“You are coming with me?”
“We’ll go together.”
“And then?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll go to the hotel so’s I won’t compromise anybody by anything I do … we’ll say I’ve had to come to bring you down because it was unsafe here. —It is unsafe.”
“I was only afraid of one thing—not getting back.”
“I know. But I’ll be there.”
“You won’t come back here?”
He shook his head.
“Not at all?”
“Perhaps not.”
“This funny house of yours,” she said. She sat down on the bed beside him and took his hand.
She asked, “You mean you’ll go to Switzerland?”
There was a ringing closeness in the room around them. Inside him was an experience exactly the reverse of the emptiness, the sense of all forces disengaged and fallen apart, that he had been having all day.
“Maybe. But it’s too late for that. There’s something else I have to do in Europe. I’ll tell you tomorrow when we’re out of here. But so far as everyone else is concerned, I’m just in town because of bringing you, hmm?”
“How can we go together. Overseas,” she said slowly, using the colonial’s term, loaded with distance and unattainableness.
“We’ll see. Perhaps we can manage. We’ll decide what to do. I can’t stay here, my darling.” He stroked her hair, it had grown, it was growing very long. She said, “What are you thinking?”
He smiled at her. “—What a pity, in a way.”
It was she who thought of Hjalmar. They agreed, of course he would go down to the capital with them. “And it’ll make it easy for him to make it up with the family. I mean it won’t look as if he’s come crawling back.” He went to the garden to tell Hjalmar; the good-looking blond head was bent, skull asserting itself gradually now through the thinning hair and drawn bright skin, reading George Orwell’s letters over the top of rather than through rimless lenses. Hjalmar took the glasses off and listened with detached reasonableness. Then he got up, closing the book, nodding in understanding. He asked a few factual questions about the journey—there were no roadblocks, no difficulty on that stretch of road, eh? Bray said he’d heard nothing like that. Hjalmar went purposefully indoors; there was his voice remarking something to Rebecca, and her laugh.
Bray turned off the light so that the colour shrank away into darkness as a piece of paper, swollen with the glow of flame, suddenly turns black and shrivels. In the dark he felt one or two of the big ants that journeyed ceaselessly over the fig crawl blunderingly over his foot. The multiple trunks of the tree, twisted together forty feet up, made the shape of a huge wigwam under the spread of its enormous, half-bald branches. How old was it? As old as the slave-tree? He had found thickened scars where at some point or other in its life there had been an attempt to hack it down. A reassuring object, supporting life even in the teeming parasites whose purpose of existence was to eat it out from within; an organism whose heart couldn’t be got at because it was many trees, each great arterial trunk rotting away in the embrace of another that held still the form of sap and fibre; a thing at once gigantic and stunted, in senile fecundity endlessly putting out useless fruit on stumps and in crotches. But only for trees is it enough simply to endure; not for human beings. The black heat was stirred by small whirls of air currents, somewhere in its density the tree frogs clinked ceaselessly. He had known this night a thousand times.
He went into the house, stood looking at the table of papers, left it and went into the bedroom where Rebecca was already emptying drawers. The spear-fishing goggles and guns were dumped in a corner. “We can stick them in one of those big laundry baskets of Kalimo’s. I would have liked to go one last time to the lake.” He said, “They say the spear-fishing’s wonderful in Sardinia.” “Sardinia, here we come.” She waved a blue snorkel. She stood as if she were momentarily giddy: “It doesn’t seem real, does it?”
“No. It never does.” Very far back in his mind, he had been putting these clothes in this suitcase in Wiltshire. A sentence came to him idiotically, like the line of a popular song: Your waist measurement hasn’t changed for ten years. Now, as then, a decision became the progression of small practical tasks. He found a basket for the spear—fishing gear; in the end he did shuffle together all the papers and files from his table and look around for something to pack them in. There was a thin plywood box of the tea-chest kind that he thought would do, if he could clean it out a bit. He had turned it upside-down and was banging at the base; Hjalmar appeared and watched a moment with the tentative air of someone who doesn’t know whether or not to help or give advice. “And how’re you getting on? Finished already?”
