Lettah's Gift

by Graham Lang

  ‘I’m fine.’

  A quick change of sheets and pillowslips. Clara tidies the room while I pack my suitcase and load it in the Nissan, along with a jerry can of petrol and a funnel. We set off through the city and out along the Victoria Falls Road. Beyond the city lights the void of night closes around us, its darkness seemingly absolute but for the grass and trees rushing past, eerily illuminated. Shabby signs, one announcing: No Petrol for 160 km. Optimistic, one would think, in today’s Zimbabwe. A strange sensation that we are plunging, our motion downward, not forward. Just a lonely flickering light every so often out in the blackness. We encounter no other vehicles. The headlights catch the occasional glint of eyes in the bush up ahead; I slow around each bend and over every rise, my recent brush with Zimbabwe’s livestock still a raw memory.

  Clara chats away, dispensing a limitless store of irrelevancies, only one of which is of passing interest – the origin of her name. Apparently, Hazel named her after a prehistoric site called Clara Cairns near the battlefield of Culloden, which she and Clara’s father visited while honeymooning in Scotland. The picture of a young violet-eyed Hazel wandering about the Highlands, deciding to name a daughter after an ancient burial site, seems strange, given her avowed love of Africa. I’m surprised she didn’t give Clara an African name.

  Our lights pick up the VW almost an hour out of town, next to a sign pointing to St Luke’s Mission. It seems Hazel and Vic have whiled away the wait constructively. They are seated in deck chairs around a folding table next to the car. Before them, an array of bottles and the remains of a picnic dinner. They raise glasses to us as we pull up next to the VW, grinning like two elderly meerkats around some roadkill.

  Vic is positively festive. ‘Hallelujah!’ he booms. ‘What took you so long? Cars are equipped with more than one gear, you know.’

  ‘And I believe they require petrol to move,’ I retort, climbing out. ‘I thought motoring stuff-ups were my specialty, Vic.’

  A big cheesy smirk. He turns to Hazel. ‘Did you hear that, woman? That boy’s developing a sense of humour at last!’

  Hazel giggles tipsily and gets up from her chair and kisses Clara and me lavishly. ‘What a magnificent, shpectacular night,’ she slurs, waving at the stars.

  ‘Mom, you’re drunk!’ Clara exclaims. ‘Both of you!’

  ‘Oh, don’t talk rubbish. My generation does not get drunk. Young people today are so boring!’ She catches a glimpse of my face in the reflected light. ‘Except Frank, of course. Goodness me! What on earth have you been up to?’

  ‘What’s he done now?’ Vic says, getting unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Frank here looks like he’s been on the wrong end of a mule kick.’

  Vic hobbles up and inspects my face, breath reeking of beer. ‘Jesus H. Christ. And I suppose your friend Malan had nothing to do with it, hey?’

  ‘Leave him be,’ Clara says. ‘Come on, it’s late. How are either of you going to drive home in your condition?’

  ‘Condition?’ Vic booms. ‘What condition? I’m perfectly bloody capable of driving, young lady.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Neither of you.’

  ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before you tell me when I can drive, girl.’

  Clara slaps her thighs, exasperated. ‘God sakes! Are there any sober people left in this damn country?’

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s pack up and go.’

  While I decant the petrol into the VW, Vic and Hazel pack up the table and chairs, amid much juvenile laughter and effusive exclamations. Clara attempts again to dissuade Vic from driving; Vic responds by plonking himself down in the VW’s driver’s seat, sniggering like a schoolboy. Clara implores her mother to travel back with us, to no avail. Hazel brushes her aside and gets in beside Vic.

  Fishing in his pockets for the car keys, Vic sings raucously: ‘Never mind the weather, as long as we’re together – we’re off to see the Wild West Show-oh-oh!’

  A hoot of laughter from Hazel. Vic tries to start the engine and floods it. What I had smugly thought to be a reversal of favour in the auto-gaffe stakes ends ignominiously when Clara and I are called upon to push start the VW. After a few failed attempts, the engine finally splutters into life and off they go, wheels spinning on the roadside gravel, sounding like an old sewing machine missing the odd stitch.

