immigration post. Only one more border post to go, and it should be the easiest of all.
When she steps onto the bridge she gasps aloud at the sudden sight of gargantuan Victoria Falls. The majestic curtain of water to her right, the source of that towering plume that is not smoke, tumbles over a four-hundred-foot cliff into a gorge that curves sharply before passing beneath this bridge. Amid the whitewater below she can see little inflatable blue-and-yellow rafts: tourists rafting the mighty Zambezi. They look like children's toys. More tourists, all white, some looking distinctly pale and nervous, cluster around the bungee-jumping booth midway across the bridge. Veronica half-smiles as she passes. After her last few weeks, bungee jumping seems about as nervewracking as a stroll through a flower garden. She wonders whether she's grown tough or just numb.
There is another lineup to enter Zimbabwe. Veronica is taken aback; she thought this was a pariah state. From the voices and accents most of these would-be adventure tourists are are British, Australian and South African, with a sprinkling of Europeans. Two immigration officers are on duty. To Veronica's relief one is a woman. Yesterday's email from their only hope, their still-nameless contact in Zimbabwe, told them to go to the woman on duty.
They have to fill out forms before presenting their passports. Jacob's hands are now shaking from tension, it takes him three attempts to legibly complete a form, and this makes Veronica nervous too, surely this is exactly the kind of thing they look for, Jacob's face looks pinched and he is sweating heavily, he might as well be wearing a SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER T-shirt - but no one seems to notice. The woman takes Veronica's passport and thirty dollars cash, reads her name, hesitates a moment, then gives her a knowing look through the glass. Veronica doesn't move. The woman smiles slightly, smooths a very modern visa sticker onto one of the passport's last virgin pages, stamps it, hands it back, and waves her on. Jacob rejoins her as they walk into Zimbabwe.
"We made it," she says giddily.
He does not share her euphoria. "We have forty dollars cash left, and we can't use cards. If our man with no name doesn't show, we're finished."
* * *
According to the email, they are meant to meet him outside the nearest Total gas station. A long road winds from the bridge up towards the town of Victoria Falls, past empty fields of dry bushes and grass. They pass little gaggles of white tourists, and a few men selling yoghurt drinks, before they reach a remarkably modern strip mall that boasts a tourist information office, souvenir shops, and the green-and-blue logo of Standard Chartered Bank. A massive and apparently brand-new hotel/casino complex built to First World standards is just opposite. Veronica is amazed: isn't Zimbabwe supposed to be a wretched, dangerous place?
"There," Jacob says, pointing at a red sign. "Total." He pronounces it the French way, stressing the second syllable.
She looks. Like all gas stations, Total has a big board which displays its prices. But this station's board says
PETROL NO
DIESEL NO
PARAFFIN NO
No one is waiting for them outside. The little shop within the station is named La Boutique: its windows are cracked and the door hangs open as if broken. When they enter, the attendant, a young man reading some kind of photocopied book, stares at them as if customers are an unheard-of innovation. The shelves are covered with dusty containers of motor oil and spark plugs, and there are two large Coca-Cola fridges, both empty.
"No Coke?" Jacob asks, disappointed.
"No."
"Do you know where I can get some?"
The young man shakes his head. "No Coke anywhere."
They retreat from this empty shell that was once a gas station. Veronica is more shocked by the absence of Coca-Cola than that of gasoline. She stops between the gas pumps, which are actually rusting from lack of use, digs into her cargo pants and produces her last pack of Marlboro Lights.
"What the hell," she says to Jacob's questioning look, "how often do you get to smoke in a gas station, right?"
He shrugs and takes a cigarette. She looks around. The elaborate casino complex is almost entirely deserted, weeds are growing in its lawns. Two of the souvenir shops are closed. There are no vehicles moving on the street.
A small boy approaches from across the street and asks, "Change money?"
They shake their heads in unison.
The boy looks around furtively, then whispers, loudly, "Are you Jacob and Veronica?"
They stare at him.