Yellowbone

by Ekow Duker

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Karabo.’ She paused. ‘Actually, there is.’

  ‘Yes?’

  He looked genuinely concerned but Precious was embarrassed all the same at having to ask.

  ‘Will you talk to her?’

  ‘Me?’ Bill exclaimed. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘She’s got it in her head that she needs to go abroad to study. To the United Kingdom. I want you to convince her she’d be better off here.’

  ‘But would she? Be better off here, I mean.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Precious snapped. ‘I just need you to talk some sense into her.’

  ‘Why me? Let your Teacher talk to her.’

  ‘He has, but she won’t listen to him either.’ She waved her hand at the clouds crouched above the ears of corn. ‘You’re from over there. She’ll listen to you.’

  Bill’s brow furrowed with apprehension and a low whining crept into his voice. ‘I’ve not been back to England for such a long time. I hardly know the place.’

  ‘But you’re English,’ Precious replied stubbornly.

  ‘There are lots of Englishmen in Mthatha,’ Bill said. He began to count them off on the fingers of his hand. He was not wearing his wedding ring and there was no indentation where it used to be.

  ‘You could speak to Paul,’ he said. ‘Paul Haggerty. He owns the piggery on the way to Langeni. Says he detests England but he still goes back every year. I dare say he could do a much better job of dissuading Karabo from travelling than I ever could. Then there’s what’s-his-name, the young bugger. William something or other. You know, the one who came out here with three little girls and no wife? He must have thought sheep farming was as idyllic as a scene from an Enid Blyton story. I really don’t know why he insists on sticking it out. The poor bastard’s probably got nothing to fall back on.’

  He didn’t sound like he was truly sorry for this William something or other for a gleam of self-satisfaction flickered in his eye.

  ‘I don’t know any of these people you’ve mentioned,’ Precious said stiffly. ‘I’m sorry for troubling you, Bill. I thought you might want to help.’

  She was angry with herself because she’d spent an hour agonising over what to wear. She really shouldn’t have bothered.

  As she turned around to go, she felt his hand on her bare shoulder and a shock of familiarity ran through her. Then slowly, as if it were afraid to be seen, her hand crept up and covered his. They stood like that without speaking. The only sound was their breathing and the swish, swish of the corn blades as they slashed tiredly at each other.

  Bill murmured in Precious’s ear and his breath caressed her neck. ‘I’d do anything for you, Precious, you know that. But I can’t do what you ask.’

  Wasn’t that a black man’s line? You know I’d do anything for you but …

  ‘I’m not asking you to take her into your house, Bill,’ Precious said. ‘I’m just asking you to talk to her.’

  ‘But I’ve not been to your house in years!’

  ‘She could come to your house. I’ll bring her myself.’

  He chuckled and for a moment Precious thought he was laughing at her.

  ‘You can’t be serious, Precious. That would be like rubbing Claire’s nose in it, if you know what I mean.’

  Precious hadn’t thought of that but Bill was right. She bore Claire Harrison no ill will. Bill squeezed Precious’s shoulder gently. ‘Kids leave home all the time,’ he said. ‘Let her go, Precious. It will do her good.’

  She pictured the house with only Teacher and her in it and a tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t want Karabo to go and yet she knew that the house wasn’t big enough for the three of them any longer. Teacher should be the one to go. It was all his fault anyway.

  ‘When are you emigrating?’ she asked dully.

  ‘To Australia? We’ve put that off for so long I don’t think we’ll ever go.’

  Precious winced with sudden envy. There’d been a time when she and Bill, the two of them, had talked about moving to Australia. Then Mandela strode out of prison with his fist clenched in the air and, foolishly, they’d thought he’d clenched his fist for them. They wouldn’t have to go as far as Australia; they’d just move to the Western Cape. They were used to mixed couples down there. Bill would farm and Precious would sit on the porch knitting something she didn’t need while their children played happily at her feet. But in the end she wasn’t brave enough and neither was Bill. So they’d stayed right where they were, just in different houses.

