Lettah's Gift Read online

  ‘Withholding information?’

  ‘Ntombela – do you remember him?’

  I pause. My head throbs. ‘What man is this?’

  ‘Come, come, Mr Cole. Of course you remember him. You paid him for information, not so?’

  I heave a sigh. ‘Look, Inspector, I’m not going to beat about the bush. Yes, I paid Ntombela for some information. But it was dated information – it tells me nothing of where Lettah Ndlovu might be today. I thought it was irrelevant.’

  ‘I agree and disagree with you. Ntombela’s information is dated and irrelevant. But it is also incorrect. You must realise the man has AIDS, Mr Cole. His brain is not functioning right. Therefore we can take his information with a pinch of salt, not so?’

  I try to remain civil. ‘I don’t follow your point, Inspector.’

  ‘The point, Mr Cole, is that if you want me to help you find this Ndlovu woman, then you must be honest with me. You must tell me everything you know. You must withhold nothing. I haven’t got time to waste with people who are not being straight with me, do you understand?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think I was being devious in any way. I appreciate your efforts in helping me.’

  Chombo seems satisfied with my apology. ‘That’s all right, Mr Cole. I just want you to know the way I work. Everyone must be open and honest, okay? However, I didn’t contact you just to complain. As I said in our last conversation, I’ve had some promising outcomes to my other investigations around the district. It’s too early to provide details, but I thought I would just let you know that I’m making good progress – just so you don’t give up hope. What I need is a few more small details about your family . . .’

  ‘Progress? What progress? Please tell me.’

  ‘Be patient, Mr Cole, it’s too early to say. Who knows? I might be on a wild goose chase. I need to make sure about my investigations before I can tell you anything. I have a few more questions about the movements of your family while you were with this woman . . .’

  ‘Fire away.’

  I go through another round of questions about my family. He asks me if I can remember any mannerisms that Lettah had. Anything at all. He assures me this is for the purposes of identification. All I can tell him is that she was always laughing. I find myself apologising for knowing so little.

  When he finishes, I say: ‘Inspector, this man Ntombela. I hope he’s not in any trouble. It’s my fault for not informing you of what he told me. He’s not at fault.’

  Chombo laughs. ‘Trouble? Why would I persecute this sick man? What good would that do? He has AIDS. No, it would be inhumane for me to punish him more. Ntombela is of no consequence to me, Mr Cole.’

  ‘I don’t want him to suffer because of me.’

  ‘He will not suffer because of you. Of course, I have confiscated the money you gave him. His ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘Why? Surely –’

  ‘He obtained this money by deception. Fraud. I cannot allow this. He’s lucky I have not charged him for this crime.’

  ‘And this money – will I be reimbursed?’

  ‘Of course. We can sort that out at the end. I’m sure you understand, Mr Cole, my investigations have not been without cost.’

  ‘Is there anything that can be done for Ntombela, to help ease his sickness?’

  ‘Forgive me for saying it, Mr Cole, but what you ask for is naive. If you want to help Ntombela then you must also help all the other people on the farm who have AIDS. And while you’re about it, you can help everyone else in Zimbabwe. The millions like Ntombela. No, Mr Cole, Zimbabwe does not need foreigners coming here like knights in shining armour to help us poor Africans. We can help ourselves. You must concentrate on finding your old servant. That is your responsibility.’

  After dropping Milton and Ruby off at their offices, I proceed along Fort Street to Prospect Autos near the railway station. Along the way I buy The Chronicle from a street-corner vendor and scan the advertisement pages. My notice is there; the tiny image of Lettah’s smiling face among several other missing persons. It will run for two weeks.

  Jervis’s business premises are typical of Bulawayo’s semi-industrial fringe: a long bare cement block workshop and poky adjoining office. A concrete perimeter wall with razor wire along the top. A scruffy guard dog chained to a pole. Staffordshire terrier cross, by the look of it. My Nissan is standing with four other vehicles in the yard outside the workshop. The yard is a quagmire of grease and old engine parts. A young man in blue overalls – one of the apprentices, I imagine – is levering the tyre off a wheel with a badly damaged rim next to a drum of water. I park in the street and cross the yard to the office. Even at this time of the morning it’s unbearably hot. I sniff the air; for someone so divorced from the mechanical world, it intrigues me that I’ve always liked the smell of disembowelled engines. The result, perhaps, of those hours I spent lying under greasy hulks with Brak and his father, listening to them grunting and cursing. My hangover lingers.

