by Graham Lang
‘I’m not sure if I deserve a holiday after this fiasco.’
Hazel laughs. ‘You are just like your father! That Calvinistic streak! So what are you going to do? Sit around at Milton’s and mope until it’s time to go?’
‘I don’t know.’
Daphne appears with a tray of cold chicken and sweetcorn. Hazel dishes out the food; soon the air is loud with the clacking of Vic’s dentures as he chomps away. After lunch we have another beer. Clara and I swim. When we emerge Hazel and Vic are snoozing in their chairs. We dry ourselves off.
‘I’d better get going,’ I say, wrapping the towel around my waist.
Clara nods. I get changed in the bathroom. When I emerge she is waiting in the passageway. We stand there. Me uncertain, Clara decided. Without a word she moves up close. Slipping her hands under my arms, she pulls me to her. I can feel her breath on my neck. I try to think of something to say but words elude me. The sound of Daphne and Jeremiah talking in the kitchen seems a thousand miles away.
It happens. She leans forward and kisses me. Our mouths open, she presses hard against me. We totter back into her room; she kicks the door shut. I push my hands down under her wet bikini, the feel of her gooseflesh skin arousing me. She undoes my trousers; they fall to my ankles. She grabs my shirt and pulls me back towards her bed. Hobbled by my trousers, I stumble; we sprawl onto the parquet floor. A self-conscious moment in which I imagine my ludicrousness, floundering around upon her, backside thrusting. She wraps her legs around my waist; we heave and pant away, her flesh squeaking on the parquet, moans rising.
The tide recedes. We lie there, shuddering in the last throes. I wonder if Daphne and Jeremiah heard anything.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I wheeze. ‘Where in hell did that come from?’
‘No idea,’ Clara replies.
We laugh. After the events of this morning I don’t care where it takes me.
Despite having lent an unwitting hand to Chombo’s preposterous ploy (after all, who put me in touch with him?) Milton and Ruby reveal that they are amply endowed with that strangely perverse sense of humour common among Zimbabweans. The blatant shenanigans of the powerful elite seem to provide a perpetual font of dark amusement to ordinary folk, long starved of conventional farce. As I relate the morning’s fiasco, seated in Milton’s lounge with portable fans blowing a gale, their response is, first, incredulity, then laughter. Milton feigns outrage: ‘No! Chombo – corrupt? A crooked cop in Zimbabwe? My God!’
As they chortle away, I glumly lament my haplessness. In the space of a few days, I have gone from responsible citizen to clown. Ruby, gathering herself, shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, Frank. We shouldn’t laugh. It’s just the audacity of it! Just shows you, hey? Even the ones you think are okay. Poor Frank. I’m sorry we got you into this mess.’
‘That bastard should be in jail,’ I grumble.
‘No chance of that,’ Milton says. ‘One thing I’ll guarantee you, if you so much as open your mouth the only bastards who’ll end up in jail will be you and that poor old girl he conned into playing Lettah.’
I sigh. ‘It’s just a pity it had to end on this note. Chombo was my last hope.’
‘You did your best, Franco.’
‘It’s not your fault he’s a crook,’ Ruby says.
‘Ja, just another thief in Mugabe’s grand kleptocracy,’ Milton agrees. ‘Be nice to see them all in jail. Wipe the slate clean and start again. Can’t wait for the elections.’
Ruby laughs. ‘When were you born, Ogilvy? Yesterday? You don’t honestly believe the elections will change anything, do you?’
I get up. ‘Mind if I call my father? He’ll want to know where things stand.’
‘You know where the phone is,’ Milton says.
The phone in Perth rings and rings. I’m about to hang up when Max answers, breathing hard – no doubt, he has sprinted from the house to my father’s cottage in the back garden. He tells me Errol is out having drinks with some friends at the bowling club. I explain the day’s events and ask him to pass on the bad news to Errol. ‘Tell him I’m finished here. I’ve done what I can.’
‘That’s too bad,’ Max says. ‘Though I’m sure you’re not completely unhappy with the price of failure.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, with failure comes a nice little windfall, hey?’
‘Get your arse over here if you think you can do any better.’
