Ministry of Joy
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
“Tom,” Alicia Nshombo said, settling her bulk in its stressed white-and-blue floral-print dress in her chair behind her tiny white desk with its ormolu trim after an embrace of greeting. “We need you.”
He dropped into a chair across from her and rubbed his jaw. Stubble rasped. The insides of his eyeballs felt just like that. He hadn’t been sleeping well. “What?” he asked. He bobbed back and forth in the chair.
Alicia’s office was in an old colonial-era building downtown on the Kinshasa side, Belgian-built in the time when King Leopold was treating the natives in a way that’d get an antebellum southern plantation owner prosecuted for treating his slaves. Doc Prez wanted her to have her digs in the new compound but she wanted to assert independence. And what Sis wanted, Sis got. The decor was frou frou to the max: all white and flowers and swirly gold. The walls teemed with pictures. One stuck out: a photo of Alicia in polo outfit, straddling a clearly dubious horse that looked as if it would be more at home pulling a beer wagon. The thought of Alicia playing polo blew Tom’s mind, but he’d bet she never lost.
“Enemies have violated the People’s Paradise,” Alicia was saying. “Near Nyunzu. Terrorists attacked one of our special facilities. They’ve murdered my babies.”
“Shit,” Tom said. That Alicia didn’t chide Tom for his language showed how freaked-out she was. “Who?”
“That is one of the things we need to find out. Tom, it would be very bad if these terrorists were to escape with any of my babies. Such lies they would tell. The world would never understand.”
You’d have a shitstorm on your hands, you mean, Tom thought. “I can take care of it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could,” Alicia said, “but this is such a wonderful opportunity to see what our young volunteers can do. I want you to take a few of them to Nyunzu, Tom. This will be another test for them, a chance for them to show us how brave they are, and loyal. Let them avenge their murdered brothers and sisters!”
Sofiensaal Concert Hall
Vienna, Austria
“You were wonderful,” Niobe said as Noel emptied the hidden pockets in his coat. There was still some applause from the audience that remained in the Sofiensaal concert hall.
Noel kissed her. “Thank you, my dear, but you are biased.”
“The critics will agree. You’ll see when you read the reviews tomorrow.” She sat down to wait while he changed.
Unlike more old-fashioned magicians, Noel didn’t perform in the tailcoat. He wore a black leather jacket, black silk shirt, black slacks, and black boots. It was actually his usual mode of dress, but tonight he opted for a hand-knitted Nordic sweater and an overcoat. Vienna was gripped in the icy claws of a wind raging out of the Russian steppes, across the Hungarian plain, and screaming, bansheelike, through the city.
Despite the cold there was a knot of woman gathered at the stage door. Niobe hung back while Noel signed program books and kept up his flirtatious, practiced banter. Finally they were gone. The limo driver held open the back door of the car.
“Darling, I’m restless, I’d like to walk back to the hotel. It’s not that far,” Noel said.
Niobe tucked her gloved hand beneath his arms. “Then I’ll walk with you.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“Exercise is good for me. Dr. Finn says so.” She poked him in the ribs. “And he told you not to coddle me.”
“My prerogative.” But he gave in and waved away the driver.
Their route took them past the twisting columns of the Karlskirche, modeled on Trajan’s column in the Roman Forum. An old man pushed a chestnut-roasting cart down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. The rich, loamy scent of chestnuts and the sharp bite of charcoal had Noel suddenly ravenous. He ran across the street to see if the man had anything left.
He had only a few, cooked until the shells were black, but he was happy to pluck the chestnuts out with gnarled fingers and load them in a paper cone. Noel ran back to Niobe and thrust the cone into her hands. “You’ll like these. And not just to eat, they’re better than mittens.”
They shelled and ate chestnuts, watched their breaths steam, and just before the wind became too brutal they reached the hotel. They had a suite, and a room-service dinner was waiting for them. Niobe settled onto the couch, sighed, laid a hand over her belly. “I still can’t believe this is my life.”
Noel leaned down and kissed her. “Happy?”
“Very.”
On the Lukuga River, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
Wally didn’t realize just how much he’d come to depend on Jerusha until she was gone. Somehow, she’d made it possible to endure the sorrow that threatened to crumple up his heart like so much tin foil. But now Wally had only his thoughts for company. He didn’t know how to bear the guilt and grief over Lucien’s death all by himself.
After Jerusha left with the kids back toward Tanzania, Wally started working his way west, farther up the Lukuga. She erased their tracks with new plants, while Wally went out of his way to leave the most obvious trail he could. He ripped down everything in his path; he tore branches and leaves; he stomped his feet, pounding perfect footprints into the soft earth; he littered his trail with banana peels, mango rinds, granola-bar wrappers, and even the occasional smear of peanut butter. He did his best to make it look like he was a whole bunch of people.
His clues wouldn’t last long in the jungle, especially the food. But they didn’t have to. Just until folks came to investigate the sudden destruction of the Nyunzu lab. They’d follow his path because it was the only path to find. He wondered, too, how long it would take Jerusha and the kids to get to Lake Tanganyika.
Twin pangs of worry and loneliness fueled another surge through the thick growth along the river. He kept as close to the river’s edge as he could manage. That way he could be spotted from a passing boat. And he kept an eye open for the barge that carried supplies of the wild card virus.
Dusk fell. As it did every evening, the sounds of the jungle-what little he could hear over the constant crash, crack, crunch of his passage-changed. The noise of life, raucous and loud, birdcalls and primate vocalizations and other things he couldn’t begin to identify, gave way to more subtle things: the buzz of insects, the gurgle of a stream, the whisper of a breeze through the foliage, the rustle of leaves as something slinked past. With practice, he’d be able to tell the time entirely from the jungle noises.
Though he didn’t need it, he built a fire that evening. The biggest he could manage. It took a lot of work, because everything was so damp. But it was visible, he hoped, from quite a ways. He got the idea by trying to think like Jerusha. She was smart, and always had good ideas.
She would’ve been proud of him.
She’d kissed him.
Another pang. Oh, nuts, Jerusha. Please take care of yourself. ’Cause I gotta see you again, when this is over.
The Grinzing
Vienna, Austria
The grinzing was a pretty, old-fashioned, and rather rural section of town situated in the foothills. It was like a welcome mat for the Vienna Woods, and with its array of small weinstubes, Biergartens, and restaurants it was a perfect place to end a ramble through those woods. It was very late, but the small green lamps still glowed at several restaurants, indicating they were open.
Noel’s contact had named a particular Weinstuben. It wasn’t the most savory-looking establishment, but then, Noel reflected, his contact wasn’t all that savory. After dinner Noel begged off coming right to bed and instead taken a shower. As he’d hoped, the combination of a late night, late dinner, and pregnancy had Niobe sleeping deeply. She hadn’t even stirred when he let himself out of the room.