Lettah's Gift

by Graham Lang

  The woman’s eyes are fixed on her hands again. She doesn’t answer. I feel both pity and anger.

  Hazel persists. She moves closer to the woman. ‘Hazel Kent – that’s my name. Look at me. Do you remember me? I was Lydia Cole’s friend. I went to school with her. I visited the farm, Whitestone, often. Surely you would remember me?’

  The woman doesn’t look up.

  Clara takes her mother’s arm. ‘Mom, don’t . . .’

  Hazel pulls her arm free. ‘No, Clara. There’s something wrong here. You are not Lettah Ndlovu, are you?’

  Chombo slaps his thighs in exasperation. The woman jumps at the sound. ‘Damn it!’ he yells. ‘This woman is senile! It’s not her fault she can’t remember everything! She remembers what is important, doesn’t she? She remembers Mr Cole here. She remembers his parents, his brother. She remembers where the Coles lived – she even remembers the car they drove. Tell them, MaNdlovu! Tell them what car the Coles owned.’

  The woman looks frozen.

  ‘Tell them, MaNdlovu! The Coles owned an Opel car, not so?’

  The woman nods. ‘A-heh. Opel.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Green.’

  Chombo gestures at her like a barrister resting his case. ‘You see? She is Lettah Ndlovu!’

  ‘If she can remember the colour of a car then she can remember me,’ Hazel says.

  ‘She is Lettah Ndlovu!’

  ‘Does she have papers to this effect, Inspector?’ Hazel asks calmly.

  ‘Papers? What are papers? We can find papers! Look, old Rhodesian, you have no idea how hard I have worked to find this woman. I have put everything aside to find her!’

  Hazel meets Chombo’s wrath unflinchingly. ‘I’m sure you worked very hard to find this woman. I’m sure that a reward for your efforts never entered your head. I’m sure that a cut of the inheritance was the furthest thing from your mind. But, unfortunately, this woman is not Lettah Ndlovu. Contrary to your belief, not all old people are senile. I’m blessed with an excellent memory.’ She gestures at the woman. ‘This is not Lettah. I remember her face. She had broad features. Her eyes were wide apart, not close together like this woman’s. She had beautiful straight teeth, not crooked with big gaps like hers. One of her front teeth – this one,’ she bares her own teeth and taps an incisor, ‘was chipped when a donkey kicked her as a girl. There was also a small scar on her top lip caused by that kick. I know people change with age. But there’s nothing of Lettah in this woman. Nothing!’

  Chombo explodes. ‘Fuck off, you old troublemaker! What do you know? It’s for Cole here to decide who is who. He is the one who is important here, not you. Fuck off! Get away from here! You are mad!’

  Hazel gives Chombo a withering stare. Then she turns to me. ‘Don’t waste your time with this, Frank. Come, Clara, let’s wait in the car.’

  Clara hesitates.

  ‘Go with your mother!’ Chombo barks. ‘Mr Cole and I have business to finish here.’

  Hazel and Clara leave. There is a terrible silence in the room, broken only by the sound of Gumede hawking and spitting outside. The old woman is trembling. I want to reach out and comfort her. But I just stand there.

  Chombo slaps his thighs again. He jabs a finger at me. ‘MaNdlovu, who is this man? What is his name? What is his father’s name? What was the address you worked at in Que Que? And Salisbury? And Bulawayo, before they went to South Africa?’

  I hold up my hand. ‘Please, Inspector. Please, let’s not persist with this. Clearly, this is not the woman I’m looking for.’

  Chombo thunders: ‘MaNdlovu! Tell Mr Cole who you are! Where you come from!’

  ‘This woman is terrified, Inspector. Please leave her alone now. I’ve heard enough.’

  Chombo’s shoulders slump; he becomes conciliatory. ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Mr Cole. Your friend is old and too full of opinions. Old people forget. They confuse some with others –’

  I shake my head. ‘Please, Inspector. No more. My instincts told me this is not Lettah when I first saw her. But my heart wanted to believe, so I allowed this pretence to continue.’

  ‘Pretence? What is this pretence you speak of? Are you accusing me of something, Mr Cole?’

