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  Hazel gives me a sharp look. ‘My, but you’re in a self-righteous mood, aren’t you? Not every farmer was like Vic, you know. Your grandfather – did he ever abuse his workers? My parents certainly didn’t. Don’t tar everyone with the same brush, Frank. Besides, are the workers any better off now under the likes of Dlomo?’

  I sigh, exasperated. ‘Hazel, you can repeat the sad old story of whites losing their land until you’re blue in the face. No one’s interested. To outsiders, the story is simple. British invaders stole the land; oppressed Africans rose up and took it back. End of story.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s the problem with you outsiders. The story’s not so simple. You forget that whites in this country are no longer British colonials. They’re African, born and bred. They have a right to be here. You forget that white farmers paid for their land legitimately. They or their forebears spent a lifetime paying off loans. You forget that white farmers once fed the nation and half of Africa. They provided stable employment to hundreds of thousands of people. But you outsiders only want the simple story, hey? Evil whites oppressing poor dispossessed blacks. That’s all you want to hear, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hazel, if you want to defend Europe’s colonial land-grab in Africa, that’s your business. I’m just saying that Zimbabwe is small fry in the big scheme of things. Outsiders don’t spend their lives pondering the complexities of life here. Mugabe gets away with all his shenanigans because no one gives a damn –’

  Hazel silences me with a wave of her arm. ‘I don’t want to hear any more, Frank. I’m too old to stomach smart-alec outsiders talking about things that are so tragically important to people here. There are real people suffering here. Not just statistics. Do you realise that you are, in effect, defending Mugabe?’

  ‘I’m not defending him –’

  ‘You are, Frank! You contaminate the air by defending that bloody barbarian!’

  ‘I don’t agree –’

  ‘No more, Frank! Change the subject, please!’

  We climb the kopje in silence. I seethe with frustration. I don’t believe that I do subscribe to a simplistic view of Zimbabwean politics. At the same time I’m mortified that Hazel is offended. Why should her opinion of me matter so much?

  It’s a fairly easy climb up the kopje. Hazel reaches out a hand for assistance only when we scale the last rock dome to the top. We stand there for a while looking down on the land. The sun is low on the horizon; the Insiza Valley winding south in the distance is in deep shadow, a violet anguine smudge. We can see the car on the road near the culvert with its bonnet up and, further afield, almost submerged beneath a carpet of gold-grey bush, the ruins of yet another farmstead. The long, faint sigh of a plane passes overhead heading north.

  Hazel puts her glasses on and checks her phone. A weak signal, thank God. She hands it to me. ‘Here, try your friend, Milton. I don’t want to phone Vic. He’ll just get into a panic. He’s not supposed to drive with his bad heart.’

  Still smarting from her rebuke, I retrieve the slip of paper with Milton’s number on it from my wallet. It rings for a while before Ruby answers and tells me Milton is caught up at work.

  ‘When he gets back tell him we’re on the Insiza road, about twenty kilometres from Fort Rixon.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ruby says. ‘Just sit tight.’

  I hand the phone back to Hazel. ‘Might as well go back to the car.’

  ‘On second thoughts, I’d better give Vic a ring,’ she says. ‘He’ll go just as bonkers worrying if I’m not back by dark.’

  She calls Vic. The expected tirade follows. ‘No, Vic, we’re fine,’ she replies. ‘I’ve got big, brave Frank here to look after me. Milton Ogilvy will come and get us as soon as he gets off work. No need to worry. Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Hazel holds the phone at arm’s length while another rant ensues. ‘No, Vic,’ she says firmly. ‘You will not come and fetch us. I won’t speak to you if you put one foot in that car – it’s my car, remember?’

  The conversation ends abruptly and we start back to the car. By the time we reach the road the sun has gone down. We sit in the car listening to the bleating of guinea fowl and the noisy roosting of weaverbirds fussing around their round grass nests in some thorn trees along the river. Hazel pushes her door out wide and lights a cigarette. I’m embarrassed by my stomach’s garrulousness.

  Hazel pats me on the leg. ‘We should’ve packed a picnic, hey?’

  ‘I’m dying of thirst more than anything,’ I say.

