Hold My Hand I'm Dying

by John Gordon Davis

  Mahoney’s flat in Fort Street grew emptier. It was easy to sell things in those days, even in the drought, and anyway Mahoney did not have much to sell. The only thing he kept was the table and a chair. Every night of November he sat at the table with a bottle of beer and an office ball point pen and his manuscript and wrote feverishly, trying to finish the book that would just never be finished, trying to forget the burning behind his eyes in a fog of creation and alcohol and smoke. His words sprawled across the pages, his writing getting bigger and rougher and his sentences longer and his language more obtuse and his imagery more intense and more elusive, but he did not still the pain in his breast and the book only got longer, no closer to the end. He did not visit Suzanna de Villiers and she did not call him.

  On the twenty-second day of November he saw her in the street. She was looking into a bookshop window. She did not see him at first and he stood still and looked at her. She stood with her fingertips of one hand touching her chin, looking into the window. She was thin, her face was thin and sad but it was composed. He wanted to ran to her and throw his arms around her and tell her that it was all all right now, everything was all right, they would get married and live happily ever after and never be lonely or apart again, they would stay right here and get married or go off around the world together, or anything, just so long as they were together and the pain in her thin body and his was stilled forever. He hesitated, then he was about to crunch his heart and turn away. Then she turned and she was looking at him.

  She stood quite still next to the window under the hot corrugated-iron roof, her fingers still lightly at her chin, her long straight hair hanging down the sides of her face, looking at him. It seemed a long time that they stood there. Then Mahoney said quietly: ‘Hello.’

  She blinked. ‘Hello, Joe.’ They stood five paces apart.

  ‘How’re you?’ he said.

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ It was an empty question and an empty answer. ‘How’re you?’

  ‘Okay.’

  They looked at each other, knowing what they wanted to say, not knowing what to say.

  ‘You’re pale,’ she said after a moment, ‘you look pale and exhausted.’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  She nodded, without taking her eyes away. ‘How’re your hands? Swollen and itchy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You need a rest,’ she said. ‘This break will fix you up.’

  Mahoney nodded. ‘You’re thin.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am a bit.’

  ‘Are you eating.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Properly.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Mahoney got impatient. ‘You must eat, Suzie.’

  She closed her eyes briefly and nodded. ‘I will again soon. When I’m over you,’ and the words struck terror in him.

  ‘How’s the book?’she said.

  Mahoney blinked impatiently. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Is it nearly finished?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For the first time she looked away. ‘That’s good,’ she said.

  Mahoney breathed out sharply through his nostrils. ‘Oh for Chrissake,’ he said.

  She looked up. ‘What?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing … I love you, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He waited.

  ‘Well, do you love me?’ he demanded.

  She did not look up.

  She nodded. ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Suzie.’

  She did not look up.

  ‘Suzie,’ he said angrily and she looked up at him and her eyes were very deep.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Suzie. Well, then …’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. She shook her head again. ‘I guess I must be going,’ she said steadily, ‘it’s nearly time to get back.’

  ‘Suzie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s have a drink this afternoon, after work I’ll pick you up.’

  She looked at him and then she said: ‘Good-bye, Joseph.’ And she turned and she walked away down the pavement.

  ‘Suzie!’ he said angrily, but she did not look back.

  He stood looking after her, the movement of her legs. He wanted to bound after her and grab her arm so the pain made her come to heel while he told her that she was bloody well going to listen to him and she was going to be there outside her surgery at four and they were going to bloody well talk it out or else. Then he thought: She’s right and there’re still eight days left and for Chrissake I don’t know my backside from my elbow any more either. I don’t know anything any more. I’m a bloody wreck, menace, I’m good for nothing. I’m getting nowhere, my book’s a bloody failure and I’m losing cases in Court like a bloody beginner.

  Chapter Thirty

  The party started at about half-past three in Mahoney’s office, when the boys started coming out of their courts. On the floor were three crates of Lion bombers. There was the usual crap, the wise cracks, the little speeches. Then the typists went home and the boys got down to it. At five o’clock someone was sent down to the Exhibit Room and came back with a sack of assorted beers and some Scotch, stuff that had been confiscated by courts to the Crown over the year but which nobody had had the heart to destroy. Then, the women out of the way, the Chief made the presentation. He made a beery speech which was punctuated with gaffaws and heckling and hear hears with many references to Mahoney’s lechery. Then he presented the office present, a small square parcel. It was a cardboard carton containing one gross of French letters. Ha ha ha, estimates as to how long they would last him, this is just an emergency kit, etcetera etcetera. At seven o’clock they adjourned down to the Exchange where Mahoney had arranged to meet Max and the boys. Solly was in town and he took Mahoney aside and gave him some fatherly advice on how to be a successful bum without staying one. At nine o’clock the party broke up and Mahoney walked back to his empty flat in Fort Street to pack, with ten beers sloshing round inside him, completely sober.

  Samson was sitting on the floor in the kitchen.

  ‘I told you this morning not to wait,’ Mahoney said in Sindebele.

  ‘I wanted to wait for the Nkosi.’

