Three Metal Pellets

2. Victoria Falls

2

Victoria Falls

Situated well over three hundred miles west of Harare, the powerful Victoria Falls pours into the Zambezi, one of the continent’s longest rivers. Priscilla slept throughout half of the flight there. She finally awoke around noon the same day that she and Carlton had gone to the Chapungu Sculpture Park, just as the plane was circling the falls.

As she peered out of her window, “Wow! I can’t believe my eyes!” she cried out, like an excited little girl.

Then she spotted some tourists bungee jumping off the Zambezi Bridge that connected Victoria Falls to Zambia, and said, “I don’t think they’d let us do that in America.”

When the airplane landed, a driver met the couple and drove them to the Victoria Falls Safari Lodge. As they drove up to the entrance to the hotel, Priscilla could not believe her eyes. She saw a small group of tourists standing at the entrance, watching a tall, middle-aged black man adorned in colorful regalia: an oversized feather-laden headdress, a leopard-skin robe, and beads around his ankles. He had an ashen-covered face, and he stomped his feet and pointed a wooden staff here and there, as if he were warning the visitors to keep away. Then he pranced about some broken bones scattered on the ground near his feet. He stopped abruptly. He pointed to a wooden painted shield that was erected against the wall behind him. The closest thing Priscilla had ever seen resembling the man was what Americans call a medicine man from some of the American Indian tribes. She stood mesmerized as the man performed his ritual and danced—bending over and picking up some of the bones and tossing them much as someone tosses dice on a casino table. Suddenly, he paused and mumbled something unintelligible to Priscilla’s ears. She felt as if he were addressing her. She stared at the man and smiled. He smiled back at her. Then he resumed his performance. Priscilla did not realize that the man was an employee of the hotel catering to the whims of the tourists.

After she and Carlton had gone to their room and changed clothes, Priscilla said, “Please, Carlton. I want to see the falls.”

With much excitement, again she said, “Please, Carlton. I want see the falls.”

Carlton was so surprised at the extent of her excitement that he stopped leafing through his tour packet of coupons for a safari and a tour of Victoria Falls. “Okay, Missy. Let’s go.” He had never before seen her so excited.

She continued to insist that they leave: “Now, I want to go now.”

So Carlton took out the two tickets to the falls, and the couple left their hotel suite and caught a hotel van to Victoria Falls. So much for the safari and the tour that I arranged, Carlton thought, as he later shared with her.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the falls. They got out of the hotel van, joined several other eager tourists, handed the attendant their tickets, and walked down a steep hill to get a closer look at the three massive, gushing cataracts which were much taller and wider than Niagara Falls, near Priscilla’s home, Prendergast, New York.

“And to think my family used to think it was big deal to take everyone visiting us to see Niagara Falls!” she exclaimed. “Wait’ll they get a load of this!”

Next, they hurried over to the imposing statue of Scottish missionary and explorer David Livingstone, which overlooked the falls he had renamed to honor Britain’s Queen Victoria in 1855. There, Priscilla overheard a tour guide: “Long before Europeans set eyes on the waterfalls, local tribesmen had already named them ‘Smoke that Thunders’ or Mosi-oa-tunya.”

Later that evening, the couple walked the grounds of the impressive resort. They occasionally overheard some of the guests laughing out loud at the sound of someone screaming. Some of the other guests had left their windows and doors open, and some monkeys had entered their rooms. Magnificent peacocks also paraded about the grounds.

Back in the dining area, Priscilla and Carlton, along with the other guests, looked down onto a watering hole and watched elephants as they bathed. Priscilla listened to some of the people talking and noticed that they were from many different countries. Their accents gave them away, so most of the time, she and Carlton whispered to keep the other guests guessing their nationality.

“Oh, Carlton, this place is as magnificent as you described it,” she said. “My God, this is beautiful country.”

“Oh, Missy, it’s so good to see you back at yourself again. I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I, you.”

Just then several other couples made their way to the dance floor. Simon and Garfunkel’s popular “Bridge over Troubled Water” was playing through loudspeakers. “Come, let’s dance,” Carlton said. “That’s a beautiful love song.” Both he and she were familiar with the lyrics:

When you’re weary, feeling small,

When tears are in your eyes,

I will dry them all.

I’m on your side.

Oh, when times get rough.

And friends just can’t be found.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will lay me down.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will lay me down.

When you’re down and out.

When you’re on the street.

When evening falls so hard, I will comfort you.

I’ll take your part.

Oh, when darkness comes,

And pain is all around,

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will lay me down.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will lay me down.

Sail on silver girl, sail on by.

Your time has come to shine.

All your dreams are on their way.

See how they shine.

Oh, if you need a friend,

I’m sailing right behind.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will ease your mind.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will ease your mind.

