Three Metal Pellets

1 The Invitation and Chapungu Sculpture Park It was time for Priscilla to become the woman she was meant to be. Only a month after Priscilla returned to Columbus from the press conference in West Germany, she found that the services of her home-based business, P. J. Austin and Associates, Incorporated, were suddenly in high demand. But she was not interested in any of the requests. She had assumed, correctly, that most of the prospective clients had only wanted to play off her notoriety. And even before her time in Africa, around the time of the Ohio premier of the documentary Mandela, she had begun conducting business that carried substance, business that was “earthy,” not superficial. So in her upscale West Third Street PR home-office in Victorian Village, she waited and waited and waited for something “earthy” to come across her desk. Then, one day in early fall, about a year after her return from Africa, she received a handwritten note that read: “Interested in spearheading the marketing campaign for the next president?” The note had been signed by someone named Fleetwood Marshall Hollingsworth. The correspondence also contained an invitation to a retreat and a private reception at the Choctaw Ridge Resort in Birmingham, Alabama. Since she could not decide whether to accept or turn down the Hollingsworth invitation, she called her friend Julia, and the two friends talked over brunch at a restaurant downtown. “Well, Girlfriend,” Julia said, “it seems to me that you’ve finally gotten the project you’ve been longing for.” “Yeah, well, usually those guys stick with someone they already have ties with. Then again, they just might still be fishing. Anyway, I was also wondering about something else.” “Oh, please, I can tell you’re interested ’cause you’re talking to me about it,” Julia said. “So, what’s holding you back?” “Truthfully? I’m overwhelmed with work in Africa, and an exploratory presidential elections campaign is intense, all con—” “Priscilla, who said you can’t do both?” Julia interrupted. “Besides, don’t forget: you’re PJ Austin!” “Yeah, well, Carlton wants me to give him a good two weeks per visit with the foundation; that’s three months a year—too much time away from a presidential elections campaign.” Julia retorted, as if she were relishing the moment, “Not really; remember, you’d be commanding a workforce that’ll implement the marketing plan, unless you’re going to be one of those micromanagers.” She chuckled. “Whatever. But first I need to find out if this Hollingsworth fellow is legit. Up for a trip to Birmingham?” “Birmingham? What’s in that neck of the woods?” “‘The next president’, Girlfriend, the next American president.” Harare, Zimbabwe Before flying down to Birmingham, Priscilla took a flight to Zimbabwe and spent two weeks there, meeting with Carlton Elliott Bernhardt, chairman of the board of the Bernhardt Foundation’s Boarding Schools for Zimbabwean and South African Girls, and some of the new board members. A few months after her first time in Africa—following her abduction and encounters with the South Africa Nationalist Movement’s Patrol Guard—Carlton had convinced her to serve as the chief executive officer. So she spent several weeks after that screening candidates for the roles of executive directors, finance directors, chief operating officers, and headmasters and headmistresses. She also noticed that more and more youngsters were qualifying for admission to the boarding schools; indeed, attending them soon became the rage. So this first year was essential to establishing the foundation’s work, hence the three months she had mentioned in her conversation with Julia. As her airliner began its descent, Priscilla looked out of her window and spotted the unfinished, timeworn airport below. Situated in an open expanse south of the capital, the runway was poorly paved and deficient in comparison to runways in more developed nations. In fact, the Harare International Airport sat in the middle of what might easily have been construed as an incomplete construction zone. Heavy machinery, including Caterpillars, sat idle amid mounds of dirt and gravel. And the terminal itself was a small, dull gray split-level concrete-and-stucco structure. The tallest feature, the control tower, barely reached three stories above the main level—a far cry from the control towers at JFK and SEATAC. Travelers to Zimbabwe like Priscilla J. Austin figured that someone did not think enough about the image of the country to even fix up its airport. What a sad introduction to this place, she thought. She looked back in her lap, and fastened her seatbelt. As the plane roared and the city rushed by her, she turned, looked out of her window, and spotted, far away and just above a canopy of trees, the marble ramparts of the Anglican Cathedral. Why on earth am I back here? Third time in a year! Then she remembered a recent meeting with her psychiatrist, when he had said, “One way to overcome fear or trauma is to confront it head-on.” Okay, I’m good with that. But just then, after the plane had landed and the doors to the aircraft had opened, the heat of the Zimbabwean