  We wait as the darkness encroaches. No other vehicles come by. The only sign of human life comes in the form of two girls driving a decrepit donkey laden with firewood in the direction of Fort Rixon. I wave and greet them through the window as they approach; the girls nervously return my greeting and quickly continue on their way. The air is cool outside, a relief from the afternoon’s heat. Up ahead, where the road rises to meet the low horizon, the white thorn of a crescent moon pokes through the membrane of night. Dwindling birdcalls.

  Hazel appears to be enjoying herself. ‘This is such a treat,’ she says, cupping her ear at the far-off yapping of a jackal. ‘I grew up with these sounds.’

  ‘Must be bittersweet,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve never been one to dwell on negatives.’

  ‘My mother also grew up with these same sounds.’

  Hazel nods. ‘When I was a girl I used to believe that people are united by birdsong. Our souls are forever connected to those who grew up hearing the same birds. I believed that’s why your mother was like a sister to me.’ She laughs. ‘I used to believe in lots of things when I was girl.’

  ‘Would that have made Lettah a sister, too?’

  ‘In hindsight, yes.’

  ‘Hindsight?’

  Hazel chuckles. ‘Your mother and I were Rhodesian girls, for heaven’s sake! Our sisterhood was exclusively white, dear boy. I’m honest enough now to admit that black people were never included – never even considered! – in my childhood notions of soul-connectedness. Besides, I was never close to Lettah like your mother was.’

  ‘What happened between them, Hazel? My mother and Lettah. I just remember Lettah was like one of the family. Next thing she was gone.’

  ‘Could’ve been anything. Your mother had a stubborn streak, you know. She’d never turn back on a decision. I wouldn’t make too much of it.’

  ‘It’s just strange. She didn’t even confide in my father.’

  ‘Typical Lydia, I’m afraid. I’m sure you probably know that your mother kept matters of the heart – the deep, serious stuff – to herself. I knew her almost as well as I knew myself. We grew up together, connected by birdsong.’ Hazel giggles and elbows me. ‘You probably think I’m rather odd! One of those . . . what do you call them? New Age types. But it’s true. We went to school together, we shared boarding school dormitories. I knew what made your mother tick. Lydia had the biggest, kindest heart I’ve seen in anyone, but she was also a brooder with the memory of an elephant. If someone upset her she found it hard to forgive and forget.’ Hazel pauses, taking a drag on her cigarette. ‘Lydia . . . your mother was quite a complex bundle.’

  I smile and shake my head. ‘My mother’s moods . . . the whole thing’s so bizarre. How Lettah – someone so close – could be summarily dismissed from our lives. Never a word of explanation in forty years. And now for me to be sent on this mission of atonement. All those years, carrying that silent guilt.’

  ‘That’s Lydia. What’s important, though, is that she’s tried to put things right. It may be a lifetime too late, but at least she came around to it. There’s redemption in that, I think.’

  ‘Complex beasts, you females.’

  Hazel laughs. ‘My dear boy, you have no idea!’

  We are silent. I must confess, Hazel’s cigarette smoke is troublesome for all the wrong reasons. Right now, I can think of nothing more
desirable than a nicotine hit. Make that a cold beer too. Hazel puffs away, musing.

  ‘The one thing you should know about your mother is that she was extremely insecure. Painfully so. If she felt her position was being threatened or undermined in any way . . . heaven help whoever was in the firing line. Which is where I happened to find myself, unexpectedly. I was also summarily dismissed.’

  ‘When? In the Que Que days?’

  Hazel nods. ‘Again, it came from nothing much. Lydia was insanely jealous of your father. If any woman so much as looked at him, she’d have a fit. I thought I was exempt from suspicion. But I wasn’t. I adored your father. Don’t get me wrong – I adored your father as a friend. He was a breath of fresh air in crude colonial Rhodesia. It was always intellectually stimulating to be in his company. And, believe me, Frank, that’s all it was – intellectually stimulating. Unfortunately, that wasn’t how Lydia saw it. She thought I was beginning to occupy a special place in your father’s life. I became a threat. Another single female out to steal her man. So I was banished. That’s why I lost contact with you.’

  I feel a slow, gentle sadness – knowing what Hazel says is true, but loving my mother even more for her faults. I turn and gaze out at the dark bush.

