"Do you know a place called Ruaha?" Merry suddenly asked him.
He frowned. "No. Why?"
"I was told it's a big park in Tanzania."
The shopkeeper shook his head. "In Tanzania I know Ngorngoro and Kilimanjaro parks, and Lake Manyara and the Serengeti, but this Ruaha I have never heard of. It must be very obscure and isolated."
"Would any Makonde live near there?"
"If it is in the southern part of the country, perhaps. You are going to Tanzania then?" She nodded and he responded with a disapproving frown. "You should stay in Kenya if you want to see East Africa. Things are bad in Tanzania, very bad. Not as bad as in Uganda, but very difficult for foreigners traveling alone.
"On the surface all appears calm, but underneath…" He shot both hands into the air, palms together, and then opened them like a flower over his head. "Any month now, any week, maybe even any day—boom! The Tanzanian governmental infrastructure is like a house of sticks. It will collapse at a touch. Who knows what will happen to those poor people then? They deserve better but they are too poor even to make a revolution.
"That is why you should buy a fine Makonde carving now, because soon the carvers may not be able to work. They will be conscripted into the army or some terrorist band and the art world will lose a fascinating legacy. Not to mention a profitable one. I still have a good selection left. Which can I sell you?"
"None today, I'm afraid."
The shopkeeper sighed. "I understand. Many tourists are excited when they first see them, but then they think of keeping them all the time in their homes and their first enthusiasm fades. There is something about them that makes many people uncomfortable."
"You say some of the shetani are benevolent?"
"A very few, according to the stories the carvers tell my buyers. Most you would not care to meet even in bright daylight. Legends." Another shrug. "See how the eyes tend to follow you around the room, even though they are only smooth black orbs and have no pupils? This too makes people uneasy. I do not understand it myself. I live with them every day and they do not trouble me. In them I see only the skill of the carver. To me they are more clownish than terrifying. You are sure you do not wish to take one with you? You are more interested in them than most of my customers."
"Maybe when we come back from our travels in Tanzania," Oak half lied.
"Ah, you are going on safari. That explains it. There is no need to drag a big woodcarving around with you. I will be here to serve you when you have had enough of looking at animals and poverty. But I wish you were not going across the border."
"We have a good guide," Merry told him.
"Then it may be all right."
"Thank you for letting us look around."
He winked at her. "Pretty lady is welcome anytime, if only just to talk. We can pack and ship anywhere in the world for you."
As Merry and Oak headed up the concourse toward the restaurant, the shopkeeper stood in the doorway of his establishment and watched them go. They did not look well-off, but that was probably deceptive. All Americans traveled with thick rolls of traveler's checks or, even better, credit cards. Hopefully they would return.
Up on the little mezzanine, unseen by the owner or his recent visitors, something moved back by the wall that was lined with twisted, distorted ebony figures. It had a circular mouth like that of a lamprey. Two elongated ears drooped to the floor. It was about the size of a poodle and had only two arms.
Balancing itself on powerful fingers, it danced over to the top of the stairs and glared down, clinging to the edge of the first stair with its strong digits. Its mouth was pulsing in and out like a carp's. A tongue as long as the drooping ears dangled from one corner of its mouth, idly caressing the linoleum. Each time that oval mouth puckered it made a soft sucking noise.
As Merry and Oak disappeared around the front desk, the proprietor turned back into his shop. The shetani saw him coming, pivoted, and hopped back to the place it had vacated on the shelf of carvings. It looked just like its wooden cousins, but this time it chose not to mimic their frozen poses. Instead, it shimmied up a curtain until it was against the ceiling. Reaching out over the floor it latched on to an open air conditioning duct. Letting go of the curtain, it swung easily across the open space until it was gripping the edge of the opening with both hands. It vanished within.
A high wall separated the hotel pool from the street beyond. The indoor-outdoor cafe overlooking the turquoise blue rectangle was crowded with tourists eager to consume a final meal of familiar food before disembarking for such exotic destinations as Amboseli or Tsavo. They were joined by a sprinkling of Nairobians, mostly businessmen socializing during their lunch hour or elegantly dressed wives out for a day's shopping. Skin color aside, it was easy to tell locals from tourists: the locals were far more formally dressed.
Oak studied the menu with some trepidation. In his various guises he'd eaten food both bizarre and simple, but it had all been of the domestic variety. He relaxed as he read further. The hotel's international clientele required it to offer such staples as club sandwiches and bacon and eggs in addition to such surprises as gazelle stew.
Their food arrived in tandem with steaming cups of Kenyan coffee that was every bit as good as Merry had claimed. They were sitting and making small talk when he unexpectedly burst out laughing. A local couple seated nearby eyed the ill-mannered muzungu disapprovingly and it was all Oak could do to stifle his laughter. Merry just smiled that uncertain smile people put on when they're not in on the joke and waited for him to explain himself.
"What's so funny, Josh?"
He finally got himself under control. Tears were running down his cheeks and he dabbed at them with his linen napkin. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard and spontaneously. His profession was not conducive to regular outbursts of hilarity.
