The Death of Rex Nhongo (16 page)

S
hawn met Feinstein at Rainbow Towers, the monolithic downtown hotel. It was just after eight a.m.

He'd never been into Rainbow Towers before and he found something grotesque and melancholy about the building. Constructed in the early eighties, it resembled an alien spacecraft, which had landed with grandiose, imperial intent only to be abandoned by its crew when word came down from the mother ship that there was nothing worth colonizing after all.

Shawn recalled a college trip he'd made with his buddies down to Cancún, Mexico, for spring break, sophomore year. Sure, they'd had their fair share of fun but, as conscious individuals whose consciousness had something of a competitive edge, they'd talked each other into a trip inland to the Mayan city of Chichén Itzá too. Shawn had looked down from the summit of the great temple across the tourist-trampled site to the dense jungle beyond and wondered how the structures must have loomed ahead of nineteenth-century looters chopping back the undergrowth.

Now, as he approached the Rainbow Towers entrance, with its peeling gold paint, chipped fixtures and broken fittings, he unpicked his mind's decision to load this particular memory. After all, while he liked the idea of himself scything through the metaphorical scrub of contemporary Zimbabwe, he was less comfortable to be cast by his own subconscious as some kind of contemporary bounty hunter. Perhaps it was just about the aliens. Shawn remembered Malik had been reading a book called
Voyage of the Gods,
which claimed the ancient Mayan cities were of extra-terrestrial origin.

In fact, that book had provoked serious beef. Kenny had mocked Malik's interest, describing it as “typical nigger learning, all conspiracy theories and some shit.” This had then widened into an argument about what constituted a conspiracy theory: the CIA flooding the community with crack? The Judeo-Masonic New World Order? The Holocaust? Holocaust deniers?
Slavery?

Shawn ended up settling the dispute, at least for that night. “Listen to us!” he'd said. “I figure ‘conspiracy theories' are a ‘conspiracy theory': divide and rule, right there. A bunch of educated black men sitting round discussing who fucked who instead of getting out there to do some fucking of our own.”

His boys had at least been able to agree on this. “True that.” Kenny nodded.

Shawn perched uneasily on one of the lobby's ugly armchairs. He'd set off before five from a
makorokoza
camp at Pfungwe after an uncomfortable few hours' sleep in the truck. He'd hoped to stop at home before this meeting to shower and change, but the drive had taken longer than expected so he'd had to come straight here. He was uncomfortably aware of his grubby jeans and dirty sneakers among the lobby traffic of suited middle-aged men. Rainbow Towers was located a stone's throw from ZANU (PF) Headquarters and Shawn had heard it was a spot favored by Party bigwigs. While he couldn't be sure that all the suits shaking hands, clapping shoulders and laughing delightedly at their own importance were indeed the ruling elite, it didn't seem unlikely.

Shawn was questioning why Feinstein had chosen such a meeting place considering the nature of their business when, across the lobby, a lift opened to a festival of hand-shaking, shoulder-­clapping and delighted laughter before spitting out a tall, slim guy of about his own age. He was wearing a crisp blue shirt, chinos and sandals beneath a receding Jewfro. This was clearly Feinstein and clearly he was down with the middle-aged suits. Of course he was. In fact, Shawn wondered why he'd ever countenanced another possibility.

Shawn had heard about the Israelis from Kemp, a self-described “Rhodesian” he'd come across at a panning site on the Nyaguwe. He'd told Kemp about his partnership with Nyengedza, necessitated by indigenization, and the white man had almost killed himself laughing. “So, let me get this straight: it's your investment, your risk and your hard work, and this black fellow takes fifty-one percent? Shit! These fuckers take us for mugs!”

Kemp had made initial contact and a couple of days later Feinstein had called Shawn. The principle was simplicity itself—the Israelis bought gold under the counter. All Shawn had to do, therefore, was run a proportion of his deals through NA Holdings and the rest could stay off the books. According to Kemp, the Israelis paid thirty-five dollars a gram, and while that was less than the market rate, it was free of tax and, more to the point, free of any cut for Nyengedza.

