Lettah's Gift Page 16

  I spend the rest of the morning lying on the bed in the cottage, reading some old newspapers I found in one of the cupboards. My stomach churns noisily. I find the political babble of these state-controlled papers strangely entertaining. We are presented with Mugabe as International Statesman, forging links with such venerable nations as Iran and North Korea. He is frequently quoted. In defining friend or foe, he makes persistent reference to identity. When it comes to the question of whites claiming their right to Africa, his racist essentialism is blunt: whites are not indigenous to Africa, therefore can never be African. Africa is for Africans. Zimbabwe for Zimbabweans. Except that it’s not just whites who are excluded from belonging. In his rants there are the millions of black Zimbabweans, referred to as ‘excess people’ or the ‘nation’s trash’, that also bear his wrath. The cruel irony of it is oddly captivating. Propaganda’s horrible burlesque.

  Navel-gazing about identity has always seemed an exercise in futility to me. Yet reading these awful diatribes, the question of belonging starts to scratch at my conscience. What am I? Born in a country that no longer exists. Born in Africa, nonetheless.

  I feel suddenly lethargic, drained of energy, as though in the throes of a second bout of jet lag. I lie on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, thinking of Lydia, of her stubborn faith in me.

  At noon Precious brings a steaming plate of sadza and gravy. The last thing I feel like in this stifling heat, but I sweat through it, thinking of how Lydia used to chide Max and me when we wouldn’t eat our food. Think of all the starving people in the world, she would say. And I would wonder how my eating would alleviate their suffering.

  Yet afterwards I feel decidedly better; my stomach has at least stopped churning. I change into my swimmers and apply some sunscreen to my face and shoulders. A knock on the door. I open the door, expecting it to be Precious to collect the lunch things. It’s Clara.

  ‘Have I come at a bad time?’ she says.

  ‘No, no,’ I stammer.

  Her eyes quickly scan the interior of the cottage. ‘Mmm, so this is your wee den, hey? Thought you might like to join me for a swim. I do a few laps at the municipal pool every day at lunch time.’

  ‘You must’ve read my mind. I was about to have a dip here.’

  She glances at the algal waters of Milton’s pool, the flutter of a smile on her mouth. ‘Your choice: me or the frogs.’

  ‘Hang on, let me grab a towel.’

  The only thing that has changed at Bulawayo’s old municipal swimming pool is its address, Samuel Parirenyatwa Street having replaced Borrow Street. Everything else is the same: the white-gabled entrance, with its arches and columns and green corrugated iron roof; the jacarandas outside; inside, the pool surrounded by lawns and huge, shady trees; the sharp smell of chlorine, the shrill racket of birds in the trees. Another Rhodesian oasis.

  The pool is quiet; just a few other swimmers doing laps. Clara tells me that the lunch period is the best because you miss the kids that come in school groups in the mornings and chaotic mobs in the afternoons. She disappears into the change rooms and returns wearing a snug-fitting black Speedo. She reaches into the sports bag over her shoulder and hands me a pair of goggles. ‘You better use these. The chlorine’s a bit strong sometimes.’

  ‘You should realise I’m past my physical peak,’ I say.

  She gives my thickening midriff an amused glance and puts her bag down on a bench next to the pool. ‘It’s never too late to turn back the ravages of time. See that fellow over there?’ She points at one of the swimmers, a muscular specimen, churning tirelessly through the water. ‘That’s Allan. One of Bulawayo’s dying breed of white businessmen. How old do you reckon he is?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Fifty-five.’

  Clara arches an eyebrow. Enough said.

  We take two empty lanes. Clara dives in and starts swimming: a slow, mincing freestyle, as though hating getting her face wet. This ungainly display fires up my confidence. A chance to impress lies begging, swimming being the sole small feather in my sporting cap. I dive in and begin the butterfly leg of an intended medley. Halfway across the pool I power Spitz-like past Clara. Even Allan, two lanes down, might have been impressed, were he not engaged in adjusting his goggles strap in the shallow end. Sad to say, this heroic burst fizzles out like a damp squib; by the end of that first length I can barely clear the water with my arms. Clara minces past me. A prissy little tumble turn and she swims back, pausing just once between strokes to grin at me. I change to freestyle and manage only eight lengths in total. My persistence in achieving even that, I confess, was due mainly to catching the occasional glimpse of Clara’s bottom as she cruised past, kicking those long legs. Twice, I took a breather to demist my goggles.

