by Graham Lang
I fetch more beer from inside. I hand a bottle to Brak and sit back on the stairs with Reggie. Brak gulps the beer, gazing intently up at the stars, as though searching for one that might provide guidance. Attracted by the smell of meat, the dog, Cracker, appears out of the darkness and sidles up with a big tongue-lolling smile behind Brak. He spies me on the stairs and emits one huge, brainless bark. Brak, unaware of the dog’s presence behind him until that moment, jumps a foot in the air. ‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’ he bellows.
Reggie and I clutch our stomachs, laughing. Using the Lord’s name in vain does not appear to be verboten for Brak, the Christian.
Brak brandishes the fork at Cracker who backs away, crestfallen. Relenting, Brak crouches on his heels and beckons the dog. ‘Come here, big boy. It’s all right, old fella. I’m sorry. I know you’re just doing your job.’
Cracker comes over and rubs jowls with Brak.
‘I tell you, that dog gets more attention than me,’ Reggie says. ‘Watch that meat, Brak. We can’t afford to waste it, man!’
Brak straightens up, knees clicking. He starts turning the meat over. ‘Ja, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted . . .’ He gives Cracker a glare. Cracker wags his tail. ‘Reggie and I ended up at the mission up at Kariba. Things went well for quite a while, hey Reggie? It was good up there, hey?’
Reggie nods. ‘Ja, it was a good time. Calm, tranquil. Like being in the eye of a storm, I suppose. How long were we off the grog, Brak?’
‘The whole time we were up there. Five years, I think.’
‘Jeez, didn’t seem that long! Maybe I just liked you sober.’
‘Ja, it was a circuit-breaker, I suppose. I’ll be frank with you, Frank . . .’ Brak pauses to allow his trite pun to sink in. ‘My drinking got pretty bad at one stage. Scared myself shitless sometimes with the things I got up to. Brawling, losing jobs, traffic offences. The grog earned me a decent-sized rap sheet.’
‘So what happened?’ I ask. ‘How come you didn’t stay up at Kariba?’
‘What happened? Murambatsvina, that’s what. There we are trying to get ourselves sorted out, trying to help the poor munts get a start in life, and one day Mugabe’s heroes of the revolution come along and bulldoze it all down. The whole mission – flattened. Burned to nothing. All our work up in smoke. So I threw in the towel. Had to get away before I did something stupid. I’m not one of those Christians who can turn the other cheek.’
‘What possible purpose could be served by destroying your mission?’
‘It’s the way Mugabe’s always operated, china. Terror and intimidation. He sees the missions as agents of subversion. Stoking the fires of revolution.’
‘I just don’t get it. Wasn’t he educated in a mission?’
Brak grunts with disgust. ‘Look, Frank, the one thing about Mugabe nobody seems to recognise is that he’s just a miserable bloody coward. All this violence has only one purpose and that’s to save his own skin. He’d rather destroy the whole nation than relinquish power and face the consequences.’
‘Ag, man, watch the meat, Brak!’ Reggie calls.
The boerewors has ruptured, the spurting fat causing a sudden conflagration. Reggie runs inside and comes back with a jug of water and Brak douses the flames. Reggie rolls her eyes at me as she sits down again. ‘I tell you, Frank, if I left it to him we’d be eating charcoal tonight.’
Unperturbed, Brak continues his train of thought. ‘Any Rhodesian back in the seventies could’ve told you what a dirty little terrorist Mugabe is. We told the world what he’d do once he got into power. The world wouldn’t listen and what you see in Zimbabwe today is the result.’
I’m about to respond by saying that despots are what you get when you deny people their political voice, but find the sense to refrain. Instead, I nod and say, ‘Yes, it’s a sad state of affairs.’
‘Let’s not talk politics,’ Reggie says.
‘You’re right, Reginald,’ Brak agrees. ‘Bugger politics.’
He whistles a merry tune as he turns the meat.
‘Do you still play the piano?’ I ask.
He frowns. ‘Piano? Jesus. Haven’t touched a bloody piano since I left school.’
‘I remember you used to play all that classical stuff. Chopin, Beethoven . . . do you still play the guitar?’