Hjalmar sat down on the edge of an old veranda chair whose legs splayed under weight. He said shyly, “I think I’ll stay and keep an eye on things in the house.”
Bray was picking an old label off the box. A small cockroach flashed from beneath, fell to the floor and was caught by his sole. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, you know.”
“That’s okay. Maybe I’ll come down soon. If I get lonely or so. Do you want to take the Orwell?”
“Good lord, keep the books. There’s nowhere to put them.”
Rebecca appeared with an armful of children’s worn-out sandals. “What’s this about?”
“Hjalmar’s decided to hang on a bit.”
“Oh. Have you?” she said, friendly, awkward, to make it seem neither unreasonable nor unexpected.
Hjalmar gave a short laugh— “It may sound crazy, but you know I want to finish the paving out there under the tree. I hate to leave it half-finished—you know? Then I’ll be able to decide the … the next thing. Only I must do it first. It’s such a mess there with the fruit dropping and the leaves on that uneven ground. When it’s paved all you need to do is just sweep it off.”
“That reminds me—money for Mahlope and Kalimo. If I give you a cheque could you pay them? And please—phone Aleke for me, tomorrow—tell him I decided to get Rebecca out.” He wrote the cheque to the amount of three months’ wages for each servant and enough left over to keep the house running for a while, but Hjalmar put it in his wallet without glancing at it. Bray looked at the chest with a sudden infirmity of purpose. “Hjalmar—if I leave this stuff, could you pack it away for me sometime? And then if you come down, either you could bring it or—?”
“Of course, no trouble. I’ll see to everything.”
While they fetched and carried and threw away, turning out the life of Bray’s house as one turns out a drawer, Hjalmar busied himself making tea.
He said to the girl as the three of them drank it, “I like this house. I’m going through a bad time but just the same I like this house.” She stood there strangely with the cup in her hand and Bray saw her looking, looking, eyes averted, round the ugly, shabby, impersonal furniture, the chairs they had talked in, the table they had eaten at. There was a moment’s embarrassment, as if something too intimate had been spoken aloud. But most of that night she struck him as vividly animated—suppressing animation. The thought even crossed his mind once: perhaps she is elated without knowing it at moving towards her children again.
They went to the narrow bed in which somehow or other they had slept many nights, folded together or rolled away to the edges in the heat, always touching at some point, at shoulder or foot, or hair to hand, as if one sympathetic nervous system took over and controlled two bodies in a special tolerance. They had both had a shower and lay naked without covering and without having dried themselves properly—evaporation at least gave the sensation of coolness. She said, “I want to feel you in me but we won’t make love.”
“We’ll have a big bed at the Great Lakes. They must have big beds.”
“Will we get there in one day?”
“We’ll just keep on driving, mmh?” He had his hand on her face and he felt her smile.
Sometime later the rain came. Thunder bore down grandly upon
the roof, he half-woke and saw his foot coming down on the quick cockroach, a shiny almond. He had softened and fallen away from the warm tunnel of her. The forest of heavy rain hid them, and they slept.
In the morning there was a world that had cast its skin. All the green glistened like dragonfly wings drying in the sun. The jacarandas had shed their shape in fallen flowers on the ground. Glossy starlings flashed about; Hjalmar was out there, seeing how his brick mosaic had stood up to the wet.
Mahlope put the three suitcases and the basket with Gordon Edwards’ spear-fishing equipment into the car. Kalimo trotted back and forth with his hands under his apron, watching. Bray had told him Doña was going to her friends in the capital. To him the capital was the two Poles and all the great cities and places of the earth: if you got there, you were near everywhere. “And bring my greetings to the children, please,” he said in English to Rebecca, smiling and repeating in a comforting rumble, “Yes … yes … mm’h …” When they said good—bye he handed over the basket they always took with them for picnics at the lake. “Is it eggs with small fish in, as well?” Bray said. The old man hunched with laughter— “Those eggs you like it, blead, litt’e bit cheese—”
“No roast chicken?” Rebecca said.
