opened the doors and while he waited for the interior to cool, he found he was trembling with the
after-effects of his confrontation with Tungata Zebiwe. He held up one hand before his eyes and watched the tremor of his fingertips. In the game department after having hunted down a man-eating
lion or a crop-raiding bull elephant, he would have the same adrenalin come-down.
He slipped into the driver’s seat, and while he waited to regain control of himself, he tried to arrange his impressions of the meeting and to review what he had learned from it.
Clearly Craig had been under surveillance by one of the state intelligence agencies from the moment of his arrival in Matabeleland. Perhaps he had been singled out for attention as a prominent
writer – he would probably never know – but his every move had been reported to Tungata.
Yet he could not fathom the true reasons for Tungata’s violent opposition to his plans. The reasons he had given were petty and spiteful, and Samson Kumalo had never been either petty or
spiteful. Craig was sure that he had sensed correctly that strange mitigating counter-emotion beneath the forbidding reception, there were currents and undercurrents in the deep waters upon which
Craig had set sail.
He thought back to Tungata’s reaction to his mention of the three dissidents he had met in the wilderness of Chizarira. Obviously Tungata had recognized their names, and his rebuke had
been too vicious to have come from a clear conscience. There was much that Craig still wanted to know, and much that Henry Pickering would find interesting.
Craig started the VW and drove slowly back to the Monomatapa down the avenues that had been originally laid out wide enough to enable a thirty-six-ox span to make a U-turn across them.
It was almost noon when he got back to the hotel room. He opened the liquor cabinet and reached for the gin bottle. Then he put it back unopened and rang room service for coffee instead. His
daylight drinking habits had followed him from New York, and he knew they had contributed to his lack of purpose. They would change, he decided.
He sat down at the desk at the picture window and gazed down on the billowing blue jacaranda trees in the park while he assembled his thoughts, and then picked up his pen and brought his report
to Henry Pickering up to date – including his impressions of Tungata’s involvement with the Matabeleland dissidents and his almost guilty opposition to Craig’s land-purchase
application.
This led logically to his request for financing, and he set out his figures, his assessment of Rholands’ potential, and his plans for King’s Lynn and Chizarira as favourably as he
could. Trading on Henry Pickering’s avowed interest in Zimbabwe tourism, he dwelt at length on the development of ‘Zambezi Waters’ as a tourist attraction.
He placed the two sets of papers in separate manila envelopes, sealed them and drove down to the American Embassy. He survived the scrutiny of the marine guard in his armoured cubicle, and
waited while Morgan Oxford came through to identify him.
The cultural attaché was a surprise to Craig. He was in his early thirties, as Craig was, but he was built like a college athlete, his hair was cropped short, his eyes were a penetrating
blue and his handshake firm, suggesting a great deal more strength than he exerted in his grip.
He led Craig through to a small back office and accepted the two unaddressed manila envelopes without comment.
‘I’ve been asked to introduce you around,’ he said. ‘There is a reception and cocktail hour at the French ambassador’s residence this evening. A good place to
begin. Six to seven – does that sound okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘You staying at the Mono or Meikles?’
‘Monomatapa.’
‘I’ll pick you up at 17.45 hours.’
Craig noted the military expression of time, and thought wryly, ‘Cultural attaché?’
E ven under the socialist Mitterrand regime, the French managed
after-effects of his confrontation with Tungata Zebiwe. He held up one hand before his eyes and watched the tremor of his fingertips. In the game department after having hunted down a man-eating
lion or a crop-raiding bull elephant, he would have the same adrenalin come-down.
He slipped into the driver’s seat, and while he waited to regain control of himself, he tried to arrange his impressions of the meeting and to review what he had learned from it.
Clearly Craig had been under surveillance by one of the state intelligence agencies from the moment of his arrival in Matabeleland. Perhaps he had been singled out for attention as a prominent
writer – he would probably never know – but his every move had been reported to Tungata.
Yet he could not fathom the true reasons for Tungata’s violent opposition to his plans. The reasons he had given were petty and spiteful, and Samson Kumalo had never been either petty or
spiteful. Craig was sure that he had sensed correctly that strange mitigating counter-emotion beneath the forbidding reception, there were currents and undercurrents in the deep waters upon which
Craig had set sail.
He thought back to Tungata’s reaction to his mention of the three dissidents he had met in the wilderness of Chizarira. Obviously Tungata had recognized their names, and his rebuke had
been too vicious to have come from a clear conscience. There was much that Craig still wanted to know, and much that Henry Pickering would find interesting.
Craig started the VW and drove slowly back to the Monomatapa down the avenues that had been originally laid out wide enough to enable a thirty-six-ox span to make a U-turn across them.
It was almost noon when he got back to the hotel room. He opened the liquor cabinet and reached for the gin bottle. Then he put it back unopened and rang room service for coffee instead. His
daylight drinking habits had followed him from New York, and he knew they had contributed to his lack of purpose. They would change, he decided.
He sat down at the desk at the picture window and gazed down on the billowing blue jacaranda trees in the park while he assembled his thoughts, and then picked up his pen and brought his report
to Henry Pickering up to date – including his impressions of Tungata’s involvement with the Matabeleland dissidents and his almost guilty opposition to Craig’s land-purchase
application.
This led logically to his request for financing, and he set out his figures, his assessment of Rholands’ potential, and his plans for King’s Lynn and Chizarira as favourably as he
could. Trading on Henry Pickering’s avowed interest in Zimbabwe tourism, he dwelt at length on the development of ‘Zambezi Waters’ as a tourist attraction.
He placed the two sets of papers in separate manila envelopes, sealed them and drove down to the American Embassy. He survived the scrutiny of the marine guard in his armoured cubicle, and
waited while Morgan Oxford came through to identify him.
The cultural attaché was a surprise to Craig. He was in his early thirties, as Craig was, but he was built like a college athlete, his hair was cropped short, his eyes were a penetrating
blue and his handshake firm, suggesting a great deal more strength than he exerted in his grip.
He led Craig through to a small back office and accepted the two unaddressed manila envelopes without comment.
‘I’ve been asked to introduce you around,’ he said. ‘There is a reception and cocktail hour at the French ambassador’s residence this evening. A good place to
begin. Six to seven – does that sound okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘You staying at the Mono or Meikles?’
‘Monomatapa.’
‘I’ll pick you up at 17.45 hours.’
Craig noted the military expression of time, and thought wryly, ‘Cultural attaché?’
E ven under the socialist Mitterrand regime, the French managed
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