you’ll all know who I am. I’m calling her boss.’
‘Mkoma Farai, not here please. And can you lower your voice? People might think we’re fighting.’
‘Yes, Sthabile, sorry to keep you holding. Can you give me Walter please. Walter? Walter Nzombe, your Deputy General Manager. Who will you say is speaking? Oh, just tell him it’s Farai, an old friend.’
‘Do you really have to do this, Mkoma Farai?’
‘Yes, Sthabile, I’m holding. He’s on another line, is he? Can you interrupt him? Tell him it’s very urgent.’
‘Mkoma Farai, stop it. You can’t do that here, in my office!’
‘Shut up, Tindo. I know what I’m doing! Yes, Sthabile. Am I through now? Yes, Walter. Long time. How are you? Who am I? It’s me Farai. Farai Chari. We went to University together, remember? I’m Veronica’s husband. She’s your assistant or something. I suppose nobody calls you Walter any more and you are now used to being called DGM Nzombe. You are all doing very well, with your company cars and company loans and all that. I see we now even have company sheets in our bedrooms. Ha, ha. Some novelty! You mean, how can you help me? Ah, yes, can you tell me where my wife is, Walter? You don’t know? But you’re her boss, aren’t you? Did you give her a day off? You’re not in a position to tell me, you say. You think it’s a domestic matter between me and her, is it? Very well, Walter. Thank you very much, Walter. Have a nice day.’
‘Now look what you’ve done, Mkoma Farai.’
‘I haven’t finished with them yet.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to Premier Discount House right now to find out what’s happening.’
‘Mkoma Farai, wait!’
He is already bounding down the stairs, down to the roaring streets.
‘Where is she?’
The secretary at the Discount House eyes him nervously and dials two more extensions.
‘Have you seen Mai Chari?’ she asks another woman.
A small crowd gathers at the reception. There are two or three male messengers in blue and four women. The women are all in uniforms patterned with the company logo, the same material Veronica had used for the sheets for their bedroom. They stand in a ring, awed by his hair and unconventional style, this man who writes books and is married to one of their superiors. They whisper ominously, avoiding his eyes. He knows one of them, Grace, from the days when he used to pick up Veronica in his VW Golf, some twelve or so years ago when Veronica was still an assistant accountant, without a company car. Outside, on another floor, the voices of singing women rise and fade.
‘Has anyone died?’
‘No, no, Mr Chari,’ says Grace. ‘Can we give you something to drink?’
‘A whisky or a gin. Do you have that?’
‘No, Mr Chari.’
‘So where is she?’
Grace takes his arm and walks him down a passage, away from the reception. ‘Her secretary says she was in briefly this morning.’
‘Show me to her new office.’
‘It’s down this corridor, but she’s not there.’
He steps out in the indicated direction. The carpets are red and the walls made of gleaming pine wood. All the doors are labelled in large white letters: DGM. AGM. CHIEF ACCOUNTANT. CHIEF AUDITOR. A voice inside him tells him, ‘No, you can’t be doing this, Farai.’ He turns back and walks past the reception, to the elevators.
‘Mr Chari, wait.’ Grace disentangles herself from the crowd and approaches him. ‘I think I know where she might be. Last week she was talking of writing her institute examinations and was staying back after hours to study in her office. Don’t tell her I told you this, but I think she’s writing one of her final papers today.’
‘But why wouldn’t she want me to know that? Come on, Grace. You are a woman and you are married. Wouldn’t you tell your husband if you were writing exams?’
‘I would.’
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