by C. B. George
“You’re cold,” he said, and eased her towards him, sliding one arm under her neck and the other round her waist so that they lay nose to nose. She positioned one hand in the small of his back and they stayed like that for a while, each listening to the other’s breathing. She shifted her position so that her thigh was between his legs. She felt the thickening weight of him push through his underwear against her bare flesh, simultaneously alien and familiar. “I thought we had no meat.” She giggled softly. “You should have told me you brought some.”
Patson said nothing, but his hips pushed forward and some muscle memory allowed her simultaneously to extract a trapped arm and roll on top of him. Now, brazenly astride him like that, she felt a wave of nervousness, but her husband made an involuntary guttural sound that told her she was doing OK.
“Let me cook it for you,” she whispered.
Later, as they lay side by side, she said, “I have to ask you something.”
He grunted his assent.
“It’s Gilbert. He wants to remain in Harare.” There was silence. It was pitch black and she couldn’t make out a single feature of her husband’s face, just hear the in and out breaths, long and slow. She wondered if he was asleep. “Patson?” she said.
More silence. She felt Patson move his arms so that he was no longer touching her. She didn’t know what that meant. He might have been simply resting his hands behind his head to be more comfortable, to give her question due consideration. She couldn’t tell.
“So what do you think?” she said.
“Is this how you soften me up?” he asked quietly. “The first time in months and now you ask the question you were afraid to ask.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “No! Really! I’ve wanted to ask you these last few days, but when do we ever talk?”
Patson rolled out of bed. “I want to smoke,” he said, and he fumbled for his cigarettes and matches. He went out to the lounge without another word and she heard him unbolt the front door.
She got up herself, heavy-hearted. She put on her slippers and wrapped a chitenge around her waist. She followed him outside. This was their pattern—flight and pursuit.
She was relieved to find him standing on the small concrete veranda, leaning on the pillar. She sat on the far side of him on the edge of the step, hugging herself. She didn’t speak.
Eventually, he said, “With what has happened, perhaps it is good to have another man in the house, in case they come and I am not here.”
Fadzai didn’t look up. She didn’t want to show her surprise. She said, “You know Gilbert has his license now? You could keep the car out twenty-four hours if you wanted.”
Patson sniffed, but it was a sound that, she thought, contained at least as much consideration as dismissal.
“I was worried to ask you,” Fadzai said. “You told me he was good for nothing.”
Patson denied it. “That’s what you said. How can I talk about your family? He is your brother.”
“But we don’t have room. And we can’t afford to feed a grown man.”
He chuckled softly. “He is your brother.” He stubbed his cigarette on the pillar and squatted behind her, enveloping her at the shoulders and nuzzling his face into the back of her neck.
Fadzai resisted the tendency to break away. She said, “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”
“When I am home, I am home,” he whispered into her ear, and his breath was hot and wet and, in spite of herself, she made a reflexive sound of mild distaste.
14
Iganyana summoned Mandiveyi personally. Mandiveyi was uneasy. After all, the original order had come from Phiri, his immediate boss, and he had carried it out without question: he had collected the gun from the bottle store on Simon Mazorodze Road.
Sure, the death of Rex Nhongo the preceding night and the subsequent gossip that had engulfed the city had given him suspicions (about both the order and its origins), but he had squashed them. Mandiveyi knew all too well that those who succeeded were those who acted, not those who questioned. He knew that in the hierarchy many smart men played stupid while only stupid men played smart.
Phiri accompanied him to the interview. The two men were shown into Iganyana’s office and instructed to take chairs opposite the empty desk. They did not speak. Iganyana came in a few minutes later and took his place. He walked from the door to the desk with that peculiar dainty dancer’s gait. He made an extravagant sighing noise as he sat down, then shifted his position to get comfortable so that the leather of the chair squealed in protest beneath him. He sniffed enthusiastically and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. Mandiveyi had never met him in person and struggled not to stare at the patches of hyperpigmentation that mottled his face and had given him his nickname.
