A Whisper of Danger (4 page)

Jess dropped her hands in exasperation. Did the man never listen to anyone but himself?

“Dhow Palace Hotel,” he announced next. “Ten rooms for tourists.”

Jess stared out at the maze of murky streets. Women wearing the long, black, veiled
bui-bui
s that bespoke their Muslim faith glided down alleys too narrow for cars. Most of the two-story houses had been built of mottled gray coral or soft limestone. Some were freshly whitewashed; others hadn’t seen paint in two hundred years. Some boasted elaborately carved doors with brass studs; some had cheap wood doors; others had no doors. Jess could look into the open courtyards of multifamily dwellings where laundry hung on long lines and children chased puppies across open drains.

With the window rolled down, the smell was overpowering. Repellent odors of human refuse and rotting garbage formed a subtle undercurrent to the rich, alluring scents of curry, cinnamon, incense, charcoal smoke, fresh bread, and the island’s famous cloves. The fishy saltiness of the damp sea breeze seasoned the potpourri of aromas.

Jess dragged the humid air into her lungs as though it were a heady drug. It brought back her childhood. Her youth. Wonder, beauty, mystery. For so many years, she had ached to recapture that exotic past. Now she wondered if she’d made a mistake. What had led her back to Africa? Had it been the same foolish romantic notion that once had driven her into the arms of Rick McTaggart? He had seemed perfect to her in the early days of their young love. He was handsome, full of fun, wild, and rugged. Their marriage was to have been the ideal picture of happiness. A treasure beyond her grandest imaginings.

“Nella’s Chatu,” Solomon barked as he drove past a small shop. “Nella will sew clothes for you,
memsahib
.”

Jess nodded absently at the shelves of
batik
, tie-dye, and
kanga
fabrics. Rick McTaggart had left her holding nothing more than the fragments of broken dreams. Ten years after he had walked out of her life, she could look back and see the truth. Her husband had been little more than a twenty-year-old child. Rebelling against his strict upbringing, he had embraced adventure. He loved to scuba dive, hang glide, and ride his motorcycle through the bush country. He had climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and boated in Lake Victoria. He could dance every night until the sun came up. And he could drink. A lot.

“Creek Road,” Solomon announced. Like many native Swahili speakers, he made the pronunciation error of reversing
l
and
r
in English words. To his captive audience in the Renault, he labeled the street
Cleek Load
.

“Mnazi Mmoja National Museum,” he went on. “Many things inside. You will take this boy, your son, to see the things of old Zanzibar. Here is Emerson House. Long ago, it was a sultan’s palace. Now it is a hotel. Nine rooms.”

Solomon seemed to know the details of every shop and hotel on the island, Jess realized. Splinter was eating it up. Always fascinated with anything old or mysterious, he was falling in love with Zanzibar.

“How come every house has iron bars on the windows?” he asked Solomon.

“Pirates.” When Solomon said the word, it sounded like
pilots
. But Splinter seemed to have no trouble understanding. “Red Sea Men. Very bad. They came from America. Attacked ships and robbed houses in Zanzibar. In Kiswahili we say
maharamia wa bahari
, the bandits of the beach.”

While Splinter practiced this wonderful new expression, Jess fought memories she had once so carefully locked away. Rick McTaggart. She understood now that the man she had married had been an alcoholic. Though young when they met, he had already been drinking for several years. She hadn’t recognized the warning signs. To an eighteen-year-old looking for her own freedom, he had been her dream come true.

Only after they had married against the will of their parents had she begun to understand. Her new husband was not interested in going to college, finding a job, buying a house, or building a future. The more she pushed him toward her goals, the more he drank.

One night the tension had erupted into a vicious fight. Rick had left and never come back. A week later, Jess had learned she was expecting his baby. She had taken back her maiden name and given it to her son. Spencer Thornton.

At least something good had come of her terrible mistake.

“Look at that bazaar, Mom!” Spencer hollered over his shoulder. “I bet you could find anything in there. Wow, this town is so cool! Can I come down here sometime? By myself? Solomon could bring me. He knows everything. Huh, Mom? Could I?”

“Not right away, Splint,” Jess said. If Rick McTaggart was living in Zanzibar, she would never let her son out of her sight. For years she had prayed that she would never have to lay eyes on that man again. She hated him. Hated the thought of how he had looked and talked and acted. Hated the memory of the things they had done together. Hated herself for having been such a fool.

“We go now to Uchungu House,” Solomon announced as he steered the Renault onto a bumpy road that followed the seacoast. “The house of Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf is very old. Maybe one hundred years. That house does not know children. It does not know white people. It does not like new things. But I think Uchungu House will permit this boy to live in it.”

“The house does not have any say about who lives in it,” Jess snapped. She didn’t like Solomon scaring her son with the image of a resentful, temperamental old house. Anger at the thought of anyone harming her son—including a chauffeur who told frightening stories or a ne’er-do-well who might want to stake his claim as a father—hardened her voice. “I’m in charge here. I’ll do what’s right for my son and for myself, and neither you nor anyone else had better interfere with that. Do you understand me, Solomon?”

“Ndiyo, memsahib.”

Jess leaned against the seat back and let out a hot breath. She felt tight and achy inside, as though a thick vine had wound around her heart with tentacles determined to twist, squeeze, and choke her. Images of pirates, witch doctors, winding alleys, octopus colonies, dark bazaars, and a hundred-year-old house on a sea cliff curled inside her, latching on with suckers of fear. But they were not the vine . . . not the source of what threatened her. That was Rick McTaggart.

