Lettah's Gift

by Graham Lang

  I take a sleeping pill and am out like a light before Clara returns.

  When I wake there is a ceaseless singing in my head, like distant cicadas. Even when I block my ears it continues undiminished. I lie in the darkness trying to ignore the sound, mercifully drifting off again. Somewhere in the night I feel Clara climb into the bed next to me. She nestles her head on my chest. Her hair smells sweetly of shampoo.

  ‘Are you awake?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  Clumsily I kiss the top of her head. ‘No.’

  She kisses my neck and runs her hand over my chest. ‘I like flawed men.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  She laughs quietly. We lie there without talking, just a sheet covering us. I run my hand up along her bare thigh. She kisses me softly again and sinks back against the pillow. She starts to snore gently. Far-off, a dog barks. I feel the blood coursing through my veins, more aware of it than ever before.

  I think of that insane look of intent on Brak’s face as he pounded my head on the floor, as though by destroying me he would destroy his demons, as though he, not I, were the one fighting for his life. This is all I can remember now from the incident and I cower from the thought of it. I thank God that I had the simple good luck not to have fought a war that could not be won, and to suffer the consequence – the futility of being on the losing side. How do men like Brak heal? I think of what he said about the cathartic value of military parades and ceremonies. With victory come the spoils of catharsis and redemption. With defeat comes the long fall inside.

  For days I drift in and out of sleep. In my conscious moments I’m plagued by headaches, dizziness and nausea, constantly drowsy and confused. The singing in my head persists. I visit the doctor again: it seems my concussion is worse than first thought. The doctor arranges a CT scan. There is only one local facility available, in Mpilo Hospital in the townships. I wait an entire day in this chaotic place before being attended to. The scan clears me of any bleeding in the brain; there is, however, a small fracture at the base of my skull. Nothing serious, the doctor says (an inveterate optimist); it will heal on its own but headaches and other symptoms may persist for weeks, even months. In the meantime I must take it easy. Clara tells me Reggie has phoned three times. Brak is apparently so depressed he won’t leave the house. Reggie has talked things over with Jervis who responded with admirable compassion, assuring Reggie the job is Brak’s to come back to when he is ready. She’s been trying to get Brak to come and see me. I’m relieved to be spared the encounter.

  Hazel phones frequently to find out if Clara is managing at the shop. She and Vic are staying in a self-catering holiday chalet in a bush resort a few kilometres from the town of Victoria Falls. It was Vic’s idea to give Hazel a break from the stress of closing down the shop. Hazel complains that the resort is empty – the only people around are the manager and a handful of staff who knock off in the afternoons, and a solitary night watchman who spends his work hours busily snoring on a spare mattress in the storeroom. She says she is bored out of her mind. Victoria Falls appears to be a shabby shadow of its former self, having virtually ground to a halt as a tourist destination. The people who throng the streets now are mostly destitute locals; crime is rife. Clara tells her mother not to worry about the shop and implores her to relax and enjoy herself.

  Clara mans Zambezi Pride each day, until noon when Vera takes over. She returns after lunch with awful tales of the terror and intimidation that is erupting across the country now that electioneering has started in earnest. Somehow Tsvangirai continues to traverse the country in a big red bus, attending rallies, despite constant harassment by the police. She tells me there has been havoc in the city. Crowds of looters, following the example of the police and army, have rampaged through stores, helping themselves to what little was left on the shelves. Shopkeepers who protested have been assaulted. Fortunately, Zambezi Pride has not been affected, African craft being way down on the looters’ shopping lists.

  We catch a news bulletin on TV where some fat apparatchik foists blame for the economic chaos on the business community. ‘Let me take this opportunity,’ he wheezes with straight-faced candour, ‘to warn these economic saboteurs that time is up for them to mend their wayward behaviour by curbing their unbridled greed, corruption and self-enrichment at the expense of the majority of our people.’

  Clara scoffs dryly. ‘How wonderful to hear such succinct self-analysis!’