Shawn questioned the sense of acting illegally (and by “sense” he meant, of course, “safety”). But Kemp insisted the whole mineral trade was top down corrupt anyway, functioning solely on a system of kickbacks and bribes, and there was next to no chance of getting caught. “These clowns don't know what's going on in their own country. How many times you see an official in the fields?”

“No risk?”

“Minimal, I swear.”

It had been reassurance enough for Shawn.

Feinstein approached with certainty and extended a hand. His grip was strong, almost self-consciously so. “Mr. Appiah.”

“Mr. Feinstein.”

“I'm late. Sorry for that. I tried to call you, but I couldn't get through.”

Shawn took out his cell. There'd been no signal in the bush, so he'd switched it off the night before to save the battery. He'd bought a Chinese car charger from a kid in the street, but it had never worked. He switched the phone back on, clicked it to silent and mumbled his excuses.

Feinstein nodded and said, “Have you eaten? My colleague's in the restaurant. The buffet's OK.”

“Sure.”

F
einstein introduced his colleague as Mr. Cohen. He had a shaven head and polished nut-brown skin. He was simultaneously plowing through a cooked breakfast, swilling a Coca-Cola and smoking a cigarette. Shawn put him at early fifties, but it was hard to tell on account of his grotesque obesity. He was so large that working out his age or height or anything much else about him seemed impossible or, at least, irrelevant—you'd never describe him as the “old guy,” “bald guy” or “tall guy,” you'd just say “the fat guy.”

Cohen took up the whole banquette of one of the restaurant's booths. At the appearance of Feinstein and Shawn, he made a show of attempting to stand in greeting but even this minor charade threatened to upset the table, so he sank back, gesturing Shawn into a seat opposite. Feinstein took another chair and sat a little distant and a little behind, crossing his legs, one knee on the other. To Shawn's New York eye, the position and posture, the chinos and sandals, gave Feinstein the mien of an Upper East Side analyst; or at least how such characters were portrayed in art-house movies.

Cohen made an expansive, lordly gesture with one arm. He said, “Breakfast, Mr. Appiah. Help yourself.”

Shawn inhaled a distinct whiff of deodorant, soap and flesh and had to consciously withhold the distaste from showing on his face. He had an instinctive disgust for obesity, which was connected to sex—what kind of man allowed himself to get into a state where he couldn't fuck properly? Despite his hunger, Shawn demurred and ordered a cup of coffee.

Cohen made small-talk. He asked Shawn about his background and Shawn told him. Cohen flashed impressed recognition at the mention of NYU Stern and BBH. “Appiah?” Cohen mused. “Your family must be of West African extraction.”

Shawn raised a sardonic eyebrow and pursed his lips. “
Extraction
being the word,” he said, and disclosed the decision to change his name.

Cohen considered him thoughtfully and Shawn imagined him juggling words like “angry,” “Negro” and others in his head. But Feinstein observed blithely that Jews understood more about displacement than most and, in fact, the Israeli government encouraged returnees to Hebraize their names. “It's not so different,” he concluded, presumably for his colleague's benefit.

Cohen asked him what he was doing in Zimbabwe and Shawn told him about his Zimbabwean wife and her desire to return home. Cohen asked him what he thought of the country, so Shawn said it was an excellent place to raise kids. This in turn led to a discussion of schools, then a brief tangential story about Cohen's nephew, David, in Tel Aviv, who was eight years old and something of a soccer prodigy.

Shawn wondered if all this chatter was heading anywhere and when they might get down to business. But he noted the way Cohen's eyes occasionally darted to Feinstein lurking on the very periphery of his vision and he concluded they were checking him out. Eventually, sure enough, Cohen sat back in the booth, lit another cigarette, and turned explicitly to his colleague with an expression that said, “OK, over to you.”

Feinstein explained the terms. They would pay thirty-four dollars per gram and wouldn't take less than a kilo at any one time. Shawn nodded. He said that Kemp had talked about thirty-five dollars. Feinstein considered him and the Israeli's expression never altered a jot. “We will pay thirty-four thousand dollars per kilo, Mr. Appiah,” he said. “Cash.”

“And what's the maximum?” Shawn asked.

“Maximum?”

“Weight.”

“No maximum,” Feinstein said. And they shook hands on the deal.