Max laughs. ‘Only kidding, man! It was a crazy idea in the first place. So when are you coming back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Might as well make it an official holiday.’
‘Piss off, Max. Just tell Dad, okay?’
I go to the cottage and shower. Then I lie on the bed, my head teeming with thoughts. Chombo’s chicanery. Ntombela. The ramshackle store. Gumede rolling a cigarette with newspaper, coughing. The old woman, so pathetic in her guise as Lettah. Chombo’s anger, his threats. Vic’s bullshit. And Clara . . . the smell of her, her intense look, the irresistible tide . . .
She eclipses everything. It’s light outside, but I doze off, exhausted.
X
‘Fucking hell!’ Jervis blurts out, staring at the Cortina. He pushes his thick glasses up along his nose, his bloodshot eyes baleful. ‘What is it about you bloody Aussies, hey? Nothing’s safe with you okes around, man!’
We – Jervis, Milton, Brak and I – are standing around the Cortina in front of the workshop. Brak is kitted out in a new pair of navy blue overalls with Prospect Autos across the back. First day on the job.
‘Frank’s a walking goldmine, Jervis,’ Milton says. ‘You should be down on your knees kissing his feet, my friend, not insulting him.’
Jervis scrapes at some peeling paint around the broken headlight with a filthy fingernail. ‘Reminds me of a munt who worked for me years ago. Broke a brand new bloody anvil . . .’
Ah, the dreaded broken anvil. I’d forgotten the countless times I’d heard this same solemn myth when I lived in Africa. In my reckoning, if you melted down all the broken anvils that must litter the African veld you would have enough raw iron to build another Sydney Harbour Bridge. I should have known it would appear somewhere in Jervis’s repertoire.
We hear out his version of the grim fable that has survived unscathed into the postcolonial era. In the background, his appies, Benjamin and Morris, are buffing up a sky blue station wagon, well clear of any anvils.
‘. . . and I swear to God, that fucking anvil was in two pieces, man. Two pieces!’ He holds up two stubby fingers, black with grease. ‘I wouldn’t’ve believed it if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes!’
He stares at us with touching incredulity. Dutifully, Brak shakes his head.
‘Jervis, you’re a walking time warp,’ Milton says. ‘Just give me a damn quote, man. And don’t try to crook the insurers either!’
A look of outrage. ‘Crook the insurers! Listen, my friend, I don’t crook anybody. As much as I’d like to.’
He slips a sheet of carbon paper under the first page of a grease-stained pad and proceeds to inspect the car.
Brak goes over to the chained dog. He squats down, just out of reach. ‘Howzit, big fella. How’s my big puppy?’ he says gently. The dog watches him uncertainly at the end of its chain, growling.
Jervis gives him an exasperated glance. ‘For Chrissake, Brak. You got your Aussie mate’s other car to get back on the road. Make sharp!’
Brak straightens up slowly and ambles over to the Nissan in the workshop. He beckons Benjamin and they begin to fiddle around under the bonnet. I watch them for a while.
‘Ja, it’s nothing,’ Brak says. ‘Jets are all gummed up. We’ll drain the tank and clean out the carbs. A day’s work. She’ll be ready to roll this afternoon.’
I find Milton and Jervis in th
e office. Jervis is busy adding up some figures on a calculator. Milton is gazing up at Mugabe’s portrait among the bevy of Scope centrefolds. He smiles wryly, dimples showing. ‘I wish my old philosophy lecturer could see this. All that syntactic crap about context and meaning suddenly makes sense.’
Jervis points at the fridge rattling away in the corner. ‘You okes wanna beer?’
Milton shakes his head. ‘It’s ten in the morning, Jervis. What do you think we are? Alcoholics or something?’
‘Fucking girly boys,’ Jervis growls.
With a final blunt jab of his finger, he finishes his calculations and writes down the total on his pad. He pushes the pad across the counter in front of Milton. Milton scrutinises the figures.
‘Jesus! Daylight bloody robbery!’
Jervis looks hurt. ‘You know what parts cost in this country! And that’s just an approximate figure. With inflation like it is, it could be twice that tomorrow.’
Milton laughs. ‘Only kidding, Jervis. I’ll check if it’s okay with the insurers. When can you have it fixed by?’