As he held her close, all that Carlton could think about was how much he wanted Priscilla to know that he loved her, and that he wanted to be her “bridge over troubled water.”

So the couple danced and danced and danced.

Then, when they returned to their suite, Priscilla noticed for the first time that Carlton’s personal effects were there. As he disrobed, she said, “Am I so jetlagged I didn’t realize we were in the same suite?”

“And?”

“Oh, no problem, I just can’t get over how long it’s been. I mean, I haven’t—” She was overtaken by sorrow.

“Oh, Missy, go ahead and cry. I’ve wondered over and over what it’d be like for you to even contemplate being with me again. So never mind me; I can wait forever.” Then he lifted her up, softly kissed her forehead and neck, and rubbed her arms and shoulders, much as a loving parent would comfort a child.

As he cradled her small body, she said, “Life’s so strange.” He set her down, and she sat on the edge of the bed. “First I tell you that we can’t be together because my family will never accept you, and you oblige. Then, I tell you that we can’t be together because I’m committed to another man, and again, you oblige. But now, I’m conflicted even more.”

“I know, I know, Missy. But it’s all okay and believe me, I certainly know how strange life can be.”

“Oh, Carlton, please,” she said, as she stared into his alluring eyes, “you’ve always lived such a privileged life. How on earth can you possibly know what I mean?”

“Missy, have you forgotten already? Your mother’s views are one thing, but my uncle was actually part of an organization that—” Priscilla covered his mouth.

“Oh, love, don’t do that to yourself. You had no way of knowing.”

“That may be a fact, but once your mom finds out that there’s something between you and someone even remotely connected to the a*******d regime, our goose is definitely cooked.”

“Crap. I never thought about all that.”

“Well, now, Missy. Let’s see how we get out of this one. Meanwhile, don’t you think it’s high time we both let go of some of our excess baggage, including our bizarre concerns about how our families might react to our being together?”

“Now that’s definitely much easier said than done.”

“Oh-h?”

“Carlton, there’s something else I need to run past you.” Priscilla had long grown tired of talking about her family’s dislike of mixed-race couples, so she welcomed the opportunity to talk about something else.

“Oh, yeah, pray tell,” he said.

“Well,” she said as she stared closely at him for any reaction to what she was about to say, “the other day I received an invitation to spearhead the marketing campaign for a presidential hopeful.”

“Wow! Missy, you go girl!”

“His name is Fleetwood Marshall Hollingsworth. He’s a congressman out of Birmingham, and I plan on giving him a once-over.”

Carlton laughed with tremendous vigor. “Welcome to the big league, ole girl! And I’m sure you know this, too, you can handle.”

“If only it were all that simple.”

“So you’re concerned our personal connection might adversely affect your guy’s campaign? Is that it?”

“Well, yeah, since you put it so bluntly.”

“Here we go again,” Carlton said. “Only this time it’s as complicated as hell.”

Yet he thought it would never be a better time to explain something to Priscilla, so he said, “Missy, circumstances are a tad more complicated than you might possibly imagine, and I mean that in every sense of the word. You see, you still view the world from a relatively narrow perspective. You’re so American in that respect.”

“Oh, really!” an animated Priscilla said. “Now it’s your turn to tell all.”

“We live in a global society, not a black-and-white world, not dichotomous, if you will. You see, you take for granted my being Lebanese. But do you have any idea what that means to many Americans today?”

“That your family’s from Lebanon, somewhere in the Near—or is that the Middle?—East.” She sighed as if she had answered part of a pop quiz correctly.

“Yeah, well, just as I thought. You’ve got your homework cut out for you, kiddo, and if my gut instincts serve me well, so, too, has the Hollingsworth Exploratory Presidential Elections Campaign team.”

“Now I’m really confused.”

“Miss Prissy, you’d better pour yourself a drink and leave the bottle on the table, ’cause it’s gonna be a long night. My story goes way back to the beginning of recorded history, before the Common Era, if you will.”

Carlton began telling Priscilla about the place that some historians call the Near East, or the Middle East, especially the territory encompassing what is known as “the Holy Land.” He told her about the land that was once called Canaan, the “land of milk and honey.” He told her about the untold number of invasions in the area—from biblical times to the present, and ranging from Egypt, Assyria, and Rome under Pompey and Constantine to the Arab nations and to France under Napoleon.

“Perhaps the most dramatic ‘invasion’ of all was the date the state of Israel was forcibly established, May 14, 1948, by the Israeli leader, David Ben-Gurion. Many of my relatives, former neighbors, and other Palestinian acquaintances were driven out of their homeland. They were displaced, Priscilla, much as the Jews were displaced by the Nazis in Germany and Eastern Europe. Only the Palestinians were displaced by what America and its European allies called the ‘good guys,’” Carlton said.

