“How can Antoinette Cameron be your mother?” Jess asked, trying to force herself to relax. She had knots as big as fists in her shoulders. “Nettie told me she never had any children.”
Omar Hafidh said nothing as he steered past the dangling Renault engine on the Red Hot Poker tree. Alone with the man in his car, Jess felt a lot more frightened than she had anticipated. She wedged herself as close to the door as she could, as though that could give her some measure of security. Occasionally, she glanced at the road behind, but she could see nothing in the blackness of the Zanzibar night. Was Rick following as he’d promised? Would Omar really take her to the hotel he had proposed the night before? The Bahari Hotel. She’d never heard of it. Maybe there was no such place.
“When I visited you in Zanzibar town,” Jess tried again, “you told me Fatima Hafidh was your mother. You know— the woman at your house . . . the woman in the black
bui-bui
?”
“Yes, Fatima Hafidh is my mother.”
Now
that
made a lot of sense. Clearly Omar Hafidh was leading her through a verbal maze. Cat and mouse.
Was he driving the car into a maze as well? Jess leaned her cheek against the window. The occasional dim street lamp gave her hope they were headed in the right direction. Still, she had been to this part of the island only once or twice. She was disoriented. Lost.
Had Omar managed to lose Rick, too? Could she even trust Rick to stick close to her? Maybe she had been foolish to rely on Rick. Look what had happened when she had placed her faith in him ten years before.
Where was Hannah now that Jess needed her strength? If Hannah were in the car, she would come up with a comforting verse. A scriptural promise. A psalm. All Jess could think of was
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . shadow of death. . . .”
“I have a good mother,” Omar said into the darkness. “Fatima Hafidh. Also Antoinette Cameron is my mother.”
“That’s very interesting,” Jess remarked. “You have two mothers. Do you have two fathers?”
“I have no father.”
“Oooo—okay.”
Two mothers and no father. Well, that made things clear—as clear as mud. Omar turned the car down a steep gravel road. Jess held her breath. A small, poorly lit sign emerged over the top of the palm trees. Bahari Hotel.
Thank you, Lord.
“The Bahari Hotel has African food and dancing,” Omar said as he pulled the car to a stop in front of a large whitewashed building with a thatched roof. “Sometimes the tourists like our ways. Sometimes not.”
“I’m sure the hotel is charming.” Jess opened the car door and stepped out before Omar could make it around to her side. She scanned the parking lot, but she saw no sign of Rick’s motorcycle.
Alone. Rick had left her alone. Why had she trusted him?
“We will eat fish,” Omar said. “You like fish?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I am a fisherman.”
“Really? I notice you have a nice car. Do you have a boat?”
“This is not my car. I borrowed it.” He took her elbow and led her toward the hotel lobby. “To have a car in Zanzibar is to have great wealth. I have a bicycle. Also a small boat.”
The Bahari Hotel was definitely not one of the high-class tourist lodges that catered to wealthy European vacationers. In fact, it must have had no more than ten rooms. Huts, actually. Half-hidden in vines and brush, the little bungalows were scattered outward from the main building.
Jess tried to assess her situation as she walked through the cement-floored lobby. Africans were gathering in the open-air dining room. For a Tuesday night, the place was packed. Jess was the only white person in sight. That would be all right if not for Rick. There was no chance he could be inconspicuous in a place like this. Had Omar planned it that way?
It hardly mattered. Rick was nowhere to be found.
“Sit down,” Omar said, pulling back her chair. “I will bring drinks.”
“Fanta for me, thanks.” Jess watched the man stride through the crowd toward the open bar. Hands on the glass-topped table, she half rose and scanned the bougainvillea bushes for any sign of a straw hat, a newspaper, a white face. Nothing.
Oh, Rick.
She missed him so much. At the same time, fear curled through her. Had she fallen into the same trap that had snared her ten years before? Had she let herself love a man who was destined to abandon her when she needed him most?
How easily they had slipped back into the warmth of their love. The evening before had been bliss. Sitting on the rock under the stars . . . listening to the waves break on the cliffs below . . . holding each other tightly . . .
“Your Fanta,” Omar said, plunking down a glass. “I have ordered our dinner. Grilled eel.”
“Eel?”
“You will like it. Very tasty.”
Swallowing hard, Jess shook out her napkin and laid it in her lap. By now the noisy crowd had filled almost every table. Waiters scrambled back and forth taking orders and pouring drinks. Omar sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. His green eyes studied Jess for a moment.
“This is an African place,” he said, defiance giving his voice an edge. “You like it? Or do you only like the places of white people?”
“I like this. I grew up in Africa, you know. Kenya mostly. My father taught at the university in Nairobi.”
Omar nodded. “Then you understand me.”
“Actually, there are a lot of things about you that confuse me, Omar.” She took a deep breath, determined to probe his past. “For example, how did you meet Giles Knox?”
“He was searching the island for the art of Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf. Nothing is secret in Zanzibar. He found me.”
“So you and your mother . . . Fatima . . . have several of his paintings. But I noticed you don’t own the portrait Dr. bin Yusuf painted of you when you were a little boy.”
Omar sat up straight. “You have seen that picture? Where is it?”
“It’s at Uchungu House. Dr. bin Yusuf kept it in the second living room, the more secluded room to the east.”
“How did you know that was a picture of me? He painted it when I was very young.”
“Your eyes.”
The man looked away, and for the first time Jess saw pain written in his bearing. His big shoulders sagged, and he nodded sadly. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “I have green eyes. You think I am strange.”
“I don’t think you’re strange. I think you’re . . . a mystery.” She turned her glass on the table, her fear of him giving way a little. “I like your eyes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. They’re very nice. Interesting.” She cleared her throat, uncomfortable at allowing the conversation to turn personal. “Omar, why do you say Nettie is your mother? She told me she was married to Captain Cameron.”