"Are you kidding me? I mean, look around you." Merry glanced right, then left, finally back at Oak. "Look what we're doing, where we're sitting. As soon as I extricated you from that riot back in Washington it occurred to me what a really attractive woman you were. That combined with your demonstrated naivete appealed to me, so I thought I'd ask you out on a—hell, I can't call it a date. That's high school stuff."
"An assignation?" She was trying to share his high spirits.
"Whatever. I was going to take you out to get something to eat. And it just hit me. Here we are together, sharing a meal, only I had to travel ten thousand miles or so to make it work out." He coughed, wiped at his eyes again.
"You know something, Josh? This is the first time I've seen an honest smile on your face since we met. I don't know if the reticence you've displayed is personal or professional, but I'm glad something's finally put a dent in it. I kept hoping it wasn't an ingrained part of your personality."
"Come on, now, Merry. I distinctly recall smiling once or twice before this."
"I know," she agreed somberly, "but those weren't real smiles. They were surface smiles. They didn't come from within Joshua Oak. They were like casual handshakes. It's hard for you to smile and mean it, isn't it, Josh?"
Such perception made him uncomfortable and he looked down at his plate. "I haven't had a lot of happy times the past few years, Merry."
"I'm sorry. I know you must be involved in something dangerous and sensitive or you would've told me about it by now. Josh, are you a spy?"
A different kind of smile now. "No, Merry, I'm not a spy." Not the kind you're thinking of, anyhow. "Do I look that much like James Bond?"
"Not only don't you look like James Bond, you don't look much like Sean Connery or Roger Moore either. You don't even look like George Lazenby."
"I thought everyone had forgotten that film." Oak didn't try to hide his surprise. "You like the Bond films. A lot of women don't."
"A lot of women lead busy, interesting lives. Me, I sit behind a telephone all night selling equipment to people who are preparing to travel to interesting places that in all likelihood I'll never g
et to myself."
He gestured toward the high-rise office buildings of downtown Nairobi, visible over the wall that surrounded the swimming pool. "What do you call this?"
"Unplanned. The point is I like any escapist film that's well made. The Bond pictures, anything by Lucas or Spielberg or Zemeckis, even the halfway good Disney films. Living vicariously is better than not living at all. I'd give anything for a little excitement in my life. That's why I was so ready, willing, and eager to take off with Olkeloki. He wanted me to come here with him, to Africa. I didn't much care what he was coming here for, only that he was coming here." She paused, watching him. "You're laughing again. At me?"
"No, not at you, Merry. What's funny is that my life's been the exact antithesis of yours. I've been trying for the last three years to find some of what you've been trying to get away from. I'm no James Bond, not even a George Smiley, but I've seen a little of the stealth business and it's nothing like the way it's portrayed in the movies. Most of it is dull, boring, and only dangerous when you're convinced everything is running smoothly. It isn't much fun being unable to relax for fear of having your throat cut in an idle moment. That's not exciting; it's scary as hell. Up until a couple of years ago I had to take blood pressure medicine every week."
"What changed? Obviously you didn't quit your job."
"No. I just resigned myself to the dangers. I reached the conclusion that if I was going to end up dead it was going to be by someone else's hands and not my own."
"That's heavy."
"Not as heavy as jumping on a plane to Africa with a half-crazy old man and a saleslady from Seattle. I mean," he went on, leaning forward and lowering his voice, "I have this feeling that any minute now a voice is going to say 'thank you for visiting the outer limits: we now return control of your television set to you' and I'll wake up back in Butts Corners with a beer in my hand listening to some local yokel shill used cars for the late-night movie."
"I don't have that feeling at all. I know the difference between fantasy and reality, Josh. My movies are fantasy. This is real."
"Is it? I wish I was as certain as you. But I'm not going home until this cockeyed caravan produces some answers. I just wish I had a better grip on the questions. I'm afraid I may have left part of my sanity in an elevator back in D.C. and the rest of it out on a public highway."
"What about saving the world, like Olkeloki says?"
"Sanity first. Any extra added benefits acquired in the process gratefully appreciated."
"Do you know what I think, Josh?"
"No, but I have this inescapable feeling you're going to tell me."
"I think you're scared."
"Haw! Now there's a revelation. Of course I'm scared. I'm scared out of my senses, Merry. I'm scared from my receding hairline to these old hiking boots that bring back old scares of their own. Are you going to tell me you're not? After what happened back on the plane?"
"I was scared before that," she confessed, "but I'm used to being scared. You work for some secret government agency. You're not supposed to be frightened."
"I'm not frightened of anything I understand. I don't understand these shetani. I'm not sure Olkeloki does either. What do you mean you're used to being scared?"
She looked toward the pool. "Everything scares me. Always has, ever since I was a little girl. I'm scared of making any long-term commitments, which is why I don't press my boyfriend to make one, and then I'm scared that he won't ever make one. I'm scared of quitting my safe, stable, secure, dull, boring job for one that might pay more and be more stimulating as well." her eyes met his again and in her expression he saw the little-girl fear Merry Sharrow had never been able to outgrow.
"Josh, I'm even scared of the daytime; the crowds, the hustle, the real world. That's why I chose a night job. There's less to be afraid of. It gives me a way to hide."
