by Graham Lang
I react with anger: ‘Listen to you! Christ, it’s been thirty years since that stupid fucking war! Wake up to yourself, man!’
Brak leans forward; for an instant, I think he’s about to throw himself at me. The same vacant look that stared at me from that photograph with the corpse. But he settles back. His voice is cold, quiet: ‘Fuck you, Frank!’
‘For Chrissake, Brak! What’s got into you?’
He starts to say something, then clamps his mouth shut and gets up. He picks up the guitar and walks off into the darkness, Cracker following discreetly. I’m about to go inside when I hear him smashing the guitar. Savage, splintering, resonant blows. Cracker comes running back into the firelight and looks back at the darkness, whining softly. Then Brak reappears, carrying remnants of the guitar in the crook of his arm. He lifts the grid off the braai and heaves the remnants onto the coals. The steel strings squawk and twang in the heat. Then he turns and climbs the steps past me and goes inside.
I sit watching the guitar burn, dumbstruck.
I dream again of the wife I never had. She is standing in a forest of oaks and spruce, wearing a floral cotton summer dress that bells out to the ground. In the background, illuminated by a splash of sunlight is a house with little Russian domes; ice stalactites drip from the eaves. She waves at me and says goodbye, her voice resonating in the trees. Her face hidden in shadow. She turns and walks towards the house. Nothing tells me that she is my wife. Yet I know that she is, and that we are parting forever. Parting forever from the wife I never had. The sense of loss is unbearable.
I wake, breathless. Outside, I can hear the crickets sing and the faint drumming of the generator. The stars pour a meagre light through a crack in the curtains. There is a brown water stain on the ceiling that resembles a flaccid flower. I cannot dispel the image of the woman, my wife, in that long dress. I cannot dispel the sence of loss.
I wake to the sound of voices outside. I lie for a few minutes in a state of groggy paralysis, my throat raw, my stomach queasy.
A rooster crows amid the busy clucking of chickens. I get up and pull the curtains aside, shielding my eyes from the sudden white blast of sunlight. The room commands a sweeping view of Matobo’s turbulent mass of hills, some miles distant. The vista flickers behind heat waves. In the driveway, Brak, Reggie and Clara are busy tending to Milton’s car. A few hens fossick around. A small square of black plastic has been duct-taped over the hole in the windscreen. Brak is attempting to lever the bumper straight with a pole. Reggie, looking sporty in a bright red tracksuit, stands on a chair, washing the blood and urine from the roof. Clara is bent over in the boot, scrubbing away, a singularly attractive sight to seedy eyes in her petite jogging shorts. A blurred memory of Brak’s odd belligerence breaks through. For a second I wonder if it was a dream.
I have a quick cold shower and dress in jeans and a t-shirt. I join the others outside, shamefaced at being the slacker. Reggie and Clara have done a commendable job of cleaning out the boot. They have unclipped and removed the carpet, taken out the spare wheel and tools and scrubbed the lot. The carpet is hanging over the veranda wall in the sun. Reggie has sprayed a disinfectant in the car to get rid of the smell of beer and urine. ‘All your friend will notice is his car’s cleaner than it used to be,’ she says.
In the clear light of day, Brak is less optimistic about the damage than he was last night. ‘Ja, china, I dunno,’ he says, wiping his hands on his shorts. ‘The dents on the bonnet and roof are nothing. The radiator and bumper can be straightened out. But you’ll definitely need a new front fender and headlight. And a windscreen.’
‘Milton said it was insured.’
‘Even if it’s insured you can still sit around forever waiting for parts. But let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ll see what Jervis says on Monday.’
‘Thanks, Brak. I feel like a malingerer. You should’ve woken me up.’
Brak slaps a hand on my shoulder. ‘Let sleeping malingerers lie – that’s my policy. Come on, Reggie, let’s get some breakfast into this boy.’
No hint of last night’s anger. It’s as though nothing happened.
