‘I’ve forgotten.’
‘It’s Sigele.’
‘OK.’ He continued.
‘Sigele, we’ve brought you a gift from the charity,’ translated Abikanile. ‘We are all very sad that this could happen in such a beautiful village, full of such kind and wonderful people.’ He felt a little off-kilter for relaying such sentimental trifles, but the others had helped form these words, and he felt compelled to recite them.
The woman patted the wooden seat beside her. He offered the stool to Abikanile, but she refused. He sat down instead and surveyed the dust and dark before him.
The woman started to speak and Abikanile chirruped over her; towering above them, her hands on her hips.
‘She says that it is not the first murder.’
‘Really?’ He shuddered at this land’s barbarity; giving into a temporary amnesia of London and its back-alley stabbings and street-gang crime. ‘Well…’ He knew he was stepping outside of the boundaries, but it just seemed too tantalising. ‘And do you know why your son was murdered?’
The fire dimmed a little. ‘No, she does not know. She says she has her suspicions. There was a feud. But she cannot say any more.’ Abikanile waited, patiently, while the woman bubbled out sounds. ‘She says she wants the violence to end now. And also…’ She frowned. ‘She says it must have been God’s will. Her crying is done now. No more tears for what cannot be changed.’
He sat back. He thought of Nancy and the ten commandments. That all seemed so far away. All very petty and childish. The fish and the piss and the married woman. The hairs flinched up around him.
Sigele leaned forwards. She tapped him on the arm as she spoke.
‘She says that she has to trust in God. Death is everywhere. If he had not died of that, he might have starved. She is starving.’
‘She used that word? She didn’t say hungry?’
‘She used really hungry. It translates like starving.’
‘Well… That sounds like translator’s licence.’
Abikanile bristled. Meanwhile, the woman’s hard face twitched up and down. She murmured, inquisitive.
‘She wants to know what we’re saying.’
‘Say that I didn’t know that the village was as hungry as that.’
Abikanile translated. ‘She says that you can only live so long on grasshoppers and crickets and caterpillars. These things are tiny. But she’s excited that someone gave her a goat as a gift.’ Added as an aside – ‘For her grief.’ Then: ‘This is a great honour.’
Sigele’s hands fluttered around her like they were held up by string. Her lips smacked together. Her face shone with vigour.
‘She is telling the story of her son.’
‘Can you give me the highlights?’
They waited while the voice droned on. To him, it just sounded like clicks and tuts. Like a tongue in spasm.
Finally, silence. Sigele’s face darted up to Abikanile. There was a new loudness to it. He sensed she was irritated.
‘OK, she’s wondering why I haven’t spoken yet. So I’ll give you the “highlights”, as you put it. Her son was a taxi driver. A bicycle taxi. He drove people from village to village. He had the strongest legs you had ever seen. But, anyway, you wanted the highlights. He was a good boy, such a polite boy, blah blah blah. He saw and heard things on those bike journeys he should never have seen or heard. He would drive to the city. He would carry the money on him. He would give her nearly all the money. He loved her very much. He hardly ever spoke; for years, they thought he was a mute, they thought he might have been born the wrong way up. But he could speak. He just preferred to listen. And then there was some other stuff too, but to be honest, I’ve forgotten it now. It’s hard recapping this rather than speaking as she speaks. So there you have it. The story of her son. Voila.’
‘Are you angry about something?’ he asked, pulling the skin off around his fingernails.
‘Why would I be angry?’
Sigele started up again.
‘She said death stays with you always but you can learn to live with it. You must get rid of the blame, of the anger. You must live in the present.’
He didn’t know where it came from but his eyes watered up at that. Even Abikanile saw this, and her eyes opened wide. ‘So you’re human, after all.’
‘Shut up,’ he grimaced. He snorted back phlegm. Sigele’s face was twitching very close to him.
‘She asks if you are also sad about a loss.’
