked, except that the Southwest was never this humid.
The driver turned north off the divided highway after a bit, though, and they were driving among houses. There were lots of kids: laughing, running after each other, huddled in groups around adults or parents, playing ball. The aide was rattling on as he had been since they’d left the airport, talking about how proud they were to be hosting two such famous American Hero members as the famous Rustbelt and Gardener, how they believed in good relations with the United Nations, how Ms. Baden had called the embassy herself.
Jerusha listened to him and answered with polite nods and short replies, but Wally stared out toward all those kids. She watched him watching them, as if he were looking at each face hoping to see his precious Lucien there. She wondered what he was thinking.
They drove past a winding river heading toward the sea. Here the trees were thick and dense, more like what Jerusha imagined Conrad’s “Africa” might have been. They caught a glimpse of deep blue water running out to the horizon: the Zanzibar Channel. The limousine pulled onto another large divided road and continued north. Wally’s eyes were closed and he was snoring softly; Jerusha envied him. The jet lag was pulling at her and she wished the aide would stop talking. She leaned her head against the window, staring out at the strange world drifting by.
Then she lifted her head again. “What is that?” she asked, pointing. The aide turned in his seat.
“Oh-that’s a baobab tree,” he said. “Lots of native tales about them. The baobabs are one of the symbols of Tanzania-of Africa in general, in fact. We have one of the oldest baobabs in Dar es Salaam on our compound grounds.”
The baobab loomed in the central divider, as if a divine hand had ripped a gigantic tree from the ground and rammed it upside down back into the hole with the root system dangling from the top and overhanging both sides of the highway. The trunk was enormous and thick, furrowed with deep ridges, and green leaves fringed the branches here and there. The tree looked powerful and ancient, at home here like an ancient, gnarled oak might dominate a forest back in the States.
Jerusha stared at it and touched her seed pouch. “A baobab, eh?” She would remember that. “Listen,” she said to the aide. “I-we-appreciate your taking us to the embassy, but it’s important that we get to Lake Tanganyika as soon as possible. We’re…” Jerusha didn’t know what Barbara had told the ambassador, but it didn’t seem wise to mention that they were intending to cross over into the People’s Paradise. “… we’re supposed to meet someone there. It’s Committee business. We have to keep it quiet.”
“Ahh.” The aide pursed his lips, tapping them with a forefinger. “There’s a man,” he said. “A joker, Denys Finch. He’s a bush pilot flying out of a little airport a few miles north of the embassy. Sometimes we have him courier for us, or take dignitaries out to the national parks or up toward Kilimanjaro.”
“Could you take us to him?” Jerusha asked. Wally was still snoring. “Now?”
A shrug. “The ambassador wishes to have dinner with you, but that’s not for a few hours.” He tapped on the window separating their compartment from the driver and gave the man directions. Jerusha heard the word “Kawi.” Then the aide turned back to her with a smile.
“We’ll go there now,” he said.
Jackson Square
New Orleans, Louisiana
There are more corpses in the pile this time. Adesina is curled into a fetal position on top of the pile. Michelle crawls toward her. The limbs slide as she puts her weight on them. Some of them feel squishier. She can’t see the bodies clearly. All she can see is Adesina-who is still curled in a ball, but rocking back and forth. Her hand trembles as she reaches out and touches Adesina’s temple. And as soon as she touches, images explode in her mind.
Adesina runs through the forest. The leopards give chase. Clothes tear on branches and thorns.
She’s in a village. There are ugly little houses made of concrete blocks and corrugated tin roofs, painted in bright colors: yellow, blue, and green. Children play in the unpaved street, their feet kick up puffs of dirt that hover in the still air.
Michelle sees Adesina among them. She’s wearing the same blue-and-white checkered dress. Her feet are bare. Her hair is braided, and someone has wrapped the braids around her head so they look like a crown.
The children are laughing. In the shaded doorways of the houses, women gossip while they watch the kids. It’s warm and the air smells heavy with rain.
Bursting into the town come a trio of jeeps. Each has three men riding in it. The men are armed and shots ring out. The women grab the children and cover them with their bodies. Michelle wants to bubble-wants to do something to help. But she knows she would be useless. This memory is stuck in Adesina’s head.
The men are dressed in green camouflage uniforms. Their heads are shaved and some of them wear leopard-skin fezzes. Machine guns are slung over their shoulders. They train the weapons on the women and children, then start shouting orders in French. Michelle understands about half of what they’re saying. She tries not to feel afraid-it’s difficult. She’s in the well of Adesina’s fear.
Michelle looks around the village, trying not to let the fear distract her. There are tires piled up at one end of the street. A couple of thick-wheeled bicycles lean against the tires. No help there.
The guns go off again. The women and children moan and cry. Michelle looks at the soldiers. Some have their guns pointed in the air. The rest have their guns trained on the villagers.
And then she knows it’s time to go. It doesn’t matter what happens next in the dream or vision or memory or whatever this is.
Adesina woke Michelle from her coma. And now it’s time for Michelle to repay the favor. But she can’t do it trapped in her fat and afraid to use her power.
Kawi
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania
“Wally.” Jerusha Nudged him. “We’re here.”
Wally jerked awake, and accidentally scratched the window glass with his ear. Nuts. He looked around, ready to apologize to that nice fella from the embassy, but he had already stepped out of the car. Jerusha looked like she was trying not to laugh. They shared a look and shrugged at each other.
Wally followed Jerusha from the cool, air-conditioned cocoon of the embassy limousine into an equatorial steam bath. He’d first felt it when they landed, but he’d been so comfortable dozing in the car that he’d almost forgotten where he was.
When he and his brother were kids, before his card turned, one of Wally’s favorite things was visiting their aunt Karen and uncle Bert up in Ely, Minnesota. Bert had built a sauna into their basement. A proper sauna, lined with spruce, and an exterior door that opened just a few dozen feet from their dock. Wally loved the smell of the spruce, the tingle in his nose, the sizzle of the stones.