Zambezi Seduction (4 page)

Grim-faced, he strode silently past her. He entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Kerry heard the heavy sound of the bed being moved. She waited for the reassuring thumping noises that would signal the reptile
’s death. But none came. The door opened and to her surprise Chad Lindsay emerged grinning broadly.

“You found Clarence,” he said.

“Clar . . . I found
Clarence?
”

“Yeah, he’s a pet.
Harmless – an egg-eater.”

Kerry struggled to contain herself.
Never in her life had she felt so
angry.

“I don’t
believe
this!” she stormed, wanting to strangle him. “You mean you keep a bloody snake roaming
free
about the house and hadn’t thought to tell me?”

Chad looked chastened. “With so many things to sort out before the off, I completely forgot about him.”

“
Really?
Well perhaps you’ll explain what you and Anna earlier found so amusing.” Kerry’s anger carried her on. “I could hear your laughter. I think you planned this as a sick joke.”

“No,” Anna tried to reassure her. “We were laughing at something else.” She turned to Chad. “How could you
do
this to your guest?”

Chad Lindsay threw up his hands. “I’m sorry. Anyway he’s harmless.”

So, he
does
do apologies, Kerry thought. Her anger level dropped, though not by much. “But the hissing. It scared the
bejesus
out of me.”

He grinned at her choice of words. “Egg-eaters do that. They’re small – toothless – to compensate they act aggressively when threatened.”

“Chad, please remove Cecil . . . God, what a name for a snake!”

“Clarence.”

“Clarence . . . And while we’re on the subject, have you any other surprises for me?”

Chad shook his head. “No crocs in the bath.
Had a chameleon in the house once. Snakes make excellent pets – I love them.”

Anna turned towards Kerry. “He’s crazy,
hey
? Our farmhands kill every snake they find.”

“Snakes are the farmer’s friend.” Chad lectured Anna. “They keep down the numbers of rats and mice that can eat big holes in profits.”

He disappeared back into the bedroom. Kerry knew little about snakes but they fascinated her because of the danger factor and the myths that surrounded them. When Chad reappeared, holding Clarence expertly behind the head, she asked if they were likely to come across venomous types where they were going.

“Always that possibility,” he said.
“Mambas, spitting cobras and puff adders. I have a book you can look through. This is Africa, Kerry. If you’re going to become hysterical over everything that moves . . .”

Kerry had thought the atmosphere calmed after the blow-up over Clarence. Now
her hackles rose once more. The nerve of the bloody man! In his eyes this was all
her
fault.

“I am
not
the hysterical type.” She squared her shoulders, her eyes lasering into his. She sensed this was make-or-break time and she was determined to stand up to him. “Something I didn’t tell you – when I first encountered Clarence he wasn’t on the floor. He was under my pillow – a live snake inches from my head. I’d like to have seen
your
reaction had it happened to you.”

Having made her point, Kerry excused herself and returned to her room. What a miserable start to her holiday. The folly of arriving with sky-high hopes had been glaringly exposed at the very outset.

If every day turned out like this one, she would be lucky to last a week, never mind three.

THREE

The road took them away from the hot depression of the Limpopo valley and its baobabs. Chad assured Kerry that they would see more of the striking trees further north. Now bone-dry Mopani scrub stretched away endlessly on either side. They passed cattle ranches, the beasts pitifully thin, ribs showing along their dusty flanks. Signs of drought were everywhere: patchy ground devoid of grazing; dry river beds. Once they spotted baboons on the move. Along the roadside, where the hungry cattle could not reach, grass was more plentiful. Here families of warthogs had taken up station, grazing and rooting, oblivious to passing cars.

Kerry’s brow was soon damp with perspiration, and it was not yet ten in the morning. She was thankful she had taken Chad’s advice in the matter of clothing: lightweight cotton shorts and slacks, loose tops and open sandals. He had recommended pastel colours; they were less conspicuous in the bush. Laundry would not be a worry, she realized. A quick wash at the end of the day and her tops and underwear would be dry in no time.

Yesterday had been another difficult day. After leaving the cottage, at Chad’s insistence they had stopped in Pretoria. The jacaranda blossoms were at
their height and the roadside effect was spectacular. Kerry read it as a peace offering after the snake episode. Then they had made the long dash to the Limpopo River, the border with Zimbabwe. When they finally reached it they had been on the road over seven hours.

It was one thing to overfly this territory, Kerry mused, quite another to travel it by road. Distances were vast. The drive had, in addition, reinforced something she already knew: October in Southern Africa was a very different experience to the same month in Britain. It was ninety-two degrees at four in the afternoon when they left the customs post and drove into the border
town of Beit Bridge.

