“I wonder if that’s the mine?” Remi said.
“We can take a look on the way back, if you want. We’re not on any pressing schedule.”
“Let’s see how we do in the wilds. If not today, there’s always tomorrow.”
“Whatever my lady wants,” Sam said.
“That’s a little more like it.”
When they arrived at Mbinu, they found the little hamlet was barely more than a few modest homes along a stretch of nothing. They stopped at a tiny market and were immediately assaulted by heat and bugs. Several islanders sat in the shade of a tree by the side of the road, staring at them curiously. Sam approached, the sheet of paper with the names and addresses in his hand.
“We’re looking for a man named Tom. Supposed to live around here?” he asked with a smile.
The islanders stared at him, and then one made a comment in a language neither Sam nor Remi understood and the others all laughed.
Remi stepped forward. “Do you know Tom?”
More muttered comments, more laughter, and one of the men shrugged. Remi turned to Sam. “This is going well.”
“I remember reading that even though English is the official language, only a fraction of the population speaks it.”
“Looks like this isn’t that fraction.”
They waved at the islanders, who waved back, friendly enough, and tried the market. There they had a slightly better result—the heavyset woman behind the ancient cash register spoke a little English.
“Tom? He by da church. Down da road a piece.”
“Church?” Sam asked.
“Back that way.”
“Oh, good. And where, exactly, is Tom’s?”
“Look for sign.”
“Sign?”
“Skink.”
“Excuse me?”
“Skink.” The woman pantomimed a crawling animal and Remi nodded.
“Ah.”
They got back into the car and backtracked. It took them two return trips before they spotted a muddy sign with the outline of a lizard on it. “Want to bet that’s a kink?” Sam asked.
“Skink. With an s. At least that’s what it sounded like,” Remi corrected.
They bounced down a rutted muddy drive for a hundred yards and then rounded a bend. A tired-looking house occupied the far side of a clearing ringed by trees. A sixties Toyota sedan, almost entirely rust, was parked at the edge of the drive. An elderly man wearing a dark green T-shirt and shorts sat on what served as a porch, staring at them as they parked and got out of the Nissan.
“Tom?” Remi asked with a smile.
“That’s me,” the man replied, smiling, h
is few yellow teeth standing out against his dark complexion like headlights.
“We’re friends of Orwen Manchester.”