The Boy Next Door Page 22

  Mrs. Masasa was a legend in the area. A ZANU-PF stalwart, who had threatened to beat up all those little boys from Europe, who had come to disrupt her profitable rural shops where the markup for anything was at least 200 percent. She had long ago driven out the Indians.

  “That shopkeeping lady is tough. But one must remain optimistic. The whole thing is ridiculous, of course; everyone has been quite happy to sell their one, two, five tomatoes in the open, on the ground, along the road, until the experts come along. But this is the nature of the aid business in Africa. At least we give a little employment.”

  It was the only time I had ever seen Herbert downbeat.

  I get into the Land Rover, which looks like it has been involved in yet another accident.

  Herbert catches me looking at the smashed-in rear door.

  “Nothing, nothing. A little fall into the Mucheke riverbed. Nothing to worry about, my dear; I have improved very much recently.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “First we get a little to eat and then we are off. We pick up Wilfred at one o’clock.”

  We drive out to The Crocodile Motel. I order a cheese sandwich, Herbert a steak with chips. The water of the pool is yellowish green.

  “Not very inviting,” says Herbert. “Chlorine is very expensive these days.”

  I’m thinking of Ian and me sitting here; it seems such a long time ago.

  “How is Marie?”

  “Good, good. She is painting again. You will see her this evening. She is preparing a grand dinner in your honor.”

  I wait for Herbert to say something about Jean, but it’s me who finally says, “Have you heard from Jean Pierre recently?”

  He thinks something over and then he says, “He has told me a little of what happened. You are happy, yes?”

  I don’t know how to answer that.

  As we get up to leave, he adds, “Don’t worry about him, you understand?”

  “Good afternoon, madam!” Wilfred greets me cheerfully. He’s the office messenger at Herbert’s NGO and he is going to act as my translator.

  He is old enough to be my father, perhaps even my grandfather, and even though I have repeatedly told him to call me Lindiwe, somehow being with the expats makes me an irrevocable “madam.”

  “Good afternoon, Wilfred.”

  Wilfred insists on sitting at the back. I give him the pack with all the questionnaires to lean against.

  “Ready?” says Herbert.

  “Ready,” I say. “Please don’t fall into any riverbeds.”

  Herbert laughs and puts on his Humphrey Bogart hat, and then we’re off.

  The members of the Poultry Cooperative are waiting for us at the school. I greet Mrs. Chiwana and the others. I thank them all for participating in the project. I hand out the questionnaires, which have been translated into Shona. Then one by one, Wilfred gives them a quick interview, which I record on a tape recorder. Afterwards Mrs. Chiwana thanks me for my interest in their small cooperative. She also thanks the most wonderful French people who are helping them with funds. Herbert says that the French people are very happy to be part of development in the region. Everyone claps and is happy.

  Things also go smoothly at the Uniform Sewing Cooperative.

  At the Bakery Cooperative there is pandemonium. Mr. Maxwell, the husband of the energetic chairwoman, has absconded with the bakery’s savings, the money that they were collecting for a new oven. Mrs. Maxwell is sitting on the floor, smacking her head with her hands. Some of the other members are commiserating with her. I stand at the door. Herbert steps inside.

  “Oh, Mr. Herbert, it is a disaster, a disaster.”

  Mrs. Maxwell looks up, struggles to her feet.

  “He has betrayed us,” she wails. “All the hard work. Everything, it is over.”

  Herbert pats her on the shoulder. “These things, they can happen. You must not panic. How much money is left in the savings?”

  “He took all of it,” cries Mrs. Maxwell. “All of it. I was going to take the money to Rusape tomorrow, oh, oh.”

  One of the younger members of the group, who is standing by the old oven, mutters something, and Mrs. Maxwell looks sharply at her; she starts banging her hands on her head again.

  “Oh, oh,” she cries. “Now I am being accused to be an accomplice, oh, oh.”