Iganyana greeted Phiri warmly and Mandiveyi hardly at all. He ordered coffee from his secretary and, when it arrived in a pewter coffee pot, said, “I will be mother, as the English say.”
He served them, then took his own cup and saucer and swiveled in his chair so that his back was to them and he was looking out of the window. Mandiveyi glanced at Phiri. His colleague looked straight ahead.
After a moment or two, Iganyana enquired after Phiri’s son at university in South Africa. Phiri hesitantly thanked him for remembering and said that, as far as he knew, all was fine.
“As far as you know?” Iganyana said. “Do you not know about your own son?”
Phiri prevaricated. He said that the boy had passed all his exams so far, but he was a young man away from home and who could say what he might get up to?
Iganyana made a noise that might have been a laugh. He said, “Which university?”
“Pretoria.”
“It’s not a party university that one, is it?”
“I don’t believe so, sir.”
There was that noise again. “But a young man will always be a young man.”
“A young man will always be a young man,” Phiri repeated.
There was more silence. Mandiveyi sipped his coffee. It was cold and bitter. He should have taken more sugar, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Iganyana seemed briefly captured by something happening outside his window in the street below. He leaned forward and touched his finger to the glass. Then he swiveled in his chair again, placed his empty cup on the desk and his eyes fell on Phiri, as if he were surprised to find him still in the room. “Leave us,” he said. Phiri did as he was told.
Iganyana turned to Mandiveyi. It was the first time he’d actually looked at him. He sat forward with his hands clasped on the desk and sniffed. “You like to drink,” Iganyana said.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“You like to drink.”
Mandiveyi shifted in his seat. His mouth was dry. He contemplated the bottom of his coffee cup. “Not so much.”
Iganyana stared at him fixedly until Mandiveyi had no choice but to look up and meet his eye. Then he nodded smartly, bent down to his desk drawer and produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses. “You like to drink,” Iganyana said, for a third time. “It was not a question. I make it my business to know about those who work for me. Do not lie to me again.”
He poured a large measure into each glass. He slid one across the desk. “It is OK. A man should drink.” He raised his own glass as if in challenge and waited until Mandiveyi did the same. “Cheers,” he said, and downed it. Mandiveyi had taken only a small sip, but the other man was waiting, so he, too, drained his glass. Iganyana poured another two tots and finally sat back, fingering his glass thoughtfully.
Iganyana began to ask Mandiveyi question after question, though his interest in the answers was cool and affected. It was an obvious tactic—a show of knowledge and, therefore, strength; one that Mandiveyi had used countless times himself. Still, it felt uncomfortable to be on the other side of the game, not least because the very nature of this game required both parties to know it was being played.
Iganyana asked Mandiveyi about his daughter in form four.
Was she preparing well for her O levels? What were her plans for the following year? He said that he had good connections at some of the sixth-form colleges in the city if that would help. He asked about his son, “the cripple.” He expressed sympathy that the boy had to suffer in such a way and admiration for his fortitude. He asked about his wife’s Mercedes, and were they still struggling with the starter because he knew a guy who imported genuine parts at a reasonable price? He asked about Mandiveyi’s mistress in town. Was she happy with her job at Tel One? Did she cause him problems with her demands for money? Did he know that her uncle was an “agitator”? No? This was, Iganyana said, the kind of thing Mandiveyi should know.
“People fear me,” Iganyana said. “They tell stories that I have this man killed or another one disappear. That is a very small part of my job and not the real reason they are scared. The real reason they fear me is because of what I know. Everything that happens in this country, I know about it. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“Yes, sir.” These lines were so familiar, but what choice did Mandiveyi have except to play his part? That was the brilliance of the game.
Iganyana nodded. Then he said, “I believe you have conducted important business on our behalf. Is there anything you would like to tell me about it?”
Mandiveyi thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, sir.”
