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  When I wake the afternoon shadows are long; the last of the sun catches the tops of the kopjes across the dams. Drowsy, lethargic, I get out of the car and walk across the causeway to the other side of the dam. I wander up through the kopjes, trying to find the rock face with the San paintings, but I can’t. I pause on a rock ledge and look out towards the city. Bulawayo’s tallest buildings glint. A distant growl of traffic. I breathe in the scent of the surrounding bush, strangely similar to human sweat. A faint whiff of smoke. I listen to the chatter of some weaver birds in the trees around the dam and the long, peaceful mantras of doves.

  I feel I’ve only just arrived.

  On my way back to Milton’s I contemplate buying some beer at the Hillside shops. A quiet sundowner is something I’ve grown to relish back home in Perth and see no reason why this little ritual should be abandoned. After all, isn’t the cottage in which I’ve been installed neutral territory? Surely Milton won’t be offended if I stock the small bar fridge with a few beers and consume them privately, away from Ruby. There must be room in Milton’s new world for compromise. But I picture the rigmarole of sneaking into the cottage with my illicit contraband and consuming it in surreptitious gulps, one guilty ear primed to the sound of approaching footsteps, and decide against it. Better to clear it with Milton first.

  The two service stations en route are closed. I glance at the petrol gauge; the tank is just under three-quarters full. Enough, surely, to get to Fort Rixon and back tomorrow. Not more than 250 kilometres, I would guess. I continue on to Kumalo. The maid, Precious, unlocks the gate for me; I drive in and park under the carport next to Milton’s car.

  Milton and Ruby are in the lounge watching the news on satellite TV. Vernon is in his room, doing homework. Milton equips me with a sturdy glass of Coke and we sit and watch TV. Blood and mayhem in Baghdad. An escalation of fighting in Afghanistan. Lots of leftie tut-tutting by Milton and Ruby.

  ‘If it’s all about fighting terror and getting rid of horrible dictators,’ Ruby asks, ‘why haven’t they put the boot to Mugabe’s rear?’

  The bulletin concludes with the story of a Frenchman who has taught a parrot to sing the Marseillaise. ‘How symbolic,’ Milton mutters, switching off the TV. ‘So, Franco, how was your day? Did you get hold of Vic Baldwin?’

  I nod. ‘I had lunch with him and Hazel Kent, in fact.’

  ‘How’s the old warthog?’

  ‘Age has not wearied the tyrant’s tongue, sad to say. Though he does seem a bit perplexed by what’s going on in this country.’

  Milton laughs. ‘Perplexed? Vindicated, you mean. When he sees what Mugabe’s done to this place it must convince him that everything he ever stood for is right. Bloody ironic, hey! Mugabe’s defining legacy: vindicating the likes of Vic! Was he able to help with your friend?’

  ‘Apparently Brak went up to Kariba to join some Christian sect. No big deal. I’ve got someone else to find first.’

  ‘How did you go with Geoffrey this morning?’ Ruby asks.

  ‘No records. He reckons the farm is my best bet. Talking of which, did you manage to get hold of that cop?’

  ‘Chombo? Yes, I did. He’ll be at the police station in the morning. I’ve told him you’re coming.’

  ‘Hazel Kent’s decided to come with me tomorrow. She knows the place like the back of her hand.’

  ‘Just don’t go nosing around places without checking with Chombo first.’

  ‘Ja, better to err on the side of caution, Franco,’ Milton says. ‘If something looks dicey, give it a miss. Especially with an old lady in tow. I take it you’ve got a bit of forex on you.’

  I nod. ‘US dollars, mostly.’

  ‘Take some with you. It’s amazing how cooperative people get in this country when you flash a greenback in front of their eyes. But for God’s sake don’t overdo it. You don’t want to get yourself mugged.’

  I blow out my cheeks. ‘Sometimes I wonder what I’ve got myself into.’

  Ruby laughs. ‘You’ll be all right. Just do what Chombo says.’

  After dinner Milton walks outside with me to the cottage. The night sky is ablaze with stars. Milton stops at the pool and lifts the cover off the filter. He fiddles around with the engine. The engine starts, humming somewhat erratically.

  ‘Bloody thing keeps packing in,’ Milton says. ‘I’ve been thinking of turning the pool into a fishpond. Breed some trout or bream.’

