Whites

by Norman Rush

  It might be a good idea to eat. He was getting that feeling of elevation in the top of his head, from the wine. The top of his head felt like it was made out of something lighter than bone, something like pumice. He went to the window. Christie was having dinner. His kitchen light was on.

  What were Christie’s secrets? He was an elderly Brit, a bachelor or widower. It was no fun living next door to Christie, with only a wire fence between them and both houses on narrow plots. Frank thought of the time he and Ione had gotten into a mood, acting stupid, slamming doors on each other. One of them had slammed a door on the other by accident. Then the other had taken the next opportunity to slam a door back. It had escalated into slamming doors all over the house, a contest, and both of them laughing like crazy. So it had been slightly hysterical. It had been leading to sex. But then, naturally, the next thing they knew Christie had come out of his house to stand at the fence and stare in their direction, a gaze as blank and pitiless as the Sphinx, or as the sun, rather. Christie was left over from the days when Botswana was Bechuanaland. He was with the railway. He had applied for Botswana citizenship, which was tough to get these days. Probably Christie hated the idea of leaving the perfect medium for inflicting his religion on people to his last gasp. Christie’s religion was restriction: no drinking, no smoking, no sex, no dancing. That was the real business of the Scripture Union, which Christie was upper echelon in. Christie was at home too much, was part of the problem. He even held prayer meetings at home, endless events. Christie seemed to hate Ione and vice versa. There was serious bad blood there. Christie had his work cut out for him if he thought he was going to make a dent in whoring. Whoring was poor little bush babies coming to town to work as domestics and lining up outside the Holiday Inn at night to better themselves. It was upward mobility. Visiting Boers were good customers. Ione liked to use the stereo. When he’d mentioned lately that when she played it she seemed to be keeping it very low, they’d both realized it was an unconscious adaptation to Christie, their monitor.

  Frank could eat or he could take aspirin and drink some more. He drifted toward the kitchen. Tomorrow was Saturday. The sound was back. There was really someone at the kitchen door. There was deliberate tapping, very soft. Sometimes Batswana came to the door selling soapstone carvings or asking for odd jobs, and their knock was so tentative you’d think it was your imagination.

  Frank moved quietly through the dark kitchen. He lifted the curtain on the window over the sink. By leaning close to the glass he should be able to make out who it was on the back stoop, once his eyes adjusted.

  It was a woman, a young woman. He could see the whole outline of her skull, so she was African. She stood out against the white mass of the big cistern at the corner of the house. Her breasts were developed. She was standing close to the door in a furtive way. He reached for the outdoor-light switch, but checked himself. What was happening?

  The key to the kitchen door was in a saucer in the cupboard. If he put the outdoor light on it would advertise her presence to all and sundry. She didn’t want that, was his guess. This could turn out to be innocent. He was ashamed. There was no key. He calmed down. Was she still there? She must have seen his face at the window. He was feeling for the key on the wrong shelf. The keys should be kept on a hook so this would never happen again. He had the key. He set it down. He could still stop. He retied the sash of his bathrobe.

  It was science the way he got the key into the lock in the dark and swung the door open silently, lifting it on its hinges. Before he could say anything, she had slipped into the kitchen, holding one hand open behind her to catch the screen door as it came shut. He closed the door. This was all so fast. He was having misgivings. They stood facing one another. He could hear that her breathing was agitated. He needed a good look at her. He pressed his hair down behind his ears. He was overheated. So was she. Somebody had to say something.

  He turned the ceiling light on. For once, he was grateful that only one of the two fluorescent tubes was working. The less light and sound the better. She was beautiful. He studied her in the grayish light. She was beautiful.

  She was looking down. Somebody had to talk. She was wearing a dark red wraparound skirt and a faded blue T-shirt open along one shoulder seam. She was barefoot. She would have some kind of pretext worked out. What do you want? was what he wanted to say, but he had to fight back his Spanish. He was almost saying Que quiere? He knew some Setswana, more than the average American expatriate. But his Spanish was welling up. She was still looking down. This was something that happened, but in bars and around bars … parking lots. How old was she? At fifteen you were a woman, or fourteen, or less. The crown of her head came about to his chin. She wasn’t small. She had to be at least sixteen.