  ‘And your wife?’ Precious couldn’t bring herself to say Claire’s name. ‘Is she okay with staying here?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Claire. She’s quite happy where she is. Would you believe she’s been taking violin lessons? I’d have thought she’d want to learn how to shoot or something useful like that. Mind you, she’s stuck to it quite admirably, I’ll give her that. I expected her to chuck it in after a few weeks but it’s been as many years and she’s still sawing away at the damned thing. What bloody use is a violin anyway? I just can’t figure it out.’

  ‘It will do her good. Isn’t that what you said about Karabo?’

  He grimaced and kicked absently at the stones again.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. Her violin teacher’s a little strange but she seems to enjoy the lessons. Between you and me, a cat could play the violin better than Claire does.’

  ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say about your wife.’

  She wasn’t supposed to stand in solidarity with Claire Harrison but Precious couldn’t help it. It wasn’t Claire’s fault her husband slipped into the bushes to fuck black women the minute her back was turned. She wondered what the women workers saw in Bill Harrison, then remembered she’d been one herself.

  ‘You were my favourite, you know,’ Bill said softly. ‘You still are.’

  ‘And why is that, Bill?’ Precious asked with a smile.

  ‘I can talk to you, have a decent conversation. At my age, those things matter more than they did before.’

  Teacher didn’t talk to her anymore, they no longer had decent conversations. Maybe the onset of the condition that made a man want to talk to his wife again only happened much later in life when he was Bill Harrison’s age.

  ‘Don’t you have decent conversations with your other women?’

  He looked at her sheepishly. ‘I don’t like it when they speak isiXhosa. It makes them overly familiar and sooner or later I have to fire them. And for some reason, hearing broken English puts a dampener on things, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘And all these years I’d thought you were after me because of my complexion.’

  Bill looked puzzled. ‘That’s a black thing, isn’t it? You still talk about the struggle and yet you separate your own communities based on your proximity to whiteness. To be honest, I find that sort of thing quite absurd.’

  ‘It is absurd but it’s not a black thing,’ Precious said. ‘White people did it first.’

  His neck had grown scrawny, like an old chicken and it made his head appear unusually large. The sun had bleached all the colour out of his eyelashes and eyebrows and the effect was ghostly and startling. Bill had become a tractor-driving spirit, an umoya in a khaki shirt and matching shorts. It wouldn’t surprise her at all if the women he fucked made the sign of the cross before they opened their legs.

  CHAPTER 15

  It wasn’t long before Karabo’s grades were back to where they used to be but getting a scholarship was much more difficult. She was either too young or not young enough or she was wanting to study the wrong thing. And although Precious didn’t pump her fist with glee every time Karabo received a rejection letter, Karabo could tell her mother was pleased that her efforts to study overseas were proving unsuccessful. Even Teacher began to grow despondent.

  ‘You can go overseas for your post-graduate degree,’ he said. ‘You’re much more likely to be granted funding then.’

  He sa
id this without any great conviction because he knew that when Karabo’s heart was set on something, it stayed set. After all, didn’t she get her stubbornness from him?

  Karabo was walking home one afternoon after school when she noticed a white woman standing outside the Spar. She tended to stay away from the Spar because she never knew the reaction she would get. The older women fussed over her like she was a princess, telling her with pleasant surprise, ‘I didn’t think you could speak isiXhosa!’ The younger ones, however, glared at Karabo and were as rude as they could be without risking an official complaint. Not that Karabo had the time to complain to their supervisors. But they behaved so deplorably towards her, it was as if she’d seduced their boyfriends and their fathers too.

  Karabo only took notice of the woman outside the Spar because she was wrestling with a heavily laden shopping trolley. It was filled with with potatoes, milk, rolls of toilet paper and a jar of coffee perched precariously on the top. She wasn’t doing very well and as no one seemed inclined to help her, Karabo thought she should. She knew who the woman was, of course, for everyone in Mthatha knew Mrs Harrison. But she’d never spoken to her before.

  ‘May I help you?’ Karabo asked in her most polite voice.

