by Graham Lang
I sigh. ‘There is no writing. I gave it up years ago. I’m sorry I lied to you. It was just too much of a humiliation to admit failure. I guess I made the coward’s choice.’
Milton puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I know, Franco. A blind man could’ve seen you’d packed it in. If you’d been writing there would’ve been something to show me after all this time, hey? Why did you give it up?’
‘I could ask you the same question. We both used to write, remember?’
‘That’s true. Reprimand acknowledged. I just lost it – lost the passion. I don’t know why. Maybe this place just eclipses writing. Why did you stop?’
‘Simple. Writing is storytelling. Writers have to have someone to tell their stories to. I couldn’t find any listeners. End of story.’
‘Writing’s your hard choice, Frank. I hope you change your mind.’
‘I hope you do too.’
He smiles. ‘The world lost nothing in me not becoming a writer.’
‘You know that’s crap.’
Another silence.
Ruby calls from the house. ‘Anyone for coffee?’
We get up and go inside.
VIII
On Friday I receive a call from Geoffrey Dlamini, the man from the Births and Deaths Registry. He tells me he has made enquiries about Lettah around the country. He lists a string of government departments and agencies he has consulted. No luck. The little flame of hope that flickered on hearing his voice sputters and dies. He asks about my visit to Whitestone; I reply with a brief summary. I thank him for his trouble and ask how much I can pay him. ‘There’s no obligation,’ he says simply.
Before fetching the kids from school I stop off at Tredgold House. I find Dlamini in the same office, tapping away at his computer. Behind him, Mugabe stares down from his portrait on the wall, the reflected ceiling fan making his eyes flicker. The thump of stamps as the two officials at the counter process another endless queue.
I hand him an envelope. ‘A token of my appreciation.’
He stands up and takes the money with both hands, puts it in his inside jacket pocket. A wry smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Cole. However, I feel guilty taking money for my fruitless efforts.’
‘I’m sure you did your best.’
Dlamini pauses. ‘There was no response to the newspaper advertisement?’
I shake my head.
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing from the notices I put up in the township either.’
He nods thoughtfully. ‘Mmm . . . but you say the policeman in Fort Rixon is making progress. Chombo.’
‘That’s what he says. Nothing solid yet, though.’
‘Perhaps he will have better luck than me. I hope so. In the meantime I will keep looking. There may be something I’ve missed. You never know.’
I thank him again and leave.
I set off for Brak’s in the early evening, looking game in the shirt with the roaring lion’s head. I stop at the Hillside shops for a crate of bombs (Bulawayo vernacular for quarts of beer) and some wine before dropping in at Hazel’s house, just on six o’clock. Clara is still getting ready. I have a sundowner, a couple actually, with Hazel and Vic in the lounge while I wait.
Hazel is pleased with tonight’s arrangement. ‘It’ll do Clara a world of good to get out and about,’ she says. ‘She’s become a bit of a social recluse.’
Vic slurps his beer and snorts. ‘Social recluse? Don’t exaggerate, woman! What about all those parties she goes to with her homo friends?’
Hazel heaves a weary sigh. ‘Just once, Vic, it would be nice to hear you say something positive. Just once. I know Clara’s lifestyle irritates you – you should be glad Frank’s taking her out. At least she’ll be out of your hair for a while.’
‘I am glad. Christ, I’m ecstatic. The only thing that worries me is the choice of venue.’ He gives me a bleary stare. ‘Ja, you be careful of that Brak. Rough as a dog’s knee. I’d never allow my daughter anywhere near that bastard.’
‘Good gracious me!’ Hazel laughs. ‘Isn’t this a case of the pot calling the kettle black!’
Foolishly, I enter the fray. ‘I don’t think he’s as rough as you make out, Vic. Did you know Brak could play Chopin on the piano when he was six years old?’
Vic’s expression tells me two things: not only hasn’t he a clue who Chopin is but in his book males and music make for a dodgy mix. ‘Chopin? I don’t care if he can play bloody Chopsticks! Doesn’t change the fact he’s rough as guts. I should know – he worked for me for three years.’ He squints at me through a minute aperture between thumb and forefinger. ‘That close to a kaffir, I tell you.’