Iganyana stared at him, as if giving him a moment to change his mind, then nodded again. He took a swallow of the whisky. Again, he patted his eyes with his handkerchief, before folding it carefully. Mandiveyi waited. He knew there was more to come.
“Let me tell you something, Comrade,” Iganyana said. “This business is not concluded. It will not be concluded for a long time. Perhaps it will never be concluded. Your part was just a small one, but I need to know that I can trust you. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And can I trust you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So there is only one problem.” Iganyana smiled, those curious patches on his face shifting like a Rorschach test. “I don’t trust you. Not at all.” He paused. He poured himself another measure. This time he didn’t offer the bottle. “Phiri tells me you are a man of ambition. Is that so?”
Mandiveyi considered his options. “I want to do my best, sir,” he said eventually. “I believe if I do that I will progress.”
“Good answer. Ambition is not a virtue for men like us. He also told me that you are efficient and you are not a talker. Is he right?”
“He is quite right,” Mandiveyi said.
“But these are not the reasons I put this business in front of you. Do you know that? Do you know why I put this business in front of you?”
Mandiveyi felt helpless. He said, “No, sir.”
Iganyana strained his whisky through his teeth and effected the same curious noise he’d made when looking out of the window. It was not a laugh, more like a snarl. “I chose you, because you are a weak man with many vices and much to lose.”
Mandiveyi said nothing. There was nothing to be said.
“Of course, you know my nickname, isn’t it?” Mandiveyi didn’t know how to acknowledge as much, but it seemed his acknowledgment was not required. “Iganyana, the painted dog, on account of this—” he splayed his fingers and gestured down across his face. “—discoloration. But I like to think I have grown into the description. Do you know how the painted dog kills his prey?”
Mandiveyi was at a loss. “He is a pack hunter, sir,” he mumbled.
“Of course he is a pack hunter!” Iganyana exclaimed. “But that is not my point. The painted dog will pursue his prey over several kilometers. He is not particularly fast, but he is dogged—excuse the pun. A wildebeest, even an impala, has only so much energy. Eventually he will tire and then the dog is vicious, he will tear the animal apart.” Iganyana smiled. Mandiveyi saw a pair of gaping chasms in the ink blot. “Nothing can outrun the painted dog.”
15
I knew I done sumthin wrong only Sasa tell me not to worry about it. He say he tell me nuthin gonna happen to the baby an, for sure, nuthin happen to the baby so he don know what all the fuss about. That what he say only he don say it that way. Sasa don speak English an he don speak Shona. He speak his own language what only me unnerstan. He say this when we on our way home from the party an Mom an Dad fightin in the front seat (Dad say, “We not fighting, little bird. It’s just a frank exchange of views.” Momma say, “Why are you lying, Shawn? Why are you always lying?”).
I tell Sasa to keep quiet cos I wanna hear, but he jus keep on like he does—when Sasa got sumthin to say he jus keep sayin it until you gots no choice but to listen, even if you don wanna. Mostly he jus say, “Look at me! Look at me!” An he spread his wings wide and show off his belly, which so black you feel like it not really there an you could put your whole hand right inside.
After what happen, after Dad get out the pool and change into a T-shirt and short he borrow from Theo’s dad, he go, “OK, it’s time for us to leave right now!” An he take me by the arm an he hold it so tight I starts to cry.
Theo’s dad walk behind us, goin, “Don’t worry. It was an accident. He’s OK.”
But my dad know otherwise an when we gets to the car he put me face down on the seat an he smack my backside an he shoutin at me only quiet an I can feel his spit on my ear. He go, “I saw you, Rosie. I saw what you did. You could’ve killed that boy, you know that? You could have killed him.”
An I know he seen what I done an the tears sting my eyes cos I real shamed, but he dint see Sasa standin next to me on the edge jus sayin, “Do it,” an “Do it,” an “Do it,” until I gots no choice but to listen.