  The office is empty. An old computer hums at the end of a grubby counter strewn with invoices and some welding rods. A once-white enamel bar fridge jiggles in the corner. For a minute I’m transfixed by the office wall behind the counter boasting a bizarre frieze of old Scope centrespreads pinned around the obligatory presidential portrait. Boobs, bums and Mugabe. I could never have imagined Mugabe as Hefner-esque.

  I exit the office. The apprentice working with the wheel sees me and points with the lever at the workshop. There I find Jervis and another apprentice beneath a Toyota up on a hoist. They have their backs to me. Jervis is short and stocky, middle-aged. He grunts loudly as he wrestles with a spanner. Curses and blasphemes with immaculate diction: ‘Bloody hell! Jesus Chrrrist! Who on God’s bloody earth tightened this fucking bearing? Some bloody Jap sumo wrestler, I bet!’ He strains again at the spanner, the veins in his neck bulging, his close-cropped grey hair glistening with sweat. ‘Jesus Chrrrist have mercy! Mary! Mother of God!’

  The apprentice bursts into laughter, his hand cupped to his mouth. Jervis pauses, then brandishes the spanner at him. Mud brown eyes magnified by thick black-rimmed glasses. ‘What are you laughing at, hey? You think I pay you to laugh?’

  ‘No, sir!’ the apprentice replies with a valiant attempt at a contrite expression.

  Jervis nods his head knowingly. ‘Ja, that’s right. Just stand there and laugh while I do all the bloody work, hey?’

  ‘No, sir!’

  Jervis notices me standing there. He hands the spanner to the apprentice. ‘Okay, Benjamin – Mr Fucking Know-it-All – when I come back I want that thing loose. Loose – not stripped, okay? Uzwile na?’

  ‘Yebo, nkosi.’

  Jervis approaches me. ‘Lemme guess: Milton’s friend? Frank, is it?’

  I nod. ‘Thought I’d just drop in and see what the score is with my car.’

  Jervis’s magnified eyes are bloodshot and bleary beneath a saturnine brow. He points at the other vehicles outside in the yard. ‘I got those to do first. Got their owners breathing down my neck as well.’

  ‘Thought I’d just check.’

  ‘Ja, I’m sorry. Things are bloody slow, man. You can’t get parts. You can’t get fuck-all. As for labour!’ He waves an arm to indicate the apprentice pounding on the tyre rim outside. He sighs wearily. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Morris!’ he bellows. ‘I want that wheel in one piece, man!’

  Morris nods and laughs. Clearly, Jervis is a benevolent tyrant.

  Jervis slaps his thighs wearily. ‘Why I bother. Sometimes I feel like a one-legged man in an arse-kicking competition. So, where’re you from, Frank?’

  ‘Australia.’

  ‘Australia, hey?’ He proceeds to walk laboriously in a circle, as though dragging something heavy with one leg. ‘Where’s your bloody ball and chain, man?’

  His shabby
pantomime is so ridiculous I have to laugh.

  He taps his temple with a stubby finger. ‘Just visiting, hey? What sort of bloody pervert would want to visit Zim, for Chrissake? What’s your next stop? Iraq? Afghanistan? You don’t sound like an Aussie. What happened to the g’day, mate, and all that?’

  ‘I’m from here originally.’

  ‘Ah, the plot thickens. Ja, you bastards who buggered off and left us to kaffirdom. To tell the truth, I wish I’d gapped it long ago. Now I’m too fucking old.’

  I follow Jervis over to my car. He pops the bonnet and leans over the engine. ‘Haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, but if it’s dirty fuel we’ll have to clean the whole system out. Petrol tank, carburettor, fuel pump, jets, filters – the works. Not a difficult job, just time-consuming.’

  He closes the bonnet. ‘Sorry for the delay. I don’t like to stuff people around.’

  ‘I can wait. But if you’re looking for a mechanic, I happen to know one who’s at a loose end.’

  Jervis looks at me sceptically. ‘You’re bullshitting me! A mechanic? Here in Bulawayo? I’ve already turned this fucking town upside-down looking for a decent grease-monkey.’

