2 Game Drive by Marie Moore

because I had watched him lift Wendy and Tilda’s heavy suitcases with ease, as if they weighed nothing. He had short, curly dark hair and eyes with long lashes, classic Roman features, and a clever, sarcastic wit. He spoke very good English, but with a heavy Italian accent. He wore his European-cut clothing with that cool nonchalance that Jay constantly dreamed of attaining.
    Fernando had a deep tan, as if he spent a lot of time working outdoors. That seemed kind of strange for an airline rep, but he told us he rode a bicycle to and from work every day, so maybe that explained it.
    He was very amusing, particularly when recounting his description of his ferry ride over to Robben Island. He had become separated from our group, and had ridden over on the ferry sandwiched in with the members of a holiday group of South Africans in native dress from the Limpopo River region. They had apparently mistaken handsome Fernando for some soccer star, a misidentification that he relished and did not correct until the photo requests overwhelmed him.
    “I confessed then that I was not who they thought I was, but it was no use. They were convinced that they were correct and that I was just lying. I thought I would never escape. That’s why it took me so long to find you and rejoin the tour.”
    “People think I am a celebrity, too,” said Jay. “Happens all the time.”
    Please .
    I tried to meet his eyes, but he wouldn’t look my way.
    “Where is the Limpopo River, y’all?” Connie asked. “I swear I heard that name somewhere before. I don’t know where. Limpopo. I like how it sounds. Lim-po-po.”
    “Think of Kipling, tesore ,” Fernando said. “Remember, ‘ The Elephant ’ s Child ’? When his insatiable curiosity took him to ‘the dark, grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees ...’ ”
    “Nah,” Connie said. “I never saw it. Must not have made it to the Metroplex. Maybe it’ll be on TV.”
    “Maybe,” Fernando said, breaking into an easy smile.
    * * *
    After dinner, I strolled back along the Waterfront from the restaurant to the hotel with Fernando and George. The reflection of lights glimmered on the water. Commercial fishing boats and private yachts tied up along the piers creaked and rocked against their moorings on the outgoing tide. Strains of music mingled with conversation and laughter as people lingered over drinks and coffee in the candlelit, open-air cafés lining the pier.
    Fernando, George, and I were calling it a night. Jay, Chase, Rich, and Connie had all declared that the evening was far from over. They announced that they were heading out to check out the clubs. Jay said I was a party pooper.
    “Bye, y’all,” Connie yelled from the cab window as they rolled away, “LIM-PO-PO!”
    “I hope they get back okay,” I said, as we watched them drive out of the bright lights of the Waterfront. The cab zoomed up a dark street, bound for the fabled Drum Café.
    “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you,” said George. “This isn’t Jo’burg. They should be safe enough.”
    “Did you hear the guards on Robben Island today talking about all the diamond smuggling, kidnappings, poaching, and drug trade in Johannesburg and at the border of Zimbabwe?” I asked. “I wanted to ask more about it, but David was rushing us along. Aren’t we going to Johannesburg tomorrow?”
    “Yes,” George answered, “but only to change planes. We will never leave the airport.”
    “But when we are in safari camp, near Kruger, Sidney,” Fernando said, “we won’t be too far from the borders of Mozambique and Zimbabwe. The northern border of Kruger really does lie along that ‘great, grey-green, greasy Limpopo River.’ Cross the river to the north, and you’re in Zimbabwe. A few miles to the east, and it’s Mozambique. So it’s probably best not to ask too many questions. Be careful not to be too curious about such things, mia dolce , or like The Elephant’s Child, you, too, just