Lettah's Gift
Page 33
Lettah cups a hand to her ear. ‘Kiet – silence,’ she says.
I nod. ‘Yes, it’s nice and peaceful.’
She gestures out at the vista. ‘Nice.’
‘Beautiful,’ I reply.
She reaches down and picks up a bright red berry off the ground. She studies it closely, breaks it open with her thumbnail and lifts it to her nose, breathing in deeply. Then she flips over a few pages of her pad and writes quickly. When she is finished she hands the pad to me. I read:
You can find this same tree in Zimbabwe. Your father once told me the white man’s name for it. The dog plum. My father invented his own name for it. The stop-shitting tree. Because its bark could be used to cure dysentery. I don’t know why my father had to use such a rude name. But it reminds me of home. Of the good things. That is why I had them put this bench here for me to sit. Here I find peace.
I hand the pad back to her. She points at the canopy above and says something unintelligible. Seeing my blank look, she shakes her head and waves her hand as though it is unimportant. She flips back the pages of her pad to what she must have been writing on the veranda at the orphanage. She hands the pad to me; I read:
I loved Lydia like my own sister. I thought of her as my sister. Deep down, I think Lydia felt the same, though it was not a conscious thing for her. I thought of you all as my family, but I knew I was only your servant. One day Lydia and I were no longer sisters. There was no argument or fight. No event that forced us apart. All there was was the history of the country we shared. It was this history that ensured that we could never be sisters. It was my decision to leave the family, for this very reason. When I heard you were going to South Africa, I made the decision then. For what was I to be in the long term? Forever your servant? Forever at the beck and call of my missus? Never sure of my place in this world? No, I decided to go back to the farm. To find a husband, to have children. I would be among family. I would have a father, a mother, my own children.
My decision made Lydia very angry. She saw it as a betrayal. I took her anger as a compliment, as a sign of love. I hoped that her anger would fade, but she could not overcome the upbringing that blinded her. Servants did not disobey. And it was this – Lydia’s inability to understand that I just wanted the simple things she herself had in life – that made our lives together impossible. It made Lydia hard and unforgiving. She treated me poorly but I hold nothing against her. I still love the memory of her. The true sadness is that when I left I never married. My husband-to-be would not marry me after I miscarried his child. The sadness is I ended up with no husband, no children. And the history of my country followed me. The history of my country made cruel men violate me and take away my voice.
Please do not carry guilt. There is no guilt to be carried. Your mother was made by our country. It is time to move forward. This money of which you speak. Lydia’s money. I am thankful that I was in Lydia’s thoughts when she passed away. In this, she has in some way overcome the history that separated us. But I have no need of this money. If you wish to give it away then I ask you to give it to the children here. Then it will have a good purpose.
I look up and stare into the distance. So that was it, the simple answer: two women who might have been sisters, were it not for the history of their country. Just behaving the way their country behaved.
‘The money is yours, Lettah,’ I say. ‘It’s yours to do with as you like. If you want to give it to the children, that’s your right.’
Lettah shakes her head. She takes the pad from me, scribbles something down and hands it back: No. I want you – you, Frank – to give the money. You came all this way to find me. It can be your purpose.
I stare at my feet for a long time, unable to find words, feeling the emptiness that comes with knowing I have not lived my life fully. Yet with this emptiness comes not despair nor desolation, but a pang of hunger for the fullness of what lies ahead. For a purpose that beckons.
‘May I keep what you have written? My father would wish to see it.’
Lettah nods. I tear the pages from the pad and hand it back to her.
We sit together looking out over the hills. Lettah reaches across and puts her hand on top of mine. She sighs contentedly. And in this moment, I see the smile beneath her veil, as warm and beautiful as it used to be.
Author’s Note
Sincere thanks are due to the following: Peter, Allen, Shaynne, Nabeel and Farida Lang for their invaluable knowledge and support; Kim Cheng Boey and Marika Osmotherly for advice and opinion; Anthony B-W for his patient expertise in IsiNdebele; Karen MacGregor for assisting my AIDS research in South Africa.
I am deeply indebted to Karen Colston of Australian Literary Management for her belief in this novel and tireless efforts to see it in print. Finally, my heartfelt appreciation goes to Madonna Duffy, Rebecca Roberts, Deonie Fiford and the UQP team for making this book a reality.
First published 2011 by University of Queensland Press
PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia
www.uqp.com.au
© 2011 Graham Lang
This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cover design by Nada Backovic Designs
Cover illustrations by Friedrich von Hörsten/Alamy and iStockphoto
Typeset in 12.5/16 pt Spectrum MT Regular by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Twenty-three words from Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Márquez, published by Jonathan Cape.
Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Lettah’s Gift / Graham Lang
ISBN: 9780702238994 (pbk)
9780702246562 (epub)
9780702246579 (kindle)
9780702246555 (pdf)
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