  We climb in the Nissan and follow. I floor the accelerator for a few kilometres trying to catch up, but Vic is going like the clappers. ‘Slow down,’ Clara says. ‘You’re just egging him on, trying to keep up. My God, they’ve both regressed to adolescents!’

  I drop back; we watch the VW’s tail-lights disappear into the darkness ahead.

  ‘I’ve never seen my mother like that,’ Clara says. ‘I hope she’s okay.’

  I laugh. ‘Of course she’s okay. It’s good to see her let go. All this stuff with the shop . . . it’s cathartic.’

  ‘Maybe. I hope so.’

  Clara puts a hand on my leg and rests her head on my shoulder. We drive on in silence. I’m exhausted; the exertion of pushing the VW has given me a headache. After a while, Clara starts to snore gently. Her head slides off my shoulder; she jerks upright and yawns. ‘How much longer?’ she asks.

  ‘Not far,’ I reply.

  We reach the city and drive through to Hillside. It’s just after two; the roads are deserted but for a few stray dogs. The street lights in the suburbs are off, the houses are shrouded in darkness. Turning into Sable Avenue, Clara sighs with relief at the sight of the VW at Hazel’s gate, lights shining, up at the end of the street. ‘At least they’re home in one piece,’ she says.

  As we drive up the road a man suddenly bursts into vision; I brake as he runs past the car, arms flailing, and disappears behind us into the night. Just the flash of eyes and teeth. A dirty torn shirt. ‘Jesus . . . what was that?’ Clara blurts out, looking back out the rear window. I drive on and turn into the driveway behind the VW. The VW is still running, its doors open. We emerge to a terrible theatre. Lit by the VW’s lights, Hazel is lying up against the gate, her arms around Vic. Vic is on his back, his striped polo shirt gleaming darkly with blood. A red froth around his mouth, an edge of his loosened dentures protruding. His eyes have rolled back, white and sightless. Hazel is keening like a frightened child.

  XII

  A day of policemen and forensic procedure. We go through it in a daze. Hazel summons enough composure to walk detectives around the crime scene. She signs a statement written out laboriously by one of the detectives, an enormous bald-headed man called Mkonto. Because Clara and I witnessed the fleeing assailant, we too must answer questions and sign statements. The policemen go but Mkonto returns with a thick folder of mugshots which we peruse without success. It was all a blur to Hazel, the killer just a black shape against the glare of the VW’s headlights. All Clara and I can recall is the white flash of eyes and teeth. The flapping of his unbuttoned shirt as he ran past. Finally, Mkonto leaves. Clara makes tea and we sit, exhausted, around the dining room table, the silence deafening. Hazel seems calm and collected; she volunteers some small talk about the old Ndebele woman who wove the small round mats on the table – something about her having been born with just a thumb and finger on both hands. But then she sees Vic’s suitcase standing in the hallway. Her eyes glaze and she slips back into shock.

  I return to Kumalo in the evening. Ruby and Vernon are shocked by my grisly appearance but nothing is said. Rosie and Geldof stare at my still-swollen nose and puffed eyes, open-mouthed; Precious emits a long ‘Mayibabo!’

  I take refuge in the cottage, like a beast in its hole. I collapse on the bed and fall into a deep sleep, filled with bad dreams. I wake sweating in the darkness, seeing Vic’s sightless eyes, still tasting his blood in my mouth after trying vainly to resuscitate him. Hazel’s eerie keening . . .

  I imagine her getting out of the car to
open the gate. I see the man leap out of the darkness into the glare of the headlights. So suddenly, she barely has time to utter a cry of alarm before he grabs the handbag slung over her arm. Instinctively, she hangs on to the bag’s strap. A tug-of-war ensues. Struck dumb with terror, yet still holding onto her bag, Hazel stumbles about until she loses her footing and falls heavily against the gate. The man looms over her, a knife in his hand. Perhaps he intends to kill her; perhaps he intends merely to threaten her or to cut the bag free. Whatever lurks in his thoughts in this instant remains mercifully inert – Vic’s final moment has come. It has taken a few seconds for Vic’s addled brain to compute what has been happening in the glare of the lights. Now, realising the mortal danger Hazel is in, he erupts from the car, roaring as only Vic can roar. His eruption from the car, it’s fair to assume, is slow and ponderous, given his age and inebriation. However, there is nothing slow and ponderous about his vocal chords – a deep-throated barrage of abuse flies thick and fast. Unnerved by the crazed, white-haired old man bearing down on him, brandishing his walking stick, the robber panics and turns to flee. But Vic is already upon him, managing to mete out a couple of solid clouts with his stick. The robber lashes out, stabbing Vic twice – in the stomach and heart – before running away. Vic gives a sharp cry before collapsing onto Hazel. And she knows by his limpness that he is already dead.

