by Ruth Hartley
“It’s been like that always.” he said. “Always since the mine was here. Nothing grows – the earth is too sick – too poisoned. It used to send all its badness into the river – but not now. Not anymore. Now the land here is just dead. The plants stay away and so do the birds.”
It was true. The demarcation between the gravel of the poisoned earth and the bush surrounding it was as sharp as if it had been ploughed and harrowed the day before.
Had the mine ever produced enough gold to justify the damage it had caused? Sadness grew in Lara, then fury. Could the land ever be healed? She took photographs, made some scribbled sketches that almost tore through the paper of her sketchbook then shoved a handful of red stones into her bag as markers of the colour of the place. As she turned to leave Lara passed close by the old grey cottage and its concrete block shed lurking by the road out. For no reason they filled her with foreboding.
“They are locked!” Tembo said. “Storerooms for Mr. Mynhardt.”
“It’s all so ugly.” Lara said. “And it’ll be here forever – longer than I’ll live!”
Lara’s lunchtime drink of shandy made it necessary for her to stop and find somewhere private for a pee. As soon as they left the area of the mine, she asked Tembo to park the Cruiser for a moment. He insisted on walking into the bush ahead of her to make certain there were no lion about. Lara didn’t let him see her smile but she did get him to return to the Cruiser while she ducked behind a wild hibiscus. As she stood up to adjust her trousers Lara looked around and behind her. That was when she first saw the cemetery. It was so overgrown, its iron crosses so rusted, its concrete graves so stained that it was completely camouflaged. She would not have seen it except that a soft rustle and an odd unnatural sound drew her eye to a rusted and creaking sheet of tin fastened to one of the fence posts that protected the site.
Chapter Ten
The War Cemetery
The tin heart swung gently in the breeze.
It was made from a half-metre-square sheet of galvanised tin that had been shaped with a pair of snips into a large heart. The tin heart was fastened by wire at its centre top and bottom to the trunk of an old dead tree that guarded the tiny cemetery. With time and wind it had become creased so that it folded down the middle into a half-open book, a book that had once carried a painted message on its surface but the words had faded and rubbed away. As the soft wind rocked it, the tin heart creaked and scraped out an arbitrary, meaningless dirge. Who had fastened this token of love to the edge of the cemetery? Was it a mother, sister, wife, lover, friend or nurse? For whom had the faded words been painted and by whom? Someone bereaved or their agent? No one would ever know and no one would ever ask.
Lara, open-mouthed, stood staring and wondering. Perhaps if she listened long enough over hours, days, weeks, months, seasons and years, a rhythm or a pattern or music would gradually emerge and be heard. It was very hot in the bush by the cemetery but the painful little groans of the tin heart froze her own heart. Here in the bush, was a symbol of undying love that was no longer remembered or seen by anyone. The vanished words must surely refer to one of the occupants of the graves but there was no obvious clue to make a linkage with any of the dead.
Oscar had told her that the mine had taken its name from the tin heart at the cemetery but given no details. Jannie Oosthuizen had decided on the name apparently. Lara had not expected to find the overgrown cemetery and Oscar had not suggested she visit it. She had found it by chance and because of her need to pee. Strands of the fence were broken and sagging in several places but it still more or less enclosed the cemetery. Possibly the wire had not been stolen to make animal traps because it surrounded burial sites and was believed by local villagers to be the home of ghosts. Ghosts of white men, as Lara could see from the names on the eight iron crosses on the eight concrete rectangular graves. No chance of jackals and hyenas digging up the bodies from under that weight of cement. They were all soldiers – all British, all but one were non-commissioned men, all were young, most not twenty, none over thirty. All had died, the iron plaques said, after long illnesses, all after November 1918, most in late 1919.
Why – and how – in such an isolated place – how extraordinary it was that British soldiers were here – so many thousands of miles from the fighting in northern Europe. Why was this war forgotten? Lara was held at the cemetery by fascination but inside her chest, against her heart pressed an irrational and paralysing fear which made her want to run away. Death by illness in the bush miles from anywhere. How desperate, how lonely and who had cared for these sick boy soldiers, who had buried them, who had made the crosses that bore their names?