  Hazel puts her hand on my arm. ‘I’m not saying this to get back at Lydia, Frank. I loved her dearly, and still do. It was pure animal instinct – Lydia wouldn’t allow anything to come between her and Errol. I understand that. I’m just sorry she wasn’t able to see that no other woman was ever a threat. I don’t think she knew how deeply your father loved her.’

  We lapse into silence once more, the sadness welling up again in me. I think of how fiercely protective Lydia was of her family. Her family was her life, pure and simple. If there was fault in that, it was divine fault.

  ‘It must be strange for you,’ Hazel says. ‘Here, searching for Lettah. I mean, what do you feel for her? Is she solid enough in your memory to feel anything?’

  I shake my head. ‘It was awful to hear what happened to her today. But to be honest, I still couldn’t fully connect with her. The distance between us is too great to make it personal. I don’t know if I’m making sense.’

  ‘It was all so long ago.’

  ‘It’s the same as how I feel about this country. I recognise it but don’t feel part of it.’

  Hazel takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘Hopefully that will change.’

  We wait, silent with our thoughts, until headlights appear beneath the crescent moon ahead. As the vehicle, a Volkswagen Beetle, nears and catches my car in its beam, it slows almost to a stop, then does a crazy wheelspin and roars towards us, skidding to a halt in a cloud of dust on the opposite side of the road. Vic’s grinning head pokes out the driver’s window, already revelling in Hazel’s inevitable reprimand, for which he is not kept waiting.

  ‘When are you going to grow up?’ Hazel yells past me. ‘Mr Superman, hey? You bloody men! Little boys, the lot of you! And what about poor Milton Ogilvy, hey? He’s probably on his way right this minute.’

  Vic laughs. ‘Ag, don’t get your knickers in a knot, woman! You would’ve sat out here all night waiting for that shyster to arrive. I rang him and told him not to worry. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Your heart, you big baboon! What happens if you have a heart attack, hey?’

  Vic looks at me helplessly. ‘Christ Almighty. That’s the thanks I get. Can’t win with women, hey?’

  He does a U-turn and reverses back in front of my car. Hazel and I get out. Vic emerges with a rope. Leaning on his walking stick, he instructs me where to tie the rope to both vehicles. When I’m finished he inspects my handiwork. Much wheezing and grunting as he tugs each end of the rope, muttering, ‘Where did you learn to tie a rope? Girl Guides?’ Then he straightens up and dusts his hand off on his trousers. ‘By the way, your happy clappy friend phoned.’

  ‘Brak Malan? Really?’

  ‘Ja, quite a coincidence, hey? Haven’t heard from the ungrateful bastard for two years and now he just phones out of the blue, looking for work. I told him even if I did have work I wouldn’t give him any.’

  ‘Did you tell him I’m looking for him?’

  Vic nods. ‘Ja, I told him. He got all excited. Keen to see you. He’s on some smallholding out near the Matopos. Only been there a short while apparently. Gave me a phone number.’

  We prepare to depart. There is some argument about who is to drive Hazel’s car. Vic wins because according to him he’s the only one in the vicinity who ‘knows his arse from his elbow’. He and Hazel climb into the VW, I get into the Nissan behind. Vic starts up the VW. As we ease into motion, I see Hazel lean across and give him a long kiss on the cheek.

  The mysteries of this world . . .

  VI

  My hippy girlfriends in Perth that my mother disdained were, without exception, devotees of mysticism of one sort or another. Palmistry was top of the list. The simian line on my right palm elicited much morbid interest; at least a few of them expressed surprise that I was alive, not to mention arguably sane and out of jail. Coincidence was another big ticket item. They believed that coincidences were signs that a big hand was out there guiding all things. I was deluged with useless information. Fluke associations between the King James Bible and Shakespeare, for instance, or Mark Twain and Halley’s Comet. On a personal note, it was observed that I have the same birthday as Vincent Van Gogh – March 30th – who was born on the same day as his brother, also called Vincent, who died at childbirth exactly a year before.

