Heart of Africa (3 page)

“Thanks very much,” I said and flustered, hurried down the corridor and climbed the four steps that led to my hall, wishing that I’d at least asked his name.

Chapter 5

I
was far too weary to completely appreciate the mellow
uniqueness of the Vineyard Hotel that afternoon. I found the sweaty but cheery porter waiting by my second-story room that supposedly overlooked the mountain. Unfortunately, a heavy cloud cover blanketed Table Mountain and its surrounding environs, and I could barely discern the hill happily pointed out to me by the proud African. I was half-tempted to ask him about the tall stranger who had directed me to my room, but refrained, shyness winning over curiosity. Tipping the porter ten rand, I rapidly closed the door. The sandy-haired man must be another guest I’d unlikely encounter again, since I was leaving so early the next morning. Still, he had been very pleasant to look at, the soothing tones of his strong accent tantalizing. Pushing him out of my mind, I examined the lovely room.

It was spacious and lovely with a modern bathroom and wide bed covered in Monet colors. A huge window overlooked a wide garden where large brown birds waddled. I gazed for a long moment out of the window. The garden breathed lovely tranquility and I felt myself relaxing, the tension easing from my shoulders.

After a long, cool sponge bath I removed my shoes from my aching and slightly swollen feet and stretched out on the impressionistically-splattered spread. I fell asleep instantly, only to be awakened much later by loud, boisterous honking.

Frightened, I jerked upright. What in heaven’s name was I doing sprawled across this unfamiliar, wide bed? Glancing frantically at my steel wristwatch, which I’d adjusted to Central African Time on the plane, I discovered it read 6:20. Was that p.m.? Rushing to the window, I threw back the curtains. Evening had settled in, overshadowing yellow-barked trees which sprang from low shrubs. Some kind of brown waterfowl strutted through the lush garden, making an appalling noise.

A few minutes later, after searching the room, I discovered a brochure entitled “Garden Birds of the Vineyard Hotel.” Returning to the window, the disturber of the peace was quickly identified as an Egyptian goose. Noisy and conspicuous, the loud clacking and honking that denotes the species filled the early evening air. Moving away from the window, I realized I was starving. After a quick shower and fresh clothes, at precisely 7:00 p.m., I slid the flat card key into my pocket and ventured downstairs.

The hotel had two restaurants to offer. The first, a French restaurant called the Au Jardin, listed prices expensive even by South African standards. I instantly realized this was out, since I wouldn’t be able to sit in its white table-clothed interior and feel comfortable alone. Restaurants like that bespoke of romance, as hushed whispers amidst the low lights, planned nighttime encounters. That simply wouldn’t do, so I wandered into the warm light of the Courtyard Restaurant. A short, heavy woman with pleasant features led me across the patio through a maze of healthy plants.

I was amazed at how luxurious this hotel and restaurant really were, as the entryway had seemed so unassuming. A high-slanted sunroof let in faint glimmers of moonlight while a pebbled, blue-tiled fountain built in five tiers gurgled against the wall. The soothing sound muffled the eager chatter and plate-clanking of the few early patrons. Huge clay pots housed giant figs; nearby, tall, slender-trunked palms reached for the dim light of the beckoning ceiling, through which a three-quarter moon struggled to become whole.

Even the pillars holding up the wrought-iron walkway were painted muted green, their stripes causing the supports to resemble slender palm tree trunks. I appreciated the quiet harmony and understated elegance among the ample foliage.

Basking in my solitude, so pleasantly distant from well-meaning friends and critical family members, I felt myself truly relaxing in spite of my high-strung nature, and was suddenly glad I’d come. After ordering swordfish kebobs with a side salad, I opened the book I’d grabbed from the narrow sill across from my bed. Browsing inside the covers of
The History of the Vineyard,
I discovered the hotel was originally built around 1798 by the clever wife of Andrew Bernard.

