Tarzan and Jane. He smiled. Im her Tarzan.
I finally agreed to let him call himself Greystoke, Jane said. Everyone found Greystoke too hard to pronounce, however, so now he has to be content with the name Grey.
A truck honked outside the tent. They stepped quickly out. Reddish dust, kicked up by the tires, swirled in the air. On the bed of the truck lay seven wounded men. Theyd been shot in a village farther west when a firefight broke out over a well.
Surgery took up the rest of the day. One of the men died. At one point, Grey stopped Penelope and held out a water bottle to her. Penelope shook her head, but he smiled calmly and said, You have time to drink. She thanked him, drank the water, then helped him lift one of the wounded men onto a cot.
That evening, Penelope and Jane sat on the veranda of one of the living quarters of the barracks. The day had exhausted them. Theyd eaten a late dinner. It was still fairly hot. They chatted and watched the road between the houses and the tents, watched the people going about the last chores of the day before nightfall.
Deep night brought an uneasy quiet. At first, Penelope could hear people going to bed: the rustling near the latrines and the small, almost silent movements in the darkness. Soon everything was totally quiet. Not even the sound of a crying baby.
Everyone is still afraid that the Janjaweed will pass through here, Jane said as she collected the plates.
They went inside, locked the door, and barricaded it. They said good night, and Penelope headed to the guest room farthest down the hallway.
Two hours later, she woke with a jerk. Shed fallen asleep, fully dressed, on the guest bed. She lay still, listening to the powerful night, not remembering what had awakened her. Her heart had begun to calm when she suddenly heard a scream outside. Penelope stood to one side of the barred window to look out into the night. The moon shone down over the road. She could hear angry voices. Three teenage boys walked in the middle of the street; without a doubt, they belonged to the Janjaweed militia. One had a pistol. Penelope grasped that theyd been yelling about killing slaves, about an old African man who usually grilled sweet potatoes and sold them for two dinars apiece while sitting on his blanket outside the UN storehouse.
The boys had gone up to the old man and spat in his face. Then the thin boy had raised his pistol and shot the old man in the face. The bang had reverberated eerily between the buildings. Thats what had jarred Penelope from her sleep. The boys had yelled, grabbed up some sweet potatoes, and eaten them while they kicked the rest into the dust beside the dead man.
They kept sauntering along the road, looking around. Then they headed for the barracks where Penelope and Jane lived. Penelope held her breath as she listened to them thump around the veranda, yelling excitedly as they banged on the door.
Penelope gasps for breath and opens her eyes. She must have fallen asleep on Ossian Wallenbergs sofa.
Thunder rumbles in the background. The skies have turned dark.
Bjorn is standing at the window. Ossian is sipping his whiskey.
Penelope looks at the phone-no one has called.
The maritime police should have been here by now.
The claps of thunder are approaching. The ceiling light goes out and the fan in the kitchen stops. The power is out. The patter of rain starts gently on the roof and shutters, then increases until it seems the skies simply burst open and let the rain pour down.
All cell-phone coverage disappears.
Lightning flashes and lights the room for a second. A crash of thunder follows it.
Penelope leans back to listen to the rain. She feels the cooler air streaming inside through the windows and starts to doze off again when she hears Bjorn say something.
What? she asks.
A police boat, he repeats. I see a police boat.
Penelope quickly leaps up and looks out. The seawater seems to boil from the massive downpour. The large, official-looking launch is already close and heading for the dock. Penelope glances at the phone. No reception yet.
Hurry up, Bjorn says.
He tries to force the key in the lock of the French door. His hands are shaking. The police launch glides in next to the dock and blares a warning note.
It doesnt work, Bjorn says. This is the wrong key.
Oh, dear, oh, dear, Ossian smirks. He takes out his key chain. Why dont you try this one instead.
Bjorn fumbles with the door key, gets it into the lock, turns it, and hears the tumblers click open.
Its hard to see the police launch through the rain. It has already started to move away from the dock when Bjorn manages to open the door.
Bjorn! Penelope yells.
They can hear the motor thud and white water churns up behind the launch. Bjorn waves wildly and runs through the rain as fast as he can down the gravel pathway to the dock.
Up here! he yells. Were over here!
Bjorn doesnt even notice how drenched hes getting as he races down onto the dock. There is an underwater thud as the launch reverses its engines. Bjorn can barely make out the figure of a police officer in the wheelhouse. A new flash of lightning brightens the sky. It looks like the police officer is talking into his sea-to-shore radio. Rain pounds down on the roof of the launch and waves beat against the beach. Bjorn waves both arms. The launch turns back and bumps gently leeward-side against the dock.