Back at the Cruiser, Lara asked Tembo if he knew anything about the cemetery.
“You can ask the father of Mr Enoch Njobvu, Mr Samuel Njobvu, if you go to make drawings in his village – it’s near here. He knows the stories about the graveyard. He was a ‘mwana’, a child then – about six years old maybe,” Tembo answered. “Mr Njobvu perhaps will take you to meet him when you come again.”
There was a pot of strong brown tea waiting for Lara in the dining room back at the camp. Mainza had asked the cook to make a jam-filled sponge cake in her honour. It was not Lara’s favourite treat but she ate two slices out of politeness while she waited for Oscar and Natan to return. She saw Mainza walk to the camp gate and talk to Tembo, who was on watch there while they both looked down the road. It was getting very late. Oscar had said they should leave by 4.30. It was already after that time. At 5 o’clock the sound of a vehicle could be heard from a distance away. Lara heard it shift gears and the engine note change as it negotiated a steep incline. It turned down a gully and seemed to go away in a long circuit before it could be heard finally approaching the camp. When she saw him, Oscar was already talking to Mainza. He waved at Lara to come over. Natan was not with him.
“Sorry, Lara. I’m much later than planned but we just about have enough daylight to get home. We’ll talk when we are in the plane. Are you okay?”
“Where’s Natan?” Lara asked, puzzled.
“Gone with his friends. Change of plans.” Oscar shot a quick glance at Lara.
What on earth! Lara thought.
She couldn’t imagine Natan walking through the bush. He had only carried a minimal amount of stuff with him in a back pack.
Yes he was tough! He had probably been a soldier in the Israeli Army. But why was he here? And who would he have met and gone away with in this isolated part of Chambeshi? Had Oscar done something to Natan? Shot him and dumped his body for the hyenas to tidy up? Oscar looked so sane and relaxed and he had no motive that Lara could think of. What a ridiculous idea!
They were in the Cruiser bumping along the track back to the airstrip. Conversation was impossible. The windsock half way down the airstrip was limp and hardly moving. Oscar looked at it, licked his forefinger and held it up, made a quick study of the few soft stationary clouds above. Mainza was already driving down the airstrip ahead of the plane hooting noisily. Lara saw a bush buck start up, begin to run across the airstrip and then turn and flee into the forest. Oscar raced through the flight checks, swung the propeller and finally the plane bumped down after Mainza’s Cruiser to turn and take off into what little wind there was. They were airborne and flying into the sun. Oscar banked and turned the plane south-east. They climbed slowly over the river. A tiny excited Tembo waved from the camp gate and they were on their way back to the city.
Oscar had given Lara the headset with the intercom that Natan had used but neither of them spoke much. Lara had important questions for Oscar but judged that she couldn’t expect proper answers mid-flight. By the time they reached the airfield at Oscar’s ranch, the sun was a red sphere on the west horizon and lights had come on all over Chambeshi City, except in the shanty town where there was only an occasional orange fire burning. Pascal had told Lara that people in the shanty towns barricaded them
selves into their shacks at night to escape thieves and marauders. That was a life that Lara could not imagine.
“You must be tired, Lara,” Oscar said as he helped her out of the plane.
“You look pretty tired yourself,” she said. Oscar shrugged.
“I am – but do stay for supper, Lara – I want to hear how your day was and what you think about the paintings I want. Stay for a drink, anyway.”
As Lara turned to go into the house, Oscar put an encouraging but too-familiar hand on her buttock. Lara leapt forward enraged.
“Don’t do that ever!” she said turning to face him.
Oscar’s eyes widened in surprise, but then into amusement and contrition.
“Sorry, Lara. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Lara was embarrassed to have lost her temper so easily but still angry at being touched in such a way.
