Page 39 of The Secret
“Liss. Book a flight, or I’m going to do it for you.”
“All right. All right. Mrs. Bossy.”
“Do it now.”
“Not sure I like the new Jo who’s business has taken off and now she’s ordering everyone around.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just do it.” And she hangs up on me.
He could be lying in a ditch. My stomach churns. A group of students head across the quad, books and laptops tucked under their arms. Fuck, I’ll need permission to leave my job if I’m going to go out to Africa. I’ll have to talk to the head of department. Tapping on my phone, I search for flights and find several seats available tomorrow. So I gather up my stuff and head over to the offices and knock on the warm wood of John Arnold’s door. He glances up with a wan smile and gestures at me to come in. How do I begin? I sink down opposite him and chew my lip.
“I’m aware it’s unconventional to request time off when I’m covering for maternity leave,” I start. “But a friend of mine is in trouble in Zimbabwe, and I need to go out to Harare for a short time.”
John appears worn down, like the whole department is weighing on him, and he runs a hand through this thinning hair. He’s going to refuse,goddammit. But, to my surprise, he nods.
“You’re a hard worker, Liss, and you never ask me for time off. Of course, you can have it.” His eyes scan over my face. “Is your friend okay?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had some difficulty reaching him, but communication can be tricky out there anyway.”
He purses his lips. “Yes, it can.”
“I can talk to someone I know here, Ekon, who can cover the summer course for a week if you like. He’s not an academic, but he’s worked for aid agencies in a lot of African countries, and if I briefed him, he’d give the students an eye-opening view of how things work out there.”
John smiles at me. “That’s just like you to solve the problem for me, Liss, sounds great. Send me his details, and I’ll talk to him.”
I sit on my hands to stop them shaking.Thank God. Such a nice guy.Most guys are not my father.John’s matter-of-fact, cooperative approach is the polar opposite of my dad’s. And perhaps I shouldn’t worry so much about Dan. There will be some normal explanation, some stupid tech glitch, or he had to be out in the countryside.
All the arrangements happen in a blur, and I’m pleased to be doing something after so many days of waking up every morning hoping to find a text from him. Twenty-four hours after my conversation with John, I’m settling myself in my seat on the plane, and I scroll through my phone as the flight attendant hands me a menu card.
But three hours in, after meals are served, I can’t settle. I spot a head of blond hair about ten rows in front of me, and all the fear comes crowding back. What if something has happened to him? Getting everything organized has calmed me down, but what if he doesn’t want to see me? I try several films, flick through some books on my Kindle. Nothing seems to work. Eventually, I give up and stare into the black ink outside the window, the plane’s lights flashing in my peripheral vision. Most people have bedded down, and the cabin is dark, quiet. But I will go mad trying to sleep in this tight seat. The flight attendant offers me something to drink, and I nod, mute, as she comes back with a large glass of wine. Anything to knock me out. I almost feel like a storm should be raging out there to match the turmoil inside me, but it’s all calm and peaceful.Thank God.
And I must have fallen asleep because my head jerks when we touch down in Harare, and I blink blurrily at the other passengers and then stare out at the hot tarmac. The only thing to do is go straight to Dan’s. I’m too antsy, and if I can answer some questions now, why not? It’s 6 a.m. Who’s not in at 6 a.m.? My gut tightens. What will he say? What explanation could there be? I ring his number, and it goes through to voicemail again.Damn.I left a message before leaving the US telling him I was coming.
“Dan, I’ve just landed in Harare. I’m really worried about you, and I’m on my way to your place. If you get this, call me. I want to know you’re okay.”
I pull up the maps I’ve downloaded onto my phone and study transportation options for ten minutes. No organized routes run in the city, it all appears to be ad hoc, and I quickly realize that talking to local people would speed things up, so I head outside the terminal, eventually finding a minibus into the center of town. When I consult with people on the bus, everyone tells me to catch another minibus out to the suburbs and then walk. I can do that. As the bus gets closer to his address in a leafy area north of Harare, my stomach is like a cauldron, and at long last I trip onto the sidewalk, nausea bubbling in the back of my throat. I examine the neat row of low bungalows, the hot sun beating down on my shoulders and through my hat. What am I going to find out here?
17
LISS
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Ieye up the painted houses with their trimmed lawns and plants in pots as I walk down the street. How little did Dan tell me about his life in Zimbabwe? At no point did I imagine where he lived and what it might be like. He talked about his PhD and his thesis, but never mentioned his home, his friends, his family. It’s odd, now I come to think about it. Most people would chat about how they grew up, things they’d done at college in passing, wouldn’t they?
Eventually, I arrive at number 134. The front yard is dry, the grass just about hanging on but in dire need of a water. I walk up the cracked concrete path to the main door. It’s not glamorous, but it’s not a dump either. It’s a little run down like it needs some care and attention.A typical rental property. I pull in a deep breath and glance at my watch: 7.30 a.m. Hopefully, I’m not too early. Where’s the bell? Finding none, I lift the knocker and it falls back with a sharp rap. Voices call inside.Voices?Then a man’s voice, more distinct. “I’ll answer it!” and the door is flung open by a Black guy wearing suit pants and a smart shirt, collar unbuttoned like he was getting ready for work. He frowns at me, but his face is still polite.
“Can I help?”
“I’m looking for Dan Andrews?” I say, clutching my phone like it will give me credence.
His frown deepens.
“Dan Andrews? Ummm …” I take in the lines on his forehead, and my heart sinks.
“He doesn’t live here?”
“No, just me and Marjorie, my wife.”