The crossing had been an ordeal. The slow-moving queues, the inspection of documents
and questioning by bored officials. Afterwards, just when Kerry felt able to relax, Chad had plunged their relationship into a fresh crisis. At a petrol station he had acted oddly. Some sort of exchange took place with the attendant. Kerry suspected drugs. She was furious and tackled Chad straight away. He smiled and insisted that he didn’t do drugs. What she had witnessed was a black market currency exchange. Chad made light of it, saying the country’s financial woes – Zimbabwe had the distinction of having the world’s highest inflation rate – meant it happened all the time. When she stressed that she didn’t like being party to anything illegal, he had cut her short.

“Kerry, get real
. Next you’ll be telling me you’ve never smuggled anything through customs.”

They had crossed a land border – but that was nothing compared to the barrier that still existed between them.

***

“Up north
, you know how police spot a drunk driver? He’s the guy drives
straight
. Sober, you steer around the potholes.”

Chad laughed at his own joke and patted his car reassuringly. It was a Fiat 124 Sports Coup
é, a high-performance, low-to-the-ground four-seater. When she’d first seen it, Kerry had felt uneasy. She admired its smooth Italian lines but inwardly questioned the car’s suitability for a trip through Africa. Surely something sturdier like a Land-Rover was needed to cope with the bad surfaces?

Now she had just broached the subject in a roundabout way – by asking about the state of the roads they would encounter. Reading her mind, Chad told her not to worry. He’d had the car for years. It had never let him down.

There was no rush that second day; no border to reach; no queue for passport control or customs to worry them. Kerry and Chad were now more at ease together. The car’s exhaust hummed pleasantly and Kerry’s doubts over its suitability were forgotten. She liked it that in Southern Africa motorists drove on the left, the same as at home. Traffic was sparse and they were able to observe the landscape, which for the most part was Mopani woodland. Bulawayo, where they would stay overnight, lay ahead.

In a small town they stopped to stretch cramped legs and eat a salad lunch. The dusty roadside hotel had drawn many Africans. They talked noisily in groups, enjoying their lunchtime beers. Chad told her something of the history of the
Matabele: Mzilikatze’s flight from the wrath of King Shaka in Zululand, the wanderings and battles of the fleeing army, its final settlement in this area. He was a first-rate storyteller. Kerry found herself remembering rainy days in her youth, days spent browsing through her father’s bookcase. Her dad was an admirer of Rider Haggard’s stories. In a two month spurt, Kerry had got through the lot. Boys adventure stories they might be, but she had lapped up the tales of yesteryear Africa: battles, hunting forays, and brave determined men and women. She tried to remember the name of Haggard’s hero. Quartermain? . . . Yes, Allan Quartermain. She had thought of him as tall, ruggedly handsome with sun-bleached hair and skin tanned mahogany dark. He rode a faithful horse and carried a long rifle. What marked him from other men was his understanding of native witchcraft and mumbo-jumbo through his command of their language.

“Do you speak their language?” she heard herself ask Chad.

He grinned broadly. “These guys don’t know it but I can understand almost every word. I was raised in Maritzburg – that’s Pietermaritzburg, Natal. Had a Zulu nanny almost from day one. It’s a fine language, an African Italian. Lots of words ending in vowels.”

“Your
Matabele story had me thinking of Rider Haggard’s books. Have you read him?”

“Naturally.
King Solomon’s Mines
is a classic.”

“There was another.
Lily . . .
”

“
Nada the Lily
. A wonderful story.”

“That’s it! I loved that book.”

During the time of his storytelling she had studied him closely. His body was well proportioned, with none of the delicacy one might have expected in an artist. He had great legs, deeply tanned below the hem of his shorts – the solid muscular thighs and calves seen so often among his rugby-mad countrymen. On his sockless feet he wore flip-flops, which she had noticed he often discarded while driving.

“You must have languages?” he inquired.
“Useful for work.”

“French.
And a couple of years ago I had a love affair with Spain and learnt the basics of the language.”

He turned to her with eyebrows raised.
“A love affair with Spain? I don’t think I’m getting the full story here.”

Kerry felt colour rush to her cheeks. How had he
known?
Intuition? Or a wild guess? Damn him – she preferred to forget Antonio. She was aware of Chad watching her, his look inquisitive and amused. She inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“Some of my colleagues had left the airline to live in Spain. It was quite the rage. The thinking was: handsome Spanish partner plus sun equals the
good life. It
doesn’t!
Only one of the couples I knew is still together. Spanish men are demanding and far from tolerant of ambition in their women. I considered taking the plunge . . .  but in the end walked away.”

“Wise,” Chad commented. “Why go looking for trouble away, when you can find plenty at home?”

“What an odd thing to say,” Kerry retorted. “Does anyone go looking for trouble? It’s simply to do with decisions, I think. Some in life we get right, some we get wrong.”

