The Boy Next Door Page 20

  When I came back to leave the car, he was still comatose on the couch.

  I look at Ian, and everything I’ve been holding back, I feel pressing against my tongue, lashing at my heart.

  “So now we’ve started in the morning, Ian? Did you even go to work?”

  “What the fuck was that?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Ian.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Lindiwe. What the fuck were you doing in the car?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I put the glass of water slowly down in the sink.

  “No, what are you doing, Ian? You just sit around moping. Look at you. Look at you. You forgot to pick up David twice last week. Twice, Ian!”

  “Come on girl, has your Jean come back or are you into some other expert these days?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “So are they good fucks?”

  The ugliness of his words.

  “At least have the guts to actually look at me, Ian. Who do you think you are? What the hell makes you think that you’ve been making so many sacrifices? Who asked you…?”

  I stand there breathless, feeling how empty and stupid it all is.

  “I’m going to have a bath.”

  He spins around, knocks into the couch as he lunges towards me.

  I look up at him, splotches of red on his face.

  He grabs hold of my arms.

  “How much Forex are they dishing out to black chicks these days?”

  There is something so tight and sharp in my chest.

  “You’re hurting me, Ian.”

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be doing fricking fuck all while you’re off with your boyfriends? Do you want to know how many fricking fridges I fixed today? How many fricking deliveries I made? I am so sick of this shit.”

  “So you’re bored Ian. Grow up.”

  I snatch my hands from him.

  “Fuck you, Lindiwe”

  And I feel his words hitting my back, piercing through.

  I go to the bathroom. Lock the door. I press my back against the door, waiting. For him to bang at it with his fists. For the handle of the door to jerk up and down. For the fight to go on. For the words to become uglier still, more terrible, more brutal. For us to exhaust ourselves until we find each other again, forgive. But there is nothing. Just the two of us, breathing resentment, hurt, fury on opposite sides.

  13.

  But it’s the attack at Ilo’s, two weeks later, that’s the last straw.

  A demonstration starting at the post office: parents queuing to pay school fees begin a spontaneous protest against the recent 100 percent increase of fees which spreads down to some unemployed youths loitering around. Stones, bricks are thrown. The riot police are called in. Some demonstrators dash into shops to take cover, and the riot police flush them out with tear gas; one canister fizzles open inside at Ilo’s where the old man is in the back room.

  Ian comes home distraught.

  “He’s in a bad way, Lindiwe. The gas got into his lungs deep, and with the chemicals, shit. Shit.”

  When we go to the Avenues Clinic the next day, we find the nurse clearing up the sheets. She shakes her head when she sees us.

  “It was too much for him. He could not take it. This is Zimbabwe now. No respect for old people,” she says.

  Ian walks out before she’s finished talking, and when I go out to the parking lot after him, the car’s not there. I catch a taxi to town, to the studio, and that’s where I find him, carefully taking down the pictures on the wall.

  The smell of tear gas lingers in the air.

  “Ian…”

  He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t answer me. I go to him, try to get hold of his arm, of him.

  “Ian…”

  He keeps working on the pictures, emptying the walls.

  I stand there, watching, helpless.

  “Ian, we have to talk.”

  He doesn’t stop packing his stuff. His gear. He’s off, on assignment. I know he’s overjoyed to be out of here. He’s off to South Africa; things have heated up there again; there’s talk of civil war. He’s going to take pictures. He’s leaving this messy life behind.

  “Ian, we have to talk.”

  But he doesn’t stop for anything, not for one word. In goes the camera and finally there’s nothing else for him to busy himself with. He’s ready to scoot off. I should just let him get on with it, he’s already missed so much, everything he’s had to hear secondhand like everyone else, one gruesome slaughter after another.

  “Ian…”

  He’s looking at me. What does he see? His ball and chain probably.

  “So talk,” he says, standing there with his hands crossed over his chest.

  “I said we have to talk, not just me.”

