“Either way, if she’d sunk off Chumbe, artifacts would be washing up on the beach. Every monsoon there would be debris just sitting on the bottom waiting for someone with a Ping-Pong paddle to come along.”
“True,” said Sam. “But there are plenty of people who find something and never mention it. They go home and put it on their mantel as a souvenir. In fact, that describes most casual treasure divers: They find something, make a minor effort to identify it, but if it’s not something obviously ‘treasure-ish’ they treat it as a keepsake . . . ‘Our week in Zanzibar.’”“This is a huge leap we’re talking about, Sam.”
“I just remembered something: Rivera said he’s been looking for the Ophelia for seven years.”
“About the same time the strange deaths started.”
“Exactly. I need to call Rube. We need to find out how good Tanzanian immigration and customs are at recordkeeping.”
SAM MADE THE CALL and explained their request to an incredulous but willing Rube Haywood, who said, “So your theory is that Rivera was in Zanzibar around the time all the deaths would have taken place?”“It’s worth a shot. Even if the records don’t show he was here every time, he may not have traveled under his own name.”
“I’ll look into it. Wouldn’t hold your breath.”
Sam thanked him and disconnected.
A few minutes later Ms. Kilembe knocked on the door and peeked her head inside. “Do you need anything?”
They thanked her and declined. She was turning to leave when Sam asked, “Ms. Kilembe, how long have you been with the library?”“Thirty years.”
“And how long in this area?”
“All my life. I was born in Fumba, on Zanzibar.”
“We’re looking for anything on a ship called Ophelia . Does that name mean anything to you?”
Ms. Kilembe furrowed her brow. After ten seconds of thought, she said, “I assume you’ve been to the Blaylock already?”
“The Blaylock?”
“The Blaylock Museum in Bagamoyo. There’s a charcoal sketch there of a ship. Unless my memory fails me, the ship’s name is Ophelia.”
CHAPTER 12
BAGAMOYO
OF THE TWO CITIES WITHIN EASY REACH OF ZANZIBAR , DAR ES Salaam and Bagamoyo, the latter was Sam and Remi’s favorite. With a population of thirty thousand, Bagamoyo is a microcosm of both traditional African and colonial African history without the big-city bustle of Dar es Salaam and its two and a half million inhabitants.
Founded by Omani nomads in the late 1700s, Bagamoyo has at times been home to Arab and Indian traders of ivory and salt, Christian missionaries, slave traders, the German East Africa colonial government, and big game hunters and explorers bound for Morogoro, Lake Tanganyika, and Usambara.
“Here’s something we didn’t know,” Remi said, reading from the guidebook as Sam drove. “David Livingstone, in all his years in Africa, never visited Bagamoyo-at least not alive. He was brought to Bagamoyo after he died and was laid out in the Old Church Tower, now called Livingstone Tower, to wait for high tide so they could ship his body to Zanzibar.”
“Interesting,” Sam said. “I’d always assumed he’d used Bagamoyo as a staging area just like everyone else. Okay, we’re on the outskirts. Where’d Ms. Kilembe say the museum was?”
Remi plucked the Post-it note from inside the guidebook and read: “Two blocks from the old German boma, a fort.”“Which one? There are two, I think the guidebook said.”
Remi flipped over the note. “That’s all she wrote. Guess we’ll have to check them both.”
They found the first a few hundred yards north of three of Bagamoyo’s biggest tourist attractions: the crocodile farm, the Kaole Ruins, and a five-hundred-year-old baobab tree. They parked on the dirt road before the crumbling whitewashed fort and got out. A teenage boy walked by with a donkey on a lead. He smiled broadly and said, “Jambo. Habari gani?”
Hello. How are you?In halting Swahili, Sam replied, “Nzuri. Unasema kiingereza?”
“Yes, I speak little English.”
“We’re looking for the Blaylock Museum.”
“Oh, yes, Crazy Man House.”
“No, I’m sorry, the Blaylock Museum.”
“Yes, same thing. Other boma
. One kilometer up. Livingstone Cross, yes?”
“Yes. Asante sana ,” Sam replied.
“You’re welcome, bye-bye.”
With a click of his tongue, the boy continued on with his donkey.
“Your Swahili is improving,” Remi remarked.
“Just don’t ask me to order food. You won’t like what we get.” “What did he mean ‘Crazy Man House’?”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
THEY FOUND THE OTHER boma with little trouble, following glimpses of its whitewashed battlements until they reached its crushed-shell parking lot. Here there were more locals going about their business, selling food and sundries from storefronts and awning-covered carts. Sam and Remi got out and began walking, looking for a sign that read either “Blaylock” or “Crazy Man.” After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, they stopped at a vendor’s cart, bought two ice-cold bottles of cola, and asked for directions.“Yes, Crazy Man House,” the man said. He pointed west down a narrow dirt alley. “Two hundred meters there, find wall, then thick trees. Turn right, find path, find place.”
“Asante sana,” Remi said.
“Starehe.”
AS PROMISED, THEY FOUND a waist-high mud-brick wall before a grove of acacia and wild lavender. They turned right and, twenty feet down, came to an opening in the wall. On the other side, a winding path took them through the grove to a white picket fence, beyond which stood an old schoolhouse, long and narrow, with a butter yellow exterior and heavy shutters in dark blue. A black-on-white hand-painted sign above the porch steps read BLAYLOCK MUSEUM AND CURIOSITY SHOP. The last three words were clearly written in a different hand, as though added later as an afterthought.
A bell above the door tinkled as they entered. Hand-hewn support posts ran down the center of the space supporting rafters, from which hung dozens of poorly stuffed African birds in poses that Sam and Remi assumed were meant to represent midflight. Sitting on the rafters above their inanimate cousins were several animate pigeons. Their cooing filled the space.
The walls were dominated by wicker shelving units, no two sharing the same height or width or shade of wood. Spaced at intervals down the building’s midline were eight rickety card tables covered with threadbare sheets. On both the shelves and card tables were hundreds of knickknacks: wooden and ivory statuettes of giraffes, lions, zebras, dik-diks, snakes, and people; collections of knives ranging from the standard pocket variety to daggers carved from bone; hand-painted fetishes covered with feathers and bits of tree bark; hand-drawn maps on hide; charcoal pencil portraits and landscapes; compasses; water bags made from animal stomachs; and several models of Webley revolvers and bullets of varying sizes.“Welcome to the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop,” a voice called in surprisingly good English.
At the far end of the room was a lone card table they hadn’t noticed. Sitting behind it was an elderly black man wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap and a white GOT MILK? T-shirt.“Thank you,” Remi replied.
Sam and Remi walked over and introduced themselves.
“I am Morton,” the man replied.
“Forgive us, but what exactly is this place?” Sam asked.
“It is the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop.”