He didn’t want Abikanile there. He wanted her gone. For a moment, she was. He tried to block her out. ‘I have to confess something,’ he said.
‘What? Do you want me to translate that?’
He whispered something in Sigele’s ear. He started to cry.
‘Oh Marcus, keep it together, will you? What are you saying to her? She can’t understand you.’
Sigele’s face cracked into a smile. She spoke.
‘She’s just saying it was their time. God has a purpose. She lost her husband a few years ago. You have to trust God.’
This dried up his tears. He sat himself up. The poorer the people, the more they needed that myth. There has to be a reward in the next life! Oh, there just has to be! Otherwise, this crushing sense of unfairness would simply be too brutal. He wasn’t so fooled, anymore. Something had turned on the lights and she could not dim it. But he felt better for offloading his secret, so it wasn’t time wasted. There are all kinds of weights in this world and they are not all physical.
When he got back to the compound, they told him that they’d arranged a gaming excursion for Saturday. Philippa had organised it with a tour company – no doubt to fix the broken mood.
And it worked. Saturday was a riot of laughter and chitchat. The change of scene broke through, and the whole thing suddenly seemed like a break, a rest. Some tourists even tugged along in another truck: a jamboree of wealthy travellers and gap-year kids. They waved at each other and all whooped into unison.
The park spread before them seemed so much lusher than their village. So many shades of yellow and green. They didn’t know there were so many shades. The sky was the palest blue with a few tufts of slow cloud. In the distance were leopards. There was a yell from the back. The truck trundled onwards and they stumbled on buffalo. Then the biggest cheer of all gathered up for giraffes: peering into the treetops with sashaying necks. At the end, came a lion tearing up a gazelle. Nobody spoke. They wanted to look away, but they couldn’t. They all reached for binoculars and zoomed into the gristle.
It was a long day. Some were ready for an early bedtime; others lit up the fire and opened bottles of beer. They reminisced about the things they had seen. They swapped cameras to stare at photos; the confirmation that this had actually happened. They were united in an instant nostalgia.
In the distance were fishermen: lights twinkling on an endless lake. Male voices called across to each other. The sound of nets tossed into water. A kind of beauty in the pursuit of hunger, when it is framed like this. Marcus made his fingers into the square of a lens to catch it.
Perhaps it was the escapism of the day, or this sight, or the beer bubbling up in his stomach… But Annabelle had backache, and he murmured some suitably sympathetic words. He went to get her some beer. He even offered a massage. She politely declined, with a few blinks of surprise. Her whole body lifted, though, just for a moment, as she flashed him a smile. You can let someone up, as well as let someone down.
Chapter
Nine
A week later, they awoke to a sound. The sky was the colour of bones. Rain fell in every direction. And when they looked outdoors, they gasped. It has to be said: the landscape was strange without that sun-smoked glint. Though the light was tamed, the colours were richer. The ground was orange and the air felt thick with a hot, sticky tang. The sound was like the thrashing of wheat. The sound was like a tyre let down. The sound was like a lot of things. It kind of swept you into it; into a sort of trance.
The villagers ran aroun
d excited, gesturing up to the sky, kneeling down, giving thanks. Abikanile said they had names for different kinds of rain and that this was planting rain. Everyone wanted to grow their crops.
But soon stretches of road were flooded. The drive to the nearby village was difficult, so the group did not risk it. Some people volunteered to help in the fields, but they just seemed to get in the way. So most of them sat around playing cards, reading books, chatting idleness. Philippa said this was all perfectly normal, and the rain wouldn’t stay that way for long. She said that it usually switched to raining at night, so you still had the long, balmy days. But even normal can be terrible. There was talk of straw roofs swept away in nearby villages; entire families huddled in tiny cold stone rooms. Some people slept in termite mounds. Philippa did admit that every year the rain seemed to fall longer and harder. She tried not to dwell on it, tried to shift the talk on.