  I gesture at the tennis court with its flourishing vegetables. ‘Why not? Seems like you’re on a self-sufficiency roll. I never figured you for a gardener.’

  ‘More a necessity than a passion, I assure you.’

  ‘Your passion, as I recall, was propping up the bar and talking literature.’

  ‘Ja, in another life.’

  ‘That reminds me: there’s something I wanted to ask you, Milton. Would you mind if I kept some grog in the cottage? I don’t want to rock the boat if it’s a problem.’

  Milton puts the filter cover back on and stands up. His face is in darkness.

  ‘Ruby won’t have any drinking in the house. I doubt if she’d like it in the cottage, either. I’d prefer you not to but feel free, if you must.’

  I’d prefer? If you must?

  ‘Surely you’re not totally against drinking? I mean, I can understand Ruby’s position –’

  ‘Ruby’s position is my position, Frank.’

  The small thought that Milton is a teetotaller for convenience fades from my mind. I make light of it. ‘It’s just weird, seeing you after all this time. A pillar of sobriety!’

  ‘We can’t go on being students forever, Franco. Sad as that may be.’

  What is this – a reproach? In the darkness I can’t tell.

  There is a long silence. Then Milton laughs softly and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Drink, if you must, boyo. All I ask is that you respect Ruby’s feelings. It’s a big deal for her. Just the smell of the stuff freaks her out.’

  I lie in the darkness, unable to sleep. My head swarms with the terrible images of Zimbabwe’s farm invasions that for a while made the world recoil. Crops on fire. Homesteads besieged. A fox terrier keeping vigil next to the bullet-riddled body of a farmer. Workers chased down, hacked and clubbed to death. Petrified children cowering beside raped and beaten mothers. A cow flailing about on the floor of a burnt-out dairy, hock tendons slashed. The war veterans: gloating thugs, brandishing axes, pangas – veterans only of a war against their helpless own. I fret. What will tomorrow hold?

  My thoughts turn to my father. A real veteran. Who fought in the Second World War battles that raged in North Africa, including the one that claimed Lydia’s brother. Always my measure of men. What would he make of this? What would he do in my shoes? In my mind’s eye, he looks at me with his unflinching gaze. Now Lydia moves into vision beside him. Opposites, yet inseparable. Errol tall, lean. Eyes a clear sky blue. His gaze outward, beyond himself. Steady, fearless, honest. Impatient with foolishness. Lydia short, burgeoning at the hips. Eyes like bottomless green wells, teeming with anxious thoughts.

  V

  I’m running an hour late, after a protracted but fruitless search around Bulawayo for petrol. Milton came to the rescue by siphoning some from his car, insisting it was of no great inconvenience, since his firm had taken to purchasing its own fuel via blackmarket sources – a measure adopted by many companies, apparently.

  The sun has just broken clear of a rosy bank of clouds on the horizon when I arrive at Hazel’s house. Hazel and Vic are waiting outside. Vic clad in slippers and a frayed green dressing-gown, a thick fur of white chest hair protruding. He is brandishing his walking stick and issuing instructions to the gardener who listens patiently beside a wheelbarrow. For a moment I imagine him naked beneath the gown, not an easy thought so early in the morning. Hazel looks quite Blixenesque in safari-style khaki sho
rts and shirt, straw hat and stout walking shoes. A leather bag hangs from a strap around her neck. I decline her offer of a quick cup of coffee and apologise for being late. Vic raises his stick in farewell as we depart.

  Hazel lights a cigarette and chats away as we exit Bulawayo along an avenue lined with bedraggled palm trees and bougainvilleas, past the old drive-in, now overrun with acacia bush, past dusty smallholdings, brickworks and cement silos. In the distance a row of electricity pylons marches towards Harare; scraggly gum trees mark the position of railway sidings. There is little traffic on the road.

  The car soon fills with a fog of cigarette smoke. I open my window.

  Hazel coughs. ‘If you don’t want me to smoke, just say so.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I lie.

  Hazel asks more about my family; I talk about the Pietermaritzburg days, before our move to Australia. She is amused by my touchy sarcasm when it comes to Max’s achievements and Errol’s baleful opinion of my school career. She becomes wistful when I talk about my mother. When I finish she is pensive, then she shakes her head as if dispelling a bad thought.