‘Now you’re being offensive, Vic,’ Hazel says.
Clara appears in jeans and a floral blouse, her hair loose on her shoulders. A small overnight case in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. She stares at my shirt. ‘I didn’t think you’d actually wear that!’
‘Oh, I think that shirt looks lovely,’ Hazel says. ‘Hey, Vic? Don’t you think it makes Frank look strong and manly?’
Vic cups his ear. ‘What’s that?’
‘I said, don’t you think Frank’s shirt makes him look strong and manly?’
‘Hmmph! A strong and manly fairy, maybe.’
‘I’ve got plenty of beer and wine in the car, Clara,’ I say.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ she replies.
It’s almost dark when we depart. I accelerate as we leave the city precincts. We’re running late; Brak had said to come before sunset. An image of Brak flits into my head, huge, feral – how astonished my father and Max will be to see how he has turned out after all these years!
‘Damn!’ I exclaim, thumping the steering wheel.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I forgot my camera. My mind’s like a sieve.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got mine.’
The lights of Bulawayo recede behind us. Clara relaxes back in her seat. She chats away and I relax too, glad to be in her company, thinking how much I like her Scots twang. We cross the Khami River and wind up through some low hills. Darkness has set in; there is no traffic on the road. The headlights barrel through the blackness, picking up small swarms of insects. A sign of rain? A few kilometres before Brak’s turn-off, I accelerate up a rise, listening to Clara describe how she once broke her leg in two places skiing in Switzerland when she slammed into a Japanese tourist who had stopped mid-slope to photograph the view. She lifts her hands, mystified. ‘Just bloody well stood there, docilely, as I ploughed straight into him!’
I imagine the poor Japanese tourist on that snowy slope. Slowly lowering his camera, eyes blinking in astonishment at the yodelling Scotswoman bearing down on him. Why was the onus on him to get out of the way?
The donkey appears so suddenly over the rise, I have no time to brake or swerve. A momentary vision of it standing, docilely, in the headlights before we collect it head-on. Clara yelps and grips my arm. I duck instinctively as the animal is catapulted into the air. A loud crack against the windscreen. Violent tumbling above as we skid to a bumpy standstill at the side of the road. The engine shudders and stalls. A long, seething silence. Just one headlight shines off into the long grass in front of the car, dust swirling in its beam. The windscreen on the passenger’s side is crazed around a hole the size of a cricket ball.
Clara just sits there, eyebrows raised, open-mouthed. Glass fragments on her lap. I ask: ‘Are you okay?’ She nods dumbly. I look back through the rear window. Nothing but blackness. I get out. Aside from the beam of the single headlight, it’s pitch dark. I search around the car on rubbery legs. The donkey – if it was a donkey – has vanished, inexplicably. Did it somehow survive the collision unscathed? Has it taken off intact into the bush? The force of the impact would seem to negate any such possibility. I stan
d in the darkness, stupidly trying to piece things together, wondering if I’ve gone mad. How could a donkey, not the tiniest of beasts, simply disappear?
Something is trickling down the rear window, giving off a pungent scent of . . . urine? I lean closer – it is urine. Glancing upwards, I’m confronted by a sight that makes my jaw drop. There on the roof, silhouetted against the headlight’s glare, is the mystery donkey. Bizarrely, it has landed upright on its belly, facing forward like some goofy figurehead. Stone dead.
Clara gets out and stands next to me. She follows my transfixed stare.
‘Oh, my God,’ she says.
I attempt to free the animal, but its hind legs are jammed fast, splayed under the roof racks. The bolts fastening the racks to the roof are rusted tight, impossible to loosen with my fingers. I open the boot to look for a spanner. The raw stench of beer assails me. I groan. The boot is awash with beer foam and broken glass.
‘Oh shit,’ Clara says. ‘This is not getting any better, is it?’
Indeed not. Rummaging around for a spanner, I cut my finger on some broken glass. There are no spanners. With a growing sense of desperation I climb up onto the roof and try again to wrench the donkey’s legs out of the racks. I wrestle and heave, grunting with strain, to no avail.
Clara watches me, her hand over her mouth.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘Just as well it’s dead.’