An apologetic sound issued from somewhere near my shoulder. Believing it to be the waitress, I glanced up from the intriguing book and gasped. The slim South African from earlier in the afternoon stood before me, now smartly dressed in pressed gray linen slacks and a somber pinstriped shirt, his chin stubble-free.

“Is this seat taken?”

My heart beating wildly, I realized it was the moment of truth. Did I rudely order him away, or allow him to sit down? The old Mandy would have mumbled a quick, repelling response. But this was the new Mandy. “No, it isn’t. Please sit down.”

He eased his tall frame onto the cushioned seat and smiled warmly. “We haven’t been formally introduced. My name is Peter Leigh. I’m a park ranger, environmentalist, and occasional guide. And you are…?”

“Amanda Phillips. Actually, Mandy. My job is nothing as exciting as yours, I’m afraid. Just an accounts manager at a local hospital in Orlando.”

“An accountant?  A noble and crucial profession. Maybe you can give me some insights on how to balance the numbers.”

“The numbers?”

“Too much outflow and too little inflow from my accounts, I’m afraid,” he said wryly.

“A common problem,” I laughed.

The waitress returned, menu in hand. “You’re eating with the lady, Mr. Leigh?”

“If she’ll permit it.” He cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Of course,” I answered, surprised at myself.

Peter Leigh perused the menu. “I’ll try the pasta tonight, Sophie. And a glass of red wine. House will do.”

Sophie beamed and whisked away his menu.

Peter Leigh leaned back. “So, what brought you here to our lovely city?”

“A holiday,” I answered nonchalantly. “I’ve always wanted to visit Africa and my travel agent recommended South Africa. Something about rustic charm mingled with first-world amenities.”

“A very astute agent. Still, a long ways to come alone, isn’t it?”

“I originally planned to travel with a friend, but they had another engagement and couldn’t make it.” It was so close to the truth that I hoped it would pacify the South African.

It apparently did, for he only asked, “And how do you like it so far?”

“What little I’ve seen is lovely. You must be proud of your city.”

“I am. It is truly exceptional,” he agreed, “but I have a bit of a confession to make. I’m actually just a visitor here as well. I stay at The Vineyard every time I venture to Cape Town, but I originally hailed from Zimbabwe.”

“I just assumed you were South African.”

“The accents are similar for sure, and I have lived in South Africa and Botswana for the past ten years, but I grew up in Harare.”

“I’ve heard the situation is dire there,” I stated, remembering what I had read about Mugabe and the country’s insane inflation.

“Truly not a great place for man or beast. But I have found a new home in the north, near Kruger Park, and get to do what I love, which is work outside with animals and nature, so I have no complaints.”

“’I’m heading for Kruger tomorrow,” I said excitedly. “I’m venturing on a bit of a safari.”

“Are you booked with a private game lodge or one of the public ones?” he asked, appearing genuinely interested.

“A public one, I guess. My first stop is at a camp called Letaba.”

Peter Leigh flashed me a delighted smile. “That’s a wonderful choice for the first-time visitor. Letaba is roughly in the middle of the park with lovely terrain, a fantastic view over the river, and loads of animals. You’re in possession of a good camera I hope? Not just your smart phone?”

“Now, in that department, I’m prepared. I brought a Nikon with a telephoto lens. Cost me an arm and a leg, but I’m praying it’s worth it.” I suddenly felt very cheerful. This pleasant conversation with an attractive man made me feel younger and happier than I’d been in a long time. Maybe this would turn out to be a grand adventure and a tonic for my frazzled nerves after all.

Sophie arrived with Peter’s red wine in one hand and a savory pasta dish in the other.

“Do you work in the park?” I asked as he sprinkled parmesan cheese on his pasta.

“Sometimes. I’m a private game guide and if I have a job, I take people through the park depending on their needs. Generally I concentrate on the northern reaches of the park, but I’ve worked all regions of the reserve. I conduct night drives, walking safaris, and guided jeep tours. But I also, because I’m a free agent associated with different travel bureaus, focus on the far north in Botswana. One of my specialties is the Okavango Delta, conducting boat tours. But, I’m off right now. Came down here to see my sister Elizabeth. She married a chap from Cape Town and works as a tour guide in Stellenbosch.”

