by Graham Lang
Clara has told me, unequivocally, that our travel plans to South Africa are out of the question. She is too preoccupied with looking after Hazel and winding things up at Zambezi Pride, which has now been placed largely on her shoulders. That and a dozen other things. All completely understandable, except that her strategies of extrication are plain to me, being a master of them myself. Perhaps, in the wake of Vic’s death, she has gained objectivity and sees our brief affair as a minor virus to which she’s now become immune. Still, it’s by no means a complete volte-face. She vacillates between stand-offishness and sporadic bouts of affection. She drops in at the cottage from time to time, but never stays long. We have dinner twice at the Selbourne Hotel in town. On both occasions she is warm and cheerful – even festive, after a few drinks. She gives me some copies of the photographs she took at Brak’s place. The one of Brak and me in front of the dead donkey on the car rather horrifies me, but I pretend good humour. She laughs at my banal witticisms; she expresses seemingly genuine disappointment that our travel plans have come to nought, yet adds that she’s keen to visit Australia. She kisses me passionately, though briefly, in the car when I drop her off at the house in Hillside. And the next day – aloof, distant. I gird myself for the inevitable. In moments of cold reason I too begin to see our relationship for what it is – a passing encounter, a fling – though I’d hoped it was something more. I’m forced to acknowledge that I have met my match in Clara. Our aversion to commitment makes us soul mates of a sort. C’est la vie, as she would say. The only way to retain any dignity is to keep my composure.
I’ve postponed my departure a few days so I can attend Vic’s funeral. My bags stand beside the cottage door, half-packed. My health is much-improved; the headaches are few and far between, the nausea and dizziness all but gone. Each afternoon I visit Hazel, never staying too long. She is looking much better, more her bright and cheerful self. I spend the late afternoons ambling through the kopjes near the Hillside Dams, searching in vain for those San paintings I saw as a boy. In the evenings I have long chats with Milton. About writing. About life. It pleases us both to know that our friendship has grown in strength. We pledge not to let so much time elapse before we meet again. Milton has his car back. Prospect Autos has done an excellent job; the old Cortina looks brand spanking new. Milton is delighted with the metallic-blue finish. It warms my heart to see Rosie and Geldof lording it off to school, noses in the air, in what Geldof now calls the ‘spensive car’.
Bulawayo’s dwindling white community feels the deaths of its members keenly; consequently there is a respectable turnout at Vic’s funeral at the Anglican chapel in Hillside. I kill time outside the chapel before the service, standing in the shade of a drooping frangipani tree, just about melting in my tweed jacket. I watch the mourners turn up, sweating in their formal wear. Hazel and Clara arrive with Vic’s sons, Hugo and Cecil, who have been staying with them since arriving yesterday. Hazel in a plain grey frock and a thin black shawl around her shoulders; she appears serene, composed. Clara wears a snug-fitting black dress, showing perhaps too much cleavage for this occasion. They smile and wave at friends and go into the chapel.
Hugo and Cecil have flown in from Manchester and Toronto respectively – Vic’s other sons, now living in America, couldn’t make it. Fat, bald businessmen in black pinstripe suits, the two tarry outside the chapel entrance, smoking nervously. I only know who they are because they arrived with Hazel and Clara – had they walked past me in the street, I’d never have recognised them. When I introduce myself they greet me with back-slapping gusto. I notice Cecil still has the lisp that afflicted him as a boy; he has learned to avert attention to it by choosing his words carefully, unlike Hugo who gabbles on like a parrot. They pull the same genial show when Brak pitches up, arm in arm with Reggie. Brak is amused by the Baldwins’ hale-hearty greetings. No doubt, they remember him from their Que Que Junior School days. He never took kindly to their bullying. After he planted a fist on Hugo’s nose and made him cry, they gave him a wide berth.
When Hugo asks about the few residual bruises on my face, I say that I whacked my head on the diving board at the municipal swimming pool. Brak sighs audibly as the Baldwins commiserate and just smiles stonily when they ask if he’s been practising his diving too.