Shawn walked out to his truck. He was running math. Since the first conversation with Kemp, he'd accumulated approximately eight hundred grams off the company books, so it might take up to a week to secure a first sale. Thereafter? He figured that with the right excuses for Nyengedza he could set aside a kilo every month or so, risk-free. Without even growing the business, therefore, he could reasonably expect to clear five thousand dollars a month through NA Holdings, plus an additional fifteen thousand with the Israelis. And, of course, the extra capital would mean extra purchasing power and the only limitations would be logistical—he'd need a way to get the profits out of the country and probably another guy out to buy from the panners; someone he could trust. He shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. He mustn't get too greedy too quickly.

Shawn took out his cell. He had half a dozen missed calls from a single number. It wasn't one he'd saved to his address book, but he recognized the digits. He felt a twitch of mischiev­ous excitement deep in his gut, triangulated by his navel and his balls. He knew a lot of men who enjoyed chasing a woman but were immediately uninterested when she was hooked and landed. Shawn wasn't like that. He loved this stage of enthusiasm and helpless commitment when a chick seemed to think he was some kind of answer and pursued him with unmistakable gratitude. For him, interest generally wouldn't waver until she stopped being grateful.

Shawn lit a cigarette and dragged deep, enjoying the antici­pation. He clicked “dial.” She answered on the first ring. She said, “Shawn! Christ! Where have you been?”

He enjoyed the desperation in her voice. He said, “Sorry, boo. I told you I'd call soon as I got back into town. Where are you?”

“I'm…” Her voice broke, and for the first time he sensed her anxiety might have a source other than her desire for him. “Christ, Shawn,” she said. “I'm at your house.”

His cigarette froze on its lazy parabola to his mouth. The excited tug in his midriff was suddenly a heavy ice block and he shivered. “What the fuck?” he said.

S
hawn smoked a cigarette in the car park of the Corporate Health Clinic in the Avenues, just off Baines, before hustling inside at a kind of stepping half-trot that spoke of desperate urgency. Corporate Health's reception was quiet and almost empty. There was a Knicks game mute on the TV and he found his eyes attracted to it until he realized it was a few days old and he'd seen it already—before he'd headed out to Pfungwe on his latest trip, before his wife had done…whatever the fuck she'd done. This was a disquieting thought. Three days ago, he'd watched the game “as live,” sitting at home on his big sofa while Kuda had buzzed around him disapprovingly. Now here he was and his world had changed and SuperSport 2 was still showing the same reruns.

His eyes flicked across the rows of bolted leatherette easy chairs. He took in an elderly Zimbabwean, who appeared to have dressed up for her visit to the clinic and sat rigid with her handbag on her lap, as if in church; then a young, stressed white woman, foreign, no doubt, and her daughter who mewled occasionally—although whether this was because of some terrible undiagnosed ailment or frustration with her mother's iPad was impossible to tell.

There was no one at the desk, which was shielded by an opaque screen with a letterbox just below eye level. Shawn bent down to look through and spotted three figures in white uniforms, a man and two women, chatting by a water dispenser. He said, “Excuse me,” and the man looked towards him—slowly, vaguely—before rejoining his conversation. Shawn banged on the screen. He said again, “Excuse me!” And the man finally turned and approached lazily, as if in positive denial of any correlation between Shawn's evident frustration and his return to work.

The man sat down, lifted the telephone and listened to imaginary voices for a second before looking up. “Yes, sir.”

“My wife was brought in here. Kudakwashe Appiah.”

“Your wife?”

“Yes. My wife.”

The man opened a large ledger and traced the entries with his finger. He furrowed his brow. He tapped at an aging computer. He said, “One moment,” stood up and walked away and Shawn was left, hunched over, peering through the letterbox, spitting, “Where are you going? Where are you going?” at the man's retreating back.

“Shawn!”

Shawn straightened up to find Jerry Jones emerging from the clinic's interior. The Englishman was wearing jeans and a stained T-shirt. He looked exhausted. On the only previous occasion they'd met, Jerry's fleshy features had suggested joviality and bonhomie, but now everything sagged—his cheeks, the folds of skin beneath his eyes—like a balloon slowly deflating. In spite of himself, habitually, Shawn imagined Jerry and April having sex and the picture that jumped into his mind was of a large construction worker tacking tarpaulin to the frame of a gaping window. Only when he clicked that the stains on Jerry's T-shirt must be Kuda's blood was he uncomfortably jolted back to present reality.