Kalimo’s eyes were rheumy at the good old joke. “Well, Mukwayi he didn’t tell me you driving today! I don’t cook chicken for roaste’ yesterday night—”
“As long as we’ve got those eggs, Kalimo.”
Hjalmar kissed Rebecca. “Walking out on the job, eh? Where’m I going to get another bricklayer’s assistant? You’ll see when you come back, it’ll all be finished for you.”
Hjalmar and Kalimo were left, the one with hands on hips, the other’s under his apron. Mahlope, chatting outside his room with a friend, waved cheerfully. Rebecca settled herself more comfortably, lit cigarettes. “I feel as if we were going off to the lake.”
As the old Volkswagen left Gala behind they left the whole anger and disruption of the country behind there as well. The boma under guard, the smashed stalls of the market, the scars and stains where flies hung, marking the place of street battles, the dead smell of charred buildings—all this that they lived among was undertow beneath their wheels: it seemed that the light screens of forest and bamboo around the firm wet road provided no surface to reflect turmoil, to be seized by the violent charge and make it manifest; the current was earthed.
He pointed out the track leading to Tippo Tib’s Arab fort.
“We never ever managed to go—”
“I must take you one day. It’s quite impressive.”
The road ran empty for many miles. Now and then there were the usual bags of charcoal waiting for custom; a barefoot man appealed from the forest. Where rain had fallen parties of women were out with their hoes. The few villages looked lean and wispy after the drought. In patches of scrub, one night’s rain was enough to have brought the wild lilies blooming straight from the sand. They had an eye for everything; the past week became a prison from which they suddenly found themselves let out. Talk rose and died down; sometimes they let the repetition of trees and giant bouquets of bamboo flow over them dreamily. Thoughts broke up and formed like spume on a sea. They laughed at the prospect of the household consisting of Hjalmar and Kalimo quietly following their private obsessions. “But Kalimo will be in charge.” “Oh without question. He will play Margot to Hjalmar’s Hjalmar.”
“I can’t help feeling sorry for Margot,” Rebecca said. “A weak man makes you into a bitch. Even I felt like beginning to bully poor old Hjalmar a bit over that paving.”
“Even you? You’ve always been able to smell out a weak man?”
“Mmm. If I’m attracted by one, there’s still something that protects me.”
“When first I knew you—knew about you from other people—I thought you were very much the type to be exploited. Emotionally and in other ways; by everybody. And your friends gave that impression. Vivien was always anxious about you.”
“Oh well, I got into a bad way down there. They didn’t trust Gordon, any of them. Oh I mean, everybody always likes Gordon—but they didn’t think Gordon treated me properly. I knew they were sorry for me. They persisted in being sorry for me. It made me behave funnily; I can’t explain, but when they made passes at me—Neil, the others—I saw that they felt they could do it because to me they could risk showing that things weren’t so good for them, either. I felt sorry for them. I felt what did it matter …” She put a hand on his thigh. “You don’t like to hear about it.”
“Vanity, I suppose. Stupid male vanity, not much different from theirs. I ought to be ashamed of it. I’ve always believed in freedom in sex. Not that I’ve taken much of it. But on principle.”
She laughed. “I’m glad. I don’t want you to have made love to a lot of women.”
“Although you’ve made love to a lot of men?”
“I’m not like you. It doesn’t matter for me. But there’s one thing that matters a lot—I’d decided I couldn’t stay down there among my friends any longer, before it began with you and me. I came to Gala because I wanted to get away from that.”
A moment later she said, “You’re thinking about the first time, in your living-room.”
“Yes.”
“You’re right. It did seem it was like the others.”
“You wanted to show me I had a need of you before I could begin to feel sorry for you.”
“You were, already. That poor girl with her kids. And where’s the husband?”
“Yes. I ought to have offered you my house instead of letting you pay for those weeks at the Fisheagle.”
“But after you went down to see Mweta and came back again you made it right. From the day we went to the lake it was all different. I was different.”
“Were you?”
“You made me different.”
