The Boy Next Door Read online

  “I don’t even want to think about it; man, did I give them a fright.”

  The girls leave the veranda and come down to the pool. They choose a patch of grass a couple of meters from us. They pull over their tunics and parade their bikini-clad bodies. They jump gracefully in the water. I look at Ian.

  “So, I reckon I’ll just leave it.”

  The girls climb out of the water, spread their bodies on the concrete, put their fingers under their bikini bottoms, snap them back into place.

  I think of Bridgette and me at Geraldine’s house.

  David comes dripping water on us, and he and Ian have a fight with the towel, pulling and tugging at it until they’re both rolling on the grass.

  The girls turn their heads.

  And a single thought erupts in my head.

  He’s mine!

  No, two.

  So there!

  The drums beat throughout the entire night.

  “They are trying to chase away the bad spirits,” says Rosanna.

  In the deep darkness I lie on my childhood bed next to David. Ian’s stormed off. He can’t bear to stay near the house; he’s over at the Holiday Inn.

  I lie listening to David’s breathing, and the drums until I fall asleep.

  “Sisi! Sisi! Sisi!”

  Rosanna’s screams pierce through my sleep. She is standing in the doorway, clutching her head.

  “Sisi!”

  “What? What? What is it? Rosanna!”

  “They are crying, she is dead. She is dead. She is dead.”

  “Who? Who? Rosanna, who?”

  “Oh, oh, mai weh! Mai weh!”

  “Rosanna!”

  “Maphosa’s wife. Maphosa’s wife. She is dead. Oh, oh. Ufile. Ufile. She is dead. Mai weh. Mai weh.”

  We check that the doors are locked, all the windows closed, the curtains drawn. After some moments, I think to phone the Holiday Inn.

  “Ian, you have to come and get us quick. Maphosa’s wife has died during the night.”

  “Shit, shit. I’m there. Five minutes.”

  * * *

  Rosanna can’t stay still. She starts hitting her upper arms with her palms, moaning, groaning, in the hallway. And then banging her head rhythmically on the wall.

  “Rosanna, stop. Please, stop. Rosanna, go and see if Daddy’s fine. Go.”

  David sits on his bed, his eyes scanning the walls in the dim light.

  “Are they coming to kill us, Mum?”

  “No, no, don’t be silly.”

  “Did Dad kill her?”

  “Kill? Who? Maphosa’s wife? Of course not, David. She was sick.”

  “Why didn’t she go to the hospital?”

  “I don’t know, David. Sometimes people are afraid to go to hospital.”

  “Maybe it was too dark.”

  “Yes, maybe that was it.”

  “Is Dad coming?”

  “Yes, so we have to get ready. Let’s get dressed, okay?”

  He nods solemnly. “Yes, Mum.”

  My ears are strained to hear, catch any sound, but the morning seems very still.

  No bird. No dogs. No cars. No screaming. No chanting. No drums.

  The tense expectation of something terrible, retribution. Biblical words resound in my head: Vengeance. Is. Mine. Saith. The. Lord.

  Then a sound so loud, so catastrophic that either the house is being shaken at its foundation or The Lord has Spoken.

  Thunder.

  Only thunder.

  Rolls of it, one after the other, as though God doth speaketh.

  The slow patter of rain on the red tiles of the roof soon turns into a roaring barrage. We are Noah, in the ark, tossed about in the tumultuous waves of God. El Niño is being banished for this one moment by greater, stronger spirits, Amadhlozi. The spirit world is in mighty turmoil, uproar.

  I find Rosanna under Daddy’s bed, her hands clasped over her ears, whimpering, “Eh, eh, eh… Amadhlozi, Amadhlozi…”

  I lie on the bed with Daddy (and David sideways, at our feet), two question marks on the bedspread, lulled by Rosanna’s moans until finally Ian comes.

  We drive in the storm in our getaway car, fugitives, fugitives from justice. Off, off, away we go, all along the familiar landmarks, all the way up until we reach the Harare Road, all the way to Cement Side, and there we are at last surging on the open road. The rain pouring down, smashing into the metal of the roof, so fragile it seems the torrent could so easily crush us.