  Mrs Harrison glanced at her, then surrendered the trolley with a grunt of exasperation. Karabo soon saw what the problem was. The front wheel kept rotating until it was at right angles to the basket, bringing the whole contraption to a stop.

  ‘You’ll have to carry your shopping to your car or bring your car here,’ Karabo said. ‘Or get another trolley.’ She smiled at Mrs Harrison, pleased to think she’d given her an exhaustive set of options.

  Mrs Harrison was still breathing heavily from her exertions. Strands of blonde hair lay plastered across her face and her skin was mottled pink and glistened with sweat. She was a large, frumpy woman with an atrocious dress sense even for Mthatha. Her shorts stretched across her bottom like a tarpaulin and when she walked her flip-flops slapped noisily against the back of her heels.

  ‘I’ll bring the car,’ Mrs Harrison said. She gave Karabo a curious look, as if she were sizing her up.

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ Karabo said. ‘I won’t steal anything.’

  Mrs Harrison smiled at Karabo with more relief than embarrassment. ‘I’m glad to hear that. Otherwise I’d have to run after you and it’s obvious I wouldn’t get very far.’

  Karabo nodded gravely because Mrs Harrison was rather fat. Her breasts had lost their shape long ago but were still of formidable proportions. They hung down from her chest like two continental pillows someone had just slept on. She drove her Land Rover towards Karabo, who waited for her to open the back. It was dark inside and very untidy – much like Mrs Harrison herself. There was a bicycle pump in there and a half-empty packet of dog biscuits as well as an aluminium basin full of old shoes.

  ‘I’ve not got round to taking these to the church,’ explained Mrs Harrison. ‘Bill was supposed to take them. He’s such a lazy so-and-so, my husband is.’

  Bill Harrison wouldn’t be as rich as he was if he were lazy but Karabo didn’t think it was her place to say this to his wife. She handed Mrs Harrison the groceries one by one and watched as she arranged them in the back.

  Then Mrs Harrison began muttering to herself and Karabo couldn’t help overhearing what she said.

  ‘I could have sworn I had more old shoes than this,’ said Mrs Harrison with a deep frown. ‘If Bill’s been giving my stuff to his … I swear I’ll kill him.’

  Karabo had no idea what she was talking about. Perhaps Bill Harrison wore his wife’s old shoes. She’d heard there were white men like that.

  As Mrs Harrison stepped back from the Land Rover, Karabo could see how pinched her mouth was, with white lines radiating outwards from a hard, rose-tinted centre. She seemed to have lost her earlier cheeriness among the vegetables and cleaning materials.

  ‘What’s your name?’ There was a clumsy abruptness about Mrs Harrison that Karabo found strangely appealing.

  ‘Karabo. Karabo Bentil.’

  ‘That’s an odd surname.’ She didn’t wait for Karabo to give her customary explanation. Instead she began rummaging in her handbag.

  ‘You really don’t have to give me anything, Mrs Harrison.’

  Mrs Harrison tapped the side of her large nose as if she’d just remembered something. She didn’t seem surprised that Karabo knew her name.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve just the thing for you.’

  She leaned into the Land Rover again and came out holding a small, oddly shaped box. With its metal clasps, it looked like a travel case but there were twin indentations on either side. She held it out to Karabo with both hands like it was a rare gift and Karabo was somebody very important.

  ‘I can’t take that,’ Karabo said instinctively.

  ‘Of course you can!’ Mrs Harrison replied, pushing the case towards Karabo.

  ‘What’s inside?’

  ‘A violin,’ Mrs Harrison replied matter-of-factly.

  ‘I really couldn’t, Mrs Harrison,’ Karabo said again. Timidly, she ran her fingers over the scaled leather. ‘Aren’t violins very expensive?’ She was warming to the idea and crinkled her nose in anticipation of her disappointment if Mrs Harrison were to take it back.

  ‘Not really. I bought this on Alibaba. I was never going to spend a lot of money on it as I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy playing it. My violin teacher said it was more like a violin-shaped object than a proper violin.’

