sky, but dissipate as noon approaches. The cart bumps and wobbles uncomfortably, and the planks they sit on are old and splintering. The sun is intense. Veronica wishes they had some sunscreen, especially for Jacob, his skin is very pale and he's already in rough shape, victim of concussion and exhaustion. Their driver, whose name they do not know, does not speak, seems almost to be in a trance. Veronica tries to follow his example.
Out of nowhere Lovemore says, contemplatively, "My father was born near here."
Veronica looks at him. He does not seem particularly inclined to add to the statement, so she asks, "But not you?"
"No. I grew up in the east, the Vumba, the highlands near Mozambique. The country is different there, very green. My father went east to work in the mines, and met my mother there."
"Where are they now?"
"Dead," he says. "My father in the civil war, he fought for Mugabe, he was a true war vet. My mother of sickness, last year."
Veronica doesn't ask which sickness. "I'm sorry."
He shrugs. "We all die. They had good lives."
"So you grew up out east?"
He hesitates. "When I was twelve I came to Bulawayo to live with an uncle. Then to Harare for university. I met Lysander there. After university I went back to the Vumba. I worked at a tourist lodge there. Then the crisis began, and there were no more tourists, no more work anywhere. I left the country. Many of us have, hundreds of thousands. Most to South Africa. I went to Botswana." Lovemore smiles wistfully, the first flicker of real emotion Veronica has seen on his face. "Into the desert, the Kalahari. I lived with the Bushmen there, the San, for two years. I learned from them how to hunt, how to live off the land. I wanted to become a licensed guide, to make money from tourists. Rich tourists leave big tips in hard currency, they give you gifts, they invite you back to their homes in Britain and America. And you are outside, in the bush, among the animals, doing the things I love. Guiding is the best job a man can have, for me. But they do not like Zimbabwe men in Botswana. Not at all. There were problems. There was a woman."
"There always is," Jacob interjects, smiling.
"There was terrible trouble." Lovemore reaches up unconsciously and touches the scar on his cheek. "Two men died. I was nearly killed. I cannot go back to Botswana. I had to return to my country. I was lucky I found Lysander. In Zimbabwe today, even someone like me, a university graduate, must have a second job, a hard-currency job, or a relative who sends forex from abroad, only to survive. You have seen."
Veronica nods. "We have seen."
Their conversation lapses. Veronica tries to picture what Zimbabwe was like ten years ago, when it was one of the most advanced countries in Africa, full of hope for the future. It's difficult to imagine.
The sun is directly overhead when she sees power lines about a mile away. A road; and a chance that soldiers will be there waiting for them. Not much they can do if so. Veronica hopes their long detour has taken them away from the army's search zone.
There is a single building where the dirt trail, deeply furrowed with many cart tracks, meets the paved one-lane road. There are no soldiers in sight. In fact there is nothing else in sight; no other buildings or vehicles, no people. It reminds Veronica a little of Hopper's famous Mobilgas painting.
The building is a combination general store, post office, and taxi shelter. It has a neon sign in its window, and just inside its door there stands a gleaming fridge adorned with the Coca-Cola logo. The fridge holds plenty of Fanta but no Coke. No one is inside but the store's proprietor, a paunchy man sitting on a stool behind his modern cash register. He looks suspiciously at Lovemore, Jacob and Veronica as they enter. Bright posters advertising Peter Stuyvesant and Madison cigarettes hang on the walls, as does, surreally, a surfing poster from South Africa. A paper sign taped above an empty desk indicates that the post office is open Mondays and Fridays. The shelves are barren in patches, but still sell a wide assortment of crisps, chocolates, toiletries, canned foods, bread and sacks of rice and cornmeal.
The man behind the counter frowns at Lovemore's offer of US dollars. Eventually he agrees to exchange Zim dollars, but only