  She looked at him. She was familiar. He searched his memory. He had seen her around. Every property in the extension had a back house, for servants’ quarters. The back houses were meant for one family apiece, but the reality was that each house was like the Volkswagen with a thousand clowns coming out of it … endless children, relatives, transients. He associated her with the place three houses down. She lived in quarters. He had noticed her. She was a beauty. They were a family of daughters. The mother was a hawker. There were several daughters. This girl was the eldest.

  She wasn’t saying anything. What was he supposed to do? He concentrated. He had to get her name. He thought, Asking a name must be O mang? because O kae? means “You are where?” and mang means “who.” People said O kae? when they met, all the time. The correct reply was ke teng, meaning “I am here.” He would try O mang?

  “O mang?” he asked. His mouth was dry.

  “Dumela, rra,” she said. He had forgotten to greet her.

  “Ah, sorry,” he said. “Dumela. O mang?”

  “Ke Moitse,” she answered, barely audibly, but clearly understanding him.

  “Ke Rra Napier,” he said, pleased with himself. But where was her mother? He had overlooked something even more important than getting her name. What was the word for mother? Rra meant Mr. or man. Mother might be the same as the word for Mrs. or woman, which was mma. His bathrobe was embarrassing.

  He said, “O kae mma?”

  Now she looked baffled. “Ke teng, rra,” she answered uncertainly.

  She didn’t get it. This was a mess. It was like knitting with oars. He would have to go pidgin.

  He was urgent. “Mma … is … kae? … your mma.” He pointed at Moitse for emphasis. Still she didn’t understand.

  Then he remembered: he had to say Mma Moitse to show who he meant. That was the way it was done. People identified themselves as the father or mother of so and so, their firstborns. He had to assume Moitse was the firstborn.

  “Mma Moitse o kae?” he asked.

  She understood. “Ehé, rra.” He was elated. Ehé meant “yes,” “O.K.,” “now I see,” and so on. She continued. “My mother is to hospital. She is coming this side Tuesday week.” She was full of surprises. She knew English. She probably liked it that he had tried Setswana. So far he was being a fool. But the coast was clear. It was a relief and a plus that she could speak English.

  She had perfect skin. She was looking at him with a half-smile, her chin held high. She said, “It is just because the mistress is gone from you, and Dimakatso gone as well. So you must say I may cook these days.” But she was making no effort to convince him that this was a genuine proposition. She was trying to look brazen. Her expression was lascivious, but a child’s version of lasciviousness, her eyelids half-lowered, her smile studied. She was obviously a spy. She had watched for Ione to be away, and then Dimakatso. She had been watching the house like a little spy.

  He said, “So, you want to be my cook.”

  “Ehé, rra. I can cook.”

  Her hair was elaborately worked in tight, ridged plaits running straight back from her brow. It struck him that he had an obligation. She might be hungry. He knew what was going on. But he was not going to be put in the category of bastard
s who exploited somebody’s hunger. She had to be fed. He wasn’t going to be a bastard. She was here about sex and they both knew it. If she still felt like it when she had a full stomach, that would be one thing. They were both afraid.

  He said, “Well, so, but are you hungry, to eat now? Dijo? Food? Do you want to eat, kopa dijo?” He knew he was showing off.

  She nodded. She was hungry. He motioned her to sit at the table.

  He liked having a task. It would steady him. Maybe it would end the whole thing. The shepherd’s pie was finished. He found a bowl of raw sugar peas in the refrigerator, waiting for somebody to do something with them other than himself. Canned soup was an idea. He found a can that looked appropriate. It felt heavy. According to the label picture, it was split pea with frankfurter slices. It should be nourishing. It was imported from West Germany. The instructions foiled him. Did he add water or not? He needed his glasses. He would add some milk. Did Moitse represent some kind of trap? He got the soup into a pot and filled a tea kettle. She could destroy him. But who would want to trap him? He had no enemies in Africa, just as he had no friends: he was passing through. He was in Africa to help. His presence would be reflected in people’s teeth for years to come, assuming AID Nairobi said yea instead of nay.