Jervis’s brow contorts in deliberation. ‘Two weeks. What’s today? Monday . . . I can probably start on Wednesday.’
‘Two weeks? Christ.’
Jervis smiles. ‘That’s if I can get another headlight here in Zim. If I have to order one from South Africa it could take even longer.’
I drive Milton to his office in a ‘courtesy vehicle’ Jervis provided for half the going hire rate – since I was paying, he reluctantly dropped the proviso that I was not to get behind the wheel. We travel a mere fifty metres down the road before the reasons for the cut-rate fee become apparent. Without exaggeration, the vintage two-cylinder DKW, algae green in colour, is a death trap: the steering pulls hard to the right; the second gear doesn’t work; the brakes require pumping. The bodywork is rotten with rust and flaunts the telltale signs of a number of collisions. The interior reeks of lavender toilet freshener.
By chance, Milton’s partner, Barry Braithwaite, is standing on the kerb outside the office block as we arrive, scanning the front page of a newspaper. Milton chuckles indulgently. ‘Watch his face when he claps eyes on this heap,’ he says. With that distinctive ring-ting-ting of a DKW engine, I pull up sedately at the kerb. Barry lowers his newspaper and stares at us, eyebrows raised.
Milton gets out casually. ‘Greetings, Braithwaite.’
Barry nods. ‘Greetings, Ogilvy. Nice to see one’s business partner arrive in a style commensurate with the status of his profession.’
‘Yes, you can never overestimate the confidence it bestows on our clients.’
Barry smiles and taps the newspaper. ‘Have you heard the news? Tsvangirai is coming back to contest the elections. Arrives tomorrow.’
‘Brave man. Looks like an interesting time ahead.’
‘Succinctly put, Ogilvy. Zanu-PF has already started its campaign. The usual story. Opposition rounded up and tortured. Militia thugs running riot. I don’t know why Mugabe persists with the farce of holding elections. He’d save everyone a lot of pain and misery if he just declared himself president for life.’
‘Maybe there’s a limit to just how far he can rig this one,’ Milton says. ‘We shall see.’
The same group of weavers are sitting in the courtyard outside Zambezi Pride when I arrive. The same welcoming smiles. Nice mats, one of them says, patting a pile next to her. The shop is quiet. I find Hazel and Vera among the wood and soapstone carvings, re-pricing the stock. Vera’s chirpy demeanour seems to have evaporated; she gives me a brave smile and resumes her work.
Hazel takes me aside. ‘I think she’s figured out these new prices amount to a fire sale. She knows I can’t afford to keep going.’
‘You’re closing down?’
Hazel nods. ‘I’ll go broke if I don’t. Vic and I talked it over last night.’ A tired smile. ‘Or rather, Vic held my head under the cold tap of reality. For years now I’ve topped up the business with my dwindling overseas savings. You simply can’t run a business based on the tourist trade if there are no tourists. Even at these giveaway prices we won’t sell anything.’ A burst of laughter from the women outside. Hazel glances towards the door. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to those old girls. I was up all night agonising over this.’
‘I had no idea it’d come to this.’
She raises her hands and drops them. ‘You can’t stand against the tide forever. African craft has been my whole life. It breaks my heart.’
I find Clara sorting through piles of mats.
‘Aha, a tourist!’ she says, smiling. ‘This is your lucky day, sir. Mats, mats and more mats, going cheap. My dear mother could never refuse a good mat.’
‘Looks like she’s going to have to.’
Clara’s smile fades. ‘Did she tell you?’
I nod.
Clara shrugs and sighs. ‘Aye. Zambezi Pride means so much to her. And to a whole bunch of other people too. But what can one old lady in a craft shop do?’
‘I know. It’s crazy.’
She laughs sadly. ‘My dear mother . . . such guts and optimism. The way she just hung in, hoping things would change . . .’