  ‘Go home now, induna. I will still be here in the morning. But come early, I want to be on the road with the dawn.’

  ‘Can I not wait, Nkosi?’

  Mahoney smiled sadly. ‘All right, induna.’

  He went to the fridge. There was half a pint of milk and some butter and three eggs and six beers.

  ‘You can have this food.’

  ‘Thank you, Nkosi.’

  Mahoney took two beers from the fridge. He held his hot swollen peeling palms against the ice box. Then he opened the beers and held one out to Samson.

  ‘Good luck, induna.’

  ‘Thanks seh.’

  They sucked out of the neck of the bottles.

  ‘Come to the room and help me pack my belongings.’

  ‘Has the Nkosi eaten?’

  ‘No. Is there anything to eat?’

  ‘Only the eggs.’

  ‘Come, let us pack.’

  They went into the bare bedroom. ‘Bring out the suitcases and the rucksack and sit down there.’

  Mahoney opened the built-in cupboard. He started on the shirts. He took three. The rest he threw on the floor.

  ‘You can have those.’

  ‘Thank you, Nkosi.’

  ‘Socks. I’ll only need a few. These. Take those. Ties. I better take two. The rest are very bad anyway.’

  He folded them roughly and stuffed them into the rucksack. The pile on the floor grew.

  ‘Suits. Thank God I didn’t buy any more. I’ll take this one I’m wearing. Here, this will fit you.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Nkosi.’

  ‘Get us two more beers, Samson.’

  They sat down on the floor to drink, amongst the suitcases and the clothing. Mahoney tossed Samson
a cigarette.

  ‘Nkosi?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Samson looked at his feet. ‘My heart is very sad that the Nkosi is going away.’

  Mahoney nodded. ‘My heart is also sad.’

  Samson coughed. ‘Nkosi?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I not come with you?’

  Mahoney shook his head sadly. ‘I am sorry, induna. I have already told you.’

  ‘I ask not for wages, Nkosi. Maybe we will make money together, we can hunt crocodiles again.’

  Mahoney smiled, ‘I have told you that I am not going to hunt crocodiles again, nor elephant, nor look for gold.’

  ‘I ask not for wages, Nkosi! One day the Nkosi must again work for money and then I will be his cook again. Maybe we will find plenty money again.’

  ‘Samson, my friend, I cannot take you. I have told you that I am going over the sea, a long way and I do not know to which lands I will travel, nor if I will come back here. It is impossible.’

  Samson played with his cigarette. ‘Then – if the Nkosi does stay in another land and he builds a house and buys a wife, will he send for me to be his cook?’

  ‘How could you leave your kraal and your cattle and your wives?’

  ‘Maybe I can bring my best wife.’

  Mahoney sighed. ‘Maybe, Samson. We shall wait to see the future.’

  Samson shook his head. They sucked beer out of the bottles and they were silent. Then Samson said: ‘Nkosi, you have told me of the sea, and there were Zulu men on the mines in Johannesburg who came from the sea, and they told me about it, but I have never seen it. It is said it is very big.’

  Mahoney nodded, ‘It is true it is very big.’

  Samson thought, ‘Is it bigger than Kariba?’

  ‘Very many times bigger.’

  Samson shook his head, ‘it is like it was in the valley in this room now,’ Samson said sadly and Mahoney nodded. Then Samson frowned.

  ‘The Nkosi has said he will go to England where the Queen lives.’

  Mahoney nodded. ‘Will the Nkosi eat skoff with the Queen?’

  Mahoney laughed. ‘The Queen does not know me, Samson.’

  ‘But she knows who the Nkosi is. At Nyamanpofu the Nkosi was the Queen’s special representative, he spoke the Queen’s words for her. She will remember the Nkosi, I am sure.’

  Mahoney laughed gently again. ‘The Queen is a busy woman and she has many Native Commissioners, who look after many of her people. I think she has probably forgotten me.’

  ‘She cannot forget. Maybe she does not know the Nkosi has come to England. If you go to her house she will remember and maybe she will make the Nkosi Native Commissioner again.’

  Mahoney nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ he said kindly, ‘I will surely visit her.’

  ‘The Nkosi should write her a letter to tell her that he is coming,’ he said, ‘in case she has forgotten.’

  ‘You are right, induna, I will write her a letter,’ Mahoney said.

  Samson thought: ‘Nkosi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When you are Native Commissioner in England, who will cook your skoff?’

  ‘There are no Native Commissioners in England, Samson. The Queen herself is the N.C.’

  Samson understood. ‘Well, even so, when the Nkosi is living in England, who will cook his skoff?’

  ‘I shall have to cook it myself.’

  Samson frowned. ‘And who will wash the Nkosi’s shirts and his socks and his underpants?’

  ‘I will have to wash them myself,’ Mahoney said.

  ‘And who will buy the Nkosi’s skoff in the shop, and his beer?’

  ‘Me.’

  Samson shook his head. ‘And who will clean the Nkosi’s shoes and his motorcar and bring his breakfast to the Court at eleven o’clock?’

  ‘I will have to do all those things myself, Samson,’ Mahoney said.

  Samson shook his head. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘That is no country for a white man.’