It was a propitious time for the waiter to arrive with their food, giving each of them time to digest what the other had said. Oak's eggs were slightly overcooked but he didn't say anything. The bacon looked wonderful.
"Aren't we a fine pair to be running off to the ends of the earth together," he finally murmured.
"Mbatian seems to think we're just right."
"'Mbatian Oldoinyo Olkeloki,'" Oak snorted derisively as he began cutting the bacon. He picked up a slice of toast and gestured with it as he spoke, like an Italian traffic cop directing Fiats with his baton. "I believe in these shetani a lot more than I believe in him. They've shown me what they're capable of. He hasn't shown us a damn thing except that he's aware of them and that they seem to follow him around. All he's done so far is run. He ran from here to Washington, ran around the city, and now he's run back here with the two of us in tow. And he's the one who's supposed to stop these nightmares or whatever they are from infecting our world or whatever the hell it was he said they were going to try to do."
"He found us, didn't he?"
"Some accomplishment. I don't have any special talents. I'm no secret sorcerer and neither are you. Any two people gullible enough to follow him back here might have done just as well. For all we know, maybe he needs two people back in Maasailand for some sort of special ceremony. Virgins to sacrifice."
She actually blushed. The last time Oak had seen a woman blush it had been in a magazine photo and the pink hue had been airbrushed on.
"In that case," she shot back, eyes down, "I don't think either of us qualifies."
The explosion caught him with the toast halfway to his mouth. He dropped it as he ducked under the table, bumping it and spilling the coffee. His eyes went toward the source of the sound, professionally alert, his whole body tense and every muscle taut. Merry simply stared toward the wall ringing the pool, as did the rest of the tourists.
As soon as it was apparent there was not going to be a follow-up to the initial explosion, Oak had time to note that many of the African patrons had also made a dive for cover in their fancy suits and dresses. They were retaking their seats as cautiously as he was. Slowly the sounds of conversation and people eating, of waiters and busboys going to and fro, of silverware clattering on plates and street noises beyond the wall, resumed.
"Car backfire," Oak said, swallowing. He beckoned a waiter over. "What was that all about?"
The man looked apologetic. "There was a coup attempt here a few years ago, sir. More of a military mutiny, actually. It was put down, but everyone remembers. They are a little nervous."
"I understand." The waiter left to attend to his customers. But Merry didn't pick up her fork. She just stared at the man across from her.
"You ducked also, Josh. You weren't here years ago. You've been shot at before. I knew you had to be involved in something dangerous, and you said you weren't a spy, but you've been shot at."
He looked sheepish, said nothing.
"I never saw anybody react like that. Does it happen every time you hear an unexpected loud noise?"
"Just about."
"It doesn't bother you? I'd be terribly embarrassed."
"I'd rather be embarrassed once in a while than dead once. It wouldn't matter if it did bother me, Merry. Once acquired, a reaction like that's hard to shed."
"What other reactions does your job require of you?"
He told as much as he could. Once he got started he found himself telling her a great deal more than he intended. Not because she was an especially good listener, though she was (and why not—listening was part of her job) or because he thought he was obligated to tell her, but because there was a lot more bottled up inside Joshua Oak than he believed possible and it was an immense relief to finally be able to let a little of it out.
After they finished eating they went back to her room and talked until dark. Not about his job. About his life. And about hers.
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15
Nairobi, Kenya—23 June
They didn't see or hear from Olkeloki all that night, nor did he answer his room phone the following morning.
Oak began to wonder if maybe he'd been right all along and they were involved in some kind of elaborate scam, the extent of which had yet to be determined. If the old man had deserted them, they'd be stuck for the three-way hotel bill. Merry was equally convinced that he was just having some trouble finding a good driver and had gone out early to look for one. But his continued absence made for an uneasy breakfast.
Oak paused with the coffee cup halfway to his lips. While not dying out completely, the babble of the breakfast crowd was definitely reduced. Everyone was staring—at him. So was Merry. Looking closer, he saw that she wasn't looking at him but past him. So he turned to try to locate the object of all the attention.
He didn't have to look far. Someone had come up so quietly behind him that he hadn't been aware of the man's approach. Oak always sensed when another person invaded his personal "space," but this time his senses failed him.
The tall, regal figure was shrouded in a heavy red and yellow blanket which fell to just below the knees. Beneath the blanket he wore a loose toga or caftan of royal blue, secured at the shoulder. Hanging from a leather belt decorated with fright beadwork was an intricately carved ebony stick, about eighteen inches in length. The calabash fashioned from a thick gourd that hung from a leather shoulder strap held liquid that sloshed softly as its owner shifted his feet from his right foot to his left. Simple leather sandals protected his feet. A beaded circlet hung from each elongated earlobe while thin metal arrowheads dangled from the base of each loop. Similar beadwork decorated the calabash with lines of blue, red, and white.
The only part of the elegant ensemble Oak recognized was the solid, hand-smoothed walking stick.
"You were not in your rooms, so I came here." Mbatian Olkeloki surveyed the table. "You have eaten enough. A long ride on a stomach too full can be uncomfortable. We should go now. I have a driver waiting."