  We drive on in silence for a while. Hazel finishes her cigarette and stubs it out in the car’s ashtray. She gestures at the passing countryside. ‘It’s amazing to think of what was going on here barely a century ago. The Matabele Wars. Rebellions . . . God, this soil is drenched in blood.’

  I nod. ‘Not much has changed, apparently.’

  Hazel lights another cigarette and takes a long drag. ‘What a struggle it must’ve been for those settler families . . . Amazing! This nondescript bush. That people have fought so violently for it.’

  The turn-off to an army barracks flashes by. We pass a police car with a large dent in the right front fender parked under a tree. Behind the wheel, a policeman sits fast asleep, his mouth agape.

  Hazel heaves a weary sigh. ‘I suppose he is more effective that way.’

  I laugh. ‘I bet the cops are never short of petrol.’

  ‘Depends on what you need them for. God help you if you need them for law and order. Nine times out of ten their vehicles are empty or broken down. Lots of petrol, though, when it comes to breaking up opposition rallies. Or for presidential motorcades.’ Hazel snorts with disgust. ‘What a circus this place must seem to you. And the worse it gets, the harder it’ll be to turn it all around.’

  ‘I thought you were pinning your hopes on the elections.’

  ‘I only say things like that in front of Vic to keep a semblance of optimism alive. Make no mistake, the elections will be a farce. Mugabe’s already terrorising the opposition. I hear his militia have started setting up torture camps. The opposition leader’s hiding in South Africa, scared he’ll get assassinated if he returns. Vic’s right. Mugabe will never relinquish power. He’ll only go by force.’

  ‘I don’t get the impression revolution’s in the air.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I thought Murambatsvina would’ve been the last straw, but it wasn’t. People just meekly succumbed. Everyone’s too broken, too defeated. And there’s no one to turn to. The whole of Africa aids and abets Mugabe, despicable tyrant though he is. That, to me, has been the most disappointing thing. That so few Africans speak against him.’

  ‘I don’t know how you stick it out here, Hazel.’

  Hazel takes a last drag on her cigarette and stubs it out. ‘It’s not all gloom and doom. Mugabe’s old. If a bullet doesn’t get him, old age will.’

  We turn off at Whites Run Road and drive south-east along a rutted dirt road that makes the car’s suspension gibber. Just a few crumbling stretches of tar across concrete culverts over dry streams. At a roadside store we branch off along a road heading due east, taking a longer route along the Amanzamnyama River past Hazel’s old family farm. A group of men lounging on the store’s veranda watches as we drive past. ‘Nothing better to do than sit around drinking beer,’ Hazel huffs. ‘Where they find the money, I don’t know. Slow down, Frank. These roads have seen better days.’

  No exaggeration. The road has not been graded in years. At times I must slow to a crawl to negotiate holes and eroded dongas. The fences alongside are broken or have been pilfered, allowing the bush to encroach. We encounter no other vehicles. The surrounding lands are parched, desolate. The only signs of life, some women on the roadside walking along in single file with cans of water on their heads and a lone, tick-covered cow foraging among small plots of withered maize stalks beside a dry stream.

  ‘Vic would cry to see this,’ Hazel says.

  ‘I must say, Hazel, it came as a surprise to see you two together.’

  Hazel chuckles. ‘I suppose it would. If someone told me fifty years ago that I’d be living under the same roof as Vic Baldwin, I would’ve laughed out loud. He’s mellowed a bit since you last saw him, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Hazel laughs. ‘Believe me, his bark is bigger than his bite.’

  ‘I think you’ve been very kind, taking him in.’

  ‘Kind? Good Lord, he’s not a charity case. His boys, Hugo and Cecil, send him a monthly stipend that more than covers his needs. In fact, lately I’ve had to rely on him to keep the wolf from the door. No, Frank, Vic doesn’t need me to look after him. I asked him to move in. When you get to my age, it’s nice to have company.’

  ‘And Clara? Where does she fit into the picture?’