  Mahoney threw back his head and laughed. It was the first time that he had laughed from his heart for a long time.

  Samson looked surprised, then sheepish and then he laughed politely.

  ‘Get two more beers, Samson,’ Mahoney laughed.

  Samson stood up. ‘Nkosi?’

  ‘Yes, induna?’

  Samson looked embarrassed, ‘I have brought the Nkosi a gift.’

  Mahoney blinked. ‘What have you brought, induna?’

  Samson dug his hand into his pocket. He brought out a lump of crumpled brown paper. He unfolded it and held it out for him to see. It was a piece of carved bone. Mahoney recognised it.

  ‘It will protect the Nkosi.’

  Mahoney nodded and he picked up the bone carefully.

  ‘You got this from a witch-doctor,’ Mahoney said, and Samson nodded. Mahoney shook his head, ‘I cannot take it, induna,’ he said, ‘it is too powerful a charm. You must keep it to protect yourself.’

  Samson looked hurt.

  ‘I got it for the Nkosi,’ he said and Mahoney closed his eyes. Suddenly he was very tired and sad and there were tears behind his eyes. He did not want to leave Africa.

  ‘Induna,’ he said, ‘you took much trouble to get this charm. I take it now and I will keep it to protect me. Thank you, induna.’

  Samson beamed and looked embarrassed. Mahoney smiled and put the charm in his pocket. ‘Now fetch us the beer,’ he said.

  When Samson came back with the bottles, Mahoney said: ‘What will you do?’

  Samson said: ‘I will go back to my kraal. I have not seen my wives and cattle for a long time. The drought is bad. I shall not seek the work of another white man. I think maybe I will return to the valley and hunt elephant until the Nkosi returns.’

  ‘That is illegal, Samson.’

  Samson grinned, and Mahoney shook his head to show disapproval. ‘Do not break the law, Samson. Go back to your wives and cattle and seek money from the land, or go back to the mines in Johannesburg or stay here in Bulawayo and find work in a factory.’

  Samson was quiet. Then he said: ‘There is drought, I cannot make money from the soil. Nor do I wish to do woman’s work in the houses. And there is trouble in the townships. I am a hunter, how else can I live?’

  ‘Trouble in the townships? You mean from the politicians?’

  Samson snorted and shook his head. ‘Trouble from the politicians …’

  There was the noise of the front door opening and the sound of high heels. Both men turned their heads and listened. The footsteps came down the short passage. ‘Joseph?’

  Suzanna de Villiers stood in the doorway.

  ‘Suzie.’ Mahoney stood up. Samson stood up also. She looked at him steadily with those sphinx eyes. She held a fat brown paper packet and a long brown paper packet.

  ‘I—’ she paused, ‘I brought you a cooked chicken and some wine. I’m sure you haven’t had supper and I know you won’t have breakfast and you can take what’s left with you tomorrow.’

  Mahoney looked at her. She was very beautiful.

  Samson slunk quietly round her and down the passage and they heard the back door close behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Mahoney woke up with the first light showing on the horizon through the curtainless window. She was asleep beside him on the coir mattress on the floor, curled up on her side, her knees together and held up against her. Her long yellow hair was pulled over her face and she had her back to him. He pushed himself up on his elbow and looked down at her slender shoulders. They were thin. He lifted her hair off her face and looked at her high cheekbones and her wide mouth with her lipstick smeared, her heavy eyelids closed. He took the blanket a little further off her and looked at her breasts lying cradled in the crook of her arm, soft and warm, white against her tanned neck and face and arms and shoulders, the nipples were pink. And Mahoney wanted to cry out in despair and confusion and loneliness and emptiness and fear. He did not want to go away, he did not want to leave his flat and his job
and his woman behind, he wanted to stay close to her and have her always, and always be safe beside her in this nice life here in Rhodesia. Nothing mattered any more except Suzie. He dropped down on his side beside her and he put his arms around her and he held her breasts hard and put his face against the warm smooth skin of her back and he stifled a sob.

  She woke and turned round.

  ‘Joseph, you’re crying.’

  He got up and walked naked to the window and looked out of it at the gathering pink in the sky. She lay looking up at him. He looked back at her.

  ‘God, Suzie, this is awful, isn’t it?’

  She nodded. He looked at her and her eyes were wet.

  ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ he said.

  They sat on the mattress, side by side, their backs against the cool of the wall. The room was bare, just the pile of clothing on the floor and the two suitcases and the haversack and the plate with the chicken bones on it and the empty wine bottle. They sat like that drinking coffee and they looked in front of them and they did not say anything for a long time because there was only one thing to say. He put his hand on her thigh, rather thin it was now, and held it gently, not lasciviously, and let its warm softness soak into his hot palm and she put her hand on top of his and held it limply. He looked at her profile as she stared in front of her and her eyes were wet again and her face was very sad but it was steady. He said, ‘I love you, Suzie,’ and she looked at him for a long time and then she nodded and kept on looking at him but there was nothing to say, there were no promises that could be made and they both understood this as they looked at each other, ‘I love you, Suzie’ and she nodded again and then slowly she turned her head and looked away.