‘He used to, when we first started going out,’ Reggie says. ‘In our wild days. You used to serenade me with beautiful love songs, hey, babe? After a few snorts. Now your old guitar just sits in the cupboard gathering dust.’
‘Ja, playing guitar always seemed tied to getting drunk. I told you to sell the damn thing, Reggie.’
‘He used to compose such nice songs, I swear. I’m sure you could be famous if you wanted to, babe.’
Brak laughs. ‘Christ, the one thing I do know in this world is my own limitations.’
‘Ja, but you could serenade me, at least. Be nice to hear you play again.’
‘Forget it, sugar pie. If you want vibes why don’t you get that ghetto blaster I bought you.’
Reggie goes inside and comes back with a CD player and a stack of CDs. She rummages through and selects Joni Mitchell’s Blue. Joni’s sweet, lilting voice sings out into the darkness. Reggie closes her eyes and sways her head. She sings to some of the verses, adding a sweet melisma to Joni’s pure notes.
Brak finishes cooking the meat. We eat on our laps on the steps. Along with the meat there is sadza, lettuce, green beans and tomatoes. Reggie apologises for the limp lettuce, saying their vegetable garden around the back nearly ‘vrekked’ during a recent heatwave. I’m too busy savouring the rough, bland taste of sadza to notice anything amiss, surprising as I never had any particular fondness for it in the past.
Cracker lies salivating at Brak’s feet, waiting impatiently for the titbit of boerewors Brak has done for him. When it has cooled down enough Brak throws it off into the dirt. ‘Bugger off now, you bloody freeloader,’ he mutters. Cracker dives after it and devours it in a second with snapping chops.
‘As if we can afford to feed that dog good meat,’ Reggie says.
‘Ag, he does a good job, looking after us, Reg. Don’t you, Cracker, my big brave boy.’
Reggie scoffs. ‘That big baby wouldn’t hurt a mouse.’
After eating, I get the last two beers from the fridge and we sit looking out at the black bush, drinking. Reggie has been going slow on the wine. When Brak and Reggie light up cigarettes, I find the craving too much. Shamefaced, I ask for one.
‘Just don’t blame me for getting you started again,’ Brak says.
‘Tell us about yourself, Frank,’ Reggie says. ‘What do you do for a crust there in Australia?’
I tell them about my teaching career and offer an abridged version of my failure as a writer. My attempts to joke about my job as a bus driver fall on deaf ears. The more I talk, the more disgusted I feel with myself. Fifty years old and still putting on fronts. Brak and Reggie just listen, saying nothing. I suddenly feel quite inebriated; my voice begins to slur. I light another cigarette when it is offered.
When my soliloquy tails off, Brak says, ‘You should stick with the writing, china. Don’t give up.’
‘If anyone should be writing, it’s you. At least you’ve got something to say.’
Brak shakes his head. ‘No way.’
The beer is finished. Reggie affects a yawn and suggests some coffee.
‘Told you she’s wild,’ Brak says. ‘Won’t you get Frank and me a couple of glasses, my sweetness? I’m sure Frank is dying to sample that expensive wine there.’
Reggie gives Brak a serious look. Brak laughs plaintively. ‘Come on, Reginald! It’s not everyday ol’ Blue Eyes drops by. The night’s still a puppy, man!’
‘Okay, but I’m watching you.’
Reggie goes inside
to fetch the glasses.
Brak laughs. ‘Christ, she watches me like a bloody hawk.’ He leans over and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Good to see you again, china.’
‘Likewise,’ I say.
‘Those Que Que days were good, hey?’
‘The best.’
‘Why don’t you sleep over tonight? Spend a few days.’
‘Can’t. I’ve got to get Milton’s car back to him. Maybe when my car’s fixed.’
‘What’s wrong with your car?’
I explain. Reggie comes back with two glasses. Brak fills them to the brim with wine and hands one to me. He moves to top Reggie’s glass up; she shakes her head and puts her hand over her glass.
‘Pity you didn’t get hold of me earlier,’ Brak says. ‘I would’ve done it for nothing. Who’s fixing it?’
‘Some joint called Prospect Autos. Thanks, anyway.’
‘Why don’t you come out Friday evening?’ Reggie says. ‘Stay the night.’
