When are you coming back to Chiwewe? I don't know, Johnny, but my offer is genuine. Come with me. We made a good team once; we would be good again. I know it. Thanks, Danny. Johnny shook his head. But I've got work to do here. I won't give up, Daniel warned him, and Johnny grinned. I know. You never do. In the morning, when Daniel climbed the small kopje behind the headquarters camp to watch the sunrise, the sky was filled with dark and mountainous cloud and the heat was still oppressive.
Daniel's mood matched that sombre dawn, for although he had captured some wonderful material during his stay, he had also rediscovered his friendship and affection for Johnny Nzou. The knowledge that it might be many years before they met again saddened him.
Johnny had invited him to breakfast on this, his last day. He was waiting for Daniel on the wide mosquito- screened verandah of the thatched bungalow that had once been Daniel's own home.
Daniel paused below the verandah and glanced around the garden. It was still the way that Vicky had planned it and originally laid it out.
Vicky had been the twenty-year-old bride that Daniel had brought to Chiwewe all those years ago a slim cheerful lass with long blonde hair and smiling green eyes, only a few years younger than Daniel at the time.
She had died in the front bedroom overlooking the garden that she had cherished. An ordinary bout of malaria had turned without warning to the pernicious cerebral strain. It had been all over very swiftly, even before the flying doctor could reach the Park.
The eerie sequel to her death was that the elephants, who had never entered the fenced garden before, despite its laden citrus trees and rich vegetable plot, came that very night. They came at the exact hour of Vicky's death and completely laid waste the garden. They even ripped out the ornamental shrubs and rose bushes. Elephant seem to have a psychic sensitivity to death. It was almost as if they had sensed her passing, and Daniel's grief.
Daniel had never married again and had left Chiwewe not long after.
The memories of Vicky were too painful to allow him to remain. Now Johnny Nzou lived in the bungalow and his pretty Matabele wife Mavis tended Vicky's garden. If Daniel had been able to choose, he would have had it no other way.
This morning Mavis had prepared a traditional Matabele breakfast of maize porridge and sour milk, thickened in a calabash gourd, the beloved amasi of the Nguni pastoral tribes.
Afterwards, Johnny and Daniel walked down towards the ivory go down together. Halfway down the hill Daniel checked and shaded his eyes as he stared towards the visitors camp. This was the game-fenced area on the river bank where the thatched cottages with circular walls stood under the wild fig trees.
These structures, peculiar to southern Africa, were known as rondavels. I thought you told me that the Park was closed to visitors, Daniel said.
One of the rondavels is still occupied, and there's a car parked outside it. That's a special guest, a diplomat, the Ambassador of the Taiwanese Republic of China to Harare, Johnny explained. He is extremely interested in wildlife, particularly elephants, and has contributed a great deal to conservation in this country.
We allow him special privileges. He wanted to be here without other tourists, so I kept the camp open for him- Johnny broke off, then exclaimed, There he is now! Three men stood in a group at the foot of the hill. It was still too far to make out their features. As they started towards them, Daniel asked, What happened to the two white rangers who helped with the cull yesterday? They were on loan from Wankie National Park. They left to go home early this morning. Closer to the group of three men Daniel made out the Taiwanese ambassador.
He was younger than he would have expected a man of such rank to be.
Although it was often difficult for a Westerner to judge the age of an oriental, Daniel put him at a little over forty. He was tall and lean with straight black hair that was oiled and combed back from a high intelligent forehead. He was good- looking with a clear, almost waxen, complexion.
There was something about his, features that suggested that his ancestry was not pure Chinese, but mixed with European blood. Though his eyes were liquid jet-black in colour, their shape was rounded and his upper eyelids lacked the characteristic fold of skin at the inner corner. Good morning, Your Excellency, Johnny greeted him with obvious respect. Warm enough for you? Good morning, Warden. The ambassador left the two black rangers and came to meet them. I prefer it to the cold. He was wearing an open-necked short-sleeved blue shirt and slacks, and indeed looked cool and elegant.
May I present Doctor Daniel Armstrong? Johnny asked. Daniel, His Excellency the Ambassador of Taiwan, Ning Cheng Gong. No introduction is necessary, Doctor Armstrong is a famous man. Cheng smiled charmingly as he took Daniel's hand. I have read your books and watched your television programmes with the greatest of interest and pleasure. His English was excellent, as though he were born to the language, and Daniel warmed to him. Johnny tells me that you are very concerned about the African ecology, and that you have made a great contribution to conservation in this country. Cheng made a deprecatory gesture. I only wish I could do more. But he was staring at Daniel thoughtfully.
Forgive me, Doctor Armstrong, but I did not expect to find other visitors at Chiwewe at this time of year. I was assured that the Park was closed.
Although his tone was friendly, Daniel sensed that the question was not an idle one. Don't worry, Your Excellency. My camera man and I are leaving this afternoon. You will soon have the whole of Chiwewe to yourself, Daniel assured him. Oh, please don't misunderstand me. I am not so selfish as to wish you gone. In fact, I am sorry to hear you are leaving so soon. I am sure we would have had a great deal to discuss.
Despite the denial, Daniel sensed that Cheng was relieved that he was leaving. His expression was still warm and his manner friendly, but Daniel was becoming aware of depths and layers below the urbane exterior.
The ambassador fell in between them, as they walked down to the ivory warehouse, and chatted in a relaxed manner, and then stood aside to watch as the rangers and a team of porters began to unload the newly culled ivory from the truck parked at the door to the warehouse. By this time Jock was there with his Sony camera filming the work from every angle.
As each tusk was brought out, still crusted with freshly congealed blood, it was weighed on the old-fashioned platform scale that stood at the entrance to the warehouse. Johnny Nzou sat at a rickety deal table and recorded the weight of each tusk in a thick leather-bound ledger.
He then allocated a registration number to it and one of his rangers stamped that number into the ivory with a set of steel dies.
Registered and stamped, the tusk was now legal ivory and could be auctioned and exported from the