  Suddenly Karabo wasn’t so sure. A violin-shaped object sounded much less attractive than a proper violin.

  ‘Is that why you’re giving it away? Because it’s not a proper violin?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a proper violin, all right. I’ve just lost interest in the damned thing since André did a runner.’ Mrs Harrison splayed her fingers in the air like a magician does with a deck of disappearing cards. ‘He buggered off without even a goodbye.’

  ‘Who’s André?’

  ‘My violin teacher.’

  ‘But I don’t play the violin, Mrs Harrison.’

  ‘That makes two of us. Look, just take it. Give it away if you like or use it as a flower pot, I won’t mind. It’s not half as bad as I’ve described and who knows? You might want to learn to play it one day.’

  Mrs Harrison opened the clasps and lifted the lid. The inside was painted black and had the words Taixing Tongling Musical Instrument Co stencilled across it in white letters.

  ‘It’s Chinese,’ declared Mrs Harrison.

  Karabo crinkled her nose again. ‘Are Chinese violins any good?’

  ‘It depends if you’re a snob like André or a pleb like me.’

  Their eyes met over the top of the lid. Mrs Harrison stared at Karabo for a moment. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘if you hadn’t helped me with my shopping, I’d have said you were a bit of a snob.’ She squinted at Karabo. ‘Well, are you taking it or not?’

  Karabo peered into the case. She was surprised at how small the violin was. She put out her hand. It felt smooth and warm to the touch, as if there was blood coursing through the wood. Slowly, she ran her finger over a string. It was rough, with faint serrations along its length, and she plucked at it gently with her fingernail. The note it made was so unexpected that Karabo snatched her hand away. She laughed nervously to hide her embarrassment.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ Mrs Harrison said, reaching inside the case. She lifted the violin out and presented it to Karabo.

  ‘Take it,’ she said.

  Karabo tried to fend off the violin without touching it again with her hands but Mrs Harrison kept pushing it towards her. Reluctantly, she let Mrs Harrison place the curved edge of the violin against her neck. It felt unnatural, intrusive almost. She kept glancing down at this oddly shaped creature that had attached itself to her throat.

  With the neck of the instrument resting gently in her open palm, the smell of varnish tickled Karabo’s nose. The violin was so close to her face that th
e small cracks traversing the wood were like deep gullies.

  Then the strangest thing happened. And yet it was so fleeting, Karabo was not sure it happened at all. Her fingers curled lightly over the fingerboard and as she closed her eyes, her head dropped ever so slightly towards the polished wood. It was like cradling a small baby in her arms. The rush of tenderness she felt was so intense and unexpected that in that moment she didn’t think she could ever let it go.

  ‘Something tells me you won’t be using this as a flower pot,’ Mrs Harrison said with a smile. There was a twinkle in her eye and Karabo thought she liked her very much.

  ‘You must come by the house for the bow.’

  ‘The bow?’

  ‘It’s a stick thing with horse hair you use to play a violin. I live out there on Langswood Farm. It’s on the way to the dam. We can have have tea and biscuits, if you like.’

  Karabo smiled because Mrs Harrison was speaking to her as if she were six years old. But she could tell her invitation wasn’t merely a throwaway figure of speech in the manner of the rich people who came down from Johannesburg. They descended on Mthatha every Christmas in their smart cars and sunglasses and talked loudly in the supermarket just to let everyone know they had arrived. Then they offered to do this and that with you when they had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

  Karabo lifted the violin case and held it close to her chest. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  Mrs Harrison clapped her hands in delight.

  ‘We have a deal,’ she said. Then with much grunting, she hoisted herself back into the Land Rover and drove off.

  CHAPTER 16

  A few days later on her way back from school, Karabo decided to pay Mrs Harrison a visit. She’d been past Mrs Harrison’s house several times before but had never had reason to stop. It was a large, rambling house with great expanses of field all around it. It would have been easy to fit ten of Teacher’s houses in there, and that included the yard.