  It’s so cold in this car.

  “Lindiwe,” I hear Ian, “you’re shivering.”

  The car swoops and swoons, the road plays with the car, and the rain tumbles, relentless.

  Ian stops the car, puts his hand on my forehead. “Jeez, you’re burning. Shit, I hope it’s not malaria.”

  “Is Mum sick?” I hear from far, far away and I don’t hear Ian’s answer.

  I feel Ian parting my lips, pouring rain into them. “Easy, Lindiwe, not so fast.”

  The rain has gone and now it’s the sun beating fiercely, terribly on me, us. It wants to burn us up, twist the metal.

  “I’m too hot, I’m too hot,” I say over and over, and I don’t know if anyone hears or understands for suddenly I am no longer there, but running as fast as I can, something dark and rapid snapping at my heels.

  Lindiwe, Lindiwe, it’s me, Ian. Lindiwe, you’re dreaming, it’s a dream…

  And I’m scrambling, clawing myself out of the earth, breathing, gasping, flash, eyes, wide, open, shut…

  Lindiwe, it’s me.

  … Eyes open, flash…

  “Ian,” I say. “Ian,” I say in the still, still room.

  “Has it stopped raining?” I ask him.

  “Jeez, man, you’ve been out for two days.”

  My lips, dry, hot.

  “And Lindiwe,” he says. “You’re pregnant.”

  And there, here, he is, with the widest, flashiest, whitest smile, as if he is on a Colgate extra-strength advertisement or he is a crocodile or a hyena or a shark, something, something that will gnash its whitest teeth, eat me whole.

  But three weeks later, the baby dies.

  It could be anything.

  The fever, a genetic defect, stress, fright at the all too white Colgate smile….

  He (in my head, it is a he) comes out in drips and drabs, throughout the day.

  I go to the Bronte, rent a room.

  No, Ian, I want to be… alone.

  And standing, in the bathtub, legs apart; hands pressed against the wall, on my stomach; lips clenched tight, not a cry, not a single cry.

  Ian’s baby.

  My baby.

  David’s brother.

  Wordlessly (no, there’s Kojak on the TV, sound turned low), disappears.

  And then I drink.

  Half a whole bottle of red full-bodied wine.

  And pour the rest in the drain.

  Rosanna phones to say that the war vets have left.

  “Sisi,” she says, “Mother has come back. She is now at church.”

  3.

  “Sorry, I’m late, Bridgette,” I say, sitting down.

  “Don’t do that, Lins.”

  “Do what?”

  “That. Checking for symptoms. I’m fine. The pills are working. My blood platelet count is good. So relax. I’m not about to D-I-E.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And don’t do that, either. It’s irritating, you being sorry all the time.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Be yourself.”

  We order two cappuccinos.

  “So where’ve you been, Lins? I don’t see much of you these days.”

  “I’ve just come from the German embassy. I got a big contract.”

  “Doing what?”

  It’s difficult for me to tell her that I’ll be writing pamphlets on AIDS prevention.

  “They’re even sending me to Uganda next week. They’re way ahead of us in tackling the… the epidemic.”


  “Lindiwe, excuse me, but this sounds like it’s going to be another well-intentioned but futile exercise.”

  “What do you mean? It’s going to educate, get people talking about it, focus on—”

  “Oh please, Lins, that’s so tired. Educate who? Do you think it’s actually going to change anything? Who’s going to read them? And do you honestly think African men are going to accept condoms? And also, which Zimbabwean is going to come up and say, ‘I have AIDS’? That’s a pipe dream, anything but—tuberculosis, pneumonia, a long illness, whatever. Don’t even go there, do something real with your brains, please.”

  “Real? Like what?”

  I’m trying so hard not to look at her, not to give her that look. I wish I hadn’t brought up the subject.

  “Bridgette, there has to be a start,” I say softly.