She rested her head against the window frame and let the tropical air fan her face. Beside her in the car, Hannah was humming. Jess recognized the song, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Something out of the past. A hymn.

The humming stopped.

“Uchungu House,” Hannah murmured, repeating the name Solomon had given the old seaside home. “Uchungu House. House of Bitterness.”

T
WO

Night descended over the island of Zanzibar like the black veil of a Muslim woman’s
bui-bui
. At the town of Mdogo, Solomon turned the car onto a gravel road, leaving behind the security of overhead street lamps and the occasional passing police car. In the utter darkness, the Renault’s single working headlight picked out a series of deep potholes into which the car plunged with bone-jarring frequency. Palm trees, lush undergrowth, and a tangle of leafy brush obscured all but an occasional light from a house along the road.

“Mom?” Splinter’s wide eyes located his mother in the backseat. “This isn’t like the streets in London, is it?”

“This is Africa, honey. You’ll get used to it, I promise.” Jess knew her son’s vivid imagination could play terrifying tricks with his mind. Despite his bravado and his propensity for wandering off by himself to explore, Splint could dissolve into a ten-year-old’s puddle of tears if he felt out of control and alone.

“Why did they name it Uchungu House?” he asked Solomon. “It sounds spooky.”

“Uchungu House is not a place of happiness,” the African said. “Perhaps you will bring a change.”

The travelers in the car fell silent until Hannah’s voice warmed them. “‘God blesses those who work for peace, for they will be called the children of God,’” she said. “‘The Lord is my strength, my shield from every danger. I trust in him with all my heart. He helps me, and my heart is filled with joy. I burst out in songs of thanksgiving.’”

“What songs are you talking about?” Splinter asked, not realizing she had been quoting from Matthew and the Psalms.

Hannah hummed for a moment. Once she had the tune in mind, she repeated the favorite African preamble to a song, “Are you ready? Let us go to heaven.” Then she began to sing in Swahili.
“Mungu ni pendo; apenda watu. Mungu ni pendo; anipenda.”

“Sikilizeni, furaha yangu,”
Jess sang, joining in with the familiar words her
ayah
had taught her so many years ago.
“Mungu ni pendo; anipenda.”

“Wow, Mom,” Splinter said. “I didn’t know you could do that. What’s it mean?”

“God is love; he loves all people. God is love; he loves me.” She paused. “Umm . . . I forget the rest.”

“Listen, everyone,” Hannah continued translating. “Happiness is mine. God is love; he loves me.”

“Cool. I want to learn it.”

“Perhaps the Swahili will be too much for you,” Hannah said doubtfully. “Swahili is a difficult language.”

“No way,” Splinter blustered. “I can do it. Tell me how the song starts.”

“Are you ready? Let us go to heaven.”

By the time the Renault’s headlight illuminated the narrow driveway to Uchungu House, Hannah and Splinter were singing the chorus together in perfect harmony. Solomon, who Jess suspected was a Muslim as were so many coastal Tanzanians, did not join in.

“Uchungu House,” he announced, stopping the song as he stomped on the brake in the middle of what looked like thick jungle.

“Where?” Jess asked.

“There.”

Seeing nothing and hearing only the rush and crash of ocean waves on the cliffs beyond the driveway, she opened the car door and stepped out. Through a tangle of vines, the high walls of a huge house emerged like a white ghost. Both stories were surrounded by a deep verandah. Six arched doorways outlined the lower level. The upper level formed a balcony guarded by an iron railing.

“Aren’t there any lights?” she asked.

“In the day we have much sunshine.” Solomon flicked off the Renault’s headlamp, plunging them into blackness. “Inside the house, some electric light bulbs hang from the ceiling, but Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf did not pay the electric company in Zanzibar town for many years. We use kerosene lamps.”

“Not anymore,” Jess said. “If the place has electricity, I’m putting it back in service.” Unwilling to allow the pale specter of the house to overwhelm her, she slipped her arm around Splinter and gave him a hug. “Come on, buckaroo. Let’s go explore our new home.”

Starlight guided the four up a walk graveled with tiny seashells. Solomon snapped on a flashlight and led them up two wide stairs onto the stone-floored verandah. The beam focused on a fifteen-foot-tall set of double doors, each built of heavy, dark wood and embedded with four rows of cone-shaped brass studs the size of a man’s fist. The wide lintel and frame surrounding the door had been carved in rich Arabic patterns of twining rosettes and geometric shapes. Instead of a doorknob or handle, a thick iron bolt had been mounted at the bottom of the door. The end of the bolt was buried in the stone step and made secure by a heavy chain and padlock.

“The door of Uchungu House is good,” Solomon informed Jess. “Zanzibar has nearly six hundred doors— counted and recorded.
Memsahib
will not sell this door to tourists. This house wants to keep the door.”

Jess had no intention of putting the magnificent door up for sale—a practice she knew had depleted the island of some of its most beautiful architecture—but she didn’t like anyone ordering her around. She watched as Solomon pulled a key from his pocket, fitted it into the padlock, and lifted the bolt.

“I’ll take that,” she said and held out her hand for the key. “And if you have any others, I’d like them, too.”

“Ndiyo, memsahib.”

He dropped the key into her palm as if he didn’t want to touch her. Jess wrote it off as his Muslim reluctance to have close contact with women, but she was well aware that he would not like this female stranger usurping his authority. He pushed open one of the doors and swung the flashlight beam around the interior of the first room. Jess followed him inside, Splinter gripping her hand and Hannah close behind them.

“Sitting room,” Solomon said.