  Shaking from exertion, I climb out of the pool and lie baking in the sun on the side while Clara finishes her quota of lengths – thirty, I believe. The effort has left me feeling faint; I lie on my back, eyes closed, acutely aware of my mortal limitations, at the same time unable to rid myself of the memory of those long legs and wobbling bum. Lust . . . the tawdry old devil stirs. I should take care not to make a spectacle of myself.

  I open my eyes at the thud of footsteps next to me. Allan, fifty-five and rippling with muscles, strides past. ‘Enjoy your paddle?’ he asks.

  Paddle? Is Adonis having a dig?

  ‘Can’t say that I did.’

  ‘Ja, well, no pain no gain,’ he says sagely and heads off to the change rooms.

  Clara finishes her swim with a sprint. In one movement she pulls herself up and out of the pool, her bum landing with a wet plop on the cement next to me. ‘Youch! That’s hot!’ she exclaims, squirming. ‘Phew! How’re you feeling, old man?’

  I groan.

  She laughs. ‘Don’t worry. It’s amazing how quickly you can get into shape if you just keep at it.’

  Such kind encouragement.

  ‘So, Clara. How do you cope with life in this weird town?’

  ‘What do you mean cope?’

  ‘What’s there to do in Bulawayo? Do you have a social life?’

  ‘I suppose if you compare it to the social life I had overseas, you’d have to say Bulawayo is, well, different. People tend to congregate at each other’s houses. Braais, braais, and more braais. But, believe me, people know how to party here. Desperate times make for desperate partying! I go out occasionally with Vera – you know, Vera from the shop?’

  I nod.

  ‘She’s introduced me to Bulawayo’s wee artistic community. Trouble is, I love art but I’m all thumbs when it comes to doing it. I don’t really fit anywhere. So to answer your question: no, I don’t have much of a social life. It does get boring, but it’s no big deal. I didn’t come here for a social life.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  Clara gazes up at the cloudless sky. ‘Oh, God . . . why did I come? Have you got all afternoon, Frank?’

  ‘If needs be.’

  She laughs. ‘Okay, I’ll try to summarise it for you. When my father died I was given a comfortable inheritance. Comfortable enough not to have to work for the rest of my life. He left me his gallery and two expensive properties. But he, silly man that he was, had married two other women after my mother. They successfully contested his will and I ended up with a tiny fraction of my original inheritance. I was faced with two options: stay in the UK and try to forge a new life for myself – I was over thirty and not really qualified to do anything, so that was the hard option. Or I could go somewhere else, somewhere cheaper, where I could survive off what was left of my inheritance.’

  ‘So you chose Zimbabwe, of all places.’

  ‘Mom was here, so it was a straightforward choice. Zim’s always been a sort of second home. But there were other reasons why I left. Personal reasons. A few failed relationships. So, Frank, I’m an escapee! F
ootloose and fancy free.’ She laughs emptily and drums her fingers on the cement. ‘I really was rather spoilt by my father. He let me do as I pleased. And when he was gone the rug was pulled out from under me.’

  ‘And Zambezi Pride? You seem to like working there.’

  ‘Aye, I do. I can see why African craft has always been a passion for my mother. But she’s not making any money and so many people have come to depend on her. You heard her going on about the shop being a charity. She’s not exaggerating.’ Clara slaps her thighs. ‘That’s it in a nutshell. Clara’s silly little life. What about you, Frank? Have you a silly little life you can tell me about?’

  ‘Sillier and littler.’

  ‘Oh, come on! I’ve told you mine!’

  I deliver an abridged version of my life. To the point, verging on colourless. Clara listens, pursing her lips sceptically. She shakes her head, gives that flutter of a smile. Then she starts to prod and probe; soon she wheedles things out of me that are usually kept under strict lock and key. My failed relationships. My aspirations to be a writer.