“Have I reformed you, my darling, your paunchy old lover. You don’t want other men any more.” But he knew it made her sad to hear him refer to himself as getting old.
“Living with you is different from anything else.”
“But it has been for me, too.”
“Oh don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Not has been.”
“My darling! I just mean the time at Gala, that’s all. Kiss me.” He turned to her quickly a moment.
She rested content, against his shoulder; she waved at a solitary figure at the roadside.
“You don’t think Gordon has … well … presented you with a certain element of weakness?”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well you told me he would never dream of thinking you could be interested in men.”
She gave a small chuckle. “That’s because Gordon’s so sure of himself in everything. Gordon can cope.”
“But that’s arrogance, pride. You’ve proved it a weakness in him, haven’t you?”
“In a way. But you say you believe in sexual freedom.”
“We’re talking about Gordon—he doesn’t see it as sexual freedom, it’s quite the opposite—he doesn’t even see the possibility of sexual freedom for you.”
“Of course it wasn’t sexual freedom. Just that the whole thing didn’t mean much. Whether he thought me incapable of bothering about any man, or I thought it didn’t matter whether I did or not—it all amounted to the same thing.” Her weight was slack and warm against him. “I’m very jealous of Olivia. I suppose that’s what it is: I have a horrible feeling when I think of her.”
“Why do you think you’re so jealous, since you’re different from me, with my stupid sexual jealousy about the other men?”
“I don’t know.” She seemed to wait for the answer to come to her. “Because you don’t separate sex and love. —Do you? If you slept with her again it would be because you love her.”
What she had said did not conjure up for him Olivia, but Gordon—the red road was drawn away under his eyes through the windscreen already dirtied with insects, and it wa
s Gordon he saw, talking away, coming across the strip of scrub between his house and the Tlumes’.
“I don’t know why—I feel so marvellously sleepy. Keep sort of dropping off.”
She slept for more than half an hour, thirty or forty miles. His mind was calm. It was not that he had no doubts about what he was doing, going to do; it seemed to him he had come to understand that one could never hope to be free of doubt, of contradictions within, that this was the state in which one lived—the state of life itself—and no action could be free of it. There was no finality, while one lived, and when one died it would always be, in a sense, an interruption. He went over and over in his mind the possibilities of raising money for Shinza quickly. Perhaps, the way things were going, Shinza would be dead before he could arrange anything; perhaps Shinza would go into exile over the border, and Mweta would hang on a while. Perhaps there would be many more burned houses, more blood running as easily as chickens’ blood in fighting in which the real cause was not understood, in which the side-reactions of little groups of people battled out apparently uselessly the passions of the real struggle to which their situation—the years of slavery, isolation, colonization—committed them. There would be waste and confusion. He was party to it, part of it. The means, as always, would be dubious. He had no others to offer with any hope of achieving the end, and as he accepted the necessity of the end, he had no choice.
The instincts in himself that he had unconsciously regarded as the most civilized, unwilling to risk—as a fatal contradiction in terms—his own skin or that of others for the values of civilization, were outraged. He was aware (driving between the swish of tall grass stroked by the car’s speed) of going against his own nature: something may be worth suffering for as a matter of individual conviction, but nothing is worth bringing about the suffering of others. If people kill in a cause that isn’t mine, there’s no blood on my shoes; therefore stand aside. But he had put aside instead this “own nature.” It was either a tragic mistake or his salvation. He thought, I’ll never know, although other people will tell me for the rest of my life. Rebecca’s hair fluttered against his shoulder in the draught from the window. He passed a swampy dambo and there were the widow-birds hovering their long black tails. A snake lay coiled in the road and he avoided it; the next car would kill it. There was also in his mind the possibility that he would go and see Mweta one last time, in the capital. The preposterousness of the thing lay like a jewel that has fallen into a pool and rolled among the stones like any other pebble. If one could pick it out … and even now, since only audacity was possible, Mweta might seize upon Shinza, not the enemy but the only chance. … He saw himself actually walking up the steps to the red brick façade of that huge house; he supposed the image would fade out as the shape of an hallucination born of obsession fades, with health, into an empty wall.
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