“It is going to be cold in America in February, David. You must take a jersey and your winter coat.”
“Yes, Mother,” Kubu replied. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Ten million people live in New York, and they survive.”
“But I am sure they have good coats. And wear gloves too. Do you have any gloves?”
“The only gloves I have are gardening gloves, Mother. And I’m sure that they wouldn’t be acceptable at an Interpol meeting. I’ll buy some at the airport.”
“And what about a hat? Everyone in the TV shows wears a hat in winter, or one of those ugly knitted things that they pull down over their ears.”
“I think they call them stocking hats, Mother. Maybe they’re made from old socks.”
“And don’t forget to take some boots, in case it snows. You could ruin your shoes if you have to walk in the snow. It can be very wet, I am told.”
Kubu wondered who had told his mother about snow. And how did she know what people wore in winter in the United States? She didn’t have a television. He shook his head. Mothers were amazing—they knew everything.
“Yes, Mother. I agree! I must be prepared for cold weather. I’ll pack properly.”
“What time do you leave this afternoon?”
“I catch the five o’clock Air Botswana flight to Johannesburg, then a nonstop flight to New York on South African Airways.”
“Is South African Airways safe? I have heard that they have been having a lot of crashes since the government fired all the white pilots.”
Kubu walked over to his mother and put his arm around her. The unexpected display of affection startled her.
“Mother, South African Airways is as safe as any airline in the world. And they haven’t fired any white pilots. They’re just training more black pilots, just like here in Botswana. Please don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure your coat is heavy enough?”
“Yes, Mother. I’m sure. Please would you go and make me a cup of tea.”
“You must have a big meal, too. You have been eating too little recently, and my friends say that the food on airplanes is not good, and there is very little of it. I will make you something filling.”
“Please, Mother. I’ll be fine. Just a cup of tea, please.”
* * *
AS AMANTLE SHUFFLED into the kitchen, Kubu walked onto the veranda and gazed at the garden of succulents. He didn’t want to go to the Interpol meeting and was angry at Mabaku for sending him. He gritted his teeth. I’m no use ten thousand kilometers away, in freezing weather, talking about something I know nothing about.
He walked down the steps onto the gravel path that wound through the garden. He kicked at the stones, disturbing a bird from a pawpaw skin that Joy must have put out. In Kubu’s opinion, because of its strange assortment of colors, the bird could have been designed by a committee of detectives from the CID—each having a say but none having a plan. But what sort of bird it was, he had no idea, only that its prolonged trill had awakened him that morning far earlier than he’d planned.
As he wandered around the garden, he thought about all the cases. There appeared to be little or no progress with the investigation into his father’s murder. And he could not come up with any reason at all why someone would steal his father’s will. What was in it that had attracted such violence? Neither he nor his mother could imagine any scenario that made sense.
And he was no further along with the murder of Kunene—he was sure it was a murder. And what about Newsom? He was involved with Kunene in some way and perhaps attacked by the same person. And maybe his father was also killed by the same man. He could make no sense of it.
Kubu stopped. Perhaps there was a silver lining to the unwanted American trip. He could try to contact Newsom. Maybe the person who answered the phone would pass on a message if Kubu was actually in the country. A long shot, perhaps, but worth a try.
This new possibility lifted Kubu’s spirits a little, and he headed inside for his cup of tea. He might even manage a biscuit, if his mother offered him one.
* * *
AFTER THE LAID-BACK security at the Sir Seretse Khama Airport in Gaborone, Kubu was not prepared for the rigorous screening in Johannesburg. He was taken aback when the alarm sounded as he walked through the metal detector.
“Please go back and take your belt off, sir. Then step through again.”
“But it didn’t go off in Gaborone!” Kubu exclaimed.
The security agent shrugged. “Please go back, sir, and take off your belt.”
Kubu complied, holding his pants to prevent them slipping down, but the alarm went off again.
Kubu began to feel both embarrassed and irritated.
“Are you sure you don’t have cash or a cell phone or something else made of metal in your pockets, sir?”
It took Kubu some time to check his pockets as he could only use one hand at a time.
“I’m sure there’s nothing. I put my phone and my camera in the tray. And my cash.”
“Walk through again.”
Again Kubu went through the detector. Again, the alarm sounded. Kubu heard a groan from the line of people behind him.
The security guard pointed to a spot away from the X-ray machine. “Please stand over there. Face me and put both hands out to the side.”
Now Kubu was acutely embarrassed. “Please can I put my belt back on?”
“When I’ve patted you down.”
Kubu spread his legs as wide as possible to prevent his pants from slipping all the way to the floor. The security agent ran his hands over Kubu’s arms and chest but couldn’t reach his back, so he had to go behind Kubu to check. Kubu nearly jumped when two hands gripped the top of his thigh, slid down toward his knee, and finished at his ankle. He grimaced as the same procedure was repeated on the other leg.
“Must be your shoes,” the agent snapped. “Take them off and put them on a tray.”
“I’m sorry,” Kubu said to the woman still waiting to go through the metal detector. “I haven’t been through security here before. It’s not like this in Botswana.”
He put his shoes on a tray and pushed it through the X-ray machine. Then he stepped through the metal detector once again, holding his breath. This time the alarm did not go off.
“It’s your shoes. Where are you going?”
“To New York.”
“You’ll have to take them off before you go through security there. They’re much tougher than we are.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kubu said as he threaded his belt through the loops. He couldn’t imagine anything more intrusive than what he’d just been through. “Thank you for the advice.”
By the time Kubu had put himself together, gathered his belongings, and negotiated customs and immigration, he was completely frazzled. He ignored the glitzy duty-free shops and went in search of a bar. There was still over an hour before boarding, and after his ordeal at security, he needed a glass or two of wine.