same sound as the quartet he’d heard in The Bird in The Bottle, the Harare jazz spot. He tugged another wire and the alternator cable wobbled at his touch, so he began unscrewing the clamps. A sweet voiced chippy sang with the sax now. He added a bass back-up.
“Isaac, am I interrupting?” A low female voice spoke.
For a second he thought the radio’s singer had spoken and he pivoted to the radio, but an “Excuse me” echoed behind him. Elise stood in the doorway. Isaac lay down the alternator cable. Brett accused her of flirting with everything male--was it his turn? “I’m checking loose wires and connections. How may I help you?”
“I’ve missed my connection this afternoon. Brett isn’t under the hood of that Land Rover, is he?” She peered into the shed, gazing past him, no interest in him at all. “I’m sure he said four o’clock.”
“No, he’s not here, but I saw him at lunch,” Isaac said, thinking this situation was a switch. Usually Brett did the chasing but instead, here she was, tracking him down. Last year Brett and that divorcee--wow--he’d been as bad as Old Man Johnson for disappearing after dinner. Johnson’s rule--tourist women were likely to be clean, no wasting diseases, and they were used to condoms. This Elise was a knock-out compared to the usual tourist.
Even though it would be a riot to lead her to the employees’ room and catch Brett wet and naked, she didn’t need to know Runt had gone for a shave and shower before meeting her. She’d know she had the advantage over him. This Elise was tall like Naomi Andela, his Xhosa South African businesswoman. When they’d played around, he’d known she ran the show. Man, Isaac got stiff just remembering the sex, his smart, sassy Naomi. That season, he ditched Astrida for her. Naomi, of course, went home and never returned. No more controlling women for him. This lush European was the same as the rest.
Colton had interfered with her and Brett all week, keeping Brett occupied, even though Jeremy had often lounged around without tourist groups. Still she’d managed to find Brett. Isaac watched them strolling on the lawn daily. Brett hadn’t been on the roof in days.
“I hope I haven’t missed him.”
“That’s not likely, unless Colton snared him for a chore.” Her face had a prettier shape when she was unhappy. Her mouth was a little wide for his taste, but when she was sad, she pulled in the corners. “I’m sure we can find him. Let me wash the grease off my hands.”
“Brett told me you’re the lodge’s only mechanic,” she said. “You have a lot of work here.”
“Always some noise or rattle to figure out.” Isaac scrubbed the grease off his hands. She was good at getting guys to talk. That must be her come-on, but he wasn’t falling for it. His turn to root out her story. “How do you like your work?”
“My job’s like yours. Machines and numbers, they both behave, once you understand how to fix them.” Elise picked up a crescent wrench which she twisted open and closed, over and over.
“Predictable, not like people or animals,” Isaac said. Brett had said she was a handful, going hot and cold, flirting with everyone, but she wasn’t now. Isaac never played that game. Down in Harare, at the first sign of trouble with N’Shuma, he should have ended it.
“Brett told me he loves never knowing what he’ll see next. I like unpredictable, too.”
“He’s always been that way.” Isaac dried his hands. She had a nice understanding of Runt, after only a week. “Not to worry. I know how his brain works, and I can guess where he’ll be waiting.”
Avoiding Colton, Brett would lurk on the driveway, instead of the lobby’s gathering spot. This being Brett’s afternoon off, going out with Elise was illegitimate on two counts, fraternizing with the clients and borrowing a lodge vehicle without permission.
Elise twisted the strap of the lodge’s 10x50 binoculars. “He told me you two grew up together.”
“Let me carry those binocs for you. His mother raised me, when mine died. His dad taught me everything I know about machines.” Damn, she knew how to get a guy talking. Isaac countered, “Where did you grow up?”
“Copenhagen, Denmark. But,” she rushed on as she handed over the 10x50s, “I thought Brett hated engines. At least he hates the noise they make around the animals.”
“My dad taught him about animals, while his dad and I worked on the machines.” He stopped; he nearly let slip how he loved his own dad, but he’d do anything for Brett’s dad. This conversation stayed too one-sided. “Your family still in Denmark?”
“A brother, about Brett’s age, in Paris, my mother in Copenhagen, my father in Marseille.” Elise crossed her arms as they walked.
“I’m his elder by three years. How about you?” He kept his voice steady to keep her talking. So her family was not together. He tried to imagine his mother alive but not around him or his dad.
“Twenty-four. No lady admits her age in my mother’s world, but she wouldn’t do well in Africa.” Elise giggled. “Brett mentioned you go to Harare every month?”
“Once a month for vehicle parts and supplies like liquor for the lodge,” he said, remembering the ice cream shop’s guava sorbet, the movie theater with the latest American action films, the enormous South African car dealerships. He stumbled on a rock in the path. His back twinged. Damn day-dreams.
“I want to visit your downtown art museum, but everyone in Zambia says it’s not safe. Brett says he never goes.”
“It’s nice. Big gardens with lots of Zimbabwean stone sculpture. A lady diplomat won’t have any problems.”
Elise plucked at her pockets. “A diplomat in tan shorts? I work for an American auditing firm. Now about Harare--did you mean a white person or a woman wouldn’t have problems?”
Isaac paused. This Elise wasn’t afraid to say what she thought, but he’d better respond in the expected way. “A foreigner would be safe from any problems.”
“So if I speak in French or Danish and avoid English, I’m fine?” she said. “The riots are real then. I’d like to see that--democracy in action. Didn’t the government shut down the Parliament last month?”
“Yes, Madam, they absolutely did,” Isaac answered, wrapping the binoculars’ strap around his fist and forearm. She was fearless or foolhardy. He needed to discourage her, to make it sound less heroic. He walked slower, planning his phrasing. “Government antics don’t affect casual observers.”
“Casual observers?” She pivoted to stare at him. “Did you see the riots?”
“Brett and I, we’re so far removed from the center of things. Politics doesn’t affect the lodge,” he said. Another lie which tasted like iron shavings, gritty, oily. In the lawn’s afternoon sunlight, Isaac noticed how light her neck and face were. No suntan yet, so she was a new arrival in Africa. Brett had said she’d only moved to Zambia a month or so ago. Maybe that explained her interest in local politics. Yet he owed her a comfortable, if not completely honest, answer, so he picked his words carefully, “The protests will be under control soon. It should be perfectly safe to visit the art museum.”
“Isaac,” she raised her palm. “You know more than you say, don’t you? Probably about a lot of things.”
Isaac kept walking, and they rounded the corner of the kitchen wing and onto the gravel driveway. “There he is. Our lost guide,”
Isaac said, glad to hand her off without getting any deeper into politics.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming.” Brett lounged against the four passenger Jeep, parked in the shade of the little frangipani.
“Runt, you idiot, you didn’t tell her where to meet you. Elise came looking for you in the shed.”
“Runt?” She covered her mouth as she giggled. Her mouth wide, no more frowns or wrinkled forehead at the sight of Brett.