Harry and Helen Sharp had been married for a year; this African nation had been independent for two years. Back home Harry would have been an ordinary accountant, whereas here he was an expert, for the Ministry of Finance. Both he and Helen were liberally-minded, which was why they had come to work in black Africa; and Harry would have been the first to admit that their present conditions--house in the Oyster Bay area, interest-free loan for a Volkswagen beetle--were artificially exalted. No expert he, except by contrast with the locals.
One thing which they were expert on after twelve months, however, was marriage; which was why the Ismaili wedding reception they'd attended the other day had filled them with amusement and wry sympathy; and still did, as they drove upcountry.
The bride, Gulzar, had been a secretary at the Ministry; Harry had been kind to her, friendly, interested. The lives of these Asians in a black African country struck him as poignant, like those of an endangered species; and almost mysterious. So the invitation to the reception had given them both fascinating insights. Which they still mulled over, as Harry drove along.
"Did you see all that glitter on the bridal bed?" sighed Helen. (For all the guests had been invited upstairs to inspect the scene of the forthcoming defloration.) "It was the same glassy grit they stick on Christmas cards to make them sparkle. Have you ever caught a speck under your fingernail? Imagine that sprinkled all over the sheets on our wedding night!"
"It all comes from weighing the Aga Khan in diamonds," said Harry. "Ismailis have a thing about glitter--and sweet stuff. What intrigued me was the bowl of chocolate and fudge by the bedside to give them strength."
"The walls were only plywood, thin as can be. Gulzar was as white as a sheet, poor girl."
)
It was a simple trip to a game reserve in East Africa. But the leopard man had his own plans: plans to steal something very precious from an English woman.
