She dialed a second number and listened to the ring. Come on, Godfrey, pick up. But there was no answer. She left a voicemail—the third in as many days—and sent him a text message, asking for Cynthia’s phone number. Then she ran a Google search for Nkana Mine. She called the main number and learned that the personnel manager was not in the office. She left a recording, requesting contact information for Mwela Chansa, Cynthia’s husband.
Unable to sit still, she went for a swim. She did ten laps at a leisurely pace, allowing her brain to rest. When she finished, she treaded water in the deep end. It was then that the thought came to her. She had forgotten something—something critical. She pulled herself out of the pool and dried her hands on her towel. Picking up her iPhone, she conducted another Google search and called the number for Livingstone General Hospital.
“Is Dr. Mumbi doing rounds today?” she asked the receptionist.
“He on the ward,” the woman said curtly. “You talk to me, please.”
“It’s urgent that I reach him today. Can you give me his mobile number?”
“Not possible.”
“I spoke with him recently about a child I’m trying to help,” Zoe protested, wishing she could hand the phone to Joseph to converse in Tonga. “Can you at least give him a message?”
There was silence on the line. Zoe heard the woman put the phone down and engage in a muffled conversation. Soon, her voice returned with a crackle of static.
“Tell name and number. I pass along.”
She recited the information and hung up, at once berating her forgetfulness and blessing the cold water for helping her to remember. His name was on almost every page of Bella’s journal—Jan. Like the narrator in a nineteenth century novel, his presence lurked behind every thought Bella had written. The whole sordid story of her exploitation had been written to him.
Minutes later, her phone rang. “Hello?” she said.
“Ms. Fleming?” replied a polished African voice.
Dr. Mumbi! “Yes, doctor, thank you so much for calling me back.”
“Pleasure. You are looking for information about a child?”
“No, I’m helping one. I need to know if a doctor named Jan worked at the hospital in 1996, when Charity Mizinga was a student.”
“Yes, Dr. Jan Kruger. He was with us for two years doing a study on HIV and childhood illness. He’s now one of the leading authorities on AIDS in Africa.”
Zoe’s heart raced with the thrill of discovery. “Would Dr. Kruger have known Charity?”
“Of course. She was one of his assistants in the study.”
My God, Zoe thought. “Where is he now?”
Dr. Mumbi took a breath. “After he left us, he went to the University of Cape Town. He was involved in the Khayelitsha study.”
“You mean with Médecins Sans Frontières?” she asked, remembering an article she had read about MSF’s pioneering research into ARV distribution in Cape Town’s largest slum.
“Correct. I believe he is still at the university.”
“Is he South African?”
“He is from Zimbabwe. But I believe he has family near Cape Town.”
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how helpful this is.”
The doctor paused. “Did you ever find Charity’s family?”
“Yes,” she replied, avoiding the trap of a more complex response.
“I’m glad. If you talk to Dr. Kruger, please give him my best.”
Zoe thanked him and hung up. She tapped in a query for HIV research at the University of Cape Town and placed a call to the Desmond Tutu HIV Centre.
“Dr. Kruger, yes,” said the woman who answered the phone, her voice carrying the brogue-like notes of Afrikaans. “He is on the faculty of the Institute for Infectious Disease and Molecular Medicine. But he is currently participating in a multi-national study on HIV/AIDS at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg.”
“Is there a way I can reach him? It’s very important.”
The woman put her on hold and came back a minute later. “Dr. Johannè Luyt is the director of HIV research at Wits. I’m sure she can put you in touch with Dr. Kruger.”
Zoe walked around the pool, wrestling with how to approach Dr. Luyt. From what Dr. Mumbi had said, Jan Kruger was an epidemiologist of renown. And Bella’s journal was a catalogue of horrors. Their connection was forged fifteen years ago, when she was still Charity Mizinga, a promising nursing student. The fact of her degradation and death wasn’t the kind of thing to spring on him without warning. Or was it?
She heard her phone ringing again. She rounded the corner of the pool and lifted it off the chair. She smiled when she saw Joseph’s name on the screen.
“Thanks for calling me back,” she said. “Where are you?”
“The Lusaka Golf Club,” he replied.
She heard voices in the background. “This isn’t a good time, is it?”
“Not really. What are you doing for dinner?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“I would say let’s meet at Arcades, but nothing will be open on Election Day.”
“You could come over here,” she said, feeling a little flutter in her stomach.
“You mean to your flat?”
“Yes. As you know, I’m a good cook.”
He hesitated. “What time?”
Her smile broadened. “How about eighteen hundred?”