The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax Read online

  It was at this moment that Mrs. Pollifax sensibly added two and two together and glanced with interest at Cyrus. He was looking exceptionally sleepy and he refused to look at her. Deep inside of herself she smiled; really, she thought, Cyrus was going to be extremely useful now that he was getting into the swing of things. Simon, Reuben and Mainza were looking incredulous; they began talking accusingly among themselves, examining the two tires and gesticulating. She gathered that both tires had lost their valve caps but that the men found it difficult to understand how this could have caused so much leakage of air. Several suspicious glances were sent in their direction, but since no one could recall a moment when they were unguarded no one accused them.

  "Into the car," Simon said at last, his voice surly.

  They climbed inside and bumped along on the naked rim of the wheel for several hundred feet until they hit a half-buried rock that bent the rim. The Land Rover at once acquired an unhealthy list that sent Amy and Mrs. Pollifax into Cyrus' lap, and the car out of control. With a shout of frustration Simon fought the Land Rover to a stop. "We walk," he said furiously.

  "Sorry about this," whispered Cyrus as he helped her down from the Land Rover.

  She gave him a frankly admiring glance. "You make a lovely fly in the ointment."

  "You saw?" When she nodded he grinned. "Damn nuisance, walking, but makes me feel better. Vented my spleen, so to speak."

  "Do vent it again," she shrugged over her shoulder as Simon commanded her to be silent and take her place in line.

  They began their march with Simon in the lead. The terrain was a mix of flat ground and clusters of thorn trees, a combination not at all unpleasant for walking.

  What Mrs. Pollifax minded was the silence in which they walked; a little conversation, she thought, would be a happy distraction, but Simon had placed her behind him and she was followed by Mainza; Amy and Cyrus came after him, and Reuben brought up the rear. It was so quiet that she could hear the swish of their trousered legs and the thud of Mainza's rifle as it slapped his hip at each step; occasionally twigs snapped underfoot. As the sun rose higher, however, she became increasingly aware of a hollowness in the pit of her stomach that only food could alleviate, and the sun, which felt no warmer to her skin than a June sun in New Jersey, began to have a curious effect on her; her head felt light, but whether this was from hunger or the sun she didn't know or, at the moment, care. She developed a nagging thirst, and after they had walked for an interminable length of time she suspected that she was also developing a blister on her right heel. The tse-tse flies gathered, and with her hands tied she could only swat at them blindly, but Simon showed no signs of halting for a rest and she found herself lacking even the energy to complain. It seemed simpler to plod dreamily along, her eyes mesmerized by the ground in front of her, her head floating along somewhere behind her, like a balloon on a string.

  "Rest," said Simon suddenly, and they sank to the ground under a tree, too tired to speak.

  Mainza brought out the canvas bag of water and gave them each a few sips.

  "Boiled, I hope," said Cyrus.

  Amy sniffed at this remark. "Even boiled water here can cause gastric trouble. If you'd only tell them what they want to know," she snapped at Mrs. Pollifax, turning to face her, "we could be back on safari with the others now, instead of—of this!"

  Mrs. Pollifax, feeling better, snapped back. "Nonsense. I don't believe my telling them anything would free us now, because we can identify Simon and Mainza and Reuben, and why should they allow that?"

  Amy moved closer and lowered her voice. 'I've been trying to make friends with Simon, you may have noticed?"

  "No," said Mrs. Pollifax.

  "Well, I have, and I think—" She smiled disarmingly and a little ruefully, "I think they might not kill me. It's possible I could divert the three men so that you and Cyrus could get away. Not now but later."

  Shot while trying to escape, thought Mrs. Pollifax. For just the briefest of moments she looked at Cyrus, who was listening to this, and then she turned to Amy and said in a shocked voice, "Oh, I don't think that would be sensible, do you? I suppose you mean an escape. I shouldn't care for that at all, would you, Cyrus?"

  "No indeed," he said blandly. "Exhausting. Besides, our hands are tied."

  "So are mine," said Amy, "but I might be able to persuade Simon to untie them."