winter gushed through the cabin of the aircraft. It reminded her of the downside of her trip. This time of the year, it was dry and hot, and 90 degrees Fahrenheit! Priscilla and the other passengers stepped off the aircraft into the heat: there was no shelter to protect them from the elements. Beads of sweat quickly formed on their foreheads as they stepped down the staircase on to the tarmac, where, at once, pandemonium brushed up against them. Many of the passengers pushed and shoved one another beneath the belly of the fuselage as they struggled to identify their belongings to the baggage handlers: there was no carousel inside the terminal. After Priscilla’s first visit there, she had purchased a small moss-green canvas satchel and spray painted a big letter A for “Austin” on its rear. It did not take her a second time to figure out how to maneuver that scene successfully or to learn that expensive leather luggage would not survive the baggage claim experience. She pointed out her canvas satchel to one of the baggage handlers. He handed it to her, and she slipped him a U.S. fiver. Then she latched her canvas satchel across her shoulders and commenced a casual stroll through the arrival gate along a narrow corridor just past the waiting room, then inside to a makeshift customs venue. All clear. She resumed her stride. As she strolled into the crowded main space of the terminal, she saw several flight attendants behind three British Airways counters frantically attending to anxious travelers. Priscilla had just disembarked a British Airways flight. There was similar disarray at the nearby South African Airways counters—the primary airline emanating from this part of the continent. But what may have appeared to have been pandemonium among the travelers was, in fact, the norm for airline travelers in Zimbabwe. There were no orderly queues or roped off sections leading travelers to and from certain counters, rather an open space in which everyone fended for themselves. Otherwise, the only amenity occupying travelers’ attention was a scantily stocked gift shop, not even a big-screen television—all reflective of the country’s fledging economy. Priscilla took out a wet wipe that she had kept from her flight, opened the packet and patted some of the moisture from her forehead and cheeks. Ah, she felt refreshed. As she watched the hectic scene inside the main terminal, she felt someone or something pulling at her canvas satchel. So she turned around to see who or what it was. A tall, handsome man with a Mediterranean complexion and long, wavy, black hair pulled back into a ponytail—her own Charles Boyer—Carlton Elliott Bernhardt wore a smirk on his face as he held onto a strap on her canvas satchel. “Say, young lady, how ’bout I give you a hand with your bags?” “Oh, Carlton,” Priscilla smiled approvingly. “It’s so good to see you.” During the previous two times she had traveled to Harare, her contact with him had been purely professional: he had approached her from a distance and had hugged her in a “professional” way. But this time, he hugged her closer than ever before, rubbing her shoulders and arms, and kept the embrace for the longest time. And also to her surprise, she returned his long embrace and even rubbed his arms, his shoulders too high for her. She at last seemed willing to yield to his affection. “Say, Miss Prissy,” he whispered in her ear. “Up for a short safari?” “Gee, love, what’s come over you?” she whispered back. “I thought you wanted to get right down to business.” Carlton noticed she had referred to him in an affectionate way. Even though they had worked together over the past several months, they had not resumed their earlier romance. But Carlton did not want to rush Priscilla, so as soon as they arrived at his Land Rover parked in front of the terminal, he handed her canvas satchel to the driver. He and Priscilla got inside the vehicle. Then they drove away. “Today I’m going to show you some of the wonderful sights of this gorgeous country, starting with the Chapungu Sculpture Park nearby, and then we fly up to Vic Falls. You’ll love it there.” “I really can’t believe you’re taking a break from work. It’s so unlike you, Carlton. What gives?” “‘What gives’ is you, Missy. I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.” “‘This moment?’” “Yes, my sweets. This is the first time I’ve sensed that you actually want to be here—that is, to be near me in an affectionate way.” At long last, Priscilla had relaxed. She had not forgotten about her past traumas in this part of Africa; rather, she had begun to cope with them. Her well-being connected to Carlton’s, but she had yet to realize it. Off to the Rainbow Towers Hotel and Conference Center they went. They took Airport Road and headed north to downtown. Along the way, Carlton and his driver pointed out some of the sights to Priscilla: golf courses, schools, a train station, Coronation Park, Greenwood Park, and the National Art Gallery. But Priscilla hardly heard a word that either man said. She was too busy marveling at the rows upon rows of street vendors peddling assortments of fruits and vegetables, colorful