Clara shudders. ‘Poor wee thing . . . you shouldn’t drive so fast on these roads.’
‘Oh Christ. Now I stand accused of donkey murder.’
I climb down and inspect the front of the vehicle. Aside from the broken headlight, the bumper and front grill are slightly buckled. I stand there looking at the beast atop Milton’s car, with its gentle head lolling between its front legs, as though snoozing, wondering if a bigger fuck-up was humanly possible.
Clara finds a tissue in her bag for my cut finger. We get back in the car. I start the engine. Thank God, at least that is in one piece. Bearing our beast of burden, we drive on slowly. Clara begins to laugh. Soon she is in hysterics. I glance at her, thinking it may be delayed shock.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gasps, holding her stomach. ‘It’s just I can’t get that expression of yours out of my head. When you first saw it up on the roof. I thought your eyes were going to pop out!’
Another bout of hysterics.
‘Hilarious,’ I mutter.
By the time the whole grotesque ensemble arrives at Brak’s place the car smells like a brewery sidelining as a knacker’s yard. I stop to open the gate. The dog, Cracker, comes bounding up through the darkness barking like a buffoon; he quietens when I call his name. I drive slowly up to the house. The veranda lights are burning and music is coming from inside. A fire flickers in the half-drum braai near the veranda steps. Brak and Reggie appear at the front door. They stand there, open-mouthed, as I pull up. Brak whistles in wonder and lumbers down the stairs, a smile spreading across his hairy dial. His right hand is bandaged; his left clasps a beer bottle.
‘Holy snapping arseholes!’ he says, shaking his head. He turns to Reggie, still in the doorway. ‘Hey, Reginald! Frank’s brought his own meat, doll.’
Reggie has her hand in front of her mouth. ‘Ag no, man, Frank!’
Feeling a prize idiot, I climb out. Brak opens Clara’s door. ‘These Aussies, hey!’ he goes on. ‘No class. The least he could’ve done was skin the damn thing.’
Clara laughs and gets out. I can see this is not something I will live down any time soon. I’m about to introduce her when Cracker spies the donkey for the first time. Lit up by the veranda lights, it must make a pretty impressive sight to canine eyes, perched up there, legs splayed, head leering down, a row of teeth bared on one side like a bashful grin. After a shameful backward leap, Cracker glances uncertainly at Brak, gathers himself, and proceeds to circle the car, barking oafishly. Brak guffaws. ‘Cracker, you bloody hopeless mutt!’ He reaches up and runs a hand over the side of the donkey. ‘Shame. Still warm, poor little bugger. Probably just standing there minding his own business and along comes ol’ Blue Eyes.’
Finally, I introduce Clara.
Brak shakes her hand gently with his bandaged paw. ‘Howzit, Clara.’
‘Nice to meet you, Brak.’
‘Och aye! A lassie straight from the Glens, hey?’
Reggie comes down the stairs. She gives Clara a peck on the cheek. ‘Hi, I’m Reggie. I’m so glad you came. Now I won’t feel outnumbered. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ Clara says.
Brak goes around to the front of the car. ‘Christ, what happened, china?’
I explain the mishap as Brak inspects the damage. He nudges the bumper with a bare foot. Takes a swig of beer and belches. ‘Ag, it’s bugger-all, man. Couple of scratches. Leave it with me. I’ll fix it in no time. But we can talk about that tomorrow. Let’s get your gear out. By the way, lekker shirt, china.’
Clara and Reggie giggle.
‘I’m serious,’ Brak says. ‘Just my style.’
I open the boot. A great breath of warm beer wafts out. Brak snorts. ‘Phew! Bloody hell! What’s going on in there – Oktoberfest?’
‘I’m afraid there was some collateral damage,’ I say.
‘What is it with you and cars, man? You got some personal vendetta or what?’
Reggie peers in the boot. ‘No big deal. A bit of spilt beer.’
I shake my head. ‘A bit of beer? You forget my friends are rabid teetotallers.’
Brak kicks the back tyre with his bare foot. ‘Ja, we better clean up this jalopy or you’ll be in Shit Street, my friend. We’ll need some soap and rags, Reginald.’
‘Bring your stuff inside,’ Reggie says.