Hazel emerges from the chapel and hurries over. ‘My dear, I’m such a scatterbrain!’ she exclaims, putting a hand on my arm. ‘I meant to ask you earlier. We need two more pallbearers. There seems a dearth of able-bodied young men around. Would you and . . . ?’ She glances at Brak. ‘Good gracious, I don’t believe it! Brak Malan – is that really you?’
Brak smiles. ‘Hello, Hazel.’
‘My, my, now there’s a surprise! Would you and Frank be so kind?’
‘I’d be honoured,’ Brak says.
She stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek. ‘My, how you’ve grown . . .’
Brak, bursting out of his old grey suit, blushes crimson.
We go inside. Hazel greets Daphne and the gardener, Jeremiah, sitting patiently in their Sunday best in the back pew. I sit next to Brak and Reggie, two rows behind Hazel and Clara and the Baldwins in the front pew. The chapel entrance and altar are ablaze with flowers, the air filled with the fragrances of roses, chrysanthemums and strelitzias.
The congregation waits quietly for the service to begin. Milton and Barry Braithwaite arrive last and quietly take a seat at the back next to Daphne and Jeremiah. Fans hanging from the rafters whirr loudly. A wrinkled old lady with tightly coiffed white hair and tortoise-shell spectacles plays a succession of sombre tunes on the organ. I listen, my eyes fixed on the stained-glass windows above the altar depicting the Resurrection. In the middle of a ponderous version of ‘How Great Thou Art’, there’s a power cut. The organ dies, emitting a sad, falling note; the fans above rattle to a stop. The organist gives the congregation a philosophical smile, removes her glasses and gazes heavenwards. The sweating congregation titters.
We wait. Vic’s coffin is positioned in front of the altar, bedecked with a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. My eyes stray to Clara. Her auburn hair has been done up in a simple bun, exposing the freckled whiteness of her neck. I stare at the graceful forward tilt of her neck, swanlike beneath the sharp square line of her jaw. She reminds me, obscurely, of a fifteenth-century marble bust of Isabella of Aragon that once caught my eye in a book – poised, winsome; a strange, ethereal demeanour haunted by a pious inwardness. Strange how we construct from opposites.
Clara reaches back and rubs the nape of her neck. I avert my gaze.
The service is conducted by Reverend Buchanan, a grey-haired priest with the tall, gaunt build of a long-distance runner. He enters in his white robes and stands at the pulpit. We start with a hymn, ‘Praise, my Soul, the King of Heaven’, led by an impromptu choir comprising five earnest though not entirely harmonious octogenarians, taking up position next to the defunct organ. Beside me, Brak and Reggie sing with zeal.
After the hymn, Reverend Buchanan blesses the congregation in a pronounced Geordie brogue: ‘May grace and peace from the Lord be with you. Those who die in Christ share eternal life with him. Therefore, in faith and hope we turn to you, dear God, who created us and sustains us all. Let us reflect upon the life of Victor Baldwin, the dear departed soul before us . . .’
I lose track of the service trying to get my head around the notion of Vic dying in Christ. I think of his booming blasphemous tirades; the way he ridiculed Brak’s conversion, raising his hands above his head and clapping. How did he earn the respect of these people? How did he earn my father’s respect? How did he win Hazel’s heart? Why was Brak ‘honoured’ to be his pallbearer? What have I missed in this man who now lies in a box before me? The image of Vic lying with Hazel against the gate in the car’s headlights assails me suddenly. Those blind white eyes bulging from their sockets; the bloodied dentures poking out of his mouth . . . I shiver.
Reverend Buchanan speaks of the terrible cost of Zimbabwe’s descent into anarchy:
‘. . . the madness and cruelty that afflicts the hearts of those who govern this land has consequences far beyond the more obvious spectacles of political oppression. It is easy to witness the sight of protesters being beaten, of homes being bulldozed, of farmers being chased off their land by thugs – it is easy to witness such evil and put two and two together. But when a desperate thief, stealing so that he might live, takes the life of an innocent man, the arithmetic becomes more complex. The true quotient is much more difficult to calculate. But, dearly beloved, if we are honest and accurate in our calculations we will see that it adds up to exactly the same thing. This is the true tragedy of Zimbabwe, that out of desperation ordinary men become complicit in the bigger crime committed by those in power. So I ask you all, as God’s children, to harbour no malice towards the one whose tragic actions have brought upon us this sorrow. Ours is not to pass judgement. Do not harden your hearts with hatred and bitterness. God awaits us all. Trust in Him and you shall receive the Kingdom of Heaven . . .’
