Free Ivory Ghosts by Caitlin O'Connell Page B

dark-haired young man with a closely cropped beard was leaning against his white Land Rover smoking a pipe. The large British flag on the side of the vehicle reminded me that Craig had mentioned Nigel was British.
    I turned off the Bug and approached the man. He looked me up and down, visibly impressed. I ignored his expression and shook his hand. “I’m Catherine Sohon.”
    “Nigel Lofty.”
    “So sorry I’m a little late.”
    He tipped his sweat-stained slightly crooked cap and smiled through piercing blue eyes and smoke-stained teeth. “Right. No worries. Had to meet with the game guards anyway.”
    This guy seemed like a caricature of a British foreign aid worker. Was he enjoying himself at my expense, or did he just seem too young to be smoking a pipe and carrying all this pomp? It was as if he was trying too hard to play the part.
    He looked at the VW, smiled, took another puff of his pipe, and exhaled. “Those things do pretty well in deep sand, I hear.”
    I nodded. “When it doesn’t disappear into the potholes.”
    “That’s a problem around here.”
    “But not something you have to worry about.” I nodded back at the Land Rover.
    “Hell, it’s nice!” He walked over and opened the passenger door for me. As I got in, he waved over one of the uniformed men. “Got us a meeting with the induna of Liadura Village,” he said to me. “Figured that would be your best introduction to the community.”
    “Sounds good.”
    A thin little man with a starched game-guard uniform walked over and stood dutifully next to the door. He was so drunk he could barely stand up. Dried crumbs of fermented grain sat at the corners of his mouth, and he reeked of alcohol. He had been at the local brew, but somehow his uniform still looked tidy.
    “Christ, Finnius,” Nigel said. “It’s nine thirty in the bloody morning.” Turning to me, he continued. “Ah, right. Catherine, this is the head game guard for the region, Finnius Mplanga.”
    I nodded and held out my hand to greet Finnius. His breath almost made me cough, it was so strong. “Hello, Finnius. Nice to meet you.”
    Finnius shook my hand, smiled weakly, and then hesitated—as if concerned about what impact my job would have on his.
    Nigel waived at Finnius to get in the back as he turned the key, and the turbo diesel engine clucked to life. He slammed the steering wheel as he watched Finnius through the rearview mirror stumble into the back of the truck. “Bloody hell!”
    I had to hold in a laugh at Finnius’s earnest expression, as if he were confused at the stink that Nigel was making over his perfectly fine appearance, ironed uniform and all.
    “Is he always like that?”
    “To be fair, he’s celebrating.”
    “Celebrating what?”
    “He stumbled upon the induna’s son burying three tusks in his yard the other night.”
    I wondered if he was referring to the tusks I had seen in Jon’s office. “Is that a common occurrence around here?”
    “Probably, but being stumbling drunk appears to have its advantages.” He laughed defiantly.
    I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just smiled.
    Nigel pulled out onto the white dusty track. As he accelerated, he stopped for an old man dressed in a tired suit, carrying a pair of worn dress shoes, which I assumed he felt were too valuable to wear until he got to his destination. The old man climbed onto the back of the truck, nodding his thanks through the rearview mirror as Nigel pulled away.
    We passed a series of small villages, all made of reed and thatch, interrupted every once in a while by a brick school or clinic with a corrugated iron roof along the road. After that, there were long stretches of scrappy crops—
mahango,
sorghum, or mealies. There were patches of clay soil where deep groves of tall mopane trees looked like enchanted forests guarded by termite castles, multitudes of cicadas blaring as we passed.
    Although I appreciated the absence of small talk, it didn’t feel right not asking a few