Mozambique Noir

The hand shouldn't be there.

"And where should the hand be, Senhora?"

"Attached to an arm," she said. Holding the phone to her ear, she took a few steps toward the window of her villa. "That would be the best place for it, in my opinion, and not waving at me poolside." The swimming pool was right across the walkway, set in the middle of Coconut Palm Lodge on the white sand beach of the Mozambique coast. One villa sat next to hers, and on the other side of the pool two more, all facing the clear, green-blue water of the sea.

"You said there was a monkey?"

"I don't know the kind," she said. "Gray with a black face and hands. He's looking right at me, and he's holding a human hand by the fingers."

"That would be Jack," the hotelier said. "I wouldn't worry about him. Just don't give him anything to drink."

"What?"

"He's a vervet, They're wild in the south, but he came up here years ago. No doubt someone tried to make a pet of him, and he escaped from the city."

"It's not really the monkey I was worried about," she said. "It's the hand."

"Yes, yes. We'll take care of it."

Too big to be a doll's hand, and too realistic to be anything else, she knew what it had to be, a remnant from the violent incursion in the north. Al-Shabaab had orchestrated an Islamist insurrection just a few years ago in Cabo Delgado, the neighboring province, and there were reports of lingering attacks in Nampula. Of course, Carl had reassured her everything was safe, now. He had business meetings three days in the city, which gave them five days in the villa. She glanced down and touched her wedding ring with the tip of her thumb.

Billie, the hotelier, stalked toward the pool, a garbage bag in one hand and an opened bottle of beer in the other. As Veronica watched from the window Billie called the monkey with three sharp whistles. Jack the vervet popped his head up and lifted the hand slightly. Billie moved without hesitation, placing the bottle on the decorative stone and snatching the hand up into the bag without touching it with his skin as the monkey turned and picked up the bottle with both black paws. Billie sneered at Jack's little black face, and Jack sneered back, then took a long drink. As Billie turned, bag in hand, he saw Veronica watching and he stopped, locking eyes in a blank stare until she turned away.

She forced herself not to panic. Looking for her wide brimmed hat, she dialed Carl's number, then hung up before it went through. She knew it was paranoia; she just had to step out, get away and keep walking. Her hat firmly sheltering her from the unfiltered halogen-bright sunlight, she snuck out the side door.

"Are you heading into town?" Billie asked. He was no longer holding the garbage bag. His hands were empty. She normally liked his smile, his brilliant white teeth, but now there was something wrong with it.

"No, I'm just going for a walk," she said.

"Ah. But you have an appointment with our resident tailor."

She had signed up yesterday. He was going to design a dress with those amazing bolts of fabric.

"Not until this evening," she said, walking away. "I'll be back soon."

"I should advise you not to --"

"You don't want me to leave?" she asked. She slowed, but still backed away. The gate was only yards away. She could have strolled down the beach, but toward the city felt safer. Just then, the monkey shrieked a warning, hanging halfway up a coconut palm, the empty bottle in its hand.

She turned and ran, both fists pumping, and then, desperately, with three fingers holding down her hat. Thoughts rushed to her as she raced along the walkway shrouded in bushes, tall grass, and palm. She had read a New York Times article about behavioral research on old world monkeys, bonobos and rhesus macaques, where they became addicted to alcohol; the hotelier had told her not to give it anything to drink. He knew the monkey, had named it. Then the vervet, having found a dismembered hand, brought it to him in exchange for a bottle. Billie was covering something up, and the hand looked like evidence of a new insurgence. She didn't know much about Al-Shabaab, who they were or how they would reorganize, but the hotel would know. They knew Carl's company wanted the natural gas off the coast through liquid extraction.

Someone was playing the timbila in the distance, a trunk-hewn marimba, notes trilling out through the trees that lined the path. Veronica slowed to a walk, forest on one side and sea cliffs of the other, the steady climb revealing a breathtaking view of the ocean. Apprehensive, she took in the beauty with anxiety, only seeing the dark undertones of the blue sky. She called Carl a second time and let it ring through to voice mail, knowing he would be in his second meeting of the day.

She heard the leopard move before she saw it. It was graceful and striking, holding its head steady as the body tilted and pivoted, charging directly toward her.

A sharp explosion threw the leopard off course, and another brought it down. Punched in the shoulder, it toppled and rolled, landing just twenty meters away. Malik, the in-house tailor, walked down from the rocks with a rifle in one hand. When he got close to the leopard he quickly shot once more to make sure it was dead.

"Did they not tell you about the leopard?" he asked. "I spoke to your husband about it this morning, before his early departure."

"No" was all Veronica could manage to say.

"He was spotted near here yesterday," he said. "It's always best to shoot the man-eaters. The war up north, years ago roused them away from their normal habitat."

"How do you know it's a man-eater?" she asked.

"That is easy," Malik said, smiling. "Because he found his way onto the resort. They generally don't like people."