We enjoy a hearty breakfast of fried eggs on toast and some of last night’s leftover boerewors – a near cure for hangovers, I can vouch. Then we climb into Brak’s Land Cruiser and head off along a bumpy track towards Matobo. It’s a squash up front: Clara and Reggie sit crammed between Brak and me, Clara half on my lap, an unexpected pleasure. I did offer to ride on the back but Brak said it would be too rough and dusty for elderly city slickers like me. Just a short jaunt anyway, he assured us. He rummages around in the glove box for some tapes, selects Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks and sticks it in the cassette player. As soon as the music starts, he begins humming along, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
Brak’s idea of a short jaunt is eccentric, to say the least. On and on we drive, following an endless maze of dirt tracks that disappear into the western Matobo range. At one point Brak swerves to avoid a mongoose crossing the road. Instinctively I reach out to steady Clara on my lap, grabbing a chunk of her rear in the process. Clara looks at me with feigned outrage and laughs at my mortified expression.
Soon we are enveloped by the unruly wilderness of colossal granite kopjes. Dylan’s nasal American whine seems an incongruous accompaniment as the Cruiser winds its way through thickly bushed ravines, dust billowing behind. I peer up at the rock faces, stained orange and green by lichens, wondering if Dylan ever stops to think that somewhere in Africa his reedy voice echoes among lonely canyons. The air through the open window is warm, filled with pungent fragrances. The dormant smell of parched foliage, like the breath of an old man. The acrid reek of fire-blackened vleis.
Reggie surprisingly rattles off names like a tour guide: mukwa, munondo and gondi trees. Dassies and klipspringers. Hartebeest, impala, tsessebe . . . names rich in origin, amalgams of Africa and Europe. I remember the many excursions I made as a boy into this sublime wilderness. Family picnics at World’s View, Rhodes’s gravesite. The boy scout jamborees – all those little white boys, bedecked in scarves and badges, assembled beneath the old pale blue Rhodesian flag with the Union Jack in the corner, singing ‘God save the Queen’. How, as little Rhodesians, we roamed these hills free inside our colonial cage. Innocent in the withered hand of Empire . . .
Brak points at a giant kopje looming in front of us. At its summit stands a cross. ‘That’s Nungu,’ he says. ‘IsiNdebele for porcupine.’ He explains that the cross was erected by an intrepid bunch of Christians years ago. We climb a steep, winding track around a kopje adjacent to Nungu, emerging on a high ridge. Brak parks the Cruiser in the shade of a wild fig tree. The drive has taken well over an hour.
The sun beats down; the air is hot and still, loud with insects. My right leg, having borne the happy burden of Clara’s bottom, has gone numb. Clara slings her camera around her neck and ties her hair back with an elastic band. She is wearing a black gym top, her midriff bare. Brak grabs a knapsack from the back of the Cruiser. We follow him a short way along a path up through some dense bush to a ledge shaded by a sharp overhang. The ledge commands a breathtaking view of Nungu’s great dome, immense and serene, across a deep ravine before us. The overhang is covered in San friezes – pale eland and kudu; a rhinoceros; groups of running hunters. Brak reaches in his knapsack and removes a thermos flask and some plastic mugs. He pours some coffee and hands the mugs to us. We sit there, taking in the San paintings and the endless undulating wilderness below. Brak gestures out at the vista. ‘Nice, hey? Our secret spot, hey, doll?’ He raises his mug. ‘Cheers, dears.’
We raise our mugs and sip the hot coffee.
Reggie smiles wryly. ‘So, Frank, now you know where this galoot pledged his undying love for me. Down on his knees. Right here.’ She jabs the rock with her finger. ‘This is where my whole life came undone.’
‘Thanks, Reginald
.’
She punches his shoulder with a tiny fist.
‘Hey! Don’t make me spill, man!’
‘Such a big baby, aren’t you, my cherub.’
She pinches his hairy jowl. He gazes at an eagle circling in the distance. ‘Look at him, just floating up there. I’d like to give hang-gliding a go sometime. Just take off and soar like that eagle.’
‘With that stomach you’d probably soar like a stone,’ Reggie says.
Brak smiles and swigs his coffee, his eye still on the eagle. Reggie leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Watching them, I feel a pang of envy.
We are silent for a while. Birdsong carries up from the bush far below. Then Clara gets up and closely inspects the San paintings. She takes some photos. ‘My mother would love to see these,’ she says. She stands at the edge of the ledge, her trim form stark against the sky. She takes a few more shots then sits with her back to us, her legs dangling over the ledge, gazing out into space.
I go across to her. Clara sneaks a photo of me as I sit down with an old man’s groan. ‘You and that damn camera,’ I grumble. ‘Come on, let me take one of you.’