  “Shush, shush,” remonstrates a woman next to her. “It is not so. We know you are a good woman; it is only the men who create problems.”

  I don’t give out the questionnaires. We don’t do any interviews. We’ll come back another day (if the cooperative is still in existence).

  In the car Herbert scratches his head.

  “They are finished now. They cannot compete with Lobels. Their prices are too high. The locals complain that their bread does not look nice and straight. Imagine, my dear, in Europe people are willing to spend much more for homemade bread. Life.”

  “I wonder if they’ll report him to the police.”

  “I hope not. It will completely destroy poor Mrs. Maxwell, and she has six children to support. I must try and find some way to help, look for another donor, maybe the Swedes; I’ll talk to Stefan this evening.”

  We end at the Soap-Producing Cooperative. All goes well, and we leave with a bar of soap each.

  “If they could only get funds for packaging; they could sell this in France. Organique, c’est en vogue, très chic. I have to bring Marie here. She could help.”

  I can’t imagine his Parisian wife and the cooperative ladies getting on, but stranger things have happened.

  “I’ll try and arrange a meeting with a pottery-making cooperative tomorrow and you also have the other two to interview.”

  “Thanks, Herbert. You are so Bogart, the way you rescue damsels in distress.”

  And with that ringing endorsement he takes the Galois from behind his ear and lights up.

  I give Wilfred an envelope.

  “A small something for all your help today, Wilfred. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, madam, thank you, madam, you are too kind. Christmas is come too early now,” he says, clapping his hands.

  Herbert drops Wilfred off at his house, Number 203 Vengere township, and soon children are swarming the car calling out, “Murungu, Murungu.” Herbert cheerfully waves before covering them in a swirl of dust as the Land Rover takes off across the Mutare Road into the suburbs.

  “Ah, Lindiwe, darling.”

  “Marie.”

  She gives me three air kisses. She smells of red wine.

  “Come, come,” she says. “I’m finished in the kitchen. Herbert can take over.”

  “Mmmmm, it smells delicious.”

  She shows me to the guest room.

  “I will leave you to get ready. It is such a pleasure to see you again.”

  Tired, I sit on the bed for a bit. I should have asked her if I could phone Harare. I’ll do it later. I’m tempted to fling my body on the bed, but I know that if I do that, I’ll go straight to sleep.

  There is Stefan and Astrid, a Swedish couple who work for the Swedish International Development Agency (SIDA—an acronym that Herbert has told me is well deserved because the Swedes are a hard-partying lot and are well-known and appreciated regulars at “TK,” Terreskane Hotel, in Harare, otherwise popularly known as Brothel Central), and Benjamin Murape, a lawyer who has represented trade union officials. Marie told me, in the kitchen, that he has been detained by the CIO several times and has spent some nights in Chikurubi. There is also a British journalist, Paul Redmond, who is making a documentary about his travels in sub-Saharan Africa and is sporting a free(d) mandela T-shirt.

  “People are tired,” says Benjamin, as I’m walking in. “This Economic Structural Adjustment Package of the World Bank is really an unmitigated disaster.”

  “Ah, ESAP,” says Herbert, “Extra Suffering for African Peoples.”

  Benjamin doesn’t acknowledge the joke that’s been doing the rounds; Zimbabweans seem to have this
limitless capacity to theatrically personalize World Bank acronyms.

  “The ZCTU wants to organize a mass stay away,” Benjamin marches on. “The government suspects something, that’s why the nefarious charges.”

  “Mugabe won’t let them organize,” says Herbert.

  “Look, we Zimbabweans are famed for our goodwill, but I tell you, cometh the hour, cometh the man. Even Smith didn’t think his hour was coming…”

  Varsity days. Student Union meetings. Demos. Manifestos.

  The same recalcitrant tone, a mix of Marxist bombastic overload, and a real passion and recklessness for justice. I’m pretty sure Benjamin was a student leader, perhaps a couple years before I got in.