  I'll bet you could, thought Mrs. Pollifax. She said earnestly, "Well, it would certainly be lovely to have our hands free—it's so difficult walking with them tied—but as for escape—" She shuddered. "I don't know, the idea fills me with terror." She realized that Cyrus was looking at her with a puzzled frown and she wondered what she'd just said that made him suddenly look so suspicious of her. "But if you could persuade him to free our hands," she added wistfully.

  "Yes," said Amy, "but you simply must consider getting away if the occasion arises. You have to be more resolute."

  "Yes," sighed Mrs. Pollifax.

  A moment later Simon announced that it was time to move on, and she learned the reason for Cyrus' peculiar expression. Helping her to her feet he said, "Beginning to wonder if you do show slides."

  "Slides!" she gasped. "Cyrus, what on earth—!"

  "Same voice," he said. "Both times. Been worrying about those slides."

  She stared at him in astonishment. "Oh—slides," she said, realizing how alarmingly observant he was.

  He added in a kind voice, "Try wrapping your bush jacket around your head. They didn't wear cork hats for nothing here in Africa. Very strong sun." He tugged loose the jacket that was knotted around her waist and she thanked him. Incapable of tying it around her head with her hands bound, she placed it there like a basket with trailing fronds and hurried off to obey Simon's peremptory summons.

  They resumed walking, they stopped . . . they walked, they stopped. She was becoming very familiar with the African soil, she thought; it was a vivid rust color, with the coarse-grained texture of an anthill, and although the rainy season had only recently ended it was dry, very dry, providing only a vaguely hospitable surface to the stalks of grass. The earth was in fact kinder to her than to the vegetation, for she rested on it, and when Simon ordered them up again her only anticipation was to sit on it again. It was level enough for walking but it was important to watch out for snakes, and so she walked with her head down, which was tiresome. The tse-tse flies kept biting, and when they stopped for a break the meager sip of water doled out to them was no longer enough, and at each stop Simon examined both compass and map with the same frown teasing his brows. Then it was up again to resume walking, the monotony of it interrupted only twice—once by a herd of impala racing in panic across their path, and once by the sight of a dead buffalo lying on its side under a tree, with only the shell, of its carcass untouched.

  "Lion kill," said Reuben from the rear.

  Sometime after that Mrs. Pollifax became aware that Simon had stopped. She had been stumbling along behind him when she looked up to see that Mainza had left his place in line and was grasping Simon by the arm, pointing behind them.

  "Something is following us," Mainza said in a low voice.

  "I see nothing. Animal or man?"

  Mainza shook his head. "I don't know, it moves when we move, stops when we stop. If I go ahead to that hill, Simon, and circle back—"

  "Do that. Be careful. We will rest behind the hill."

  The word rest was all that mattered to Mrs. Pollifax and she followed Simon eagerly now. Mainza soon disappeared behind the swelling in the earth, and when they came abreast of it Simon led them around it and signaled them to stop. "Sit," he said, "but not on the hill, this is an anthill." Mrs. Pollifax sank gratefully to the ground and applied herself to resting with enormous concentration. Her shoulder bones, subtly hunched together by the pull of her tied wrists, were acquiring strange aches and pains; her feet hurt and her eyes felt like bruised grapes. This was having an effect on her thought processes that was alarming, and yet she felt i
ncapable of any discipline at all; it was rather like watching oneself fall asleep in the snow and not caring. There would be no decent rest for her until they reached the burial ground, and she reminded herself that once they reached that destination her longed-for rest could very well become an Eternal Rest, but this reminder met with no response at all. It occurred to her to wonder if she was suffering from sunstroke. She saw Simon and Reuben level their rifles, suddenly tense, but she was only mildly interested when a man trudged unseeingly past them. She was grateful that he was not a lion, but the day held such a surrealistic quality that she found nothing surprising about their encountering a man here. Besides, he looked as if he belonged here and he was certainly not prepossessing. He was a native wearing torn black pants, cut off at the knee, a ragged pair of old sneakers on his feet and a brilliant plaid wool cap on his head that made him look ridiculous. A sweater had been rolled up and tied around his waist by the sleeves, and on his back he carried something wrapped in a bloody newspaper; it had weight to it, and there were a number of flies buzzing around it. The man noticed them only when Simon stepped forward with his rifle, but he looked startled rather than frightened. He gave Simon a radiant, uncertain smile and then his gaze dropped to the rifle and he gaped at it, fascinated. Apparently the rifle was more amazing to him than the sight of five people crouched behind an anthill.