Altho it’s me what dun the sumthin bad an Dad smack me cross my behind, he still real angry wid Momma, tho she angry first. Momma get in the car an she jab a finger at him an she go, “I ever see you raise a hand to our daughter again, Shawn, I’ll…”
An Dad jab a finger right back. “You’ll what, Kuda? You’ll fucking what?”
“I’ll kill you,” Mom say, an that make Dad stay quiet for a bit an then shake his head an stare at the road in front.
Sasa sayin to me, “Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!”
Dad sayin to Mom, “You’re sick, you know that? You’re sick in the head. You’re mentally ill.”
Sasa sayin, “Sick in the head! Sick in the head!”
Dad sayin, “You think I didn’t see you watching her? What were you doing? Praying? Jesus, Kudakwashe! You do know what just happened, right? And you’re off with the fucking angels!”
Sasa jumpin up an down now an flappin his wings real fast. He goes, “Crazy bitch! Crazy bitch!”
An Momma turns round and goes, “What did you say?”
An Dad goes, “I said you’re a crazy bitch!”
When we gets home, it’s Gladys who give me my bath an dress me. She know sumthin wrong cos she can tell from Mom and Dad, so she go, “Have you been naughty, little bird?”
An I go, “I dun sumthin bad, Gladys. But Sasa told me do it.” An Gladys look at me very hard and then shake her head.
Gladys put me to bed, then Dad come an say goodnight. He sit on the chair next to me and he put his hand on my shoulder. He goes, “I’m sorry I smacked you, Rosie. But you have to learn that what you did was very dangerous. Do you understand that?”
An I go, “Yes, Daddy.”
An he smile an he go, “You know I love you, don’t you, little bird?”
An then Sasa there on the end of the bed an he go, “Yes, Daddy.”
An I go, “Yes, Daddy.” Then suddenly I feel sad an I go, “Where’s Momma?”
“I’m right here.” This is Momma an she standin by the door. She smile an she go, “Good night, my love.”
I say, “Gimme a kiss.”
An she come and she still smilin but her eyes look kinda spooky. She kiss me on the forehead and she smell like Momma even tho her lips are cold like glass. Dad says, “Sleep now,
” an he turns off the light.
I can see Sasa’s eyes in the dark an he says, “You wanna go flyin?” An even tho I know he naughty, it real excitin when we go up in the sky an he look after me real well. He go, “I’m kinda like your dad’s family, you know that? He call me up when he come home to Afrika, tho he don even know it hisself. You think I gonna let anythin happen to you when we related? No way!”
Up in the sky he point his sharp little ears forward an he say, “I can hear evryone. Look: there’s your momma prayin.”
An I go, “Is anyone lisnin?”
An Sasa laugh an I see his teeth pointed like a Halloween pumpkin an he say, “Well, I lisnin. I lisnin good.”
16
Gilbert arrived early. He had taken a kombi to the city center, then another to Glenara shops, where he bought two Cokes and some chicken pieces. He walked from there, following his wife’s instructions. Still unfamiliar with Harare, he hadn’t known how long the journey would take so there he was, standing outside the gate of number forty-five with an hour to spare.
He was nervous. This was only partly because he was going to see Bessie for the first time in almost five months. Mostly it was because he was specifically going to see where she lived and worked and the kind of life his wife had built for herself on her own.
Besides, he had never been into a murungu’s house before; he wasn’t sure what to expect and, from the outside, he already found something vaguely threatening. It wasn’t the heavy iron gate, with the sign saying “Armed Response,” that bothered him, or the looming walls topped with an electric fence. Rather, it was the neat flowerbeds planted with climbing yellow bougainvillea overlooking a pristine two-meter verge of lawn to the curb. The artfulness spoke to Gilbert of a manic, controlling attention to detail that he found unsettling. How much time and effort had it taken to create this effect? And what conviction was expressed in the commitment? He couldn’t imagine a life of such certainty.