  I nod. ‘Old mate of mine. Just moved here from Kariba.’

  Jervis shakes his head and laughs. ‘You got a phone number?’

  Hazel’s shop, Zambezi Pride, is on the corner of Park Street and Leopold Takawira Avenue. It occupies a long thatched building set among some jacaranda and syringa trees abutting Bulawayo’s Central Park. People lie like dropped fruit under the trees, staring languidly at passers-by. Some garrulous women sit weaving straw mats on a wide brick courtyard outside the shop’s entrance. They greet me with smiles and continue their banter.

  The shop smells of smoke and straw. A wild profusion of craft merchandise greets the eye. Fans suspended from the rafters above whirr loudly. Mugabe’s portrait is positioned between two tie-dyed sarongs, like a hippy icon. Hazel and Clara are seated at a counter in the centre of the shop, busy sorting through some silk-screened t-shirts with a young Ndebele woman with intricately braided hair falling to her shoulders in clusters of beads. Clara sees me and waves. ‘Hi Frank.’

  I wave back. ‘Hope I’m not intruding.’

  Hazel stares pointedly around at the shop, empty of customers, and says, ‘Intruding? We could do with a few intruders.’

  She introduces the young woman as her assistant, Vera Ndube. Vera gives me a smile, eyes bright and mischievous. ‘So this is Frank. Hazel has been telling me all about you.’

  ‘You’re no doubt aware that my mother is the town gossip,’ Clara says.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Vera says. ‘When it comes to eligible bachelors, Hazel is Bulawayo’s social encyclopaedia!’

  Hazel peers at Vera over her glasses and smiles. ‘Girls, girls, just where do you think I get all my gossip from? Would you like a cup of tea, Frank?’

  I nod. ‘Tea would be nice.’

  Hazel turns back to Vera. ‘Won’t you make us some tea, deary? Make a pot for the ladies outside too. Milk and sugar, Frank?’

  ‘Just a drop of milk, please.’

  ‘Angifuna itiye eletshukela,’ Hazel says.

  Vera winks at me. ‘Yes, madam. He no want sugar.’ She goes through to an adjoining kitchen where she begins a hearty rendition of Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’.

  Clara giggles. ‘We can always rely on Vera to provide the authentic sound of Africa, can’t we, Mom?’

  Hazel pushes one pile of t-shirts aside and starts going through another. ‘She’s a bright girl. In any normal country she’d have the world at her feet. I’m surprised she’s still here.’

  ‘Don’t tempt fate, Mom. If you keep treating her like a maid she will push off somewhere else.’

  Hazel glances at Clara, vexed.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Mom. It’s true.’

  ‘Perhaps I should’ve asked you to make the tea.’

  ‘Mom . . .’

  Mother and daughter stare at each other.

  I gesture at the shop’s cluttered merchandise. ‘I was expecting your shelves to be empty, like every other shop.’

  Hazel lets go of her daughter’s eyes. ‘It’s mostly old stock. With the tourist market gone, it just keeps piling up. If it wasn’t for the little money I’ve got invested overseas I’d have closed the doors long ago. Zambezi Pride is practically a charity these days.’

  ‘Hazel!’ Vera calls from the kitchen. ‘The milk’s sour!’

  Hazel sighs. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Black tea’s fine,’ I say.

  ‘Make black tea, then!’ Hazel calls back. She turns to Clara. ‘Why don’t you show Frank around while I finish sorting this stuff. Oh, Frank, your father phoned me last night. It was lovely to hear him again. His voice hasn’t changed a bit.’

  Clara and I browse through the shop’s fabulous plethora: straw mats and baskets, batiks, dyed and crocheted garments and bags, beadwork, masks, stools and drums, calabash cups and rattles, armies of soapstone carvings. Clara demonstrates (to my layman’s ears) an impressive knowledge of just about everything on display, from technical process to tribal or functional significance. She is wearing a loose white cotton dress, unbuttoned at the top, revealing a sweaty cleavage. Close up, her musky perfume is oddly familiar, though I can’t think why. She shows me some shirts with garishly printed African motifs, which I pretend to like. She selects one emblazoned with a roaring lion with a great shaggy mane and holds it up against me. She nods. ‘Aye, it’s you, Frank. Definitely you.’ I don’t know how to respond to her teasing. Another whiff of her perfume and it comes to me: it’s the same kind that Hazel used long ago. Weird.