  ‘Nobody told me you’re a writer,’ she says.

  ‘I was a writer. Or, rather, an aspiring writer.’

  ‘At least you tried to be something. More than I can say for myself.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

  ‘I’m just being honest. Being straight with yourself makes life easier sometimes.’ Her eyes rest on my outstretched hand. She leans forward and scrutinises the lines on my palm. She nods slowly. ‘Hmm . . . interesting.’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  She laughs and slaps her thighs again. ‘I suppose I better get back to the shop. Can’t leave Mom and Vera to handle all those customers on their own.’

  She goes over to her bag on the bench nearby. On impulse, I say: ‘I’m going to a braai at my friend Brak’s place tomorrow evening. Out near Matobo. Staying over and coming back the next day. Would you like to come?’

  Clara thinks for a while. ‘Wow, a braai. Will he mind me coming?’

  ‘I’m sure he won’t. I’ll let him know.’

  ‘Okay, that would be nice.’

  Can life be so simple?

  For the rest of the afternoon I feel like I’m standing under a rainbow. I fetch the kids from school with a happy heart. Rosie and Geldof natter away animatedly in the back, more comfortable in my presence now. I watch them through the rear-view mirror, amused as Geldof acts the clown, sucking in his cheeks and squinting. As we pass a tearoom I decide to treat them to an ice-cream. I park the car and give them some money. They run into the shop but return empty-handed. No ice-creams. No soft drinks either. I send them back inside to get something else – sweets, anything, I say. They come back each with a fistful of bubblegum.

  We return to Kumalo, big pink lungs billowing from their mouths.

  The evening is close, sultry. The city secretes a dirty sweat. Possible thunderstorms have been forecast for the weekend, but tonight, like every night so far, there is not a cloud in the sky. I yearn for rain. Even the smell of rain – anything to freshen this dead air.

  After a potato souffle supper, Milton, Vernon and I go for a dip in the pool; Ruby stays inside watching Judge Judy on satellite TV. Milton floats about on his back, belly glistening, like a hairy dugong. The water is tepid. We are joined by Rosie and Geldof who paddle around on the steps at the shallow end. Rosie is wearing the sort of bloomer-like costume girls wore in the fifties.

  After our swim, Milton and I sit in plastic chairs next to the pool. The evening rings with Rosie’s and Geldof’s shrill voices. Their eyes and teeth glint in the gloom. Vernon is trying to teach them how to swim. Their ungainly efforts, punctuated by much spluttering, send him into fits of laughter.

  Milton smiles as he watches. ‘Vernon would make a good sports coach. Plenty of patience and good humour.’

  ‘What would you know about sports coaches?’ I say.

  He laughs, dismissing my jibe with a wave of his hand. I bring up my plans for the weekend. No problem with the car, Milton says. Ruby has half a dozen friends and relatives who can lend them a vehicle if needs be.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m taking liberties, Milton. I’m sure Brak won’t mind picking me up if it’s inconvenient.’

  ‘Liberties? For Chrissake, Frank, if you say that again I’ll bloody kick you. I wouldn’t say the car’s available if it wasn’t.’

  Rosie and Geldof scream with delight as they take turns riding across the pool on Vernon’s back. Milton calls: ‘Hey! You lot! Keep it down, okay!’ They quieten for a few seconds before the decibels rise again.

  Milton shakes his head. ‘Should’ve known I was wasting my breath.’

  ‘Vernon’s a great kid,’ I say.

  ‘He’s a blessing.’

  ‘Must’ve been a big thing adopting him. A big decision.’

  Milton doesn’t reply. His expression becomes sombre, reflective.

  ‘I don’t mean to be intrusive.’

  ‘I know. But you can never imagine what it took. What we went through makes him more than flesh and blood in my eyes. I don’t even think of him as adopted. It still makes me bitter to think of it. There he was, almost dead when they found him, skin and bone, an orphan, desperately needing medical attention, and we had to fight pig-headed bureaucrats tooth and nail to give him a loving home. To save his life – to give him a life. The crap Ruby and I had to put up with from Social Welfare. Stonewalling. Reverse racism. They just couldn’t accept seeing a black kid with white parents. That’s all it came down to. They’d rather have seen him dead. If we weren’t in the legal game he wouldn’t be here today.’