  I’m unnerved by the lurking menace in Chombo’s voice and curse my tactlessness. His eyes burn into me; I struggle to meet his stare. My eyes drop to the holstered pistol at his belt. Terrible possibilities race through my head. I see our shallow graves dug up by wild animals, our bones scattered in the veld, never to be found. I must play this carefully. I look at the woman. She stares at her trembling hands. I can hear Gumede outside succumb to another coughing fit.

  I turn back to Chombo, fighting to meet his livid glare. ‘I’m only saying this woman is not Lettah Ndlovu.’

  ‘I hope that is all you are saying, Mr Cole. It would be very dangerous for you to accuse me of anything improper. Let me be clear on that matter. I won’t stand for it.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything. This business is finished as far as I am concerned.’

  ‘Finished? And what about all my hard work finding this woman? All the extra hours I spent on your case. You have no idea how much work I have done for you. And this is the reward I receive. Accusations that I’m dishonest.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Inspector. I’ve no doubt you worked hard finding this woman.’

  Chombo moves across to block the doorway. ‘And who will pay for my hard work?’

  ‘I’m expected to pay for police work?’

  ‘This is not only police work, Mr Cole. This is a private investigation. I have worked for you in my spare time.’

  ‘What of the money you confiscated from Ntombela? You have been paid for this already.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘What are you saying now? That I have stolen money from you? I’m warning you, this is very dangerous.’

  ‘I’m not saying you have stolen anything –’

  ‘You better be careful, Mr Cole.’

  ‘All right,’ I sigh. I take a wad of hundred-dollar bills from my pocket. ‘This is all I have on me, so please don’t ask for more. I think you’ll agree that what I give you more than adequately compensates you for your investigation.’ I peel off all but one of the bills and hand the money to Chombo. Chombo looks at the notes disdainfully, then thrusts them in his shirt pocket. I stoop next to the woman and place the other bill on her lap beside her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

  She makes no move to take it. Chombo lurches across and snatches it off her lap. ‘Useless fool!’ he snaps at her. ‘You’ve done nothing for this.’

  He turns to me and gestures at the door. ‘I’ve had enough of your shit. You and your fucking Lettah Ndlovu. Take me back to the police station.’

  We drive back to the police station in a seething silence. Chombo sits next to me glaring out the window, an expression of angry indignation on his face. Every so often, he glances at his watch – clearly, time waits for no policeman in Zimbabwe. Clara’s face in the rear-view mirror is strained, frightened. Beside her, Hazel gazes calmly ahead. She hums a few strains of Acker Bilk’s ‘Stranger on the Shore’.

  At the police station, we are mercifully spared a prolonged parting of ways. Chombo gets out and stomps around to my window. ‘I don’t want to see you or that old bitch here again. Believe me, if you come here I’ll make life very difficult for you. Do yourself a favour, Cole. Go back to Australia.’

  Her broken tooth. And the scar on her lip. Hidden in the photograph by the way she turned her head. It was not shyness that caused Lettah to present a three-quarter profile to the camera when that one clear photograph was taken all those years ago – no, she wished only to hide these small disfigurements. Hazel’s memory has opened my own. It’s as though a fogged-up window to the past has been wiped c
lean. I can see her face, clear and precise. Laughing, always laughing, her straight front teeth white and square, except for the one with the diagonal break. The small scar slanting across her top lip, where the tooth broke through, stretched smooth like shiny plastic.

  Lettah – always laughing.

  uMahleka.

  Hardly a word has been spoken since we left Fort Rixon. Turning onto the tar road to Bulawayo, Hazel rolls down her window, allowing a blast of air to enter the car. Steering with one hand, she lights a cigarette and takes a couple of deep drags. Then she reaches across and pats my arm. ‘You must be disappointed.’

  I look away. ‘Disappointed? That bastard . . . I’m sick of this place. Everywhere you look there’s some bloody crook on the take. How can this country ever come right when everyone’s corrupt? It’s hopeless. Maybe people are getting what they deserve.’

  Hazel gives me an amused stare, then turns her eyes back to the road.

  ‘You’re mad to stay here, Hazel!’

  ‘Oh, now I’m mad too. On top of being corrupt and getting what I deserve.’

  Clara interjects: ‘He’s just letting off steam, Mom.’

  ‘Is he? Sounds pretty high and mighty to me.’

  A long silence before I recant: ‘Sorry, Hazel. I had no right to go off like that.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ Clara says. ‘I’d be pissed off too.’

