The Eden Legacy. Will Adams

       EIGHT

      I

      Boris had to wait over an hour at Antananarivo Airport for Davit. The arrivals board was broken, and he began to fret they’d miss their connection to Morombe. But the big man finally showed. ‘Hey, boss,’ he said, looking rumpled and weary from his flight, yet nonetheless cheerful.

      Boris nodded sourly to let Davit know he hadn’t forgotten Greece. ‘We need to get moving,’ he said.

      The plane to Morombe was an antique Twin Otter. It reeked of fumes and was so cramped that Boris had to duck his head to walk down the aisle to his seat, while Davit had to bend almost double, then sit sideways. It struggled to make it off the ground, its engines straining for altitude before faltering altogether, allowing the aircraft to plunge back towards earth, causing several passengers to scream out and making even Boris grip his armrests, before they picked up again.

      He looked out and down. Madagascar’s capital was hemmed in by lush green paddyfields that shrank quickly behind him. They crossed mountains, forests and lakes. Though they were quite low, Boris couldn’t see a single road. Turbulence tumbled and jolted them. Through the threadbare curtain separating the cabin from the cockpit, he saw the pilot thump one of his dials with the heel of his hand. The fumes grew worse. Across the aisle, an old woman opened a sick bag and vomited into it with impressive decorum, like she was clearing her throat. Afterwards, she rolled up the top of the bag and held it clenched in her lap like a packed lunch, but the smell leaked out even so, making Boris feel nauseous himself. It was an immense relief, therefore, when they bounced across Morombe’s bumpy runway and then the door opened and the steps arrived and they climbed down on to the sun-baked concrete, and he could stretch his back and arms. ‘That was fun,’ he muttered.

      ‘Tell me about it,’ said Davit.

      They collected their bags, went to find a taxi. There were just two of them, battered and yellow, but neither driver spoke English. They all looked at each other in dismay. ‘Hotel speak English?’ asked Davit.

      The taller of the drivers grinned and gave them the thumbs up. They climbed into his cab, bumped along a potholed road into town. Young Malagasy men stared sullenly through the windows, assessing them for wealth. They pulled up outside a compound protected by high wooden palisades. ‘Hotel speak English,’ said the driver.

      They paid him off, went inside. Two windsurfer boards and an outboard engine were lying on reception’s red-tiled floor, but there was no one in sight. Boris called out impatiently. An elderly man appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes. ‘You speak English?’ asked Boris.

      The man shook his head. ‘Claudia!’ he yelled. ‘Claudia!’ An attractive young Malagasy woman with milk-coffee skin and braided shoulder-length hair arrived through dappled shadows. The man gestured at them. ‘English,’ he said.

      She nodded and smiled warmly. ‘You want a room?’

      ‘Two rooms,’ said Boris.

      ‘I show you our very best.’ They followed her along a sandy path. Furled sunshades leaned against stacked loungers. Mopeds and beach-buggies were coated with bird-lime and dust. A small wooden boat was turned turtle on the sand. There was no sign of any other guests here at all. Business looked dire. They reached a pair of cabins raised a foot or so above the ground, their porches offering fine views of the beach and sea. Claudia removed the padlock and led them in. It was gloomy inside, even after she’d opened the tattered curtains. ‘Is nice, yes?’ she beamed.

      The double bed sagged, the mosquito net was torn and mended with safety pins, the toilet was missing its seat, and the shower area had no shower any more, just a huge plastic tub three-quarters filled with water. But they weren’t here on holiday, and having an English speaker mattered more than comfort. Besides, Claudia was undeniably charming, a perfect way to kill any downtime before they completed their mission. He nodded and set down his bags, ushered them both out, closed his door, stripped and doused himself in a couple of buckets of cool water. Then he dried himself off, put on a fresh black shirt, shorts and Ray-Bans, and went to check out the town.

      II

      Garry cut the Bayliner’s engine and let momentum take them into Morombe beach. A crowd of Malagasy women waded out with trays and bowls filled with snappers, octopus and sardines for Ron to choose between, as well as with the papayas, manioc and onions they’d farmed from their small gardens. Knox jumped overboard, grabbed his bags and dumped them on the beach before returning to help Lucia, asking about transport on the way. The coastal track didn’t go all the way to Eden; besides, a bridge just south of town had been brought down by the recent cyclone and it hadn’t yet been repaired. The only way to reach Eden was by fishing pirogue.

      He explained this to Lucia, who took it in her stride; she’d been planning on taking a pirogue anyway, so that she could write an article about the experience. They agreed to share a pirogue as far as Eden; after that, she’d take it on by herself south to Tulear, from where she was flying out in two days time. They each had things to do in town, Knox to change money, Lucia to check out of her hotel, but they decided to head along the beach and hire a pirogue now, so that they could leave their bags behind. As they trudged along, their feet plunging deep into the powdery sand, Knox wished he hadn’t packed quite so much. But Adam and Emilia had disappeared at sea, so he needed his dive-gear; and he couldn’t exactly turn up without a change of clothes.

      The piroguiers sitting by their boats sniffed business; they jumped up and hurried to meet them. The dearth of tourists caused by Madagascar’s coup was evidently biting hard. Knox outlined their plans, asked the price, sparking a Dutch auction in which the young men underbid each other to win the work. Two of them reached the same price, but only one spoke decent French, making their decision easy. The young man’s name was Thierry. He led them over to his pirogue, where his brother and partner, Alphonse, was mending nets. Knox gave the pirogue a once-over. Its thin, canoe-like hull had been chiselled from a single trunk, then fitted with slat seats and a weighty torpedo of an outrigger to make it more stable. It looked fine to him, as did the mast and sail lying on the sand alongside.

      ‘Any chance of making Eden tonight?’ he asked.

      Thierry gave the universal sailor’s shrug. ‘It depends on the wind,’ he said. ‘But it’s not a problem. My brother lives at Ambatomilo. Or we can make a tent and sleep upon the beach.’

      ‘Sounds perfect,’ smiled Lucia. ‘I love a night on the beach.’

      ‘Can you look after our bags?’ asked Knox. ‘We need to go into town.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Thierry. ‘We wait for you here.’

      ‘Great,’ said Knox. ‘See you later, then.’

      III

      A black dog took a liking to Boris as he walked down Morombe high street, sniffing at his heels and looking hungrily up at him. He scowled at it and aimed a boot at its ribs, but still it kept following. It was an appropriate enough companion: he’d rarely ever visited a more depressing place. The road was so badly broken that the few cars treated it like an obstacle course, weaving cautiously around islands of tarmac. There was litter everywhere, squashed packs of Boston cigarettes, lemonade bottles and the like. A young diabetic beggar with a swollen and ulcerated foot strummed a homemade mandolin, while a dispirited woman sold napkins and sweet potatoes from a tray, and children raced cars they’d made from sardine cans around her feet.

      He passed a camping store with cooking utensils and hunting knives in one window, foreign-language guidebooks and maps in the other. Hard to know how it made enough money to stay open, for he’d still seen no tourists. He bought a guidebook and a map of the coast from Morondava down to Tulear that he flapped open and studied as he walked. According to the press-cuttings Sandro had given him, the Maritsa was anchored on the far side of the reef, several miles offshore. Even getting close enough