“It’s such a -” but could she explain to someone of Oscar’s age how it made her feel?
“It’s demeaning!” she said emphatically.
“I know.” he acknowledged quietly. “I’m old and badly brought up. Sorry I offended you. Please come in. Let’s just sit down and relax – it’s been a long day.”
Lara had not one, but two gin and tonics. Oscar offered her olives and salted nuts. She was suddenly loquacious and reckless.
“What did happen to Natan, Oscar? Whatever did you do to him? Abandon him? Murder him?”
She stopped, shocked by what she had said but Oscar seemed unfazed. He grinned.
“Lara – you have a wild imagination as well as immense creative talent. Natan had arranged to meet a contact at Chief Sanga’s village who was to drive him to the Congo border. He has business there and will fly back from Kinshasa. He is sourcing gemstones for business partners in Europe. That’s all I know. It wouldn’t be worth killing him until he returns with his loot, don’t you think? Okay – shall we eat? I think you’re a little tipsy from hunger.”
“Oh shit!” Lara said. “I am a bit pissed and I have to drive home.”
“My driver can take you home, Lara. You can collect your car tomorrow – or you can have the guest wing tonight and lock yourself safely in there after supper.”
Lara thought of the empty fridge in Tim’s flat. She was increasingly curious about Oscar. Curiosity was probably dangerous.
“Thank you, Oscar.” she said. “Supper and the guest wing sound perfect.”
Oscar’s cook served them steak and salad and Oscar opened a red Boschendal wine from South Africa. They talked about the Tin Heart Camp and Lara’s ideas for her paintings.
“I want to paint the mine and the cemetery,” Lara said, “but perhaps as they are seen by the people who live near them – you know – with the ghosts of the dead people and wild creatures around them – floating – perhaps a bit like Chagall’s paintings.”
“Well – you might scare away both my workers and my clients,” Oscar responded, “but I do want you to use your imagination and skills freely. Show me your rough sketches and ideas – possibly there will be room for different interpretations. We’ll see.”
Lara was falling asleep.
“Must go to bed, Oscar.” she said dozily. “Thanks for everything.”
Oscar stood up. He accompanied Lara to the door.
“Lara,” he said smiling gently, “When I am not tired and when you are not pissed and – if you want to – I will make love to you.”
Lara’s mouth fell open.
Without touching her with his hands he bent his head and kissed her lightly on each cheek, then he kissed her on her lips at first tenderly then harder.
Lara saw the sharpening stubble on his chin, the softening skin under his eyes, the puckering of his full-lipped mouth and shut her eyes. She had intended to speak but said nothing more. Oscar tasted of wine and garlic and maleness. His lips were fleshy and muscular, the bones of his face solid, his teeth sharp, his tongue searched and explored. Lara’s body turned to liquid fire. A strange passionate sound like no wild animal she had ever heard came from deep in her. She wanted this moment to last forever, but Oscar lifted his head.
“Goodnight Lara. Sleep well.”
He stroked her nose lightly with a finger and turned away.
In the guest room, Lara locked her door, unlocked it, locked it, decided she must think about things – about Oscar – about sex – about how curiosity killed the cat – about unlocking the door again or was it locking it properly at last. She took off her clothes, climbed into bed and fell fast asleep.
Chapter Eleven
A Pact with the Devil
Lara slept most of the next morning. She had woken before sunrise, thirsty, needing to pee and hating the sour wine taste in her mouth. She had no toothbrush but saw when she got to the bathroom that Oscar provided new plastic-wrapped toothbrushes, toothpaste, and hotel packs of soap and shampoo for his guests. It was a mistake to wash her face and brush her teeth so early because when she got back into bed she thought that she would never get back to sleep again. What was she doing here? What had Oscar said about making love to her? What did he mean? Wasn’t it madness to consider an affair with someone that old and someone who Tim thought might be bad? She was now sober. She could dress, get into her car and drive away before breakfast – just leave a note. Nothing had happened in the night and in the end she had left the door unlocked. How humiliating was that? She wanted Oscar’s commission and she was fairly sure that he would honour his promise even if she didn’t sleep with him. She wanted to have sex with Oscar. She thought of his kiss. It aroused her. She put her hand on her clitoris, started to masturbate and fell back to sleep at once.