  Hazel shuts herself up in the house in Hillside and won’t see anyone but her doctor, Clara and the maid, Daphne. The doctor prescribes a course of tranquillisers which Clara struggles to get her mother to take, resorting to crushing the pills and mixing them in cups of tea. She drops in at Milton’s from time to time to let me know how things are. I ask if there is anything I can do, knowing the answer. Time – she just needs time, Clara says. Needless to say, there is no further talk about travelling to South Africa.

  I try to phone my father but can’t get through.

  Speaking of phone calls, Geoffrey Dlamini calls to give me updates on his renewed search for Lettah. He lists several charity organisations and church websites he has consulted. When he calls a second time I can barely contain my exasperation.

  ‘Look, Geoffrey,’ I say, ‘I don’t believe Lettah Ndlovu can be found. There’s no need for you to persist –’

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me, sir. I don’t want more money. I want to show you that we are not all like Chombo. The world must know that among Zimbabweans there are still many people of honour.’

  ‘Of course there are. But –’

  ‘I am a man of faith, Mr Cole. I believe in the premise: seek and ye shall find. I called today to say that I have placed a notice on my church email newsletter. It goes to people all over the world.’

  ‘Thank you, Geoffrey. You’ve done more than enough.’

  After putting the phone down, I lean my head against the wall. Fuck. Why these small mockeries . . .

  My attempt to present a façade of composure to the Ogilvy household proves futile. So I confine myself mostly to the cottage, emerging only for an occasional dip in the pool or to join the family at mealtimes. I count the days until my departure, the spectre of Vic haunting my thoughts.

  One evening, there’s a knock on my door. Milton enters, clasping an old Olivetti typewriter to his chest, a ream of paper balanced on top.

  ‘Thought you might find a use for this old beast,’ he says.

  He puts the typewriter and paper down on the table and sits on a chair. He looks at me, prone on the bed, with a wry smile. ‘You might as well grow a beard and change your name to Van Winkle,’ he says.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘We live in interesting times, boyo. No time to waste sleeping.’

  ‘Interesting?’

  A long silence. Milton drums his fingers on the table. ‘You know, when I first met Vic I thought he was the biggest fool on the planet. That big mouth. Strutting around like he owned the world. I remember when we took on his case, him bellowing: “You bloody lazy shysters better get those kaffirs off my land, or else!”’ Milton laughs and shakes his head. ‘I felt like asking him: Or else what? The old bigot never seemed to twig that he was powerless. He seemed blissfully ignorant that when Rhodesia changed to Zimbabwe power also shifted from whites to blacks. Ja, Franco, I thought a lot of things about Vic Baldwin, and most of it negative. But then he does the knight in shining armour caper. He comes to the rescue of his damsel, Hazel. His courage is tested and he’s not found wanting. It kind of redeems him, don’t you think? Makes us realise that there’s more to people than we think.’

  I shake my head. ‘Hazel should’ve just given her bag to that thief. He would’ve run away. There was no need for any heroics.’

  ‘But she didn’t. And Vic did his duty as a man. If that isn’t worth writing about, I don’t know what is. Can’t you see what I’m getting at? It’s time to get your arse into gear. Get to work, boyo. It’s been handed to you on a plate.’

  I look at him dumbly, chastened.

  Milton gets up. ‘Come on, Ruby says dinner’s just about done.’

  Tiring of persistent enquiries as to her health, Hazel decides to have a few friends around for evening drinks. I arrive at the house at dusk and park behind a dozen or so cars in the driveway. Clara opens the door when I knock; she administers a cool, aunt-like peck on the cheek and shows me inside. Hazel’s guests, mostly elderly couples, are gathered in the lounge – the only one I recognise is Vera Ndube. Daphne shuffles around with a tray of savoury nibbles, her eyes red from weeping.

