“Where are we going?” he asked in a surly tone.
“Livingstone General Hospital,” she said, stifling the urge to ask what was wrong. “I bet the nursing school is still open.”
On the drive into town, Zoe stared out the window at the bush, its scrub-like blanket a stark contrast to the cerulean sky. She waited for Joseph’s mood to improve, but he just gazed out the windshield, lost in his own world. When they reached the city limits, he turned right on Mosi-oa-Tunya Road and headed toward downtown.
“I think we turn here,” she said, remembering the road from the map she had studied.
He tossed her a glance. “I was under the impression you wanted me to drive.” She studied his face and saw with great relief that the storm clouds had passed.
“You’re cheering up, thank God.”
He didn’t respond, but the corners of his mouth turned upward.
A few minutes later, they parked in the hospital lot. At once antiquated and austere, Livingstone General had the look of a nineteenth-century sanitarium transplanted in African soil. Its bricks were the color of riverine clay, and its louvered windows, darkened by dust, were open to admit fresh air.
They went to the reception desk and greeted an officious-looking matron. When they asked for the registrar of the nursing school, the woman shook her head.
“Her office close seventeen hundred.”
Joseph repeated the question, noting that they had ten minutes left before five o’clock. Reluctantly, the woman directed them toward a hall on the far side of the lobby. Skirting a filing cabinet brimming with paperwork, they entered the admissions office of the nursing school. Behind a wooden desk sat a heavyset Zambian woman clad in a pantsuit that clung a little too tightly to her frame. The woman shook their hands.
“I am Kombe,” she said in accented English. “I am Dean of Admissions.”
Joseph made the introductions and then deferred to Zoe, who gave the woman a sanitized version of their interest in Bella—Charity Mizinga.
“We believe she was a student here sometime before 2004,” Zoe said.
The dean typed on her keyboard. “All students enrolled after 2001 are on our computer system. She is not listed.”
“What about students admitted before 2001?” Joseph asked.
“We have a paper registry,” the dean replied. She disappeared through another door and returned a minute later with a dust-coated book. She dropped the book on her desk and waved away the particles that flew up. “It is organized by year and surname. If you start at the back, you’ll see the roll for 2000, 1999, 1998—you understand.”
“What we’re really looking for is information about her family,” Zoe said. “Is there anyone who might remember her? A professor or a doctor, perhaps?”
The dean ushered them to the door. “Dr. Mumbi has been here more than twenty years. I don’t know if he is on rotation today.” She pointed. “There are chairs down the hall that you can use. Leave the registry with the receptionist. If you have additional questions, I will be in the office tomorrow.”
They took seats on folding chairs, and Joseph cracked the musty book. It wasn’t long before they found Charity’s name in the 1995 term. An asterisk had been placed beside her name, together with a date: April 15, 1996. Returning to the front of the book, Joseph found an explanation for the asterisk. It referred to a student who left the program before the conclusion of the term. He flipped to the 1994 term, and they found Charity’s name again.
He furrowed his brow. “She dropped out in her second year.”
“Something serious must have happened,” she said.
He nodded. “Let’s find Dr. Mumbi.”
They returned to the lobby and waited for the receptionist to finish a phone conversation.
The woman arched her eyebrows, staring at the registry in Joseph’s hands. “You back?”
“Inga ndayanda kwambaula chitonga. Ino yebo?” he said. “I prefer to speak Tonga. Don’t you?”
Hearing her native language, the receptionist’s face transformed.
They chatted briefly and then Joseph turned to Zoe. “Dr. Mumbi is here today. He usually walks the wards, but he just stepped outside to take a call. He hasn’t come back yet.”
While Joseph thanked the receptionist, Zoe walked out the door and saw a man in a white lab coat talking on his mobile phone. He was wiry and bespectacled with a shock of white hair. When he ended the call, he moved toward the entrance, lost in thought.
“Dr. Mumbi?” Zoe said.
The man looked startled. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
Zoe introduced herself and Joseph who had just joined her. “We’re looking for the family of a girl who studied nursing here in 1996. We understand you’ve been here twenty years.”
“1996 is a long time ago,” the doctor replied. “What’s the name of the student?”