Marcus was in a buoyant mood, despite boredom and rain and the shuffling of bodies. The last few months – the last few years – lifted up and away from him. It was as suspected: he needed to treat death with more death. It was the vaccine approach: to find death in its purest form and inject it in you, so you are cured forever. It was all so prosaic and predictable. He was now immune to the effects of it. Thank you, Africa. Thank you, Malawi. He had chosen well.
He was even popular. Well, ‘popular’ was a stretch. But he was socially acceptable. He was back to his genial, charming, chameleon self. He was done with being honest and heart-worn. He cracked jokes when they were needed. He helped more with the chores. Stephanie even commented: said how much she appreciated it. He said, ‘No problem,’ very cheerfully, but was distracted by her face. She was growing grey around the temples. She was prematurely ageing. He didn’t like ugliness or aesthetic slight, so he kept his distance thereafter.
However, he did enjoy Annabelle’s company. She was always the nicest to him. She made an extra effort to draw him into conversations. She would leave him her leftovers when she’d grown too full. She force-fed him news. ‘Stephanie’s in love with Kondwani,’ she’d say. ‘Everyone knows it.’
‘What – they had a thing?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I think it was unrequited. Or maybe requited, but it wasn’t returned. Something like that.’
‘Well, she’s got no chance now. He doesn’t even want his wife. I saw him the other day. He was just facing a wall. Talking to himself, I think.’
Annabelle frowned. ‘Yes, it’s so sad. He took his son’s death so badly.’
‘Or maybe this is precisely the time that Stephanie should just walk up to him and get her tits out. When he’s not in his right mind.’
‘Marcus.’ She shot him a disapproving look, but he was bulletproof.
‘What?’
‘That’s horrible. He’s married and grieving. And, anyway, Stephanie’s lovely.’
‘I know, I was just trying to lighten the mood. And point out that she’s not exactly a looker.’
‘Oh, really? Well, who is a looker, here? Huh? Who meets your high standards?’
He slid into a comfortable groove. ‘Well. Some are more easy on the eye than others. I like the cut of your jib. For instance.’
‘The cut of my jib? Oh, you are hilarious. And thank you for the compliment. I feel so validated as a woman now.’ She said all of this in a sarcastic tone, but her cheeks were pink and her eyes had sparkle.
Yes, he enjoyed flirting with Annabelle. Longer bursts of her could be intensely irritating. All that guilt and hand-wringing. A bit like Stephanie. But unlike Stephanie, she had a figure to die for and a loose, chatty tone. She wasn’t his usual type, but maybe that was a good thing. She didn’t look like Nancy and that made her an excellent distraction. A hobby for the rainy season. He toyed with her like a piece on a board game, knowing every move that he made was a winning one. But there was also this pleasant sense of pursuing something other than money or status, something with a human at the heart of it, with an attempt to like and be liked.
Except it wasn’t long before he was heading over to breakfast and the rains had cleared up for a bit and he went to take his usual seat – and Annabelle wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
He saw Katie loading up food on her plate. The others bustled around. Katie’s hair was dyed again: the colour of sloe gin.
‘Is Annabelle still sleeping?’ He knew this was unlike her. A lie-in, to her, was a waste of time. A dress rehearsal for death.
‘She’s sick, I think.’
‘Sick? With what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Katie shrugged. Apart from that talk at that party, in the early days, she was still a bit distant. And usually hungover. ‘Ask Stephanie.’
He looked over and saw Stephanie. She was still suffering with spots. A large whitehead gobbed out of her chin. He thought he’d ask Aldo instead.
Aldo kept a diary. He was recording another entry as he sipped his tea with a furrowed face. ‘What can I do you for, Marcus?’
‘Is Annabelle sick?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Katie.’
‘Excellent. Just the sort of privacy she’d hope for.’
‘Is it something serious?’
‘It’s not serious, but it could have been. She’s still at the medical clinic. They’re assessing her. She may need to go back.’
‘Go back?’