  He stirred milk into the soup. He would prefer to know her age. But she would only lie if he asked, so he would forget it. He could have been made a fool of, trying to get her age in Setswana. He thought, Thank God I didn’t try. Numbers in Setswana were hopelessly complex. Ione made a joke about numbers in Setswana, which went How do you say ten thousand in Setswana? The answer was You say bobedi five thousand times. Bobedi meant two.

  There could be some small talk about her cooking for him, while she ate. But beyond that, she had to make the first move. He had certain scruples. He hoped she realized that. Excitement was his enemy. So far, he was doing nothing wrong. He was making her something to eat because she was hungry, that was all.

  The soup was swelling up. He had used a pot without a handle, something that looked like it came from a Boy Scout cooking kit. It was Dimakatso’s. She used it for boiling mealie. There was no potholder in sight. He stared at the foaming soup. Moitse ran to the stove and deftly shifted the pot to a cold burner with her bare hands. Bravo, he thought. She stood close to him, smiling. She was slightly unfresh. Her nipples showed like bolt heads through the T-shirt cloth. She went back to the table. She had the usual high rump. Her hem went up in back. There were traces of mud on her ankles and a few smears of mud on the floor tiles. He was eating too much lately. He was overweight. He regretted it.

  He grasped the pot through the cuff of his robe and poured most of the soup into a bowl. He brought it to her, then got out bread, silverware, margarine, and chutney. He couldn’t find the marmalade, but chutney was in the same ballpark. She seemed to appreciate the need to keep the sound level down. She was taking his cues. The house was an echo chamber because they had decided to forget about getting rugs. Moitse asked for salt. He wanted his breathlessness to stop. One reason the stereo always sounded so loud was because the house was an echo chamber. Christie had called them up when they were listening to Manitas de Plata. Ione had been furious, because there was no point in playing flamenco except up high.

  Moitse was catfaced. She had a small jaw, but perfect occlusion. Would she want money? He had nothing smaller than a twenty, he realized. She would be ecstatic. It didn’t matter, because there was never going to be a sequel to this, never, so it wasn’t going to be a precedent. Ione would be back. He wasn’t seeking this out. She was oversalting. Being sought out made it different. Every human being had a right to a certain number of lacunae in his conduct. His glass was empty. He got up to refill it. Should he offer her wine? Yes and no. Not doing it was saying he was making a distinction—youth and age. It would be saying she was a child, which was far from true. On the other hand, if she was going to go through with this, it had to be out of her own free will not clouded by him. He was not going to induce anything to happen here. He sipped his wine. He brought her a glass of water. Tea was coming.

  It would have been friendlier to offer her some wine. It might spoil things, that he hadn’t. She was just looking at the water. She could be having second thoughts or regurgitating the Ten Commandments or her catechism, like a posthypnotic suggestion. The fastest-growing part of any denomination was always in Africa. Africans were Bible fodder, or canon fodder was better yet. He was going to have to remember that for Ione. It was clever. He had a dream. It was to run a gigantic work camp for preachers and priests and proselytizers who were going to be told to work for a living, in his utopia. The Catholics were going to have to run homes for surplus children forever, that was settled. There was a stupefying amount of religion going on. It was the Counter-Enlightenment. But what was he doing about it? But what could one individual do, especially in Africa?

  He sat down opposite her. He liked the way she ate. She was neat about it. There was a little more soup, if she wanted it. But when that was gone they’d be in the lap of the gods. It would be the next stage.

  She was a lynx, he decided, or a vixen. She started to clear up, nesting her bowl in the pot along with the silver. It was too noisy. He took over.

  There was another inflaming smile out of her. She was inflaming him. He was losing his grip on the dangerous part of this, the complications, which he shouldn’t. The exit signs were going dark. One thing was that she would have to wash first.