  Hazel nods graciously. ‘Your anger is understandable – appropriate – I suppose, given the circumstances. And you’re probably right. We are mad, staying here. Poor old Chombo – my God, what a fool! How did he ever imagine he could pull off something like that?’

  ‘Poor old Chombo?’ Clara says ‘He’s a crook, Mom!’

  ‘Yes, I know. The trouble is, my dear, there’re Chombos everywhere. Frank’s got a point. Everywhere you look it’s the same story. Remember when they devalued the currency? Mugabe’s way of fighting inflation – no problem, just print new money with a few zeros chopped off and make the old currency illegal. And what did the Chombos do? They went and bought herds of cattle from unsuspecting poor rural folk with the old illegal cash, leaving them destitute. I’ll give you that, Frank: Zimbabwe is a classic case of power corrupting, absolutely.’

  I rub my brow. ‘I wanted so much to believe that poor woman was Lettah. If it wasn’t for you I might well have fallen for it.’

  ‘You’ll just have to keep on looking,’ Clara says.

  I sigh. ‘No, that’s it, I’m afraid. I’m not pinning my hopes on anything any more. I’m finished with this bloody business. Chombo was my last hope.’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow you’ll feel differently,’ Hazel says.

  There is a police roadblock outside Bulawayo. The usual show of blank-faced authority. An officer carrying a rifle approaches the car and asks for identification. My Australian passport appears to arouse suspicion; the officer asks me my business in Zimbabwe. I go through the rigmarole: I’m on holiday, visiting friends. Hazel verifies this. Not a journalist? I shake my head. You were born here? I nod. The officer purses his lips thoughtfully; he gives my passport a sharp flick with his finger and hands it back. He walks slowly around the car, peering through the windows. We wait, staring ahead. He comes around to my window and asks: are you enjoying your stay in Zimbabwe? Wonderful, I reply. We are waved on.

  Hazel lights another cigarette.

  ‘What were they looking for?’ I ask.

  ‘Who knows? With the elections around the corner, it’s probably just to remind us who’s in charge. But you never know from one day to the next. You get used to it.’

  We arrive at the house in Hillside. I’m in no mood for a dose of Vic, but Hazel insists that I stay for lunch. We find Vic lounging on a deckchair on the veranda, watching the gardener brush the sides of the pool. He is dripping wet, the white hair on his head and chest plastered flat. He looks almost emaciated in a baggy pair of blue swimmers, wrinkled folds of skin hang from his bones like furled sails. We pull up chairs and sit. Hazel lights two cigarettes and gives one to Vic. The maid, Daphne, brings a tray of drinks. Sherry for Hazel. Beer for Clara, Vic and me. The gardener continues with his brushing. Some weaverbirds are noisily building nests in a tree next to the pool.

  ‘Bloody pests,’ Vic grumbles. ‘Wish we could fumigate the little bastards.’

  Hazel sighs. ‘Oh, Vic. Why can’t you just appreciate nature’s wonders?’

  ‘Nature’s wonders, hey? All that crap they leave on the slasto? Jesus!’

  Hazel rolls her eyes. ‘Tell Jeremiah to go and have lunch now.’

  ‘That lazy munt hasn’t finished yet.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t want him hovering around while we have lunch.’

  ‘Oh well, if you want your pool full of algae . . .’ He barks at the gardener: ‘Jeremiah! Lunchtime. Go on, hamba!’

  The gardener lays the brush on the slasto next to the pool and walks off towards the house. Vic takes a deep drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke slowly out his nostrils. He turns to me. ‘How about a swim? I can lend you a costume.’

  ‘Thanks, maybe some other time,’ I reply.

  ‘I’m dying for a dip,’ Clara says. ‘Come on, Frank.’

  I hesitate, then shrug. ‘Okay, if you insist.’

  ‘My old costume’s in the laundry,’ Vic says.

  Clara finds me Vic’s faded maroon swimmers; I change in the bathroom. On my way outside I bump into her emerging from her room in her bikini and sarong. Our eyes meet, we pause, standing close in the passageway. She takes my hand.

  ‘I’m really sorry about the way things turned out.’

