The Death of Rex Nhongo Read Free Page A

dishes outside. He approached her from behind and kissed her neck. This was typically his way of telling her that, whatever had happened, it would be all right. But she shook him off and plunged her hands into the soapy water. “No, Patson,” she said. “No.”

4
    T he clinic in Epworth was everything Jerry Jones had feared and, consequently, everything for which he’d hoped—a small brick-under-asbestos building with a tin sign that predated In­dependence and a queue of sick people waiting patiently at its locked door. It was due to open in five minutes, but there was no sign of his contact, Dr. Tangwerai, so Jerry sat in his Land Cruiser listening to some alt country band from Swindon that his brother, Ant, had sent him on iTunes.
    Jerry had been in Zimbabwe for three months as a diplomatic spouse. In that time, he’d played more squash, drunk more bad white wine and feigned interest in more despicable people than in the rest of his adult life put together. The plan had always been that he would work, but before they’d left London the conversations with his wife, April, about his status on her debut overseas posting had gone no further than the assumption that his experience would surely be valued in a place like this. He hadn’t for a second anticipated that his professional skills might be positively unwelcome. And, if April had seen it coming, she certainly hadn’t said so. Her lack of empathy with his frustration remained a bone of contention. She was busy and he understood that. But he wasn’t busy. And that was the point.
    The first time he entered Likwanda House, the Immigration Office on Nelson Mandela, he’d breezed in full of bonhomie and absolutely confident of his position. His goodwill and his certainty had lasted less than a minute, when faced with a uniformed immigration officer who seemed to find his situation so tiresome that she might nod off at any moment. She sat behind the counter, one arm splayed out to the right, her head resting horizontally on her biceps. She considered his passport from this prone position, holding it up over her eyes with her left hand, like she was reading a paperback on the beach. She blinked so slowly that Jerry wasn’t sure whether he should wake her. Eventually she said, “You are on a spousal visa, Mr. Jones.”
    “Yes. That’s what I said. I want to change it to a working visa.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I want to work.”
    “So why did you not apply for a working visa?”
    “Because my wife was transferred by the Foreign Office and we thought it would be easier to sort it out when we got here.”
    “I see.” The immigration officer sniffed. “That was a mistake, isn’t it?”
    “I guess so,” Jerry said.
    The woman idly flicked through the pages of his passport. “You have been to China?”
    “Yes.”
    “What’s it like?”
    “I don’t know. It was a holiday. I was only there two weeks. It was great.” The woman raised her eyebrows. It seemed she wanted more. “But very poor.”
    “Poor? What do you mean, poor?” She perked up. She even lifted her head an inch or so off her arm.
    “I mean the poverty. Where we went. It’s very poor. Lots of people have no money.”
    The woman made a small noise in the back of her throat, an exclamation of shock. “I didn’t know that,” she said. “There are many Chinese things in Zimbabwe. I thought China is the richest country in the world.”
    “It is,” Jerry said, then shook his head. “It’s complicated.”
    The woman had allowed her head to fall again. “You should have applied for a working visa from your country of origin,” she said.
    “Can I do that now?”
    “Of course.”
    “Can you think of any reason why I wouldn’t get it?”
    The woman shrugged, in so far as it is possible to shrug with your head resting on your arm. “The decisions are made on a case-by-case basis. What work do you do?”
    “I’m a nurse.”
    “A nurse?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you do not think we have