  “A start! A start, maybe when it’s infected all the government ministers, their wives, their girlfriends, their sons, daughters, maybe then, but don’t hold your breath. For now it’s you go and see a nyanga who tells you all’s fine, you just have to go and rape a virgin and you’ll be as good as new.”

  Her voice is trembling with contempt, anger.

  She jerks her head back and then gives me a bright smile.

  “Look Lins, look who’s just landed, over to the left. Mr. Black Empowerment himself. That loud shiny suit of his probabely matches his Pajero.”

  “Shush, Bridgette.”

  “And there he goes with the latest cell phone, and now we are all going to get bombarded with his First-Class business deals. God help us if this is what indigenization means.”

  “Bridgette! You’ll get us arrested.”

  “Don’t worry girl, I have connections. By the way, guess who I bumped into in London on my last trip? One of the old schoolgirls who gapped it.”

  “Who?”

  “That Geraldine girl.”

  “Oh, her.”

  “Yes, and it was at Tooting Bec tube station of all places. I was coming back from the market with all the hair extensions I’d bought, and there she is by the ticket machine.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Of course, my dear. My word did she look haggard. She lives in Tooting, and I’m telling you, Lindiwe, Tooting is no Matsheumhlope, a long, long way away from swimming pools, gazebos, and whatever else they had going down there. Remember those boys at her party?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, how’s your Mr. Howzit? I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “He’s good. Since he won that big award in the States with his pictures of the Nigerian oil delta and the rebels there, he’s the man. Everyone wants him; actually, he’s supposed to go to Bosnia next week, but I think he’s tired of all the running around. He’s thinking of doing more studio work.”

  “Oh yes, like those celebrated nudes!”

  “Don’t remind me, Bridgette! Half of Harare has seen my breasts!”

  “Oh Lins, you don’t tell me that underneath all that grown-up attitude still lurks the Miss Goody Two-shoes. My, my, I would never have guessed and really, my dear, they are very fine breasts.”

  “Very funny. By the way, David’s been asking about you.”

  “That boy, he’s smart, Lins. I bet you his IQ is somewhere up there.”

  “He must get that from me.”

  She shakes her head. “You know, he’s a good guy, your Ian, Rhodie or not.”

  * * *

  When I get home, the boys are making a production of dinner.

  “Smells good,” I say. “What is it?”

  “Spaghetti Bolognese!” shouts David.

  “I thought so, just checking. I hope you didn’t use ketchup instead of tomatoes.”

  The silence is all the answer I need.

  “It smells great. I’m going to have a bath.”

  We’re sitting, the three of us, having dinner.

  “Delicious,” I say.

  “Good thing you’re not a fricking vegetarian anymore.”

  “Mum, we used ketchup.”

  “Oh, so that’s the secret ingredient!”

  And we all burst out laughing.

  4.

  “Howzit, doll?”

  It’s a surprise to have him there, here. A good surprise.

  He gives me a full-throated kiss right there in the Arrivals Hall, lifting me off the ground.

  When I finally come up for air, I hand him the duty-free gorilla.

  “Nice,” he says.

  In the car I can’t stop looking at him, smiling. I’ve only been gone for five days.

  And I’m suddenly swept by the sensation of being that sixteen-year-old girl once more, and I am alone in the car with Mr. McKenzie/Ian.

  “It’s quiet,” I say when we’re waiting at the traffic lights in front of the Coca-Cola company.

  “Here, it’s quiet. The action is down in the townships, Chitungwiza, Mbare, after dark. Door-to-door sweeps, like I said. Anyone caught with any new goods, shoes, clothes, guaranteed one hundred percent beatings. Government’s running shit scared. Didn’t reckon docile Zimbos had it in them to go about rioting, vandalizing Private Property. ESAP is doing its job. And the war vets are adding their two cents: that Hunzvi chap’s got them all riled up about their right to more dosh from the country they liberated; we owe them big-time. I got some good shots of them prancing around ZANU headquarters. Don’t look at me like that; I used a long lens.”

