He and his brother used to take turns pouring water on the stones, until the sauna was so steamy it hurt to breathe. They’d stoop lower and lower as the steam rose, until it was unbearable. Then they’d dare each other to run down and dive in the lake in their skivvies. It wasn’t cold at all, even in October and November, if you were fast enough. On a crisp, still night you could see the steam rising from your skin when you stepped out of the sauna.
Tanzania in December felt a little bit like that sauna. Except you couldn’t control the temperature, and saying “uncle” didn’t make your brother stop pouring water on the stones. Wally didn’t handle humidity as well as he had before his card turned.
It was the rainy season here. The shorter of two, Jerusha said. That meant it was ninety degrees every day, with three inches of rain in both November and December.
They were parked on a patch of hard-packed red earth, along a road bounded by dense greenery on both sides. Wally made a mental note to ask Jerusha about the trees; everything was so green. Across the road, a handful of temporary huts clustered around a large, open-ended corrugated steel Quonset hut. Part wood, part metal, the huts looked like they’d gone up quickly and wouldn’t be around very long. Wally could just make out an airplane in the shadows of the Quonset, and what might have been a landing strip in a clearing through the trees. They weren’t too far from the ocean; Wally could smell it, on the strongest gusts. Mostly, though, he smelled humidity and what might have been the stink of burning garbage.
A trio of kids ran past them, laughing and shouting to each other. They were kicking a ball down the street. It appeared to be a crushed-up plastic water bottle wrapped with tape. Wally wondered what they were saying, if their game had any rules, and if Lucien played something similar.
“Uh, Jerusha?” said Wally. “Where’s here?”
She said, “I think this is a town called Kawi. We’re just a few miles north of the embassy. There’s a bush pilot here who can fly us to Lake Tanganyika.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I told him”-she nodded her head in the direction of the aide, who was knocking on a door next to the hangar across the street-“that we’re on Committee business, meeting somebody at the lake. If anybody asks, I sort of implied that it’s all very hush-hush. So just play along and we should be fine.”
“Okeydokey. That sounds real good,” he said. “Way to go, Jerusha!” He gave her a thumbs-up and a smile.
She didn’t respond. Instead, she stared at his shoulder. Her eyebrows rose. “Wally? Did you know you’re… rusting?”
Wally craned his neck to peer over his shoulder. Little splotches of orange dusted his skin. Sure, it was wet here, but he’d hoped this wouldn’t have started quite so fast. “A www, heck.”
“Does that hurt?”
Huh. Nobody had ever asked him that before.
“Nah,” said Wally. “Not when it’s just on the surface like that.” He fumbled through his pockets until he found some steel wool. A few quick rubs turned the splotches into a red dust. The slightest of breezes carried it away.
Jerusha still looked upset. She was frowning. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Sometimes. When it’s humid outside.”
“Humid? We’re heading into the jungle. During the rainy season.”
“Don’t worry. I got lots of S.O. S pads with me.”
Jerusha frowned, looking doubtful. She started to say something, but stopped when the sound of raised voices echoed across the street.
They turned. The aide was talking to a fellow with grey skin, dark little eyes deep in his round face, and a snout topped with a thick horn. He was a big guy, too, built like a fire hydrant. Wally remembered the Living Gods, jokers that had taken the forms of the gods of ancient Egypt. Kinda like the way Wally had grown up around open-pit iron mines and ended up with iron skin. This fella seemed to be something similar, only here in Africa his jokerism had taken the form of a rhinoceros.
The aide waved Jerusha and Wally over. They joined him. To the rhino guy, he said, “Here they are. Jerusha Carter and Wally Gunderson.” To Wally and Jerusha, he said, “This is Denys Finch. He’s the pilot I mentioned.”
“Best pilot in the bush,” said Finch.
Wally held out his hand. “Pleased to meetcha, guy.”
Finch looked him up and down, his stubby little ears twitching like crazy. He did the same to Jerusha, then looked at the aide again. “Oh, no,” he said. “Not this time. I’ve had it with your bloody tourists.”
The aide looked embarrassed. “Not tourists, Mr. Finch. I told you, they’re here on business for the Committee. The United Nations.”
“Yeah, you and your so-called dignitaries.” Finch spat in the dirt. “Comin’ all the way to Tanzania, askin’ me to fly them around. ‘Ooh, Mr. Finch, show us Kilimanjaro. Ooh, Mr. Finch, show us the lakes, show us elephants and hippos and the real bloody Africa so we can take a few holiday snaps before going home to brag about our safari adventure.’ Then it’s thank-you-Mister-Finch-good-job and before you know it they’re headed back to their proper Western hotels for proper Western food and proper Western air-conditioning.” He spat again. “Wankers.”
The embassy aide tugged at his collar, blushing. Wally understood the gist of Finch’s tirade, if not every word.
“Hey, fella, we’re not tourists,” he said. “Not like that. Promise. We might be here awhile.”
“Is that so? Then where’s your kit?”
Wally frowned. “Kit?”
Finch rolled his eyes. It looked like he was mad enough to hit somebody with that sharp horn of his. Wally sidled in front of Jerusha.
“Yes, kit,” said Finch. “Provisions. Gear. Tents and the rest.”
“Actually,” Wally said, “we were kinda hoping you’d help us with that.”
Jackson Square
New Orleans, Louisiana
The woman was disgusting, a mass of flesh draped in a light, silky material. Noel wondered if they’d used a circus tent. They had to have something covering her for modesty’s sake, but it had to be light given the sultry heat.
Michelle and Niobe were deep in conversation. Ink hovered at the edges of the conversation, and the terrifying Hoodoo Mama stalked the edges like a protective rottweiler.
“We’ve been married almost a year, and… I’m pregnant,” Niobe trilled. Then all of the females let out that peculiar shrill squeal reserved for news of an impending whelping. Even Noel’s large, no-nonsense, horse-faced English mother had produced the sound when they’d relayed the news to her.
Michelle rolled her head toward him. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I might surprise you.”
“I doubt it.”
“Oh, Michelle, be nice. Though we did have to try real hard,” Niobe added, and Noel closed his eyes as peals of female laughter rolled past his ears. He wondered if he would have understood these tribal responses if his mother had chosen to raise him as a girl rather than a boy.
But if she had he wouldn’t have Niobe, which indicated his brain wiring was male even if his parts were confused.
Michelle smiled at Niobe. “Would you get me a cup of lemonade? Ink can help you.”
Both Niobe and Ink looked startled. Noel gave Michelle a cynical knowing smile. As the two women walked away he moved in close to her. He noticed that she lay in a crater formed by her massive weight in the moist soil of New Orleans.
“That was a little in-artful,” he said. “So, what is it you want to say to me?”
“Are you out of the spy business?”
“I left the Silver Helix, yes.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
“That’s all the answer you’re getting.”
“So you are up to something. I thought Niobe looked worried. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s upset.”