  He was at the sink. She was behind him and then up against him, hugging. This was it, then. Her arms were around him. She was strong. She was brave to do this. She was holding him so hard he had difficulty turning around to face her. He put his arms around her and kissed her forehead. He was sick with fear and pleasure. He let himself stroke her breasts. The thing was to get her into the shower but to make it seem like fun, a plus, not an insulting suggestion. Asking her to brush her teeth would be too extreme.

  “Moitse,” he said. “Do you mind having a shower, with hot water?”

  She seemed hesitant. He thought of miming what he meant. She might not know about showers.

  He said, “You can wash your body, Moitse.”

  “Ehé,” she said. She didn’t mind.

  He led her to the bathroom. At the doorway, he stood aside, pointing to the shower stall. Still dressed, she stepped into the stall and pulled the curtain shut behind her. He turned the bathroom light on. He waited. There was no sound from the stall. Was it possible that this was her first time in a shower? The back houses had showers, but cold-water showers only. He should go and turn out the kitchen light. He had to be careful about lights and curtains to keep the place from turning into a peepshow. Ione’s theory was that Christie had seen her naked once or twice, before she’d started being hypercareful about the way she walked around, before she’d realized what Christie was. Her theory was that Christie had never gotten over the shock and never forgiven her.

  Back from the kitchen, nothing was changed—except that her clothes were in a neat pile on the window ledge. He pulled the shower curtain halfway open. She was naked. She was stiffly posed, her face tilted up at the showerhead, her eyes closed, her arms folded across her breasts. She was expecting him to operate the shower for her. It was touching.

  He put his hand on her shoulder, guided her to step back. He could hardly think. He turned the water on, a tepid flow and not forceful. He handed her the soap. But she wanted to stand and enjoy the water: she held her pose, letting the water break directly on her upturned face. She was so calm. He wanted to touch her again. He was shaking, naturally. He touched her hip and then patted her mons. Her pubic hair was coarse, as he’d expected. “You must wash all around here,” he said.

  She nodded, but handed the soap back to him. She was going too fast. She lifted one foot onto the sill of the stall and torqued her body a little, thrusting her mons at him. He shied. He said, “No, you must do it yourself, but make everywhere clean. Stay here until I come back.”
He had to get away from her for a minute.

  He returned to the kitchen. He was the one who was supposed to be in control. This was not the kind of thing that was going to happen to him every day of the week for the rest of his life and he wasn’t going to be rushed and pulled down in the corner of the shower and so goodnight. His cuffs were wet. If this was going to happen, sobeit, but it was going to be with reasonable amenity and taking an amount of time worth the risk he was running. He diluted his wine with tap water. He washed his hands. He cooled his face.

  The girl was some kind of veteran, so there was no virginity issue. The interest in virgins was pretty much a dead letter, was his impression. He was half erect. It was embarrassing. He tried deep-breathing, which helped. He heard the shower stop.

  Moitse was standing in the stall, a towel wound around her head in a cowl. “We have to dry yourself,” he said. He was mixing things up. He could hear he was trying to sound like someone in the media.

  She came forward a little. He took a towel from the rack. Reaching into the stall, he dried her shoulders and trunk. He caressed her breasts through the towel, briefly, teasing himself. He knelt on the sill and dried her legs. He pulled lightly at her right knee, to get her to uncock her leg so it could be lifted. He had to check for danger signs—lesions, scarring, rash. But it was all standard and clean. She looked down at him from beneath the cowl. All his associations for the way she looked with the cowl were religious. He wanted to lean his cheek against her belly, but he decided against it. Her foot was as hard as wood. He got up. His penis was erect. He tried to rearrange himself. She laughed and reached into his robe, grasping his penis at the base. It was painful. She pulled herself against him. She was too rough. He was speechless. She shook the towel off her head and tightened her grip. Shock gave him strength: he caught a tuft of her pubic hair and twisted it. She was going too fast again. She released him. He fell back and stood against the wall. She liked to play rough. He wanted to do all kinds of things, then. She knew how to play. She was back in the stall, standing there like a shadow. He had to think.