Free Prudence Couldn't Swim by James Kilgore Page A

she was Princess Tarisai. That’s the name on the letter.”
    â€œIt’s probably Shona,” said Mandisa. “That’s what most Zimbabweans speak. I don’t understand a word.”
    â€œWhat do you speak?” I asked.
    â€œEnglish.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œA few vernac languages.”
    â€œWhat’s vernac? Never heard of it.”
    â€œVernacular. Local African languages. Zulu, Sotho, Tswana, Venda, Xhosa.”
    â€œYou speak all of those?”
    â€œOnly about four, plus Afrikaans.”
    â€œYou speak six languages?” I asked. “Something like that.”
    â€œThat’s impossible,” I said. “What was that last one again?”
    â€œXhosa,” she said pronouncing it with a click like you use to get a horse going.
    â€œHow did you learn them all?”
    â€œIt just happens. I don’t know. Americans only know English. Shame.”
    I thought maybe Mandisa would help me. Now I knew I couldn’t trust her. No one could speak six languages. She was just like the guys in prison who tell you how many millions they made on the street and then bum a cigarette. If she could speak six languages, why couldn’t she understand these letters?
    â€œDo you know someone who can translate these things?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know any Zimbabweans. Maybe there are some around. I keep to myself.”
    â€œIt has to be a Zimbabwean?”
    â€œI could try writing to Mr. Mukombachoto in English. He probably understands. If not he can find someone who does.” She looked at the address on the air letter.
    â€œHe’s in Harare,” she said. “That’s the capital. Everyone can speak English there.”
    â€œMaybe we can find the name in directory assistance and give him a call,” I said. “There can’t be that many people there with this long name. Or he could be on the Internet.”
    â€œYou can try the phone,” she replied, “but I doubt you’ll find anything. Please keep it short. A call to Africa costs a fortune.”
    I picked up the receiver and dialed “0.” I guess “0” still meant something in phone language because I got a recording with some options. After hopping through several sets of choices, I got a woman with an Asian accent.
    â€œHow do I get directory assistance for Zimbabwe?” I asked.
    â€œI’ll put you through.”
    The ring of the phone was different—two rings, then a pause. It rang about two dozen times. No one picked it up, no electronic voice came on to tell me which button to push.
    â€œThey don’t answer before three rings like here,” said Mandisa. “Sometimes they don’t answer at all. It’s a different way of living. Phones don’t rule our lives.”
    I went back through the same series of digital Janes. This time I asked for the number so I could direct dial.
    â€œThe international code is 011,” said another Asian woman. “The country code is 263, then 4.”
    â€œAre there 263 countries in the world?” I asked the operator.
    â€œHave a wonderful day,” she said and hung up.
    I tried directory assistance four more times. The first three times it just kept going: two rings and a pause, two rings and a pause. On the fourth call the rhythm changed. I let Mandisa listen.
    â€œIt’s engaged,” she said, “I mean busy.”
    I picked up the letters to Prudence again. The second one had a PS written in English that ran up the edge of the page.
    â€œWe look forward to seeing you,” it said. The postmark showed the letter had been sent a month before Prudence’s death.
    â€œWhat do you think this means?” I asked, pointing to the PS. Mandy’s silver fingernail followed the writing up the page.
    â€œWho knows?” she said. “Maybe Prudence was planning a trip home. She never mentioned it to me though.”
    â€œWhat the hell was