  I pick up a small soapstone elephant and rub my thumb over its surface, textured to resemble hide. ‘I love these carvings. Such an eye for detail.’

  ‘Bashed out by the dozen, as you can see.’

  ‘Still, I think they’re great.’

  ‘Then you would’ve wept to see what happened during Murambatsvina. All the township workshops . . .’ She gives a sweep of her hand. ‘Wiped out. Thousands of carvings, just like these, smashed to pieces. Destroyed. So bloody vindictive. Those people outside – those weavers and the others hanging around – they were once self-supporting vendors. My mother tries to keep them going with little commissions she knows will never sell.’

  Vera comes through with four mugs and a large billycan on a tray. She sets the mugs down on the counter and goes outside with the billycan. We hear her call: ‘Omama, itiye!’

  Clara and I sit on stools at the counter. Hazel hands me a mug of tea. ‘Any progress with Lettah?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing yet. I’ve had a couple of conversations with Chombo. He says he’s following up on some leads, but won’t elaborate. Just a matter of waiting, I guess.’

  Hazel blows on her tea and sips it gently. ‘Let things take their course. Don’t waste your time fretting. If finding Lettah is meant to be, it’s meant to be.’

  Vera returns and sits next to Clara. She smiles at me and raises her mug of tea. ‘Here’s to you, Frank. Zimbabwe’s rarest species – a visitor! Who knows? If you stay long enough we might even make you an honorary Zimbabwean.’

  Clara laughs. ‘I’m sure that’s high on Frank’s wish list.’

  Hazel fans herself with her hand. ‘God, it’s hot! I’m not sure that tea’s the best thing right now.’ She gazes up at the spinning fans suspended from the rafters. ‘Sometimes I wonder if those have any effect at all.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Mom,’ Clara says, exasperated. ‘They just blow the hot air back at us.’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s no money for air conditioning.’ Hazel turns to me. ‘Did you get hold of your friend?’

  ‘Brak? I caught up with him last night.’

 
‘I remember him from the Que Que days. Tell him I haven’t forgiven him for murdering half of Rhodesia’s bird population with that damn pellet gun of his. Naughty little blighter! He probably doesn’t remember me.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  She gives my arm a squeeze. ‘You’ll let me know if you do get word about Lettah, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about your mother. She had the kindest heart. It’ll be a shame if your search comes to nothing.’

  We drink our tea. The last remnant of my hangover, a stubborn lump of pain at the back of my head, throbs briefly, then implodes to nothing. The only physical symptom I have left to remind me of last night is a slight queasiness in my stomach. Outside we can hear the women cackling with laughter.

  Vera raises a finger. ‘That, good citizens, is the sound of hope.’

  Back at the cottage, I offload the soapstone elephant and some other bits and pieces I ended up buying at Zambezi Pride (including the shirt with the roaring lion’s head). Precious brings me some tea and tells me Jervis phoned. I drink the tea, then go across to the house to return his call. It takes Jervis a while to answer; as I wait, the dapper image of Mugabe among the Scope pin-ups springs to mind, only to be rudely supplanted by Jervis’s myopic, saturnine visage as he bawls into the phone, ‘Ja! Prospect Autos!’

  It turns out that Brak came into town immediately after Jervis rang him. Jervis was duly impressed when, by way of a test, he asked Brak to have a look at my Nissan. When Brak expertly assessed the problem and checked the cylinder heads for cracks (thankfully, ruling out a worst-case scenario), Jervis offered him a job on the spot. Brak agreed to start once he’d finished a freelance job he was doing.

  ‘So I phoned just to tell you we’ll probably get your car on the road sooner than I thought,’ Jervis says. ‘The way I see it, we kill two birds with one stone. Your car gets fixed sooner and your china Malan gets a job. Cheeky bastard, though. Started muttering about my bloody dog. Telling me dogs should never be chained up. I said, right, Mr Fucking Dog-Expert-Hero – you unchain that mongrel. Which your bloody idiot friend proceeds to do. Or tries to do. Got a nice little bite on the hand. A good nip.’