  There is little about any of this that I find amusing. I’m plagued by black bouts of paranoia. Everything in this mad place is falling apart. A crazy president mouthing threats at every turn, exhorting his followers to violence. Inflation running at over a million percent. Store shelves bare of essentials. It’s common now to have power cuts of twelve hours duration each day. Petrol stations have closed, due to sporadic supply. Since there is no fuel, there are no buses or trains. No shortage, though, for the Chinese warplanes that swoop low over the city. A sign of what to expect if things don’t go Mugabe’s way.

  I can’t wait to escape this unrecognisable land of my birth; it’s just the tender ministrations of Clara that make it tolerable. I ponder how deeply she feels for me; I try to envisage a future together but can’t. My flight back to Australia is still two weeks away; I must see about bringing my departure forward. Better still, perhaps a short stay in South Africa will make this journey worthwhile – perhaps I can entice Clara to come with me. When I put this to her, she surprises me by her immediate enthusiasm. We make plans: we will fly to Johannesburg and hire a car. Drive down to Pietermaritzburg where I’ll show her my old stamping ground, and then continue down the coast to Cape Town . . .

  But then I start to fret about whether we will be able to leave under the present circumstances. Will the airport be operating? Will there be fuel if we wished to leave by road? I feel trapped, claustrophobic. For the first time I understand what it means to be trapped in a fucked-up country. Clara laughs at my fears, doubling up when I put forward the worst-case option of hitchhiking to the South African border. ‘I wish my mother was around to hear you,’ she says, wiping tears away.

  Yes, tribulation’s perverse humour. A form of sustenance for Zimbabwe’s stoic sufferers. Their mainstay. Joking while the country burns. Dancing in the grave.

  At night she sleeps with me. We try to make love once but I can’t perform, incapacitated by a splitting headache. Again, Clara is amused. An actual, genuine headache, she says. One for the history books.

  The weekend looms. Hazel and Vic will return on Sunday afternoon and I’ll need to move out. Back to Milton’s.

  Better not to think too far ahead.

  Saturday – where has the week gone? I wake feeling somewhat better; the headaches and nausea have abated. Another hot, dry day beckons. We go for an early swim and have breakfast – mielie meal porridge with a lump of butter – outside on the veranda next to the pool. As far as food goes, it seems the Kent household will take a while before it feels the pinch; Hazel and Vic have stockpiled a sizeable hoard of mielie meal, flour and other basics in the pantry. The birds in the trees seem louder than usual; I wonder if it’s a prelude to rain. As we eat, Clara suddenly puts her hand to her mouth, stifling laughter. She swallows and giggles helplessly.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘Sorry. I just remembered how Reggie and I found you. Standing there in your underpants, looking like you didn’t have the faintest clue what you were doing. Imagine if we hadn’t come along – imagine if you’d had to hitch a ride back to Bulawayo looking like that!’

  She dissolves into laughter again.

  ‘You’re a real font of sympathy, aren’t you?’ I say.

  We swim again. To keep the stitches on my nose dry, I’m confined to wallowing about at the shallow end. I catch Clara staring at the big bruises on my abd
omen and self-consciously cover myself with a t-shirt when we return to the veranda. We are drinking tea and perusing some South African road maps when Brak’s Cruiser appears at the gate. Reggie opens the gate, then drives up and parks beside her Datsun under the flamboyant trees next to the house. Brak is slumped in the passenger seat. For a long while they sit in the vehicle; Reggie talks animatedly, Brak just stares downwards. The levity I felt earlier evaporates like water on a hot stone. Reggie gets out, sees us on the veranda and comes over. Her jeans and cotton blouse look grubby; her hair is a mess. Face drawn, haggard.

  ‘Hi. Thought I’d better come and pick up my car.’

  ‘Pity,’ Clara says. ‘I was getting quite fond of it as a garden feature.’

  Reggie smiles grimly. Her eyes scan my face.

  ‘Howzit, Frank? You’re looking better than when I last saw you. The swelling’s gone down, hey?’