‘I’m hardly as photogenic as you.’
‘Ha. Ha. Come on. Your turn.’
She hands me the camera. I take a shot of her on the ledge, looking like she’s been ringbarked in that gym top.
Clara smiles and takes my hand. ‘Isn’t this place beautiful?’
Far off, on the western horizon, some thunderheads are building. A cool breeze caresses my face. Brak’s eagle soars past, hanging effortlessly on an updraught. My spirits seem to lift with it. If I had the eyes of an eagle I might see all the way to Europe or Australia. Is this how Rhodes felt a century ago when he decided to make Matobo his grave? He, who could see from Cape to Cairo. Next to Clara, I close my eyes and for a small moment let go of the world . . .
My reverie is broken by Reggie’s giggling. Like trickling water. I turn to see Brak’s wildebeest head nuzzling the crook of her neck. She shivers and squeals, gives his beard a tug. I look up, watching the vapour trail of a plane disappear behind the looming storm clouds. The wind in my face carries the faint smell of rain.
On the way back to the house the first big drops start splattering against the windscreen. Soon there is a solid downpour; the Cruiser’s wipers barely cope. The blue-black sky is split by jagged flashes of lightning; thunder cracks and rumbles. Rain drums down on the roof, drowning out any conversation. The windows quickly fog up with the four of us crammed in the front. Reggie wipes the windscreen down with an old rag she found under the seat.
Brak has his window half open to help demist the windscreen. He sniffs in the dank smell of wet earth. ‘They should bottle that scent!’ he yells, his beard glistening from the spray coming through the window.
There is something miraculous, cleansing, about it. The smell of expectation, newness. Of hope. But then I’m reminded that the word cleansing can be anyone’s metaphor. Murambatsvina. Gukurahundi. The removal of people, a different cleansing. Final solutions lurk in purity.
We arrive back at the house late in the afternoon. Brak splashes through puddles in the driveway and parks in front of the house next to Milton’s battered Cortina. I groan at the sight of it. Brak says: ‘Don’t beat yourself up, man. It’s not the first time a car’s hit an animal in this country.’
We find Cracker cowering under a table on the veranda, petrified by the lightning. Inside, we discover there has been another power cut. With the air of someone going about a routine chore, Brak ambles off to start the generator. Clara is keen to get going but Reggie insists on a cup of coffee before we leave, so we sit around the kitchen table, killing a bit more time.
‘When does your plane leave?’ Brak asks.
‘In a couple of weeks.’
‘Why don’t you come and stay with us until you go?’
‘I’d like to. It’s just convenient being at Milton’s. Maybe later.’
‘The offer’s there, china.’ Brak yawns and stretches. ‘Jesus, I’m buggered. What’s for supper, doll? Roast donkey?’
Reggie gives a muffled shriek. ‘Oh, man! Don’t remind me! Frank, you have no idea what a fright you gave me driving in here with that poor thing on your roof! True’s God, I nearly died!’
Brak grins. ‘Ja, china, you sure like to do things in style, hey.’
The phone rings. Reggie gets up and goes through to the lounge to answer it. She calls: ‘Frank, it’s Milton!’
Brak flicks his fingers. ‘Oh-oh. Now you’re in for it.’
I take the phone from Reggie.
Milton sounds excited. ‘Where’ve you been, Franco? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.’
‘What’s up, Milton?’
‘Chombo called. He’s found Lettah.’
As we drive away, I glance back and catch a quick glimpse of Brak and Reggie standing on the veranda, watching us depart in the rain. Brak has his arm around Reggie’s shoulders; Cracker sits at his feet. I beep the horn a couple of times; Brak raises his bandaged hand and waves. I drive slowly along the muddy road. Just the driver’s side windscreen wiper is working; Brak removed the other one so it wouldn’t scrape off the plastic duct-taped over the hole.
By the time we reach the tar road the rain has stopped and shafts of sunlight are breaking through the clouds. The countryside sparkles. The grass seems incandescent as it waves beneath sudden gusts of wind.
Clara opens her window and takes a deep breath. ‘Well, that was an interesting wee sojourn!’ She laughs. ‘Oh, man! One thing’s for sure – it wasn’t dull!’
‘I can see you have a perverse taste in adventure.’
‘Brak’s a bit crazy, but Reggie’s nice.’