‘I’d love to,’ I say.
We drink and talk. After a while, Reggie finishes her wine. She yawns and gets up. ‘Good night, Frank,’ she says. ‘I’ll leave you two to reminisce. Don’t make it too late, Brak.’ She goes inside. Brak and I continue talking. The level of the demijohn drops. Now that Reggie’s gone I notice the level of our language drops too. We just stand and piss on the ground in front of the house, causing me to reflect fuzzily on the undervalued contribution of women to civilised behaviour.
We finish the wine. Brak goes inside and comes back with a bottle of sherry, about three-quarters full. He swigs the sherry straight from the bottle and passes it to me. We are both more than a little drunk. As we gradually flatten the sherry, Brak’s conversation dwindles into a morose silence. His eyes grow troubled; he seems to be making a physical effort to prevent dark secrets from bursting from his mouth. I make small talk, trying to steer the mood towards lighter things. When we finish the sherry Brak just sits there, grinding his teeth.
He goes inside and practically turns the house upside down looking for more booze. There is none. He comes outside again. ‘Fuck-all grog left in this joint,’ he says. ‘Next time you come, my china, we’ll do a proper job.’
I get up to leave. Brak spits out at the darkness. Then he clasps me to his chest. I’m startled to see tears streaming down his face.
We walk to the gate. Another bear hug before I get in the car. In my haste to go, I reverse into a fence post. Brak guffaws and slaps his thigh. Nothing like a little mishap to lift one’s spirits. He goes round to the back of the car and inspects the damage. He yells: ‘Just a little scratch, man! Milton won’t even notice!’
I drive off, cocooned by drunkenness.
VII
My drunken slumber unlocks a subconscious bedlam. One unruly dream, among the deluge, commits to memory: I have a wife and a frightening brood of children – a dozen at least. I am a hairy brute, Neanderthal, with nothing to do but eat and fuck. My faceless wife cringes at the sight of me, yet is compelled to procreate. Children are the wall around her soul. On and on we go, the stained mattress squeaking. Beside the bed, a half-eaten roast boar with a shrivelled apple in its mouth. Through the window I can see our kids squabbling in a dreary suburban backyard. A weird bird sits on the windowsill watching us. At first I think it’s a kookaburra, then I see it has a face like a lynx.
On and on. My faceless wife beneath me. The clamour of kids outside. The bird on the windowsill . . .
I wake to a commotion. Precious is shouting: ‘Hayi! Hayi! Wena! Aibo!’ Dogs in the neighbouring properties begin a riot of barking. A flurry of footsteps. I wrench open the bedroom curtains. The rising sun blinds me momentarily, then I find myself staring into the face of a stranger running past the cottage with a pumpkin under one arm – stolen, I assume, from Milton’s vegetable patch. The man is in rags, barefoot. For an instant, our eyes meet. There is a frightening expression in his eyes, a wild desperation brimming with violence. I stare back stupidly, aware that the cottage door is unlocked; I feel my body go limp – am I one of those animals that feigns death when threatened? But the man sprints away with an ungainly limp to the concrete wall at the end of the garden. He jumps up and looks over, reaping a roar of canine invective from next door. He runs to the side wall; that has broken glass cemented into the top. He is cornered. He turns back towards the house. Precious is standing outside the kitchen brandishing a frying pan. The intruder draws a knife from his pocket and advances on her. High-pitched wails from Rosie and Geldof who watch the scene, wide-eyed, through the servants’ quarters’ window.
I stumble to the door and wrench it open. The man slows and almost saunters past the cottage, still gripping the pumpkin under one arm. He wags the knife at me like a finger. Smiles malevolently, shakes his head. Don’t even think of trying anything with me, his eyes say. Yes, I will stick this knife in you just for the sake of a pumpkin. Milton emerges from the kitchen in his pyjamas and yanks Precious inside by the arm. ‘Let him go!’ he shouts at me.
The man heads around the main house. He vaults over the front gate, and is gone, the air still aloud with dogs barking.