  ‘I’m okay, thanks,’ I say.

  Clara offers her some tea. Reggie shakes her head. Sighs miserably. ‘No thanks. This isn’t exactly a social call.’ She glances over at Brak in the Cruiser. ‘That bloody idiot . . . He won’t even get out of the car. Like a scared kid. It’s so bloody pathetic.’

  ‘Guys like him should never drink,’ Clara says.

  Reggie looks at her sharply, a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘You think I don’t know that? You think he doesn’t know that? It’s easier said than done, Clara. It’s more than just the drink.’

  ‘He needs help,’ Clara says.

  ‘I know. That’s also why I’m here. Will you talk to him, Frank?’

  ‘Talk to him?’

  ‘Please, man. He’s sorry about what happened . . .’

  Her voice falters and she starts crying. Clara gets up and helps her to a chair. ‘Reggie . . . come on, girl. Sit down and have a nice cup of tea. Come on.’

  Reggie blinks back angry tears. ‘Help him, Frank. He’s your friend.’

  I look at her, bewildered. ‘He needs proper help, Reggie . . . professional help.’

  ‘He’ll listen to you, Frank. He needs your forgiveness.’

  ‘He has my forgiveness.’

  ‘You tell him that.’

  ‘I don’t know, Reggie –’

  ‘Please talk to him. He’ll listen to you.’

  A short silence. Reggie and Clara stare at me.

  ‘Talk to him, Frank,’ Clara says. ‘You don’t want to leave Zim with this hanging over your head, do you?’

  I shrug helplessly. ‘Reggie . . .’

  ‘Please, Frank,’ she says. ‘Just talk to him, man.’

  I feel their eyes on me as I drag myself down the veranda steps and across the driveway to the Cruiser. I stop a few paces from the Cruiser, wary of the wounded animal inside. Brak sits facing away from me, looking down at his hands. As I come forward, he glances up at my face; he appears startled by what he sees and looks down again. The glimpse I get of the haunted torment in his eyes confounds me – it’s as though another man sits there in Brak’s skin. I stand at the window, angry yet still fearful of him, unable to find words. He just sits slumped forward, staring down at his swollen, scabbed hands, big and burly as ever – that battered wildebeest head, the huge chest and arms – yet diminished so completely that it dispels my anger and fills me with pity.

  Words come, finally: ‘Next time you want to party, remind me to bring a bodyguard along.’

  He looks at me, shamefaced.

  ‘Ja, I’m talking to you, you big bloody ape.’

  The flicker of a desolate smile. He shakes his head. ‘Won’t be a next time.’

  ‘Of course there will.’

  ‘I’m never drinking again. Ever.’

  ‘I’d love a dollar for every time you’ve said that.’

  The same desolate smile. ‘I can’t go on like this, man.’

  ‘Ah, the dawning of enlightenment –’

  ‘Please, china, don’t joke. I’m serious.’

  ‘What can I say? No point in me shitting on you, is there?’

  Brak puts his head in his hands. ‘Shit on me all you like. I’m sorry, man. I can’t believe the things I do . . .’ He looks up, tears streaming down his face. ‘I swear, it’s like someone else takes over. I got no control . . .’

  I open the door and climb in next to him. Awkwardly, I put my hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t be sorry. Just get on top of it, man.’

  ‘I am sorry! Fucking sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay, Brak. No hard feelings.’

  ‘It’s not okay. I always wreck everything. I destroy everything – every friendship, everything good in my life. This is it, Frank. I’ll never drink again. I’ll blow my brains out if I do. I swear to God!’

  ‘That might be technically impossible.’

  A short burst of laughter. ‘Fuck off, Cole. I’m serious. It’s over.’

  There’s a long silence. I glance over my shoulder. Reggie and Clara are watching us.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and sit with the girls. Both of us could do with some intelligent conversation.’