Hugo delivers a eulogy that starts as a confident, humorous series of anecdotes, but ends in choked whispers. He paints a picture of a larger-than-life father, a man of the soil, strict but fair, a stalwart Rhodesian. He tells of an idyllic life growing up on the ranch, of the joys of returning home from boarding school and how he never dreamed then that their piece of Africa would soon be gone. Vic emerges a saint, always with the best interests of his family at heart. Hugo glances at the coffin below the pulpit and fights back tears. As he struggles on, Hazel pulls her shawl close around her shoulders.
Brak and I join Hugo and Cecil and two other men in carrying the coffin out to the waiting hearse. The coffin seems extraordinarily light; I remember how emaciated Vic had been, the folds of skin hanging like furled sails off his arms and the flap under his chin looking like a bull’s dewlap. We load the coffin into the hearse. Hazel puts her hand on it for a few seconds. She closes her eyes and mouths a few silent words. Then the undertakers close the hearse doors and depart for the crematorium. Hugo and Cecil watch the hearse go, their faces grim.
Brak and Reggie offer their condolences to Hazel and the Baldwins and depart immediately – Brak must get back to work at Prospect Autos; Reggie, I learn, has just started part-time work as a manicurist at a friend’s beauty parlour – it seems odd to me that such things as beauty parlours still exist in Zimbabwe. Milton and Barry Braithwaite also have pressing engagements at the office. A few others, including Daphne and Jeremiah, depart too. The rest of the congregation assembles in the adjoining hall for tea and cakes. I find myself stuck in an endless exchange with Hugo and Cecil. We reminisce on what fun we had as kids in the good old days when life was perfect. When Rhodesia was God’s own country. I’m puzzled by my compliance in a camaraderie that has no real basis. I nod with assurance when Hugo suggests that I visit him in Manchester. Hazel sidles up, cup and saucer in hand. She informs me that they – she, Hugo and Cecil – will be driving up to Kwekwe to spread Vic’s ashes on the old property. To my dismay, she puts me on the spot by asking me to accompany them.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Hazel. I’ve still got a few things to tie up.’
Hazel laughs. ‘Nonsense. It’ll take just a day.’
With no way out, I agree. Hugo slaps me on the back.
‘It’ll be mush to visit the old joint,’ he says.
Mush? Ah, yes, another quaint expression of yesteryear. I glance at Clara who has managed to avoid me again by talking with Vera. Yes, it will be mush to get away from Bulawayo for a while. Even with old enemies.
As soon as the Baldwins’ attention is diverted by a passing tray of scones, I make my escape, only to be intercepted by Reverend Buchanan who has stepped outside the hall for a quick fag. He offers me a smoke and soon I find myself deep in conversation. The old cleric has a way of teasing out information from the unwary. In no time at all, I’ve divulged the story of Lydia’s will and my futile search for Lettah. Taking long drags on his cigarette, Reverend Buchanan listens, smoke streaming from his nostrils, asking a probing question now and then. He talks of his own experiences during the Gukurahundi terror of the eighties; how he gave refugees from the countryside shelter in this hall – the churches, he says, were often the only sanctuary for the persecuted. Stubbing his cigarette out with his heel, he rummages around in his robes for a notebook and pen. He writes down Lettah’s name and promises to keep an ear to the ground. You never know, he says.
XIII
I become increasingly light-hearted and sociable as my departure, which I now look upon as my ‘release date’, draws near. I enjoy a succession of pleasant evening outings with Milton and Ruby to various friends’ houses and a perfectly civilised alcohol-free dinner with Brak and Reggie at the Churchill Hotel – so civilised, in fact, as to be agreeably dull.