  I want to ask Marie about the steel sculptures she has dotted around the garden, where she gets them from. I also like the steel candleholders she has speared into the lawn.

  It’s such a beautiful night. There is the heady scent of lilies and irises drifting in through the screened windows. I wish I could slip away, do something silly, like walking barefoot on the lawn.

  “… which reminds me of this interesting chap I met last month in Johannesburg,” Paul’s voice filters through. “… freelancer, a photojournalist.”

  I drag myself back to the conversation. I look at Benjamin, who is staring morosely at his drink. Stefan and Astrid are slouched on the couch, a haze of smoke around them. Herbert is looking at Marie, who is looking decidedly bored. This is not the kind of soiree she had hoped for. I should step in. Bring up a book I’ve read. This is my role here. An infusion of culture.

  “… taken some amazing pictures of the troubles in the townships. But also some superb portraits of the residents there. They were showing in a gallery in Johannesburg. He’s a white Zimbabwean, of all things. What do you call them here, Rhodies?”

  Benjamin snorts.

  I am very quiet, very still.

  The night contracts until all I hear is this one voice.

  “That’s what he calls himself. A white Zimbabwean. He took me down to Soweto to show me the sights, and on our way back he goes into lecture mode. About the Historical Perspective.”

  “From a white Zimbabwean,” says Benjamin, “that must be very interesting.”

  “According to his take, and remember this is him, not me. According to him, the problem is that people get hung up about what’s happening now, as though it were the first time ever in history that something like this has ever taken place.”

  “Like what?” demands Benjamin.

  Paul, who has had a few drinks, doesn’t seem to notice Benjamin’s tone. He should stop now.

  “Sorry mate, you know, colonization. According to him the only difference now is that it was a tribe of people who happened to be white who went and subjugated; although if I remember, he used more colorful language, a tribe of people who just happened to be black. This thing’s been going on since time immemorial. His thesis is that if people bear that in mind they wouldn’t get so jittery about moving on, forgiving and forgetting. You see—”

  “What utter rubbish,” jumps in Benjamin, spilling part of his drink on his white shirt.

  “And this so-called history is supposed to justify oppression.”

  “I don’t think he meant that,” I hear myself saying.

  “What?” he swivels his head in my direction, spilling more drink on the carpet.

  “I don’t think he meant to justify anything,” I plod on, even though I should know better.

  “So now you are with the oppressors.”

  “Oh please. I think he meant that in the end these kinds of crimes have always been committed and that they are not the preserve of any one particular group of people, in this case, white people; that conquest and humiliation of another group of people is the nature of humanity; no one’s hands are clean, and if we recognize this we can, I don’t know, lower our expectations of each other and be more realistic.”

  Benjamin looks as though someone has forced him to swallow a rat. No, two. “What did you say your surname was?”

  Marie steps in. “Dinner’s ready,” she says.

  Benjamin puts his drink down on the table and gets up. “Excuse me,” he says, “I have to prepare the defense for our historically oppressed union members, good evening.” And with that, he leaves.

  Over dinner we talk about small things and I laugh too hard.

  It’s too late to make a phone call. I’ll do it tomorrow.

  My head feels as though someone has been pounding away at it throughout the night, probably Benjamin. I look at my watch and it’s already ten minutes to nine. Paul has offered me a lift to Harare, and I can hear his voice and Marie’s just outside my door. I don’t have time to phone Bridgette. I’ll give David a surprise. I’ve cut my visit short; in a couple of hours, I’ll see him, tell him how much I missed him.

  As we’re passing The Crocodile, Paul says, “I hope I didn’t make a complete ass of myself last night.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I should steer clear of the hard stuff. That Benjamin chap was pretty wound up.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “I’m not supposed to alienate the nativ— sorry.”

  “You know that guy you were talking about yesterday, the Zimbabwean?”

  “Yes, I wish I had never brought him up. He was quite a character, though.”

  “I know him.”

  “Really? How?”