It was embarrassing to wake up so late but the day was not going to go backwards. Lara showered and dressed in yesterday’s clothes. She was hungry. Time to go and find Oscar and say a possibly embarrassed goodbye. It was a peaceful Sunday morning. None of Oscar’s staff were around. The house was quiet, then Lara heard the sound of music from the sitting room. Teasing orchestral music, a mix of jazz and lyrical folk, magically light and dark. Lara followed it and found Oscar stretched out on the settee, spectacles on his nose, a book in his hand. A tray of coffee and box of chocolates on the table by him. Lara looked at them greedily.
“Would you like some coffee?” Oscar offered, sitting up to pour her a cup.
“Yes please. What’s playing? It’s lovely.” Lara asked.
“Stravinsky’s ‘Soldier’s Tale’ – it’s a fable about a soldier who makes a pact with the Devil. He wants money in exchange for his violin and his musical ability. Of course he regrets it and the Devil takes his soul and his freedom. Never give up your art for money, Lara!”
Lara smiled. Of course she wouldn’t. She knew that.
Sipping coffee and munching chocolates she asked, “What about you, Oscar? Weren’t you once a soldier? Would you make a Faustian pact with the Devil?”
Oscar leant back on the settee again.
“Perhaps I already have – but not in exchange for Helen of Troy. Instead I want you, Lara.”
Lara looked at her coffee cup. She could still leave. With his book on his lap and his specs on his nose Oscar was relaxed and not threatening.
“So you haven’t run away from me.” Oscar said.
“No.” Lara answered. She put down her coffee cup, stood up and walked to Oscar’s side. She picked up his book and put it on the floor, lifted off his specs and sat beside him. Her hip against his.
“You’re old, Oscar.” she said. “Too old for me!”
“Yes.” he replied with a smile. “And I am bad. Too bad for you.” Lara’s heart went thud so loudly that he heard it too and he pulled her face down close to his and they kissed until Lara was gasping and moaning.
“You’re wicked too, Lara!” Oscar said.
“Oh I am! I am!”
Lara, guided by Oscar’s hands, swung her leg over Oscar’s prone body hearing his groan of pleasure with satisfaction. However did she know how to behave so badly? She pulled off her shirt and undid her bra so he could reach her breasts and suck and bite them which he did with thoroughness. Now she herself was wild with desire but she understood that Oscar was in no hurry. He held her upper arms firmly and pushed her upright. She flung back her head, living in that moment of the sweet and terrible sensation of sexual passion.
“Let me look at you.” he ordered. “We will do it my way slowly – very slowly. I want you to come when I am ready.”
“Oh God!” Lara said. “Oh God!”
Chapter Twelve
The Solo Exhibition
It was the opening of Lara’s first solo exhibition. Nervousness meant she hadn’t eaten all day and anticipation had made her drink two large glasses of wine faster than her usual rate. She felt alone. Thank God Brian and Jane weren’t there to add to her tension. Oscar had jetted off to America which was in some ways a relief because she had been able to focus on her work.
Helen was soothing and supportive. “It’s a really good show Lara. Nothing for you to worry about – it’ll sell well.”
Lara found she missed Tim. The quality of his friendship provided her with something special. What was it exactly? He’s reliable, steady, more than that, Tim is constant. “I’m not constant.” Lara thought. “Up and down and emotional – neurotic about my art and me. Selfish too.” She hated the time before exhibitions. “Why did I do this? Why do I make art and expose myself to scrutiny by strangers?”
Lara was returning from another unnecessary journey to the gallery storeroom. She’d lost her wineglass again and her face felt stiff from smiling at people she didn’t know when she heard Tim’s voice.