Priscilla asked, “And so, why’s all that rel—?”

Then it dawned on her what Carlton was trying to explain.

“Oh-h, I see, now.”

“Yes, so now you’re beginning to see. Now I’m not just your Lebanese lover. Now, the reality of the situation sets in, eh?”

“Yes, I see.”

“Missy, when people think of Lebanon today, they don’t see olive orchards, old television personalities, and financial institutions. They see the movie Raid on Entebbe. They see mean men hijacking aircraft and bombing airports. They see terrorists.”

But while Carlton brought Priscilla up-to-date on what some people thought about the Lebanese people and on relations between the Palestinian Arabs and the Israelis and the West, she was thinking. She had no intention of letting go of her love for him merely because he was Lebanese, or, more precisely, Palestinian.

After she drank another glass of gin and tonic, she yelled out. “By golly, I’ve got it!”

“All right, kiddo, I’ll bite.”

“Carlton, the long and short of it all is to try and beat the other side by getting out our version of the story first. So let’s start with your grandfather Emerson I’s reason for coming to America in the first place. And his politics. Any charities? What about your grandmother Marlena?”

By the time that Priscilla had addressed a few more of Carlton’s concerns that his Lebanese ethnicity might be an impediment to her work on the Hollingsworth Exploratory Presidential Elections Campaign, even he had come to terms with her plan.

“Oh-h, I get it now!”

Priscilla nodded. Her plan would be especially important when she would learn about Carlton’s father’s longtime affiliation with JK McDougal, a major presidential contender. Surely the McDougal campaign had long since been aware of the Bernhardts’ ethnicity.

“And as for the Hollingsworth camp,” Priscilla went on, “well, now, I really don’t think my association with you is going to be as big an issue as you might have thought. So, let’s not worry ourselves over any of that just yet. Incidentally, Carlton, my darling, do you really think yours is the only family with interesting ancestry and secrets? By the time the presidential elections campaign is over, much of what we’ve just discussed will pale as compared to issues confronting some of the other guys.”

As things began to settle in her mind, Priscilla whispered to Carlton. “We can resume our high-level talks tomorrow, maybe. But tonight, let’s join with the angels and take flight over the magnificence of the waterfalls.” So for the first time in nearly two years, Carlton and Priscilla made love—again and again and again.

Carlton waited until Priscilla had fallen asleep. Then he called his friend and CF associate, Commander Tommy Wozniah, in Cleveland, Ohio.

“Yeah, man, it’s going to be Hollingsworth, after all, Carlton said. “They’ve asked our girl to join their campaign team and to attend a retreat at their resort.”

“Needn’t fret, my man,” the CF commander said, “we’ll alert some of the guys to follow the campaign team. Plus we’ve got connections with the candidate’s chief of security, Chuck Smirnoff.”

“Uh huh, yes. I understand.”

“But Carlton, you needn’t alter your plans,” the CF commander said. “We can handle things on our end and keep you informed. Okay?”

“But hold awhile, Tommy. Do you think they’ll try anything at the resort? Or will they wait until the primaries are underway?” Plainly, the CF had readied for any renewed activity on the part of the revived SANM Patrol Guard. Only Carlton had not divulged any of that intel with the woman he loved.

“Can’t answer that one yet, but we’re planning for every possibility. So calm down, man. We’ve got this.”

“And, do you—? Oh, never mind.”

“Out with it, Carlton. What’s on your mind?”

“I already answered my own question, man. I was wondering if we should at least alert Miss Prissy.”

“We’ve considered that, too,” the CF commander said. “There’ll be a familiar face in the crowd at the reception and also at the other events down the road. Now, I bet you understand the rule against fraternizing with any of our wards. You’re too close. Just take care of things on your end.”

Then the CF commander added, “Say, man, have you had the ‘You know I’m Lebanese’ talk yet?”

“Yeah, finally, but I can’t say she fully gets it all yet.”

“She will. Just give her some time. Missy’s a political scientist, so she’s got to do her own research. But at least now you’ve prepared her for what might be an onslaught. Get some rest. It must be midnight over there.”

“Later, man,” Carlton said, and they both disconnected their call.

The day after Priscilla returned to Columbus from Zimbabwe and the day before she flew with Julia to Birmingham, she went to the library on the main campus of The Ohio State University and began researching the history of the Hollingsworths of Birmingham. She wanted to know the answer to the main question on her mind: was Congressman Fleetwood Marshall Hollingsworth a man who knew who he was and what he wanted?

She learned that the family possessed a proud tradition of entrepreneurship and public service extending six generations, five of which had been in America.

