Two guards signaled him into the area between the two gates of the Presidential Palace compound, which was an entire city block surrounded by concrete walls. Its gray ugliness interrupted Chancellor Avenue’s residential gardens of red and white lilies. Ahead the second gate was shut. Isaac was stuck. Was this a ’go-slow’ for a quick bribe, he wondered, or were they looking for people from the Seke Flats protest?
Isaac tucked the protest flyer deeper into his jacket pocket. He coasted behind an old Mercedes sedan stopped at the second gate.
Isaac rubbed his leg, looking for blood on his torn pants leg, which had snagged on the Seke Flats thorn bushes. He checked his eyes in the rear view mirror. He’d only gotten a whiff of tear gas, so his eyes weren’t bloodshot. Even if they found the flyer, they couldn’t prove he’d been one of the rock throwers.
Two cops in the red-and-gray uniforms of the Presidential Guard approached the Mercedes. One, older with a wrinkled neck, carried his gun ready across his chest, and the other, younger and thinner, his gun slung over his shoulder, carried a clipboard. If they were gathering information, he could try to talk his way out of this. If only Brett was here. Brett could talk his way out of anything.
A housewife in a yellow dress and matching headscarf got out of the Mercedes and alternately yelled at the kids in the back seat and shook her finger at the thin cop, scribbling on his clipboard. She wheeled on the other cop, screaming about hungry kids and dinnertime.
The wattleneck cop cracked the butt of his gun against her car’s headlights and Isaac heard glass shards hitting the pavement. The kids’ wailing echoed off the concrete walls. The thin cop motioned her to drive out and signaled another guard to open the front gate.
Isaac clicked on the radio, stretching his fingers to stop their shaking. He’d never been stopped by the cops after a protest before and he wished he wasn’t alone. There was pride and strength in numbers in a protest.
“Your license,” the wattleneck cop demanded as he approached. The thin cop recorded the wagon’s license plates.
Isaac handed over his license and started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the radio, trying to distract them and to pretend he was calm. “Know of any good jazz spots this weekend?”
“These are Mashonaland district plates.” The thin cop looked to be in his mid-twenties like he was. “What are you doing in the city today?”
“I’m getting supplies for my boss. Auto parts, timing belts, stuff.”
“Where were you this afternoon?” The thin cop’s pen pointed at Isaac’s chest.
“In Mbare Market, hunting for auto parts.” Mbare’s stalls back onto Seke Road, but it was the only possible answer. There was no other market out Chancellor Avenue. Isaac shifted, sweat had stuck his shirt to the car’s leather upholstery.
“New or used parts?” Wattleneck scanned the back seat.
“New and some used.” Isaac shrugged. Now they would suspect stolen goods--many goods in Mbare market were probably stolen--and they’d have legal reason to search the wagon. The telephoto lens he’d found for Brett was certainly a stolen item. He distract them, keep them from linking him to the protest. “If I don’t get these parts to the lodge tonight, I’ll get fired. Took me all day to track down a lousy timing belt. What’s up with the shops these days?”
“How would I know what’s with the shops,” the thin cop snapped. “Can anybody verify your whereabouts today?”
“I was just getting auto parts. I’m a lodge mechanic.” Isaac kept his hands still on the wheel.
“Mtonga.” Wattleneck’s chest was a colorful row of insignia. Apparently he’d been in Mugabe’s service a long time. Maybe since the war. “Are you Noah Mtonga’s son?”
“I am. He used to know President Mugabe quite well.” Isaac rested his arm on the car door. This guy was as old as his dad. Maybe they served together sometime during the revolution. Maybe an old friendship would help him out of here. “Do you know him?”
“I heard he took up with some bastard Rhodie farmer in Mashona after the war,” Wattleneck squinted, his eyes almost disappearing. “Cunningham or something.”
“No, you’ve got it all wrong.” This ass had never met his dad if he thought Owen, his dad’s best friend and Brett’s dad, was a Rhodesian. Owen was British born.
“Those whites are not going to have those farms much longer.” The thin cop’s breath smelled of strong mint and burned onions as he bent closer. “After we clean up those traitors from Seke, they’re next. Those protesters are traitors, same as the Rhodies. Was your dad in town today?”
“No.” Isaac raised his palms. He must keep the dads and the farm out of this. He never suspected his father’s old political connections would backfire. Political protests were not the actions of traitors. How could this guy his age see the political mess so differently? “My dad grows tomatoes and onions on a small farm. There’s no Rhodie. My father hates them all.” A tiny lie would distract these two. “I think the guy, the Rhodie, is, um, dead.”
“Get out of the car.” The thin cop jerked the door open.
They’d both been little kids in 1979. Maybe he could calm the guy down if he acted breezy. “Nice evening, isn’t it?” Isaac unzipped his jacket as he leaned against the wagon and the flyer with the MDC opposition party logo fluttered from his pocket.
“Not in town, you say,” the young cop snapped.
Isaac bent to pick up the flyer. “Somebody stuck it under my windshield wiper.”
“Like father, like son,” Wattleneck said. His rifle smacked Isaac’s shoulders.
Isaac fell, his hands flat on the ground. An ache spread like oil spilling down his back, only interrupted by another blow to his head. He tried to focus his eyes. The pain in his collarbone howled, a message to keep still. He wanted to protect his head but he didn’t dare move. Isaac heard safety latches click off.
“Hang on.” Isaac willed his back to straighten. He crouched on his heels and opened his hands skyward. “What if I had-- something for you?”
Wattleneck lifted his gun for another blow, but the thin cop grabbed his partner’s arm. “Names?”
Keeping one hand up high, Isaac dug his cash out of his pocket. He’d never turn in his friends or his family. He waved three hundred Zim dollars. “I swear I don’t know anybody. My dad doesn’t know any white guys.”
Wattleneck snorted and snatched the bills. “This one is stupid like his dad. Give him back his license.”
“If you’re lying to us, we’ll find you. We’ll find all those traitors.” The young cop tossed the license to the pavement.
When Isaac stretched to pick it up, his collarbone crunched. It was surely broken. He scuttled toward the license, keeping his head down.
“Get out of here.” Wattleneck signaled the guard at the front gate. “Don’t come back. Tell your old man not to come back.”
Isaac crawled into the driver’s seat, clicked the ignition and accelerated through the concrete wall corridor and past the second gate. Clinging to the steering wheel, he kept his back from touching the seat. His shoulders seemed to be the worst. If he threw away the Volvo’s license plates, they couldn’t track him as easily. He’d warn the folks tomorrow.
II Bumi Hills Lodge, Zimbabwe, June 25, 1997
Brett captured the moon’s reflection