  I sound so juvenile. Desperate. I look at him glower red. I should leave. Let him get away.

  “I’m taking David back to Bulawayo. I can’t look after him here.”

  I don’t say, “on my own.”

  “Lindiwe, it’s only for—”

  He looks at his watch.

  “I’m off,” he says, picking up his bag. Then he remembers something.

  “The rent’s paid up for the year.”

  Don’t expect me back. Soon. Ever.

  And then he’s gone.

  When Bridgette hears it’s me, she says, “Howzit?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Sorry,” she giggles.

  “And anyway, you missed out ‘hanging?’”

  “Hanging?”

  “Yes, as in ‘howzit hanging?’”

  “Oh, my God, Lindiwe, you’re not serious. That’s how they talk? Howzit hanging? I’ll remember that for next time.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “So, you’re a free woman. We can have some real fun now. How’s David taking it?”

  “I’m going to take him to Bulawayo, but Bridgette, I feel so guilty. He’s just got used to life here; he’s actually made a friend at school and sometimes he forgets about the giraffe and I’m about to—I can’t look after him—I have to go out to Makoni communal lands for my dissertation.”

  “That cooperative thing? Group management styles, group dynamics, etcetera, etcetera?”

  “Yes. I can’t drag him around with me. I—”

  “Listen, Lindiwe, I can do that. When you’re not around, I can help. I’m a freelancer; I set my own hours.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Don’t be silly. I think he’s so cute.”

  “Bridgette, it’s a lot to—”

  “Think about it, okay?”

  “Yes, thanks, Bridgette.”

  * * *

  It’s the Liberation War Heroes holiday, and we’re on the train, David and me, off to Bulawayo.

  We’re in cattle class, and I’m sitting at the edge of a bench, David squashed up tight against me. The wagon keeps filling up until it’s thick with bodies, and I can’t see clearly on either side of me. I’m breathing in: stale Chibuku coming out in heavy, hot tufts from the gaping mouths of last night’s revelers; freshly brewed Chibuku in its brown plastic tubs ready for consuming as soon as the train chugs away into the night; and sweaty squashed bodies which sway as fingers lose their grip on the overhead metal bars. The train is already an hour and a half late. I have an urge to bolt out of here, but it’s not even possible. We’d be trampled underfoot. It’s going to be a long, long ride.

  This is our last minute escape from the celebrations. Rumor has been circulating in Harare that the Youth Brigade has been told to go door to door, even in the suburbs, to drag people out to Rufaro to show the president just how much he and the other heroes are loved, and after what happened yesterday in town, it’s best to be away. Celebrations in Bulawayo will be a lower key affair.

  The train shudders then is still again.

  “Hey, man!” someone shouts.

  The train shudders again, and this time manages to drag its bulk across the lines.


  The ride is fitful, lots of stops and then starts, some short, some long. Chibuku splashes about, and soon the wagon is also filled with the sound of someone retching, someone swearing and shouting, threatening to do damage to someone’s organs, but then tiredness seems to settle in all round and the carriage becomes filled with snoring and intermittent murmuring.

  David sleeps. I stroke his head and bend over, give him a light kiss on his forehead.

  He’s been upset that we couldn’t take Jade with us; no animals allowed on the train. We left her with the neighbors, distracted by the huge bone we got from the butcher’s.

  I think of Ian running around, taking his pictures, of the image I’ve been having: Ian meeting Mandela and giving him that legendary greeting “howzit,” and Mandela cocking his head to one side, his face crinkling up into that smile. “Howzit,” he says back.

  I don’t want to think about Bulawayo, what I’ll find there.

  Mummy, Daddy, Rosanna. And my sister. Half.

  I try not to think of the house next door.

  I think of the planes that will do the flypast for the president, their acrobatic displays in the sky. Duncan and his merry men landing at Mugabe’s feet.

