The driver slammed on the horn and swerved violently to the left, and David’s head smacked the window, effectively bringing him out of his reverie. A rangy dog flashed in the headlights, its orange coat didn’t hide its ribs. There was no bump other than the window on David’s head; the dog was safe. The driver yelled something in Nyanja, and gesticulated in the universal language of fist shaking. Billy laughed in back.
“Keep watch out for the windows, David.”
They passed a few other bony dogs ranging the littered roadside, but none were in the road. The moon was not yet out, and outside of Lusaka the savanna disappeared beyond the reach of the headlights. There was a dry wind and the sweet scent of body odor. David relaxed again to the hum of the tires and cough of the engine and just barely, the faint chirp of crickets in the darkness. Billy asked him if he heard the crickets and said that if you see one it’s good luck. Then he asked about Hannah and David asked about Billy’s wife, Martha, but the talk was sparse. Zambians are content to sit in silence with others. They do not talk simply to fill dead space or hear themselves.
They pulled up to the same familiar squat house with stuccoed walls and a small orange tree growing out of the porch. It was as if the house was built around the orange tree, concrete patiently poured around it, not to disrupt the roots or growth. Martha was asleep on the couch, breathing in the smell of must and citrus fruit. It was a pea green couch, doubtlessly a product of 1970’s America, as was much of the home. After waking, she commented on David’s health and hugged him clumsily, her pregnant belly standing between them. She smelled fresh, like clean laundry. Her hair dropped in front of one of her dark eyes. She had the wide eyes of a child.
“Have you spoken with Hannah yet?” she asked as the three stood in the living room.
“No.” David looked at Billy. There was a brief silence. In the patriarchal culture it was Billy’s decision if David could use the phone -- he had not yet sat down for nshima and tea.
After a moment: “Oh, please you may use our phone. It is inside our bedroom.” Billy led him down the hall to the bedroom. “Are you sure that you do not want food before?”
“I’d really like to talk to my wife.”
Billy turned and grabbed his hand at the door. He pressed it hard. “Then use my phone please. Remember, do not be anxious on anything.” He jiggled David’s dead fish of a hand. “Give your requests before God.”
“Thanks, Billy.” He didn’t know whether to take his hand away yet.
“Yes! Your requests and thanksgivings! You are my wise friend.” He dropped David’s hand and led him into the master bedroom. A beige phone hung on the wall, the long cord brushed the floor. Billy shut the door behind him as he left.
The smell of must was gone, probably since the floor wasn’t carpeted but made up of small squares of wood. The smell of lemons saturated everything and David looked around: there had to be dozens of cut-up lemons all over the room. You could shower in Pledge and not smell so much like lemons. The sunny yellow bedspread matched the lemon smell, and oddly the avocado curtains did, too. It was a tiny room. There was one dresser across from the foot of the bed, no closet. The fan was on, and there was a bare light bulb behind the fan, flashing light between the blades like a dance club. The uneven hum of it echoed throughout.
David slid open the window. There was no screen to stop bugs, only a metal cage to stop people. He peered between the wrought iron bars into the darkness. The staccato chirp of crickets fluttered in on the dry wind, and there was a smell of cinnamon in the air. Stars were coming out, and David looked for the Southern Cross but couldn’t find it. He turned off the fan only to find it operated the light switch, too. Great. He was confined to the dance-room to call his wife. He couldn’t - there was a silver cross hanging on the wall next to the phone. He stared at the phone, then back to the cross. The cross was small and the silver coating was peeling off at the bottom, revealing dull metal. God, he mouthed looking at the cross, bring Hannah here.