“That man was not my father.”
“You had no father.”
He nodded again, unable to look at her. A waiter brought two steaming platters. The eel flesh had been filleted and grilled in garlic and butter. Actually, the dish smelled so good Jess thought she might almost be able to eat it.
“You speak in riddles, Omar,” she said. “There’s something else that puzzles me. Why did you ask me to have dinner with you?”
“To talk.” He took a sip of his drink. “I wanted to understand why Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf liked you—why he chose to give Uchungu House to you. Now I begin to understand. You are not the same as other white women. You walked into my home, and you did not seem afraid of us. You spoke to my mother as though she deserved your respect. You looked into my eyes, and you did not shut me away.”
“Why would I shut you away, Omar? Have you done something that should make me fear you?”
“People fear me because I am different.” He stared at her. “You see this skin? this hair? these eyes?”
“It doesn’t matter to me how you look. What matters is your heart.”
“To many people it matters how I look. Because I am different, they hate me.”
“Then they’re foolish.”
“That is why I like you, Jessica Thornton.” He took a bite of his eel. “You also are different.”
In spite of herself, Jess began to relax a little. If Omar Hafidh had killed Dr. bin Yusuf, he would need to reveal a better reason than the ones she’d come up with so far. He seemed disinterested in the art, in Uchungu House, and in Giles Knox. He appeared relatively content with his lot as a fisherman. In fact, if Jess hadn’t convinced herself that he was a killer, she thought she might actually be able to like Omar Hafidh.
She stabbed a chunk of eel with her fork. Sucking in a deep breath, she put it in her mouth and chewed. Not bad.
Omar was watching her, a grin forming on his face. “You like?”
“I do,” she said. “Not too long ago an eel nearly had
me
for dinner.”
He laughed out loud, a deep warm sound. “Never fear something unless you are a threat to it. That is the rule of Africa.”
“I’m learning,” she said. “Omar, what do you find threatening? Africans who call you different? White people who reject you? The fear of poverty?”
“Not poverty. I do not care so much for money. I have my home. My boat. My work. Of course, I would not turn away from wealth. You already know I would like to give the money from Ahmed bin Yusuf ’s paintings to my mother.”
“Which mother . . . Fatima? Or Nettie?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Jessica Thornton,” Omar said. “Eat your dinner. I am going to tell you a story about Uchungu House. Because you live there, you will wish to know this tale.”
“Is this why you asked me to dinner?”
“No. And yes. Listen, please. Many years ago, there lived a man whose name has been forgotten. He had a very wealthy trade, and he built himself a beautiful white house filled with rooms. In the coral caves below his house, he kept African slaves for export to Arabia, England, and America. The slaves called that place
uchungu
. Bitterness. To be sent to Uchungu House was the worst of fates. A sentence to living death. A sentence to hell.”
“The shipwreck Hunky Wallace found in the bay,” Jess said. “Did you know it was a slaver?”
“No. But it does not surprise me. Hundreds of slave ships came and went around Zanzibar Island. Near Uchungu House, slaves were taken out of the coral caves and ferried to the reef in small boats. At low tide, they were loaded onto huge ships. The tales say that one stormy night a slave ship was driven over the reef. Its holds were full. Hundreds died.”
“Omar . . . that must be the ship we found. How terrible.”
“Terrible, yes, but also wonderful. The slaves gave their lives for a good cause. With the destruction of that ship, the owner of Uchungu House was ruined. Already British blockades had cut into his business. The man left his house and was never heard from again. Years passed, and Uchungu House fell into disrepair. Then another family moved in. Squatters. An African family with many children and no wealth. One of those children did a terrible thing.”
“What was it?”
“When he was still a young man, he fell in love with a girl who lived nearby. By him, she conceived a child. Though she loved him, she knew her parents would never approve of their union. The young man himself refused to marry her. You see, he had many selfish plans for his own life. In fact, he grew tired of the girl. He abandoned her. So she gave the baby away to a friend—the childless sister of her lover—and married another.”
A sudden realization swept over Jessie.
The child must have been—
With a quick intake of breath, she leaned back in her chair, listening intently. If she was right . . .
“After many years, the young man became a famous artist. The girl, who was now a woman, lived not far away with her husband. The child grew up in a loving home. He was told nothing of his birth. Then one day the artist became ill.”
As Omar spoke, Jess couldn’t help but think of herself and Rick. Their union had been secretive and forbidden. Rick had abandoned her and her child, just like the man in the story . . . just like—
“You’re talking about Dr. bin Yusuf,” she said quietly.
Omar looked up at the moon. “Tell me something, Jessica Thornton. Did Ahmed bin Yusuf know you at the time you had the little boy, the child with no father?”
“I was his art student in Dar es Salaam right after my son was born. Dr. bin Yusuf knew about Spencer. In fact . . . I remember he was intrigued that I had chosen to keep my baby. He said he admired me.”
Omar nodded. “Now I understand the true reason he gave you Uchungu House. In you, he could see what he himself had failed to do.”
“But who was the woman—?”
“At the time of bin Yusuf ’s illness, the woman who had been his lover allowed her bitterness about their past to burn within her.”
“Omar . . .” Jess felt breathless, on the verge of understanding something amazing and awful. “Omar, was that woman Nettie Cameron?”
He focused on her. “No more questions, Jessica Thornton. Let us dance.”
Before she could respond, he pushed back his chair, took her hands, and pulled her onto the dance floor. The throbbing African beat swirled around them—a mixture of drums, guitar, piano, and trumpet. Lost in a twirling, swaying sea of bright dresses, Jess could hardly keep up with Omar. He danced her around the floor, spun her back and forth, and nearly left her breathless.