fabrics and clothing, and wooden carvings of elephants, giraffes, and turtles. Some of the vendors held up their wares for the passersby to see them more closely; some even ran up to their jeep and tried to push their wares on them. For the first time over the course of her two previous trips here, Priscilla took notice of the impoverished conditions of the people, most of whom wore tattered, dingy-colored clothing, both African and Western wear. Elderly men and women sat on wooden stumps and broken chairs alongside the display stands, some helping with the vending. Small children frolicked about. Some people were even barefoot. Yet, there was much pride in the peoples’ faces. During Priscilla’s two previous trips, she had not even bothered to take notice of any of the attractions, not even the people. She had been in Harare to perform a job. So whenever Carlton took her to her hotel, she had kept her face in her paperwork regarding the business of the foundation. But not this time. For whatever the reason, this time, she wanted to know more about the place that not too long ago had brought her so much pain and sorrow. But Priscilla had experienced similar scenes before. Back when CF Lieutenant Jeremy Onslow had rescued her from the crypt in the Anglican Cathedral, when she had been blanketed en route to the CF central command outpost, she caught a glimpse of the night life and those vendors alongside the streets that led into the city. This time, however, it was daylight, and she saw more clearly what her eyes had only glimpsed in the dark of night. And what she saw was significant because now she was more acutely aware of the role the boarding schools would play in the young orphans’ lives. The closer they approached downtown Harare, the more commercial establishments Priscilla saw: banks and oil and gas companies, tobacco, fast food, and telecommunications businesses. Soon, they were caught up in a traffic jam, but Priscilla became animated over something else. Near the Parliament building, she pointed to the structure and, for the first time, mentioned the name “Robert Mugabe.” This time, she caught sight of the Anglican Cathedral through her peripheral vision; she was on land now, not up in the air. Carlton wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her shoulders. “Oh, Missy, it all seems so long ago. But you made it through all right.” He continued marveling at the stark difference in Priscilla’s attitude on this trip as compared to her previous visits. Then he went silent again. When she said, “You know, Carlton, Harare is just like any other city,” he just smiled. Once at the lavish Rainbow Towers Hotel and Conference Center, Carlton took Priscilla to her room. She unpacked and dressed in attire more appropriate for safaris and touring, a T-shirt and khaki shorts. Carlton had wanted to show her the Great Zimbabwe, a UNESCO World Heritage site—one of the most famous ruined cities from the late Iron Age in southern Africa, but it was over 150 miles south of Harare, too far away for her short visit. So in keeping with Priscilla’s love of art, he opted instead to take her to Chapungu Sculpture Park on the periphery of the city in Msasa. There, local sculptors displayed their works in Zimbabwean stone, especially serpentine, springstone, and leopard rock. They drove a mere seventeen minutes to the southeastern outskirts of the capital to the sculpture park. During their ride, Priscilla talked about some of her family members who were artistic. “Carlton, my love, did I ever tell you that my mom, Liza, can draw?” Carlton made a slight smile and now and then stared at her in silence. She had just called him “my love.” Priscilla was sounding like her old self. She spoke proudly about her mom’s artistic skills. “She can draw anything or anybody. One time, when she was in high school, a mean ole teacher refused to believe that she had drawn a clown. The teacher tore up Momma’s work and told her to draw it again. Momma was crushed. She still talks about that to this day.” “My goodness, Missy, I’m sorry to hear that.” “Oh, Carlton, darling, that’s okay. Momma got the last laugh.” Once again, she had used an affectionate term as she talked to her one-time lover. So, once again, Carlton just smiled at her and held his peace, allowing Priscilla to talk freely and with such vigor, a trait he had not observed in her in over a year. “Yeah,” Priscilla boasted, “’cause shortly after that incident, the local newspaper sponsored a drawing contest, and Momma entered some of her drawings and won.” Then she added, “Plus, two of my sisters, Helen and Camille; my brother, Nelson, Jr.; and even German are artists. As for me, well, I don’t have that particular gene.” “But Missy, you’re a PR woman. Can’t get any better than that.” Carlton spoke with much pride. He kissed her on her cheek. Priscilla smiled. Still somewhat unaware of her natural skills of persuasion, Priscilla politely brushed him off. “Yeah, well, whatever,” she said. Then she stood up in the jeep and pointed straight ahead of her. “Will you get a load of this place!” The sign read: CHAPUNGU SCULPTURE PARK. Priscilla had never