For decades, the Hollingsworths had worked in the sugarcane industry in Barbados. Then, shortly after Barbados became independent, in the mid-1850s, Fleetwood Marshall’s great-great-grandfather—Marshall Hollingsworth—learned that Alabama was lacking a direct trade route to the much-sought-after sugar, so he migrated to Birmingham to open an import business and distribution site there. He did so even though slavery was still legal in the United States and he had enslaved relatives in the nation.

Priscilla immediately related to the Hollingsworth family. She had once worked with several faculty members at Florida A&M University who hailed from the West Indies, and she herself had traveled near Barbados. It was the summer that she had escorted some students from FAMU to the University of the West Indies in Trinidad. She remembered how fascinated she was to learn that Trinidad was so close to the coast of Venezuela and that Barbados was just a short distance northeast of Trinidad. As if she had been there with Fleetwood Marshall’s great great-grandfather, Priscilla could see through his eyes as he made his way to Birmingham.

Shortly after Marshall Hollingsworth arrived in Birmingham, he had established his sugar import business with little interference—mainly because the commodity was in high demand and white people overlooked his race. Later, after he visited the ports of Pensacola and Mobile, he was tempted to alter his original business plan—namely to move his import business from landlocked Birmingham to one of the two more alluring ports. After realizing that the ports’ tariffs on sugarcane would reduce his business’s profits, he decided to stick with his original business plan. As a consequence, his sugar import business thrived.

Later, Marshall Hollingsworth successfully expanded his sugar-import business by setting up import offices in Pensacola and New Orleans.

Then, shortly after the Civil War, Marshall Hollingsworth expanded his business interests by investing in a printing company and in other enterprises. This expansion eventually led to the highly successful Hollingsworth Industries.

After passage of the Fifteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution—giving former slaves the right to vote and hold public office—the Hollingsworths of Birmingham extended their interests into politics. Encouraged by the family to seek a seat in Congress, Furillo Marshall Hollingsworth, one of Marshall Hollingsworth’s sons, became one of the first African Americans to be elected to the U.S. House of Representatives from Alabama.

In her research, Priscilla also discovered that each Hollingsworth generation, without exception, was frugal in its business dealings, even though the Hollingsworth businesses, like many others, rose and fell with the ever-fluctuating economy. As a consequence, the family managed to follow the great-great-grandfather’s mantra, “Save and invest.” She also discovered the family’s emphasis on the importance of education in its business interests.

Eventually, Priscilla discovered the sheer pragmatism that had guided the Hollingsworth businessmen in their dealings—a trait which contributed much to the success of their enterprises. For example, Furillo Marshall revived some of the banks in Birmingham, but chose not to publicize their black ownership. He was aware of the new Jim Crow laws in the South, including Alabama. So he and other businessmen of the Hollingsworth family hired white floor managers and tellers, along with a few black employees. They also served their customers according to a “separate but equal” doctrine: the banks maintained public facilities and accommodations “for coloreds only” and “for whites only.” Indeed, so carefully pragmatic were they that they rarely ventured into the public sphere downstairs from their offices.

Nearing the end of her research, Priscilla discovered the one quest that had so long eluded the Hollingsworth family—a move into politics that would rival the success of the Hollingsworth business dealings. Or, as Grandfather Marshall Hollingsworth had said, “We’ve got to get one of our sons elected president.” To prepare for the quest, Hollingsworth family members served in Congress, on school boards, as state representatives and senators, as lawyers and local judges, and as entrepreneurs. Then came Fleetwood Marshall.

A fifth generation Hollingsworth, Fleetwood Marshall had already regained the family’s stature in Congress. So he was the most likely to fulfill the ultimate quest.

Priscilla learned that she had not been approached by a novice or a traditional civil rights activist or a high-profile clergyman such as the one for whom the airport in Birmingham had been renamed.

School children across the nation, including a younger Priscilla, had read about the role of such prominent figures in the civil rights era. But the schoolchildren, as well as many students of the black civil rights movement, rarely contemplated the composition of the backbone of those activities and movements. They did not know that the Hollingsworths and others like them had often facilitated much local civil rights activity through their financial support. Moreover, long before telecommunications and high technology, radio and print media had been the rage, and black businessmen in families such as the Hollingsworths had pretty much owned their own media outlets, further enhancing their capacity to back their preferred causes as well as to express opposition to unjust laws.

“So that’s the backstory,” Priscilla said as she concluded her research on the Hollingsworths of Birmingham. Now, she knew she had been contacted by a man who knew who he was and what he wanted.

But Priscilla still felt a need to know why Congressman Fleetwood Marshall Hollingsworth had chosen her to manage the public relations of his campaign. For after all, the congressman could have any PR firm of his choosing.