“Jerry,” Shawn said. The two men shook hands. “What the fuck happened? Where's Kuda? Can I see her?”

“She's heavily sedated,” Jerry said, and rested a hand on Shawn's shoulder, which he promptly shrugged off.

“Sedated? What do you mean? What the fuck's going on?”

“She's going to be fine. Really, she is. She's not in any danger. Just lost a lot of blood. Needs to rest. The sedative will help. While we work out what happened—you know, her mental state.”

“Her mental state?”

Jerry looked at him. He rubbed his eyes with his hands. He looked at his hands, then closer at one wrist. He went over to a small basin beneath a sign that read, “Please observe good hygiene.” He lathered up the liquid soap and scrubbed thoroughly. Shawn stood over him, twitching impatience. Jerry said, “Do you mind if we step outside? I could use some fresh air.”

In the car park, Shawn smoked another cigarette while Jerry recounted the whole story in minute detail: Kuda's phone call to April, the time it had taken them to get to the house, exactly what Jerry had found and what he'd done, that he'd spoken to April this morning and Rosie was fine—confused, but fine.

“The front door was open,” Jerry said again, by way of conclusion. “But I checked all the doors and windows and there was no sign of any break-in. And it's not like your wife mentioned anything on the phone. An accident—that's what she said.”

“You think she was trying to commit suicide?”

“I don't think anything. I'm just telling you what I found. Like I said, the wounds don't look self-inflicted—the angles, the nature…I don't know. That's just what my gut tells me. You'll see. They're too
frenzied.
”

“So she was attacked?”

“I don't know. That's not what she said. By who?” Jerry paused. He shook his head. He bit his thumbnail. Shawn discarded his cigarette and lit another. Jerry said, “Can I have one of those?” Shawn passed him a cigarette and cupped his hand around the lighter's flame. Jerry inhaled deeply, exhaled.

“April told me that your wife had maybe had some issues before. Psychologically, I mean. In the States. That's why you brought her home.”

Shawn stared at him. He didn't know what to say. His lie was being told back to him and didn't it sound truer than ever? Nonetheless, he was irritated at the idea of April discussing it with her husband. It had, after all, been a careless, lightweight, spur-of-the-moment untruth and now, with repetition, it weighed too much. Perhaps this man was even making it true retrospectively. For a moment, Shawn said nothing. He looked at Jerry. They were of roughly equal size. Maybe April had a thing for big guys, but Shawn's bulk was undeniably more elegantly distributed. He shook his head. He said, “Nothing like this.”

“I don't know. I just figured, if this was self-inflicted, maybe it wasn't suicidal, more like self-harm.”

Shawn stared at him. “Fuck,” he said. Then, “I should get home.”

“You don't want to see her?”

“I thought you said she was sedated?”

“She is. But you can see her.”

“Not if she's sleeping. Let her sleep.” Then, “I want to get back to Rosie. She must be terrified.”

“You going to get the police?”

“The police?”

“Maybe it was a break-in after all. I mean, what do I know? Maybe they could work out what happened.”

Shawn was suddenly swamped by possibilities, each as awful as the last. “No,” he said. Then, “The police? Here?” He forced out a sound approximating a laugh.

“Fair enough.”

Jerry ground out his cigarette under the sole of his shoe, then picked it up with Shawn's discarded butts and walked them over to a dustbin. As he returned, he flashed an ingratiating smile. He said, “Don't tell April I was smoking. She hates it.”

“What?” Shawn said. Then, “Yeah, right. Fine.” He could barely control a sneer. Who was this man, this nurse, who picked up his litter, who hid a cigarette from his wife, who couldn't fuck her right? No wonder. No wonder. He said, “Thanks for what you did. Really. I owe you big time.”

“Sure,” Jerry said. “It was April too. She's still at yours. She said the maid came in, but she didn't want to leave Rosie.”

“I'll send her home,” Shawn said.