  Mainza came up from the rear and pointed his gun at the man, searched his pockets and sniffed at the bloody package.

  "Jonesi," the young man said, beaming and pointing to himself. "Jonesi. Good evening."

  "Good evening," however, turned out to be the only English that he knew. Mrs. Pollifax gathered that Nyanga was tried on him, as well as a few words of Luvale and Bemba, but these produced only excited nods from him and the words, "Jonesi. Good evening."

  "Don't think he has all his wits about him," suggested Cyrus.

  Mainza peeled back a corner of the bloody package and said accusingly, "He's been poaching, Simon. He's a poacher, his name is Jonesi, and what do we do with him?"

  "I don't like him," Amy said suddenly in a cold flat voice.

  Simon shot her a quick glance and without appearing to answer her said to Reuben, "He knows the land, he could help us find the burial ground."

  "Ah," said Mrs. Pollifax, coming to life, "you don't know where the burial ground is?"

  "Of course we know," snapped Simon, and then spoiled the effect by adding, "It's only that we've never traveled this way before."

  "So you're lost?" said Amy sarcastically. "How thoughtful of you to tell us all about it, Simon."

  "Don't see how this Jonesi's going to help if you can't even communicate with him," pointed out Cyrus.

  But Mainza, having captured the poacher's attention, sat down cross-legged on the ground and began digging in the earth with a stick, forming a series of small mounds. When he had created half a dozen of these he placed a twig on one, a button on another, and a shred of cloth on a third. The poacher squatted beside him, watching doubtfully, until suddenly he nodded and burst out talking, pointing to the south and laughing. After more sign language Jonesi took the stick from Mainza and drew the rough outline of an animal, after which they made more sign language and Mainza stood up. "He knows the burial ground," he told Simon. "He'll take us there if we don't report his poaching. It's antelope meat in his sack."

  Mrs. Pollifax thought about this carefully, aware of something there that she'd been too tired to catch. Antelope meat . . . She applied herself to this diligently: antelope meat, burial ground, poaching . . . but of course, she thought dizzily, Jonesi's meat was butchered meat, and if it had been butchered, then it had to have been cut from the carcass with a knife ... a knife.

  Her tiredness fell away from her like an old coat that had been ready for the Salvation Army anyway. Hope was all that she'd needed, and now it began flowing through her bloodstream like adrenalin. A knife. With a knife they could assert themselves and get away. A knife would free their hands for all kinds of gloriously hostile purposes.

  "You look," said Cyrus as they rose to go, "like someone who's just found the Holy Grail."

  She gave him a dazzling smile, and in the brief moment before Simon separated them she whispered, "Cyrus ... the poacher has to be carrying a knife"

  CHAPTER

  12

  Mrs. Pollifax reasoned that her first efforts, now that she was aroused, ought to go into establishing some kind of relationship with the poacher. Under the circumstances she felt she could at least extend to him a small but heartfelt welcome, and then slowly hope to impress on him the fact that she and Cyrus were captives. If sign language had succeeded once with him, she could see no reason why it shouldn't succeed again.

  She began to walk faster, accelerating her pace until she drew abreast of him. When he turned his head to look at her she smiled at him and won a huge and vacant grin in return. He was certainly the tallest Zambian she'd seen, probably six feet tall if he stood up straight, and so thin that his ribs could be counted under his flesh. His face was long and bony, and, combined with his protruding teeth, his senseless wide grin and that absurd green-and-black plaid wool cap, it gave him the look of a man definitely lacking in intelligence. Nevertheless he was not one of them, she had just deduced that he must be carrying a knife, and he was their only hope.

  After they had exchanged a number of eager smiles, she felt that she had paved the way for a subtler message. When he turned again to look at her she lifted her tied wrists to his gaze. She did this discreetly. His eyes dropped to her hands, his smile broadened, and then he startled her by throwing back his head and laughing.