  Her voice is husky, pent-up. She is so close I can smell her sweat-damp hair. A vein in her neck pulsing. My skin tingles. We can hear Daphne singing in the kitchen as she prepares lunch.

  I shrug. ‘That’s life, I guess.’

  We go outside and dive into the pool. I blow the air from my lungs and lie on the bottom, eyes closed, for a few seconds. It feels good to wash the sweat of a lousy day from my skin. Then I feel the weight of Clara standing on my back, her feet making wiping motions; I’ve become a submarine mat. I heave her off and rise to the surface. Some infantile splashing and giggling before we emerge from the pool. Hazel watches us with a smile as we resume our seats on the veranda. Vic says: ‘Come on, drink up. Your beer’s getting flat.’

  We drink. A big yellow smile is smeared across Vic’s face. ‘Hazel’s been telling me the sad tale of the corrupt cop and the impostor nanny. I was wondering why no one seemed keen to talk about your little jaunt.’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I received a sobering lesson in moral bankruptcy today. Enough to lose the last vestige of faith I had in humanity.’

  Vic erupts with laughter. Great mulish hee-haws. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, what did you expect? When are you going to wake up, man? This is Zimbabwe! These cops are all crooks. Give them a whiff of money and I swear they’ll murder their own bloody mothers!’

  ‘We live and learn, don’t we?’ I say.

  Vic guffaws, slapping his leg. ‘You know, sometimes you have to hand it to these munts. When it comes to thieving they’re in a class of their own. World champions. And they’ve got a never-ending supply of suckers willing to be conned. When that Chombo goon saw you coming along he must’ve rubbed his hands in glee.’

  ‘Don’t tease him, Vic,’ Hazel says. ‘It’s not a joke.’

  ‘Jesus, woman! Of course it’s a joke. Even funnier than Lydia handing out all that loot to a bloody nanny no one remembers.’

  ‘Gee, aren’t you a sensitive fellow,’ Clara says.

  ‘Just stating the obvious, girl. The one thing I’ve learned in my time is how a munt’s brain ticks. These bloody crooks only survive because people like Frank are born every second.’

  I’m suddenly sick of it all. Si
ck of my fruitless mission. Sick of this damn country. Sick of toeing the line with Vic. I put my glass down and get up. ‘I’m not going to listen to your bullshit, Vic. Sorry, Hazel, but I’ve had enough crap for one day. I better push off before I get into an argument.’

  ‘Oh, Frank . . .’ Hazel says.

  ‘Sit down, man,’ Vic says. ‘Jeez, you’re a touchy bugger, hey?’

  ‘Vic, I’m not a bloody kid anymore. I’m not going to sit here and listen to you carry on. All these stupid jibes about my mother, about me –’

  ‘What are you getting uptight for? I’m only joking, man!’

  ‘You always go too far, Vic,’ Clara says. ‘Enough’s enough, man!’

  Vic dismisses it all with a wave of his hand. ‘Ag, sit down, Frank. I’m only joking, for God’s sake. I can’t help it if I’ve always been a straight shooter.’

  I remain standing. ‘Straight shooter? I wonder how long your sense of humour would last if I did a bit of straight shooting.’

  Vic just looks at me, that big yellowy smirk across his dial. Hazel tugs at my elbow. ‘Come on, Frank. Vic meant no harm. It’s just the way he talks. Sit down. Relax. Let’s change the subject, okay.’

  Vic raises the bottle of beer. ‘Ja, relax, man. Have another beer. Don’t get all worked up over nothing. At least that bastard didn’t fleece you of all your money. Look on the positive side.’

  I sit down again, feeling foolish at my outburst. Vic reaches over and tops up my glass. He chuckles and shakes his head. ‘Man! This bloody country has a way of getting under anybody’s skin – even liberals.’ His eyes widen in mock horror. ‘Sorry, no offence!’

  I take a deep, comforting swig of beer. When Hazel lights another cigarette I cadge one off her. She raises her eyebrows with surprise, but says nothing.

  ‘So where to now, Frank?’ Vic asks.

  I shrug. ‘Home, I guess.’

  ‘When does your flight leave?’

  ‘In a couple of weeks. I’ll see if I can bring it forward.’

  Hazel says: ‘Why? You might as well just relax and enjoy yourself. Catch up with your friend, Brak. Do a bit of sightseeing.’