“What starry-eyed lovers fail to grasp,” the South African said philosophically, “is the difference between courtship and marriage. In the former l
ays the excitement, in the latter the problems.”

“And you’re hooked on excitement, as you’ve yet to marry?”

“I’m one of those odd bods who enjoy their own company.”

“Then you’d better explain what the hell
I’m
doing here.”

He turned his gaze on her. She felt the power of his sparkling grey-green eyes.

“Kerry, I enjoy my lifestyle. But I’m not a bloody hermit. I need periods of companionship as much as anyone else.”

He really was a maddening sort of man, Kerry decided. Minutes ago they had been so close talking about books. Now a wide gulf had opened between them.

“Well, I’m all for companionship,” she said. “So long as it doesn’t get out of hand.”

She had had enough of cheats. Some airline crew members took full advantage of stopovers abroad. And it wasn’t just the men. Early in her career she had room-shared with her supervisor, an older married woman. After sharing a bottle of wine at dinner they had retired early. On her way to the shower, Kerry had been propositioned. Wash your back? No, thank you. Later she had awoken to find she was not alone in bed. Chad was not married – so he had no one to cheat on. Still, Kerry wanted to relax and enjoy the next three weeks. She hoped her none too subtle hint had got the message across.

However, she had touched a nerve. “I thought we’d covered this subject up front,” Chad thundered. “For God’s sake, stop acting like I’m a sex attacker out on parole. You’re here of your own free will. Don’t make me regret inviting you along.”

His strength of feeling shocked her. Perhaps she had been too hard on him.

“I’m glad that we understand one another,” she said, not sure that she believed what she was saying.

***

That afternoon in Bulawayo they walked through a sun-filled park full of a glorious array of spring flowers. Nearby was a museum which provided more insight into the district’s history.

Later as they relaxed over Cape brandies after dinner, Kerry asked, “Why are you especially looking for leopards this trip?”

“I’ve received commissions to paint them. People admire them for their stealth and beauty. Old-time hunters rated them more dangerous than lions.”

“Why? Lions are bigger, stronger, with a more powerful bite.”

“Leopards are solitary cats, usually met unexpectedly, and their claws can disembowel a man in seconds. They’re widespread – found across much of Africa, Asia and into China – yet are so elusive they’re rarely seen. How’s your eyesight? Can you get out of bed before dawn?”

“Good . . .  and maybe.”

“No maybe, baby.” The South African smiled. “It’s
essential
we’re on the move at first light when the animals themselves are active. You’ll search one side of the road. I’ll take the other.”

“Where do we look?”

“Trees. They spend a lot of time above ground. Ideally, I’d like to photograph one slumped along a bough, tail and legs hanging.”

“But there are plenty of such photos in books and picture libraries.”

He nodded. “True, but if you’ve been there, experienced it, you remember it all when creating the painting: the heat, the sun’s position, wind direction, birdsong, the zing of insects . . . the way he moved his head when he knew he’d been spotted.”

“Chad, you can’t possibly get any of that, except the sun, into a painting. Please don’t think I’m being difficult – I just want to know.”

The South African took a swallow of brandy. “It’s something not easily put into words. Hemingway once said that the more a writer knew about the subject he was writing about, the more he could leave out without damaging the story. It’s the same for the artist – you can never know enough about your subject.”

“The Ritz Hotel in Paris has a Hemingway room. I visited the city last year.”

“He knew painters there in the 1920s. Gertrude Stein was a friend – she had one of the great private art collections. He claimed to have learned how to describe country by studying the work of early Impressionists . . . any clearer now?”

She smiled. “I may think of other questions.”

“Anytime.”

“I hope we get the pictures you want.”

“Always bear in mind this is a working trip. Leopards are mostly nocturnal, most often seen in the early morning returning from the hunt.”

“I get the message: no late nights.”

The evening was a success. Conscious of their terse exchange earlier in the day, each had made a special effort. Kerry was pleased with the result.

She raised her glass, feeling a sudden exhilaration.
“To our leopard! May we find the biggest, meanest spotted cat in the park asleep in an old tree at the roadside.”

They touched glasses. Chad Lindsay smiled. “I’ll drink to that
.”

***

In the morning when they had finished breakfast Kerry tried to pay the hotel bill. Chad refused to take her money.

“But you paid for the first night. It’s my turn.”

“My treat,” he said, pushing her hand away like an arrogant nobleman refusing a serf’s gift.

“Chad, no – you paying for the accommodation in the parks and the petrol is more than generous.” She held out the
cash again but still he would not take it.

“Kerry, I’m not short of a few bucks,” he said.

She begged him. “We started this as two independent people. Don’t you see that by paying for everything you’re placing me under an obligation to you? I don’t want that.”