before seen such huge stone sculptures. Some of the massive stonework depicted human forms, whereas others were abstract works of art. “And they’re so big!” she exclaimed. But not all of the artwork was big. In fact, much of it varied in size—from artwork that could fit on a table to garden-size artwork, such as the whimsical pieces depicting baboons and children embedded in the colorful landscape of succulents amid the lushness of the tall green plants and trees, a feature that would soon be adopted by American museums and botanical gardens. As they entered the facility, an eager tour guide greeted them and immediately began his spiel. “This park was conceived by Frank McEwen and opened in 1957. He wanted to provide local artists with a place to showcase their artwork, particularly of their Shona culture.” Then the tour guide pointed to a wall in the facility and a black-and-white photograph of another man, and said, “Joram Mariga. Beyond any doubt, it was Joram’s influence on the local artistic community that led to his being called ‘the father of Zimbabwean sculpture.’” He told the couple that Joram had endorsed Shona sculpture, so the park featured mostly sculpture of that kind. “The Shona are the dominant ethnic group in Zimbabwe,” the tour guide went on. “They have strong beliefs in their ancestors and the belief that spirits inhabit nature in trees, water, mountains, and stone, and they have a vague idea of a remote High God. Some believe in the High God of Mwari, whose spirit inhabits people called ‘mediums.’ Witchcraft and sorcery are widespread. But there’s not much belief in an afterlife.” Priscilla felt that the tour guide had spoken those last words as if he had wanted them to mean something to her. Occasionally, Priscilla ventured away from Carlton and the tour guide. During one absence (as Priscilla later found out), the tour guide whispered to Carlton: “She, well, she looks like that young lady who was in the news a while back.” “And right you are,” Carlton said, and he walked away as if he had been rudely interrupted. The tour guide evidently got the message and no longer mentioned the subject of Priscilla’s highly recognized persona. When the tour guide noticed Priscilla staring at a massive figurative sculpture by Joseph Ndandarika, titled Magic Bird, he walked closer to her, and said, “Joseph, like Michelangelo, believed that spirits inhabited rock formations and that, as sculptors, they unleashed the spirit in the stone in the course of their work.” But Priscilla still did not fully appreciate the Shona belief that spirits inhabit stone and other elements in nature. Then, Priscilla saw another impressive image of a bird, though a much smaller stone carving—a regal Bateleur Eagle, created by John Takawira, that had been made for and later presented to Pope John Paul II. But Priscilla was equally fascinated with a portrait of the colorful bird that was mounted behind its stone rendition: bare patches of bright red skin surrounded its eyes and the base of its bill. It’s mighty, grey shoulders—complemented by a shimmering coat of black feathers adorning its body and head—contrasted against its large red-colored feet, offset by a very small orange tail. “Oh yeah,” Priscilla said to herself sarcastically. “It’s ‘colorful’ all right.” But since the foot-high stone rendering of the Bateleur Eagle was of serpentine, the sleek, black, polished, stately creature suddenly commanded Priscilla’s attention. “As you can see, Ms. Austin,” the tour guide said, “Takawira didn’t much care for colored stones. He preferred springstone, a hard, black serpentine, hence the remarkable contrast against the colorful bird in the portrait. He added, “The Bateleur Eagle is our national emblem, that is, the Zimbabwean national emblem.” He exuded pride in those last words. The tour guide continued pointing out works by other sculptors who had become internationally known, including Dominic Benhura, Makina Kameya, Sylvester Mubayi, and Fabian Madamombe, but Priscilla’s enthusiasm had begun to wane. She had been moving about the immense space for a little over an hour. Her pace slowed as she trailed behind Carlton and the tour guide. Both men were trying to show her more of the twenty-acre facility and its park. But neither man had taken into account that Priscilla had not long disembarked from a long international flight. In addition, there was a seven-hour time difference between the United States Eastern Time zone and that of Zimbabwe. Just as the tour guide suggested they go outside and look at some of the sculpture in and around the pond, Priscilla had nearly dozed off from where she stood. Or did she doze off from where she leaned? Once the tour guide and Carlton noticed her absence, they eventually caught sight of her leaning against a huge stone statue of a woman that seemed to be floating midair. Plainly, Priscilla’s jet lag had overtaken her. Carlton finally realized that much, so he picked up her small, sleep-deprived body and carried her back to the Land Rover. Then they headed to the airport, not back to the hotel as Priscilla had thought. Then they boarded a jet to Victoria Falls.