Clara and I grab our bags and follow Reggie inside. She shows us to separate rooms along a passage. Taking me aside, she whispers: ‘I just assumed you wanted your own rooms.’
‘You assumed correctly.’
‘These days you never know,’ she says.
Reggie notices my cut finger and, once a nurse always a nurse, washes it in Dettol and sticks a plaster around it. Clara stays with Reggie in the house; I return to the car. Brak lifts the crate of beers from the boot. He carries it over to the fire and puts it on the ground. It turns out only two bottles have been broken. A matter of some joy to us both. He opens a quart with his teeth and hands it to me. ‘There, might as well put that to good use.’
‘Haven’t they heard of twist tops in this God-forsaken place?’
‘China, the only thing with a twist to its top here is our president.’ We stand there staring at the flames in the braai. Brak hawks and spits. ‘Tell me something, Frank, as one old man to another. How the bloody hell did you score a chick like Clara? You’ve only been in this country two minutes.’
‘For crying out loud. No one’s scored anything. She’s Hazel Kent’s daughter. Remember Hazel from Que Que?’
‘You know, I thought her face was familiar. That friend of your Mom’s. Always at Sunnyside. Hazel, hey? Shit, now there’s some ancient history.’
‘Hazel lives with Vic Baldwin.’
‘True’s God? I always thought she was a bit weird.’
A waxing moon is just beginning to rise over the eastern horizon and the sky above is silver with stars.
I gesture at Brak’s hand. ‘Jervis tells me you and his dog got acquainted.’
Brak grunts. ‘That poor bloody thing. Can you imagine the life it leads? Chained to that pole, day in, day out.’
‘Looks like the dog appreciated your sympathy. When do you start work?’
‘Monday. I’ve managed to get the other jobs I was busy with out of the way. I appreciate it, buddy. I owe you.’
‘Owe me for what?’
�
�’Cause of you I got that job.’
‘Bullshit. You don’t owe me anything.’
Reggie and Clara come back with a bucket of hot water foaming with soap and some old towels. Insisting that the ‘boys’ stand aside, Reggie sweeps up the broken glass in the boot with a brush and dustpan and begins mopping up the beer. Brak manfully opens a beer for Clara with his teeth. We watch Reggie, sipping our beers. When she finishes, she says: ‘That’s the worst of it. We can give it another sponge tomorrow. Brak, do something about that bloody donkey, man. It’s giving me the creeps. You’d better hurry. That fire’s nearly ready.’
She squashes the towels into the bucket and goes back inside the house. Brak drains his beer and puts the bottle next to the crate on the ground. Then he walks off to the sheds and returns with a torch, some tools and a thick plastic bag.
‘Gimme the keys,’ he says. ‘I know where we can ditch the critter.’
I hand Brak the car keys.
He turns to Clara. ‘You look just like your mother. Serious.’
‘Mmm, so I’m told,’ Clara says.
‘Just relax here with Reggie. We won’t be long.’
Clara digs an elbow in my ribs. ‘Oh, aye, men’s business, hey?’
Brak smiles. ‘Put it this way: it won’t exactly whet your appetite.’
‘Let me take a quick photo before you boys go. Come on, I insist.’
Ignoring my protestations, she runs inside and returns with her camera. She positions Brak and me in front of the car. Brak puts his arm around my shoulder and brandishes a beer bottle. I muster a half-hearted smile. Brak and me in front of my handiwork: a dead donkey and a pranged car – one for the album. As the flash goes off I pray fervently that this picture will never find its way into Milton’s hands.
Brak and I climb in the car and take off into the darkness. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and whistles as he drives, warbling the notes. A few hundred metres down the road he turns off onto a rutted dirt track that soon peters out into nothing but bush. The one headlight pierces the darkness, lighting up the sparse scrub. The flat ground is bare and sandy in patches. The prospect of getting stuck – yet another stupid calamity to explain to Milton – is a growing worry; I can only hope Brak knows what he is doing. Brak takes out a pack of cigarettes and offers me one. ‘What the hell,’ I say. We light up. Brak jabbers away nonstop, slurring the odd word. He reckons whistling is an underrated musical form and cites John Lennon’s ‘Jealous Guy’ as evidence. He commences a chirpy rendition.