  I think about David and me yesterday in town, having hamburgers at Wimpy, First Street. We were sitting watching the fire-eater through the window. He was very tall and very black and dressed in nothing but a loincloth. His body shone and glistened as though he had smeared tar all over it. His teeth were startling white, his lower lip a vivid pink. His hair fell all the way down his back in thick flat pads like the stretched, kneaded dough you could spy from the window at Downings Bakery. We watched him pick up the club, set it alight, and bring the flame to his open mouth. In it went and then out again.

  David watched as he sucked the last of the cream float.

  Then we watched as the crowd began scampering, somebody falling.

  We watched as the youths toi toyed in the wake of the crowd, their berets askew, their vote zanu-pf T-shirts looking grubby and tired.

  We watched them kick the fire-eater’s drum; grab hold of an old man, give him some slaps; pee on the streetlamps; and rip the poster that some brave soul from the Zimbabwe Congress of Trade Unions had stuck on a wall, calling for a general strike against the World Bank–sanctioned economic structural adjustment program.

  We watched as three of the youths broke off from the group and sauntered into the restaurant.

  “Pamberi ne ZANU!” one of them shouted.

  They were greeted with silence.

  “Pamberi ne ZANU!” the youths shouted, one of them slamming his fist on a table, rattling the cutlery. There was silence again.

  “Eh, eh, Pamberi ne—”

  “Heh, shut up with your pamberis, can’t you see we are trying to eat in peace?”

  The voice was loud and strong and came from the table behind us. I didn’t look back. The youths started moving forwards, and I heard chairs scraping from the table behind. There were four of them, big men. One of the youths backed out and started running out into the street. The patrons of the restaurant hooted and cheered. There was a scuffle and the fight was carried outside, the two youths looking suddenly small and scared out of their wits, their shirts already torn from the bodies, their pants pulled down, their buttocks exposed; someone squirted tomato sauce on them.

  I told David we were leaving. I didn’t want to be there when the runaway youth came back with reinforcements. Anyway, the manager came in and started shooing everyone away; the restaurant was now closed for business.

  I dragged David home, constantly looking back in case the youths came leaping out.

  Home, I locked myself in the bathroom and started crying.

  The train stops yet again.

  We must be almost there. Dawn is beginning to break. Rays of light are filtering through the windows. I haven’t slept and my head is stiff and aching. I feel David’s weight on me. I shift a bit and he wakes up.

  “Hey, sleepyhead, we’re almost there.”

  The train starts again, and around us we begin to hear the stirring of those who’ve fallen asleep on their feet, shaking the weight back into their legs.

  Bulawayo.

  I’m too tired and sore to even think of the walk across town to get the bus home. We get a taxi, a run-down Peugeot that smells of engine oil and smoke and whose ancient sound system is crackling “Corruption, corruption” by Thomas Mapfumo.

  I look over at David who leans his head against the greasy window, his lips flat against it. I don’t say to him, “Don’t do that, you’ll get sick with all the germs.” I let him be.

  My heart starts knocking against my chest when we pass the cemetery, then the garage, the bus stop, the turn right, one, two, and there we are in front of the iron gate.

  I step out of the car and everything seems eerily quiet. David stands next to me and together we look out to the old Spanish Colonial house. I feel his breathing change, his body tense. I take his hand. We’ll be all right.

  But there are shocks waiting for me, for us.

  Mummy is not here. She’s been gone for weeks. She just packed her bags and left. The only place I can think of is that she is in Botswana with Aunty Gertrude.

  Rosanna has moved into the main house. Her bedroom is the spare room. She is looking after Daddy.

  Rosanna’s child, Daddy’s daughter, my sister, half, looks so much like me.

  Maphosa is back in his room. And he has a wife.

  I phone Aunty Gertrude who says, yes, Mummy is there with her. I ask to speak to her, and Aunty Gertrude comes back to the phone to say that Mummy has just gone in the bath.

  “How is she?” I ask Aunty Gertrude.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “She is doing well.”