  It’s as if he hasn’t heard me. He looks down at his hands again. ‘I don’t remember any of it. It’s no excuse, I know, but I don’t even remember getting back to my place.’ He spreads his fingers, palms downwards. ‘Woke up with my hands all fucked up and the house looking like a war zone – didn’t have a clue what happened. Reggie told me what I’d done to you. I just couldn’t believe it. I turn into someone else when I drink, china. Believe me. The person you see sitting here would never hurt a friend.’

  He puts his head in his hands again. Groans loudly. ‘God, God, God . . .’

  I flounder for words. ‘Don’t punish yourself. Just get on top of it, man.’

  He sobs. ‘I just wanna live a normal life. That’s all I want.’

  I put an arm around his shoulders. ‘I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t pissed off. But I’m also to blame. I shouldn’t have let things get out of hand. Reggie warned me about you. But what’s done is done. From my side, it’s over, okay? No hard feelings. There’re much bigger things than me that you need to deal with. Just do what you have to do, man. You’ll get on top of this – I know you will. You’ve got Reggie behind you all the way. That woman’s something special. If I can help, just tell me how.’

  He stares downwards. I reach out my hand. ‘Come on, shake hands. Time to look ahead.’

  Sheepishly, he sticks out his swollen paw. I clasp it hard. He gasps.

  I laugh. ‘Ha! Gotcha!’

  Brak laughs and wipes his face with his sleeve.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s have some tea and talk to the ladies.’

  Brak nods grimly. ‘Ja, time to learn some fucking manners, hey.’

  They stay the rest of the morning. We talk about good times, good things. Some lost ground is regained. The old Reggie emerges; she chaffs Brak in her blunt slang; she laughs and conjures up bright possibilities for the future. Some of the old Brak emerges too, though he can’t quite dispel that doomed look, and lurking behind the up-beat banter is the indelible knowledge that things are not what they were.

  They leave around noon. Exhausted, I go to the bedroom and fall asleep, my mind free at last of the angst that has plagued me since the assault, though I can’t quite rid myself of the perverse notion that I am the one forgiven, not Brak – the psychiatric fraternity will have a name for this condition. I wake in the late afternoon. Clara and I swim and braai some chicken outside next to the pool, while the weaverbirds noisily roost in the nearby trees. We eat and discuss our travel plans. On Monday we’ll organise flights to South Africa. Tomorrow, Hazel and Vic return; we savour our last evening together.

  An inevitable power cut awaits us when we go inside. We shower in the dark and go to bed early. We ma
ke love by candlelight; Clara is in a playful mood – I am frequently referred to as ‘Father Time’ or ‘Old Man River’. Something Márquez wrote about young women and old men floats into my consciousness. Among the charms of old age are the provocations our young female friends permit themselves because they think we are out of commission. Be warned, Clara! In the shadow of la grande mort, the little death grows ever sweeter.

  Afterwards, we lie there, spent. The flickering candlelight on the walls of the room seems not of this century. Clara asks me if I believe in eternity, in the hereafter. I confess my scepticism. ‘I do,’ she says. ‘I believe we’re each the fulcrum of our own eternity.’

  I imagine my mother peering down, shaking her head.

  We talk for hours, it seems, before I drift off. I’m awoken by the telephone ringing. Clara groans and gets up to answer it. The slap of her feet on the parquet floor as she runs. The power is back on; there are lights shining down the passage and the faint mumble of the TV we forgot to switch off. Her voice saying cheerily: ‘Hi, Mom, how’s everything going with you two lovebirds?’ A long silence. Then: ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming back tonight . . . Okay, just stay where you are. We won’t be long.’

  I switch on the bedside lamp. Clara appears at the door.

  ‘That was my mother. They were on their way home and ran out of petrol. Just as well. Imagine if they’d come back to this.’

  ‘What? To this Cosmo centrefold in their bed?’

  Clara laughs and gestures at our things strewn about the room. ‘Jesus, Vic would’ve had a fit.’

  ‘What possessed them to drive back at this time of night?’

  ‘A spur of the moment thing. Mom said they just couldn’t bear another night at that crappy resort. Come on, we’d better get cracking. Are you okay to drive?’