  “He’s my—” (What are you, Ian?) “—we have a son.”

  The car almost lands on a tree by the roadside.

  “Careful.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could kick myself. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I… I don’t know. A mixture of things. As he says, it’s the history of things. I guess I felt intimidated and embarrassed.”

  “You mean if Benjamin wasn’t there you might have said…?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tell you something, I’ve spoken to a few white Zimbabweans, and he came across as different. You know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “He’s not so damned sure of himself. I think that’s it. I gave that Benjamin chap the wrong idea about him. Down there in Soweto, he has quite a following. And he’s a straight shooter, once he gets round to talking, that is.”

  And that makes me smile.

  “And then when he gets into that Rhodesian dialect…”

  “Rhodesian dialect,” I say. “I like that. That’s good.”

  * * *

  I start pulling faces at the mirror in the sleek, futuristic-looking lift, and then I start worrying about hidden cameras and one-way mirrors.

  I should have brought him something. Damn. A ball. A proper football. We’ll go into town; have a treat. Yes. Him and me.

  I press the doorbell. I hear it ringing. I wait to hear the sound of footsteps. Someone calling out, “I’m coming!” Nothing. No one comes. I press the bell again. And again. They might be out by the pool.

  I’m about to leave when the door is flung open. And Eunice, the maid, stands there, her hands dripping water on the floor.

  “Oh, it is you, you are here at last. I was washing the bathroom; I did not hear the first time. The madam has been calling and calling, asking if you have come here.”

  “What’s wrong? What’s the matter? What’s happened? What… where’s David… David!”

  “The child, the child is not well,” the maid says. “He is in the hospital. He was very hot. The madam says you must go to Avenues.”

  I run all the way.

  I find her in the children’s ward; her head bent low, her hands clasped tight.

  “Bridgette, where… what… David… where is he?”

  “Oh Lindiwe, thank God, thank God. He’s in there, intensive care. The doctor says he has acute bacterial meningitis. It was all of a sudden. He’s on a drip, antibiotics…”

  I hurry past her.

  I push open the d
oor.

  “I’m here. David, Mummy’s here.” I whisper the words over and over. “I’m here, David. Mummy’s here.”

  The long night passes, and I stand there, watching my son breathe.

  * * *

  The doctor says that he should make a full recovery, but that there might be long-term effects. Only time will tell. There might be hearing loss, epilepsy, or some level of brain retardation. Or he might be completely unaffected.

  I take him home. I lift him out of the taxi (how light he has become again), and I take him into the cottage. I sit with him throughout the night, watching him drift in and out of sleep, the antibiotics leaving him washed out.

  Bridgette comes the next day. She wants to talk about what happened, how he suddenly got sick, but I don’t want to hear it.

  “Bridgette, it’s no one’s fault.”

  The words come out forcefully, strong and bitter, full of accusation.

  The doctor said he was in a very bad way when he got in, he should have been taken to the hospital much sooner.

  My heart is beating so loud, but it doesn’t drown out that little voice, you knew he didn’t look too well, you knew that, and you still left him behind.

  Bridgette stays for a while looking at David, stroking his head, and then she gets up.

  “I’ll call you, Lins.”

  I don’t say anything back.

  I sit in the lounge counting the breaths from him. Until night comes. My beautiful, beautiful baby.

  PART THREE

  Mid-1990s

  1.

  “That’s one hang of a behind,” he says, and even though I’m cross with him, I can’t help smiling.

  It is one hang of a behind. And boy does it belong to our new First Lady, First Shopper, the indomitable Grace Mugabe, swathed in designer chiffons and silk, the white queen, the Air Zimbabwe fleet ever happy to whisk and carry her off for fittings and excursions for this, the most important of all days. But why, oh why, does she appear so glum? Is it the hordes of villagers who are kicking up dust with all their dancing, spoiling the dress, the hair, the handbag? A castle would have been a more fitting setting surely, the one allegedly acquired in Scotland perhaps?