I almost tell her about Brak’s strange behaviour last night, but think better of it. After such a pleasant day it seems an aberration best forgotten.
Clara pats my leg. ‘Seriously, I had a great time.’
‘Donkey and all?’
She laughs and kisses my unshaven cheek. ‘Aye, donkey and all. Got any more wild excursions lined up? When are you going to Fort Rixon?’
‘Soon as I can organise another car.’
‘I’m sure my mom won’t mind you taking hers. She’ll be wanting to go too, I’ll bet. Mind if I tag along? I’m dying to meet this famous Lettah of yours.’
Back in Hillside, I suffer the humiliation of explaining the state of the car to Hazel and Vic. As I talk, Vic shuffles around the car, leaning on his walking stick, harrumphing and shaking his head, his worst suspicions about me apparently confirmed. When I tell them the good news about Lettah, he is positively outraged when Hazel and Clara announce their intentions to accompany me to Fort Rixon. Not only that: before I even get the chance to ask, Hazel volunteers the use of her car.
Vic rolls his eyes heavenwards. ‘Sweet merciful bloody Jesus! Are you certifiably insane, woman! Has this bloke’s record with motorcars made no impression on you yet? No, I won’t allow it. You’re not going, either of you!’
‘Oh yes, we are,’ Hazel replies calmly. ‘There’s absolutely no need for you to work yourself into a state about this, Vic.’
‘That’s two cars he’s buggered up in the space of a week! I’ve got every good reason to work myself into a state!’
‘No, you haven’t. Because I’ll be driving.’
And that was that. I climb back in the car. ‘Thanks again,’ Clara says. She leans through the window and gives me a long kiss on the mouth, an event not missed by Hazel or Vic. Both have pert smiles of amusement as they wave goodbye.
It’s dark when I pull into Milton’s. The outside light comes on and Milton emerges from the house. His bespectacled eyes scan the car, lingering on the patched-up windscreen. Before I can explain anything, he says: ‘How was the weekend, o
therwise? How did Clara bear up to your special brand of entertainment?’
‘I think she’s a bit of an adrenalin junkie.’
‘Would have to be, hey?’
I just sigh and hand him the car keys.
‘So, what have you done to my old girl?’
We walk around the car; I point out the damage, describing the accident in detail. Milton laughs dryly. ‘You should put that in a book,’ he says.
I wonder what it would take to make him spitting mad. Even when I open the boot and explain the mishap with the beer, only a slight frown appears on his forehead.
‘Tell me, have you got a thing with cars, boyo? Some kind of autophobia, maybe?’
‘Sorry about this, Milton . . . I think I’m bloody jinxed.’
Milton shakes his head. ‘Ag, forget it, man. Except for a poor innocent burro, no one got hurt. That’s the main thing. My insurance will fix it up. Life in Zim is one continual accident. We’ll get Jervis to have a look at it on Monday. I reckon you’ve become his number one client.’
IX
We have been waiting outside the police station in Fort Rixon since 8 a.m., the time Chombo suggested we meet when I phoned him last night. He made a big deal about giving up his Sunday to accommodate my private business. But, he finally said, what is one Sunday in his life when it comes to solving the ‘bountiful riddles of the past’. His flamboyant choice of words reminds me of his president’s dreadfully erudite proclamations. Learned English mocking English.
Given the paranoia that infects Zimbabwe’s security forces, it surprises me that no one is on duty at the police station. No sentries, no jailers. Intriguing, too, that none of us – not even myself, the newcomer – complains about Chombo’s tardiness; we’ve automatically resigned ourselves to that ubiquitous constant of African life: waiting. At least this time we’ve come prepared with a thermos of tea. Sipping the tea from plastic mugs, we pass the time in pleasant conversation. I sit up front in the VW with Hazel; Clara lounges on the back seat. The doors are open wide. Chain-smoking, Hazel has been lamenting the relentless drought – none of yesterday’s rain made it as far east as the Insiza Valley. She can’t remember it ever being so hot and dry. Already, the morning air is stifling. Fort Rixon’s dusty scattering of buildings lies comatose. Roosters crow feebly, a dog barks. An endless torpid whine of insects. A muffled chatter of voices from the jail, the only sound of human life. Behind a distant hill a pillar of smoke rises into the still air. Another veld fire burning unchecked.