The garrulous chatter of the women outside stops abruptly. We glance across at the shop’s entrance. Two policemen have entered. Pistols and batons strapped to their belts. One slaps his hand down on the counter twice. Hazel stops what she’s doing and speaks with them; a mumble of IsiNdebele I can’t follow. She takes out a black book from under the counter and flips through pages, pointing at rows of figures. Three youths, one sporting a green beret and a t-shirt with a crowing rooster on the chest, now also enter the shop. They wander around, picking up objects, laughing. Doped-up or drunk, it appears. They greet Vera in a mockingly polite manner. Sakubona, nkosikazi. Hallo, kunjani, missus? They chaff her, pointing at prices. Hai, kuyadula lapha! Much too expensive, missus. Vera returns their greeting; she pretends to be amused by their banter as she continues with her work, eyes averted, her fear palpable.
‘Green Bombers,’ Clara whispers. ‘Youth militia.’
I follow her over to the counter. The policemen stare at us from beneath their low cap visors as we approach.
‘What’s going on, Mom?’ Clara asks.
Hazel turns, smiling, and says, ‘These two gentlemen of the law are just checking to see if my books are in order and that I’m not exploiting anyone. And I’ve given an iron-clad assurance to the contrary.’ She turns back to the cops. ‘In fact, you’ll be happy to know that we’re more than halving our prices. No use doing things in half-measures, I always say.’
One of the cops mutters something to his colleague. They laugh, then turn away and wander briefly about the shop. Disinterested glances at the array of wares. One carelessly spins a postcard rack around.
‘Nothing worth looting,’ Hazel says under her breath. ‘Looks like our custodians of law and order are on another spree. They go around from business to business, helping themselves to whatever they want. Happens a lot these days, I’m afraid.’
The policemen make for the door, beckoning the youths. The one with the beret dallies next to a display of soapstone carvings. Knowing our eyes are on him, he picks up a small warthog and inspects it closely. Then looking straight at us, he curls his hand around the carving and slips it in his pocket. The same spaced-out, defiant look as he follows his friends towards the door.
‘One day you’ll pay for that,’ Hazel says nonchalantly. ‘Full price.’
He gives her a hard stare and leaves.
‘One day you’ll pay full price for opening your mouth, Mom,’ Clara says.
By the time Clara arrives, I’ve already completed fifteen laps, almost double my last sorry effort, and have been sunbaking on the poolside, chatting to Allan, the fifty-five year old Adonis. Allan tells me he is
leaving for Canada next month. The rest of his family are there already, he says; he stuck it out all these years, for what?
Clara emerges from the change rooms. She greets Allan and puts her towel and bag down next to me, adjusts her goggles, and dives in. I watch her swim, noticing that her mincing style seems lethargic, lacking purpose. I turn over and lie on my back. The sun seems to burn with a special intensity today. I imagine it to be Lydia’s glare. Her anger at my capitulation. That I have given up my mission at the first real obstacle.
Clara has stopped swimming and is climbing out of the pool.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ I say. ‘Don’t be a slacker now.’
She smiles and removes her goggles. ‘Not in the mood,’ she says, flopping down on her stomach next to me.
We are alone. Allan and the other swimmers have gone. The trees around the pool are loud with birds. I look at her wet skin, the way her black Speedo clings to her. As a younger man I might have been anxious to know what is going on in her head; now I’m curiously acceptant, fatalistic, expecting the dream to dissipate.
After a long silence, she says: ‘Sorry, I’m just a bit upset. Vera, all those women my mother supports . . . the looks on their faces when she explained the situation to them.’
‘How long before she closes the door?’
‘A month. Maybe two.’
‘Vera will find her feet somewhere else.’
‘Vera maybe. But the others haven’t a hope. What do they do? And here I am in the wake of it all, the white lady, lying next to a bloody swimming pool!’
‘Lady? Don’t give yourself airs.’
She laughs and looks away. ‘Be serious.’
‘It’s not your fault. Or your mother’s.’
‘That doesn’t make it easier, Frank.’
Another uncomfortable silence. Clara presses her eyes closed with her fingers.
‘Vera said a group of opposition supporters – people she knows from the township – were rounded up yesterday by the cops and taken to the police station. They were made to lie on the floor and were beaten for five hours. Five hours! Most of them women. Some with children. The kids were just shoved in a corner while their mothers were beaten. Can you imagine it? Watching their mothers scream for mercy. I’m sick of this fucking place!’