  ‘He’s lucky you hung in.’

  ‘He’s lucky. We’re lucky. He’s the reason I stay in this country. If he can survive, Zimbabwe can.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you all be better off leaving?’

  ‘And go where? Australia? Forget it. Vernon and Ruby were born here. Why the hell should we leave?’

  ‘I would’ve thought simple self-preservation might be reason enough. Sorry, Milton, I don’t see how anyone would choose to live here when there are other options.’

  ‘Who knows, Franco? Maybe we’re all a bit crazy.’

  Milton stretches his arms and looks up at the stars. We are silent for a while. Then he turns to me, the shining circles of his glasses giving him the look of a night beast. ‘I’ve thought about leaving. Often. Finding a nice little democracy somewhere in the world to settle down and live happily ever after. The trouble is I really don’t think the so-called Free World out there is quite what it’s cracked up to be. Nothing solid about it. Too full of fuck-all.’

  ‘Well, you’ve chosen a pretty diabolical alternative. I’ll stick with the Free World, thank you.’

  Milton laughs dryly. ‘Don’t you ever get sick of all that nothingness? All that moral relativism? No more right or wrong. Everyone just floating around. No more truth, just deconstructions of truth. No limits to self-indulgence. Everyone just following the path of least resistance. Slaves to self-interest, to excess. Always the coward’s choice when it comes to hard decisions. Where even the church vacillates and compromises so the flock can do as it pleases.’

  ‘My God, Milton, there’s a place for you among the Quakers, I’m sure.’

  ‘Ha, ha. The point I’m making is that the Free World is doomed to extinction in a quagmire of excess.’

  ‘Surely it all depends on how you define excess –’

  Milton laughs. ‘Define excess . . . shit! There you go, proving my point! No truth, just endless deconstructions.’

  ‘If you’ll let me finish. The West doesn’t have a mortgage on excess. I could name quite a few non-Western countries that I would consider excessive, especially here in Africa. Zimbabwe is bloody well awash with excess. Excess power. Excess
corruption and cruelty. Excess poverty and death. Despots like Mugabe are just gluttons for excess.’

  Milton cocks his head in assent. ‘But you’re missing my point. I’m not extolling the virtues of tyrannies. What I am saying is that I prefer to live where things like right and wrong are clear. Where good and bad are straightforward, simple.’

  I can’t help the terseness in my voice. ‘So you’d rather live under the thumb of Africa’s Hitler just because it’s easier to recognise right and wrong? That’s just plain bloody idiotic. I can’t believe that a lawyer can even argue such nonsense. What happened to all that stuff we used to talk about as students? Democracy, freedom of speech?’

  A note of irritation enters Milton’s voice too. ‘Ja, ja. Democracy. Freedom of speech. All very nice. The problem, boyo, is that democracies have just ended up in a chaotic free-for-all in which only the rich and the intolerant thrive. A nebulous mess. For all Zimbabwe’s terrible faults, for all its terrible cruelties, at least truth is clear here. Here we witness the best and worst of human behaviour. Right and wrong are unequivocal.’

  ‘You’re being absurd, Milton. Give me the nebulous mess of Australia any day. What you’re saying is perverse!’

  ‘Simmer down, Franco. Don’t judge me for the choices I make.’

  ‘I’m not judging you. I’m appealing to your sanity.’

  ‘Ja, well, you live your life, I’ll live mine.’

  Milton turns to the kids in the pool and claps his hands. ‘Come on, that’s enough! Out you get. School tomorrow.’

  Rosie and Geldof groan and slowly clamber out of the pool. Vernon does a slow length under water and climbs out at the deep end. They dry themselves off and walk off towards the house.

  Milton slaps at a mosquito. ‘We all follow our instincts, Franco. Or we should, anyway. For better or for worse. But let’s change the subject. Tell me about your writing.’