  This was certainly depressing. The laugh drew a backward glance from Simon, and she had to pretend that she was lifting her wrists to push back her hair. She decided that making a bid for Jonesi's friendship at this point could be dangerous, and she fell back behind him in line.

  This left her with her second challenge: where did a man who wore only sneakers, cap and shorts carry a knife? She guessed it would have to be in one of the pockets of his disreputable shorts until she remembered that Reuben had searched both of Jonesi's pockets and had seemed satisfied that he carried no weapons. If it wasn't in his trousers, she decided, then the knife would have to be concealed either in the rolled-up sweater around his waist or in his cap, and of the two she thought that she would vote for the cap: there was an elemental logic in this because the cap was obviously a prized possession, and the knife would be equally valued. She began to play with possibilities for getting the cap on his head and discovered that this happily removed all thoughts of hunger and thirst from her mind.

  In midafternoon they came to the road. Simon signaled them to stop, and once they had straggled to a halt Mrs. Pollifax heard the unmistakable sound of a truck in the distance. It soon passed. Simon waited for them to form a circle around him, rather like a Boy Scout leader preparing to give instructions to his troop. "The road is just ahead," he explained. "We go two by two across it, and very quickly, you understand?" Pointing to Mrs. Pollifax he said, "You will go first, with Reuben and Mainza. Reuben, you will come back for the man, I will follow with the other woman. Listen before you cross, the wind blows from the west."

  Mrs. Pollifax was led forward through a screen of trees until they came to the road, a two-lane macadam highway stretching from east to west. It was depressingly empty of traffic now. Reuben grasped one of her arms, and Mainza the other, and they hurried her across and into the shelter of trees on the opposite side. When Reuben went back for the others Mrs. Pollifax sat down, hoping it wasn't on an anthill, and tried not to think how near they must be to the burial ground now. How long before we kill her? Until Sikota comes, we meet at the burial ground across the Lusaka-Mumbwa road. It ran through her head like a macabre nursery jingle.

  Seeing Reuben escort Cyrus to her through the trees, she thought now what an astonishing person Cyrus was and how comfortable he was just to look at, for nothing about him seemed changed. He m
ight be tired but he remained completely unruffled, with the air of a solid man who knew exactly who and what he was even in the center of Zambia. It struck her suddenly that she would feel very lonely if she never saw him again.

  "You look like a judge even here," she told him, smiling.

  "Feeling very unjudgelike at the moment," he said, sitting down beside her. "I'd give each of these people six months in solitary. No bail, either. They walk too fast."

  "I think," said Mrs. Pollifax in a rush of warmth, "that it's terribly selfish of me, but I'm awfully glad that you came, Cyrus. You are hard to overlook."

  "Told you so," he said in a pleased voice.

  "It was so—so very gallant," she explained. "Except that—if you should have to pay for it with—"

  "No need to be tedious, my dear," he interrupted quietly. "Entirely my own choice, you know, didn't have to come. More to the point," he added lightly, "is the dinner I plan to buy you when we get back to Lusaka. Menu's been occupying me for hours."

  She realized in a sudden spasm of perceptiveness that Cyrus was only too aware of how near they were to the burial ground. "I think it has to be in either his sweater or cap," she said in a lowered voice. "The knife, I mean —if he has a knife."

  "Mmmm," murmured Cyrus. "Let's hope it gets cold then, and soon." He held up his wrists and scanned his watch. "Nearly four o'clock."

  "Oh dear, and dark in two hours?"

  "Must have walked about twenty miles. Saw a data bird, by the way. Pity I couldn't have pointed him out to you." He broke off as Simon strode toward them, apparently tireless, with Jonesi loping along beside him and Amy a pace behind.

  "On your feet," said Simon, and that was the end of any further conversation.

  It was perhaps ten minutes later that Jonesi called out sharply and pointed to the left, jabbering away in his language that no one understood. He appeared to know the terrain now because, once they veered off to the left, they encountered a narrow, hard-beaten path through the grass and soon came upon the ruins of several huts, their scaffolding lying in crazy patterns like jackstraws.