  Hazel sighs. ‘Clara . . . Clara. My troubled child. I was married to a lovely Scotsman for almost nine years. A lovely but extremely trying Scotsman. A gallery owner, based in Edinburgh. We met during a trip he made here in eighty-one – just after Mugabe took over. He was here collecting Shona carvings. We fell madly in love and got married. Along came Clara. Then we started to realise why we shouldn’t have married. I wouldn’t live in Britain permanently. I tried but couldn’t stand it. My God, that weather! So we found ourselves conducting a hopeless relationship on opposite sides of the globe. He was also a drinker – a gentle drinker, mind you, but when he drank he liked the odd roll in the hay with other women. So we divorced – amicably. He died two years ago of a heart attack.’

  ‘Sounds like Clara had a complicated upbringing.’

  ‘I suppose it was. When she was a child I thought she’d be better off doing her schooling in Edinburgh and spending her long holidays here. So I wasn’t the most attentive mother, and I think it shows in her sometimes. A bit of a restless spirit, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to settle down.’

  ‘What are her plans? I mean, will she take over your business?’

  ‘It’s not a business worth taking over. The idea was that she’d take over her father’s business. Unfortunately for her, when he died all the women in his life started squabbling over his will. He left a lot of debts too. Once everything was divvied up, she got very little.’

  ‘How long is she planning to stay here?’

  ‘I don’t know. As long as it takes to get bored, I suppose.’

  We arrive at the boundary of the old Kent farm, marked by the corner post of a nonexistent fence. When the homestead comes into view, I pull over and wait as Hazel gets out and crosses the road to the farm’s entrance. She leans against a gatepost and gazes at what remains of the house, two hundred metres away. Just crumbling walls sticking out above the long grass and thorn trees. A ruptured rain tank nearby enveloped by bougainvillea creepers with magenta flowers, lending the shimmering brown landscape a splash of colour. There is a powerful stillness, now that the rattle of the car has ceased. Hazel stares at the ruins of her old home for a long while. Then she glances down at the broken gate lying in the grass beside the entrance, and bows her head. It occurs to me that this is where her parents died. One dark night, shot to ribbons as they stopped here to open the gate. It was never established if they were still alive when the killers torched their car. Found the next day by a neighbour passing by. />
  Hazel comes back to the car, dabbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  She nods. ‘It’s always a bit sad coming here. You wouldn’t remember my parents, would you?’

  ‘I remember what happened.’

  ‘I can understand people wanting their land back. But it hurts to see the way the old place has gone to ruin. It makes their deaths even more senseless.’ She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Anyway, you can’t cry over spilt milk. Let’s go.’

  We link up with the Nsiza road and continue south. Finally the small settlement of Fort Rixon appears against a range of low, thickly wooded hills. We reach an intersection marked by a sign listing the farmers’ names from the district – obsolete, as Hazel points out – and cross a cattle grid into the settlement. Just a few dusty buildings straddling the road: a store, a small school, the police station and a handful of near-derelict houses, hidden behind acacia scrub. It’s almost ten o’clock; already Fort Rixon’s inhabitants have succumbed to ennui, taking refuge in the shade of verandas and trees, resigned to another day of sweltering heat. The only establishment in apparent good nick is the police station, easily located because of its radio mast and four-metre-high security fence – indeed, the only place that has undergone something of an upgrade since I last passed through here as a boy. Shaded by big jacaranda trees, the red-brick buildings and grounds are immaculate, gardens and parking areas demarcated with whitewashed stones. Outside the charge office a Zimbabwean flag hangs limply at its mast.

  We are stopped at the gate; I explain the purpose of our visit to the policeman on duty and ask the whereabouts of Inspector Chombo. The constable points towards the jail where an officer is talking to a group of convicts, each equipped with a gardening implement. We park in front of the charge office and walk around to the jail.

  Inspector Julius Chombo is an imposing man of middle age. Khaki peaked cap perched well forward on his forehead. Neatly pressed khaki trousers, a grey short-sleeved shirt with a blue lanyard around his left shoulder. Shining insignia on the epaulettes, shoes boned like mirrors. An old jagged scar across one cheek. Not a man who favours exercise, judging by his bulging midriff. Ruby has informed me that Chombo is a Shona, yet he speaks IsiNdebele fluently if his rapid orders to the assembled convicts are anything to go by. He finishes and dismisses them. The convicts saunter off in their thick, faded brown prison garb, presumably to begin another day of raking and weeding around the police station precincts.