Only now do I realise that I’m still dressed in yesterday’s clothes and am packing a rather nasty hangover. I close the door and lie down again, my head throbbing. Last night seems a blur. I do a quick damage assessment; an inveterate denialist, I conclude that not enough alcohol was consumed to feel quite so wretched. No, my hangover must be due primarily to smoking. My system was unprepared for a deluge of nicotine. I groan with despair at having given in to temptation. Four years abstinence up in smoke, literally.
There is a knock. Precious with my tea. I greet her and take the tray. ‘It’ll be nice to see your frying pan put back to proper use,’ I say.
Precious laughs, her teeth white as maize pips. ‘Hayi, nkosi! I am making breakfast now.’
‘You shouldn’t take such risks with thieves. They’re desperate.’
‘Yebo, nkosi. But still they should not steal. It is against God.’
‘Please call me Frank, Precious. None of this nkosi business.’
‘Okay, baas.’
I close the door, aware that I’ve made no progress in liberating Precious from the linguistic yoke of the past. The title baas is worse than nkosi, in my book. I won’t rock the boat in future. I drink the tea while writing in my diary. Summarising what I can recall of last night, I’m assailed by the sudden memory of Brak guffawing after I had reversed into the fence post. I freeze with dismay. God, how could I be so irresponsible? I can barely remember driving home. Seeking an excuse for my folly, I blame the mishap on my queasy distaste for male intimacy. Brak’s bear hug caused my careless haste in driving away. I loathe what used to be the distinctly un-Anglo practice of men hugging and petting each other. Tired of me harping on the subject, one of my hippy girlfriends once called me ‘anal retentive’ – how do people come up with such revolting terms?
I gulp back my tea. A work siren goes off in the distance. I shower quickly and dress in clean clothes, then hurry outside. The car is parked where it should be, only slightly askew. Milton is loading a cardboard box of files into the boot. He sees me approaching.
‘Howzit, Franco. Hope you enjoyed the entertainment this morning. Nothing like a little pumpkin stealing to spice up one’s day.’
‘I’m beginning to give up on the idea of a leisurely lie-in here in Bulawayo.’
A dimpled grin. ‘It’s not the first time my vegie patch has been raided. I suppose it’s because we don’t have a dog. I feel sorry for the poor bastards. I’d do the same if I was in their shoes.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So, how was the grand reunion, boyo?’
‘Pretty good. Brak’s certainly a different kettle of fish to what I expected.’
I cast a glance at the back bumper. The dam
age is negligible – just a tiny kink. Still, I come clean. ‘Look, Milton, I’m terribly sorry, man. I bloody well reversed into a pole last night.’ I lean down and rub the kink with my finger. ‘Here – this little ding. I swear it was so dark –’
‘Ja, I noticed. Don’t worry. It’s just a nick.’
‘I feel terrible, Milton. Let me get it fixed. It’s the least I can do.’
‘Franco, forget it. It’s no big deal. I’m not about to deliver a sermon on the evils of alcohol, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
Embarrassed, I don’t reply.
Milton laughs. ‘I told you to watch out for these ex-army types. What’s the story with your car? When will Jervis have it fixed?’
‘I’m not sure. He seems to have a bit of a backlog.’
Milton kicks one of the tyres. ‘Well, the old girl’s still at your disposal in the meantime. By the way, your new cop friend, Chombo, phoned last night. Wants you to give him a call. Wouldn’t say what about.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Might be a bit early to catch him, but give it a try.’
I go inside and phone Fort Rixon police station. The line is engaged. After several attempts a terse voice recognisable as Constable Fashion’s answers. Chombo isn’t in yet, she says. Try later.
During breakfast the phone rings. Ruby answers. She engages in some light-hearted banter before she calls me, rolling her eyes as she hands me the receiver. ‘Chombo,’ she whispers.
Chombo sounds very distant.
‘Phew!’ he exclaims. ‘You have no idea how hard I have been working on your case. I’ve been through all the records here. All the files. What a job!’
‘I appreciate your efforts, Inspector.’
‘Ja, but I need your full cooperation, Mr Cole.’
‘You have my full cooperation, Inspector.’
‘I don’t think so, Mr Cole. It’s very disappointing. You see, I’ve been to Whitestone again to interview the workers. It seems that one of the workers has been withholding information from me.’