And I look forward (almost guiltily – pleasure seeming an improper indulgence at such a time) to the hours I spend each day at the typewriter. Perhaps this rekindled passion lies in the noble though tenuous thought that the world might conform to purpose through words and sentences; perhaps I merely seek refuge in the long silences as time slow-marches by . . . still, a strange assuredness has taken hold of me. In my mind, Australia has assumed an almost transcendental status. My impatience to return lies not so much in resuming my life there but in the firm conviction that a new life awaits.
Clara has continued in her flighty way. To say that I’m unaffected by her behaviour would be a lie, but I’m not exactly moping around either. Last night there was an unexpected visit. Passionate and brief. Almost what we briefly had, yet an ending too.
I was lying awake when she arrived at the cottage in the early hours. A shuffle of footsteps outside; a knock on the window. I pulled the curtains aside, then got up and let her in. Smiling, she extracted a flask of brandy from her jacket pocket and waved it in front of my face. Without speaking, she rummaged around the cupboard for two glasses and poured us each a stiff drink. We sat at the table in the darkness, staring at each other, taking swigs of fire. Her strangeness too much to question. She glanced at the typewriter and the stack of pages next to it and nodded to herself. Hardly a word had passed our lips when suddenly we burst into laughter. Relieved laughter, as though a great weight had been lifted from our shoulders. Then we fell silent again and drank. Clara kept topping up our glasses until the brandy was finished. Then she undressed and lay on the bed. Serenaded by crickets and the barking of distant dogs, we made love in the darkness with a melancholy intensity. My hands committed her body to memory; her breasts, the softness of her stomach, her smooth flanks, all stored for future reminiscences of loss. We kissed as she heaved under me. She climaxed and rolled on top of me and rested her head on my chest, squeezing her thighs as I huffed and puffed my way across the line of the masters event. She bit my skin gently, her panting slowly subsiding. I ran my hands down her sweating back, lingering on the Promised Land.
She laughed softly. ‘I think you have a bottom fetish.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Mmm, what would you boys be without your wee perversions?’
She sighed and rubbed her hand over my chest. The shampoo in her hair smelled oddly like raspberry cordial is meant to taste.
‘Do you think I’d like Australia?’
A little flame flickered.
‘I think God made Australia for people like you.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe he thought the world needs a home for the uncommitted and irresolute. People like me and you.’
‘And Perth? Do you think I’d like Perth?’
‘Like Perth? I promise, when God built Perth he had you in mind. He said, right, how can I build a beautiful city next to the Indian Ocean that would make a beautiful, irresolute red-haired girl happy? A girl with the name of a prehistoric site in S
cotland and a perfect bum. And, voilà! Perth was born. Just for you.’
She laughed. ‘Liar!’
We lay there listening to the night sounds.
‘You know it’s not going to happen,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Me going to Australia.’
‘Why not? What else are you going to do?’
‘Stay here. With my mother.’
‘Jesus, you and your mother. Living proof of genetic insanity.’
She giggled. ‘I’m being serious, dammit! Now that Vic’s gone, I can’t leave my mom alone. Not at her age. I’ve given it a lot of thought, Frank. With my overseas income I could afford to take over Zambezi Pride. It’ll be tight, but I could keep it going for a few years at least.’
‘And what happens if it all falls through? What then?’
‘I’ll face that when it comes. But I have faith in the future. Mugabe can’t live forever. When he goes things will turn around.’
‘You’re crazy, Clara.’
‘Maybe. But it’s a chance for me to do something. Something real.’ She kisses me. ‘You could always stay too.’
‘And do what?’
‘This country was once the most literate in Africa – you could help make it that way again. There’re thousands of kids here just dying to be taught. I don’t know, Frank. Do what you have to do. I’ve made my choice.’
Then she got up and started dressing. I watched her in the darkness. She finished and sat on the bed next to me.
‘Frank, I won’t be at the airport when you go. I hate soppy goodbyes.’
I got up and embraced her. We kissed for a long time. Her cheeks were wet. The last thing she said was: ‘The real Perth is Scotland’s ancient capital, by the way. Just up the road from Edinburgh. I have relatives there, on my father’s side. A bonny place.’