  We don’t talk about his mother. Not until we’re turning into our cul-de-sac. He stops the car right there. We’re half in, half out of the bend. It’s a dangerous place to be.

  “So Lindiwe, like I said on the phone, it’s a temporary thing. Until I can find something. I’m looking. I couldn’t let her stay in that place anymore; there were cockroaches crawling all over her when I went to see her, I…”

  I put my hand on his thigh.

  “It was so overcrowded in there. They were happy to let her out, I…”

  “It’s all right, Ian.”

  “Listen Lindiwe, she doesn’t look, she doesn’t look too good, her face is…”

  He’s holding onto the steering wheel, looking straight out ahead.

  “It’s all right, Ian,” I tell him again.

  She is sitting on the veranda. Her hands are resting on her lap, her back straight, her head inclined to her left. Seeing her like this, it seems she may be sitting for a portrait or simply be one of those people who can wait without having to pretend to be occupied by something. Her hair falls over her shoulders. She seems so self-contained, and I wonder if, in there, this was what she looked like, who she was.

  “Ma,” Ian says walking towards her. “Ma…”

  He kneels down beside her, takes her hand gently in his.

  “This is Lindiwe,” he says holding out a hand to me.

  “I told you about her. She’s been away. She lives here. She’s David’s mother, my…”

  He looks up at me, and I see that he’s biting at the inside of his cheek.

  “She lives here.”

  “Hello,” I say.

  She raises her head and slowly twists herself around. She looks up at me, her head perfectly still, and I have the strangest feeling that she is giving me a chance to look, to gape, to have my fill, just this one time.

  I stand there not daring to move, to look away.

  “I’m very happy to meet you,” I say at last into those eyes, my words ludicrous and somehow insulting, offensive to my ears.

  “Ma…”

  “Mum!” I look up and see David sprinting from next door, Jade leaping and barking at his feet.

  I watch him do that Indiana Jones thing of his of leaping over the stream, while Jade wisely scrambles up onto the wooden bridge.

  “Mum!”

  He dashes up the steps, tripping on the last one, and then he’s up again.

  “Mum!”

  And as he dives into my arms, I catch sight of her hand raised, her fingers splayed, brush against his head.

/>   He wriggles in my arms, turns around.

  “Gran!” he laughs.

  PART FOUR

  Late 1990s

  1.

  Ian’s mother is sitting at the kitchen table, drawing circles with the tip of her finger. I stand there for a moment leaning against the door, watching her.

  There are times when I wake up in the morning with the feeling that she has stood by my bedside during the night; when I breathe, it’s her breath I take in. I haven’t told this to Ian because I’m not sure if it’s real, if it’s not my imagination getting carried away, my fears taking over.

  It’s taken me a while to admit it. I’m afraid of her, of her quiet. Of her eyes that seem bluer than they were in that picture when she was young; I don’t know if this is because of the contrast between them and her shiny, scarred skin pulled tight over her bones.

  There are moments when she seems to me the stereotype of a madwoman, when she’s pulling at her hair or scratching her scalp, when she’s mumbling words to herself or walking in what looks like some kind of pattern up and down the garden.

  But when I catch her eyes, I’m not so sure. There’s something there. They’re alert and, perhaps it’s my imagination again, sometimes it feels like she’s amused. That’s the word, amused.

  She raises her finger and draws something in the air. No, she’s writing something. Letters. M-O-R-T-U and then she turns and looks at me. It feels as though she’s known I’ve been there all the time, spying.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  There won’t be an answer, I know this. She hasn’t said one word to me. Not one.

  It’s David she talks to. Long, whispery monologues. I wonder sometimes if she thinks she’s talking to Ian.

  I’m amazed at how unfazed David is by her, taking everything in his stride. Maybe he’s had the practice, knows all about dealing with otherworldly grandmothers.

  She gets up from the table, and a book slips from her lap to the floor.

  She doesn’t seem to notice because she walks around the table, opens the kitchen door, and steps outside, and I watch her walking in the garden in her white nightdress, floating, like Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White, the ghostly apparition disappearing into the mist.