  Rosanna says that she hopes I am not upset with her for being in the house.

  “Your father was in need of care, Sisi, and at night I could not hear him if he had need.”

  She says this while almost kneeling down in front of me, clapping her hands together.

  Sisi Lindiwe, she still calls me.

  “It was your mother who sent for me again. She went away as soon as I came, the day after; she was waiting for me to arrive. She said that she did not think that she would be coming back.”

  I look at her child, my sister, half, and ask her, “What’s your name?”

  “Danielle,” she says quietly, a name she finds hard to pronounce.

  My father’s name. Daniel. I wanted to hear it in her voice.

  “Thank you, Rosanna, for looking after Daddy so well. I am grateful. I’m only here for a short time, so we’ll keep things as they are. It’s quite fine by me.”

  * * *

  Rosanna wheels Daddy out into the garden under the gum tree. She sits there with him knitting and chatting about this and that. From the kitchen window, I watch her put a blanket under his knees and carefully wipe the drool from his lips. I watch her bend her head towards him to catch whatever words he is struggling with, and I watch her throw her head back in a hearty laugh.

  When I look at her, my half sister, Danielle, I have the feeling of falling through a gap in time and finding myself seven, eight again. We are Daddy’s girls. She follows me everywhere. I ask Rosanna if it will be all right to tell her that I’m her sister. Rosanna claps her hands and jumps.

  “That is a blessing,” she says.

  “I’m your big sister,” I tell Danielle. “We have different mothers but the same father.”

  She stands there clasping her hands behind her back.

  “I am happy,” she says and I lean over and give her a hug. I look up and see David watching from the doorway.

  Rosanna says that Maphosa has been back for a week or so now. He turned up, she says, wearing that uniform. Maphosa is now a Forward Security guard, and every morning he sets off at five to go off to the patch of field next to Queens Sports Ground to do his drills and then he walks to Cement Side, where he stands guard over the
grocery and butcher shop there. Forward Security Company is run as a cooperative by former Freedom Fighters. His wife tends the garden. I don’t talk to him during the three days I’m back. The only time I catch a glimpse of him is when one morning I push back the bedroom curtain and see him walking towards the gate in his khaki uniform. His figure looks so forlorn in the mist, as though it might be a displaced spirit, something like that.

  Rosanna and I watch the president’s speech on TV. He says that whites in Zimbabwe have never reconciled themselves to the black majority. They are responsible for the country’s current economic hardships. They control the banks and industry. The land itself. Even food. He says that government forces have exposed rampant profiteering by milling companies, which are owned by whites; they are holding back grain to create artificial shortages, selling it off in the black market for exorbitant prices.

  Rosanna gets up and says, “This old man is getting more dangerous by the day. He is giving me a headache. Good night, Sisi.”

  I switch off the TV and sit for a while in the dark.

  Tomorrow we’ll be going back. David and me.

  I phone Botswana. The phone rings on and on until finally someone picks it up.

  “Hello,” I say. “Hello.”

  And I know it’s my mother on the other end.

  “Hello, Ma, Mummy.”

  And then I hear click and the line is dead.

  I take Daddy’s hand, hold it in mine. I don’t know if he likes it, wants it there. We are sitting on the veranda. Just the two of us. I hold him, us, in another life. There he is sitting on that uncomfortable wire chair, tinkering with something, a broken radio, a TV part, and there I am, on a cushion on the floor, leaning against a pillar reading. Sue Barton. Nancy Drew. Heidi. Anne of Green Gables. Now and then the slap of paper as he spreads out and folds his technical diagrams, his eyes poring over the minute details until they grow tired, and he pushes his glasses onto his forehead and rubs the bridge of his nose.

  “This one is a challenge,” he might say to me. “Come and take a look, see how the See-I-Saws in Magwegwe made a complete mess; I shouldn’t even be wasting my time…” But then he puts his glasses back down and goes on a marathon session until the item is in good working order.