  I’m shocked by Hazel’s appearance. She sits in her chair like a shrivelled bird, smoking with a trembling hand. A glass of sherry stands untouched on the table beside her. I’d never looked on her as old before, now she seems ancient, skeletal. I’m relieved that my own appearance is considerably improved, attracting only a few inquisitive glances: the swelling on my face has subsided, the stitches have been removed. I kiss Hazel on the cheek. She looks at me with a slightly glazed expression, smiles and nods. Clara points me to a chair in the corner, asks me if I’d like a drink and leaves me to my own devices when I decline. I watch uncomfortably as Hazel’s friends chat quietly. Soothing tones. Offers of support; gentle reminiscences. I shake my head when Daphne also offers me a drink. Across the room, Clara is deep in conversation with Vera, her back to me.

  Hazel stares blankly ahead; now and then she attempts to take part in the conversations, but her sentences dissipate into nothing. The effect of the tranquillisers, I suspect. Then her eyes focus on me; she beckons me closer. I crouch next to her chair.

  ‘Clara told me what happened with Brak,’ she whispers. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She stares at me and smiles. ‘Have you phoned your father? Does he know about Vic?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve tried but can’t get through.’

  ‘Try my phone. Go on, Errol would want to know.’

  I glance at my watch: it would be around midnight in Perth. A bit late to be calling, but a good excuse to escape. I go to the phone in the passageway. The fickle gods of Zimbabwe’s telephone service are with me tonight: after only two attempts, Errol answers. I explain what happened. After a long silence, he says: ‘My God, that’s terrible news. How is Hazel managing?’

  ‘She’s taken it hard. Still in a state of shock, I think.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Has there been any mention of the funeral?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Make sure you attend. It’s important. Your mother and Hazel were very close. Give her my condolences. Tell her I’ll phone, okay? Tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, Dad.’

  ‘I suppose you’re looking forward to coming home.’

  ‘You suppose correctly.’

  Back in the lounge, Hazel’s friends are clustered around her and Clara is still yakking away
with Vera. I can’t bear the scene any longer.

  ‘Dad sends his condolences,’ I tell Hazel. ‘He’ll phone tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank. I’m glad you got through.’

  I lean close. ‘Hazel, I . . . I’m terribly sorry about what happened. I’m sorry about the things I said about Vic. If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  Hazel smiles soporifically and nods. ‘Thank you, Frank. Don’t fret.’

  Clara follows me outside. We stand in the darkness next to my car. Crickets singing. She takes my hand and kisses me. ‘My mother’s been a full-time –’

  ‘You don’t have to explain anything, Clara. I understand.’

  ‘She needs me, Frank.’

  ‘Of course she does.’

  She embraces me. Though we kiss long and tenderly, I feel we make a ludicrous spectacle.

  A door closes and another opens. Each day I rise early and take my place in front of Milton’s typewriter. I write until lunch, surprised at how quickly the initial trickle of words becomes a steady stream. There is no grand message in what I write; I seek merely to make some sense of my journey. I write about my search for Lettah, undaunted by the shadow of failure. And I begin to understand that the gift I was entrusted to give has bestowed another upon me.

  A succession of cloudy, humid days. Hawks fixed on prey flutter high against brooding, heavy skies; there are distant rumbles of thunder but nothing comes of it. Still, the parched countryside seems to take heart in the promise of rain. In the shadows of clouds, the shrivelled bush acquires a faint blush of green. You get the impression that what has survived so far in this place of drought will prosper, given the smallest chance.

  I exist in a strange, suspended state. On the one hand, a sense of failure. My search for Lettah farcical in its naiveté. My reunion with Brak a debacle, to say the least, and now Vic . . . On the other hand, there are these pages piling up next to Milton’s typewriter. I well know the folly of overstating creativity’s restorative powers, but that tired old sense of futility that has wreaked my own drought for so many years seems to have loosened its grip. Something long dormant has germinated, the words I write its pale shoots.