“The wine country?”

“That’s right. She hosts day excursions to several of the better-known wineries on the route that include tasting, a gourmet meal, and an opportunity to meet the owners and visit their cellars.”

I sipped my own delicious South African wine. “Sounds like a heavenly job.”

“It is. Elizabeth lived in Namibia for about five years before moving to South Africa, so she speaks fluent German and Dutch. It’s a good gig for her.”

An inspiration hit me. “I’m returning to Cape Town for the last leg of my trip in about ten days. Do you think you could set me up with a wine tour?”

Peter grinned. “Your wish is my command. I’ll call her tonight. Just give me a couple of dates so Elizabeth can organize something special for you. Maybe I could tag along and give her unwanted critiques about her guiding techniques.”

“I’m sure your sister would appreciate that.”

He laughed. “It would all be in good fun. Elizabeth’s used to me ribbing her about whatnot.”

“But won’t you have a job yourself?”

“I’ll be free at that time. I’ll make certain of it.”

Blushing, I quickly concentrated on my plate and devoured the remaining chunks of delicious fish while listening to Peter speak about Anne Bernard, the original owner of the hotel who, nothing less than adventurous, had left her native England with a husband twelve years her junior to man a post in the wilds of Africa.

“When Andrew took over the position of governor at the Cape of Good Hope, Anne’s breeding and exceptional ability to adapt came in handy,” stated Peter. “Feeling out of sorts with all the back-biting intrigue she discovered at Table Bay, Anne opted to build her own house, and look at what a house it turned out to be.”

“She must have been an amazing woman to visit a wild country thousands of miles away from her home and not only survive, but prosper.” I could only wish I were half so brave, and I sighed. Finished with my dinner, I pushed my plate away, dabbing at my mouth with the white linen napkin provided.

Peter Leigh reached for the crystal salt shaker and peered at it as if were the most interesting accoutrement in the world. 

“It’s a brave thing to venture somewhere completely foreign and make a go of it. Brave indeed, particularly for a woman.” He gazed directly at me, and a slight shiver trailed down my spine.

“You mentioned earlier that some of Anne Bernard’s items are located in the gallery of the hotel?” How I managed to make the words come out so steady was beyond me.

“They are indeed. Would you like a gander?” He flagged down Sophie while I busied myself with signing the bill and then followed the tall guide, amazed at my burgeoning thoughts. I had rarely flirted or done anything unexpected in my life. I’d met Josh at a hospital function hosted by my boss and had stumbled into that relationship. Peter Leigh was definitely the most attractive man I’d met in ages, so why not…?

I spent the next fifteen minutes wandering the lovely expanse of the hotel, following Peter’s well-modulated voice.

“Anne Bernard’s touch is everywhere,” he began. “The young woman was well-educated and not only kept an expansive journal of her time spent in Southern Africa, but also illustrated the pages with lovely pen-and-ink sketches. The hotel has dedicated this entire hall to excerpts of her diary. They make for fascinating reading.” Peter Leigh paused as I examined some journal pages nestled inside lovely gold frames.

“She not only drew the natives, which were referred to by the Dutch as Hottentots, but also each and every person she’d had the fortune or misfortune to meet. Notice this ink sketch of fishermen near the shore. It reveals her special attention to detail. One can only commend her. Unfortunately, it all ended tragically when her husband died prematurely.”

“How so?” I asked.

Peter Leigh once again scrutinized me with his disconcerting brown eyes. “She was forced to vacate this beautiful city and country. Anne returned to the rainy isle, but this house, which she’d so lovingly designed, saw many subsequent owners from governors to generals, merchants to musicians. It wasn’t until 1894 that the house was finally turned into a hotel, evolving into the quiet gem it is today.”

“And that was tragic because…?”

“She remained husbandless in London, forced to forsake one of God’s most beautiful cities. Drowned in her sorrows, I believe. Just like I figure you might be doing.”