  All this mumbo-jumbo left me wondering: why do I attract these spaced-out souls? Do I, despite my obvious scepticism, project a spiritual thirst? The fact is, I don’t waste much time with intangibles, though I can see how, for some, it might provide a warm fantasy of existential purpose, something to stave away the terrors of nothingness.

  Still, the way my meandering path has led to chance encounters – Hazel, Vic, and now Brak – leaves me wondering if coincidence is indeed the way of the world. No divine hand. Just chance.

  I wake at first light from a dead sleep and lie comatose amid the early-morning sounds, my thoughts slowly gathering. Thank God the ordeal of being towed back to Bulawayo is behind me. The stretch from where we broke down to the main road seemed endless. The atrocious condition of the Insiza road made it impossible for Vic to maintain a consistent speed; he braked and accelerated incessantly, the tow rope slackening then jerking tight. After a while I got a bit cranky, thinking Vic might be doing it on purpose. I could picture him laughing up front there with Hazel. Giving the townie a hard time, as his sons used to do long ago. But once we made it to the tar road it was a relatively comfortable run into Bulawayo. I gave a silent cheer as we passed beneath the broken sign that welcomes travellers to the city, its sputtering coloured lights festooned with birds’ nests: Zim..bwe In..pe.dence 1980.

  The sun rises; another hot day in the offing. Donning my swimmers I go outside to the pool and swim a couple of lengths. I’m showered and dressed when Precious brings my morning tea. She greets me with her toothy smile; I thank her and sit at the table making notes in my diary, summarising the events of yesterday. Never by nature a methodical person, I can only guess that such a tidy approach to my mission here is motivated by the uncomfortable feeling that Lydia is watching me like a hawk from the heavens.

  Precious calls from the house to let me know breakfast is ready. I find Milton at the table, reading a newspaper. Ruby and Vernon are seated at the end of the table; Ruby is helping Vernon with some last-minute homework. A bustle of activity and the sound of Precious singing from the kitchen.

  Ruby looks up and smiles. ‘Morning, Frank. How are you after yesterday’s dramas?’

  ‘Can’t complain. Warm this morning, isn’t it?’

  Milton puts the newspaper down. ‘Ja, these summers seem to get hotter every year. Must be something in
all this global warming stuff. Since when did you turn into a fitness freak, hey? Swimming at six in the bloody morning! I’m impressed, boyo. Damn near got out of bed to watch.’

  ‘It obviously doesn’t take much to qualify as a fitness freak in your book.’

  Vernon looks up from his homework, grinning. ‘I’d like to see you up swimming at six in the morning, Dad. I’d have to video you for anyone to believe it.’

  He and Ruby laugh.

  Milton wags a finger at him. ‘You just get on with your homework and don’t interrupt your elders, okay?’

  ‘Yes, O physically uncoordinated one.’

  Milton smiles and turns to me. ‘Sorry it was left to Vic to help you out last night.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t have to go to the trouble.’

  ‘I phoned the bloke who services my car. Jervis. He reckons it’ll be dirty fuel, for sure. Common problem these days. Says it’ll probably be quicker to just get it fixed than wrangle with the hire company – but check with them first.’ Milton reaches for a piece of paper in his shirt pocket and hands it to me. ‘That’s Jervis’s number if you want to give him a ring. The other one is your friend, Malan. Vic phoned this morning with it.’ He pauses. ‘None of my business, Frank, but be careful of these old war relics. Some of them can be bad news.’

  Precious serves breakfast, porridge followed by omelettes on toast. Milton chomps away with his customary relish. I’m only halfway through when he finishes. Scraping up the last morsels on his plate, he laments, ‘Always sad to see the end of a good meal, don’t you think? So what’s on your itinerary, Franco?’

  ‘God, the old brain’s in a bit of a whirl after yesterday. I guess putting a missing person’s notice in the newspapers is top of the list.’ I look at Ruby. ‘Your colleague – whatshisname? Geoffrey – also suggested I stick up some posters around the townships. All depends on how soon I can get my car fixed.’

  ‘Don’t bank on that being today,’ Milton says. ‘When it comes to fixing stuff things are a bit on the slow side here in Zim. Why don’t you drop us off in town and use our car. Save a lot of hassle. My secretary could give you a hand with that newspaper notice.’