A Time to Die - Smith Wilbur (книги серии онлайн .TXT) 📗

"You've been seconded to Ballantyne Scouts, Captain."

And Job had smiled that rare wide smile and said, "Let's go, Colonel."

From his file, Sean knew that Job had been born on the Gwai River and attended the local mission school. He had obtained a bursary to the University College of Rhodesia and Nyasaland, from where he had graduated with a first in politics, history, and social anthropology. From there he had gone on with another bursary to Brown College in Chicago and gotten his master's the same year Ian Smith declared unilateral independence.

Only much later, when they had tried and tested their friendship, did Sean learn how Job had herded his father's cattle along the Gwai River and come, even as a child, to know and love the wilds.

Job's father was one of the grandsons of King Lobengula, son of the great Mzilikazi, so Job was a direct descendant of the royal Zulu line, and this was apparent in his carriage and his features. the powerful jaw and deep forehead, the dark, intelligent eyes and domed skull beneath the thick close-cropped curls.

During his studies and his sojourn in America, Job had come to abhor the communist doctrine and all its works, so it was natural that on his return to Africa, he had enlisted in the Rhodesian African Rifles and within a year had earned his commission.

After the war, when the Lancaster House Agreement had given the country over to Robert Mugabe and his people's democracy, Job had sat-and passed with honors--the civil service entrance exam, for government and politics were the high road to power and wealth.

However, he was branded a "sellout" who had fought the war on the wrong side, the losing side, and he was a Matabele when the power was in the hands of the Shana tribe. Every door to advancement was barred against him. Angry and disillusioned, he had come back to Sean.

"Damn it, Job, you are miles too good for any job I could offer you in a safari company."

Tracker, skinner, gun bearer, whatever you have, I'll take it," Job had insisted.

So they had hunted together as they had fought, side by side, and within a year Sean had made him one of the directors of Courtney Safaris. They always referred to these quiet evenings, drinking whisky around the camp fire, as directors" meetings.

It amused Job to adopt various roles for different circumstances.

In front of safari clients he shifted to what he called "plantation nigger mode," when he called Sean Bwana and Nkosi and acted out the charade of the bygone colonial era.

"Don't be a prick, Job. You demean yourself," Sean protested at first.

"It's what the clients expect," Job had reasoned. "We are selling them an illusion, man. They are playing Eagle Scouts and Ernest Hemingway. If they guessed I had a master's in history and politics, it would frighten the hell out of them." Reluctantly, Sean had gone along with the act.

When they were alone, as they were now, Job changed into what he called his "Homo sapiens mode" and became the thoughtful, intelligent, educated man he truly was. As they talked, they switched easily from Sindebele to English, each of them as perfectly at ease and comfortable in the other's language as they were in each other's company.

"Look, Sean, don't worry too much about losing this concession. It hasn't happened yet, and even if it does, we'll find a way around it."

"Give me some comfort. I could do with it."

"We could apply for another concession, somewhere in Matabeleland where my family still has pull. Down Matetsi way or even on the Gwai River. That's my home turf."

"No good." Sean shook his head. "After this fiasco I'll have the mark of the beast on me."

"We "could apply in my name," Job suggested. He grinned wickedly.

"I'd make you one of my directors and you can call me Bwana!"

They laughed together, their mood lightening, and when Sean left Job at his fire and walked back to the main camp in the darkness, he felt cheerful and optimistic for the first time in days.

Job had the power to effect that transformation in him.

As he approached his own tent, something pale moved in the moon shadow beneath the trees and he stopped abruptly. Then he heard the tinkle of silver jewelry and realized she must have been waiting for him.

"May I speak with you?" Claudia said softly.

"Go ahead," he invited. Why did that Americanism "speak with," rather than "speak to," irritate him so, he wondered.

"I'm not very good at this," she admitted. He gave her no encouragement. "I wanted to apologize."

"You're apologizing to the wrong person. I've still got both my legs."

She flinched, and her voice trembled. "You're without mercy, aren't you?" Then she lifted her chin. "All right, I guess I deserved that. I've been an idiot. I thought I knew it all, but it turns out I knew very little, and in my ignorance I've done immense damage.

I know it doesn't help much, but I'm desperately sorry."

"You and I are from different worlds. We have not a single thought or feeling in common. We could never hope to understand each other, let alone be friends, but I do know what it took for you to say that."

"A truce, then?" she asked.

"All right, a truce." He held out his hand and she took it. Her skin was smooth as a rose petal, her hand slim and cool, but her grip was firm as a man's.