‘Home, Marcus. England.’
‘But you can’t tell me what it is?’
‘I can tell you that back ache was a symptom, and she was right to listen to her body. She knew something was wrong, and it was.’
‘But she’ll be OK?’
‘She’ll be fine, Marcus. Fine. Frankly, I am delighted you care so much.’ He laughed and slapped his back. It seemed a signal to leave him alone.
After that, the days lost their contour. Marcus felt a little out of odds, like he was losing his mojo. The listlessness came back: that familiar lull of non-feeling as you sink into the mattress and never want to spring up.
The only thing to shake him out of this state were the locusts. That day burned impressions in his mind; so even when he closed his eyes at night, all he could see were those long broad bodies, the long, flexed hind legs, the shiny armour of their spines.
The locusts didn’t come to the village. The attack was further south, near Lake Chilwa. Grasshoppers were decimating huge tracts of land. But beyond flying a few planes to spray insecticide, there didn’t seem much they could do to help. It was Ben, of course, who suggested sending some food baskets. Everyone agreed that it was a token effort but would be much appreciated.
Daniel, the new driver, could finally show off his mettle. He asked for someone to go with him and Marcus shot up an arm. He hadn’t told anyone – but it was his birthday that day, the last one in his twenties, and he was desperate for a present; no matter how it was tied up and given, nor what it contained.
After a week of gathering soon-to-expire food items from the fridge, and rolling large tomatoes and avocados from the vegetable plot, the back of the van was filled with modest provisions. They set off the next morning.
Daniel was not a talkative sort. He was as smiley as Kondwani, but lacked the infectious passion. He preferred to tap on the steering wheel to the sound of clubby house music. Occasionally, he’d lift his hand and gesture a finger up to the car ceiling, in his own private rave.
Marcus did not mind. He stared out of the window and watched the landscape peter in and peter out. It grew greener and lusher, large birds soaring through the sky, their shivering wingspan, their fixed black eyes.
‘Fuck,’ he said at some point, despite himself.
Daniel turned. ‘What?’
He reddened a little. ‘It’s crazy beautiful.’ He didn’t know why this was embarrassing. Maybe because he was a jumped-up city prick. City pricks shouldn’t get this kind of awe in the fecund hills, in the endless ground. He was born for metal and glass and asphalt and brick. He was wired up to the grid.
/> Daniel cocked his head to one side, scratched out some ear wax. ‘It’s all right.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I don’t not like it. It’s all right, man. You know – it’s fine.’
‘Fine. OK. You wouldn’t write that on a postcard though, would you?’
‘What?’
Marcus turned down the volume.
‘Jesus, man! What you doing?’
‘That bass line feels like it’s cutting my skin open.’
He grunted. ‘That’s a sick beat, right there.’
‘It wasn’t a compliment.’
He shrugged. ‘Whatever. Man, you’re kind of uptight.’
‘Uptight? I’m really not.’
‘I thought everyone at this charity was meant to be, you know, slick and laidback and hippyish and whatever.’
‘Well, you’re here. Are you slick and laidback and whatever?’
‘Kinda.’ Daniel pursed his lips together, then opened them up for a smile. ‘I mean, I needed the money, truth be known. This is good pay. Not a lot of people willing to come out here, speak the language, you know.’
‘So I’m guessing you’ve been to Malawi before?’
‘Oh yeah, once or twice. Family reasons. When we’ve really had to, you know? Like – a great auntie dying out here, or my dad needing to go pay his respects. Then we’d come out here. But it’s expensive, you know? And my dad doesn’t like to come out here. None of us do.’
‘Why?’
He grunted again. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’
‘Well, usually things are pretty sociable, here – people interact with each other. I don’t know if you were told.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re one to talk. Pardon the pun, like. But, anyway, I don’t see the point. It’s not like we’re going to be pals or whatever.’
Marcus stiffened. ‘Who said anything about pals? I was just making conversation. I don’t want to be your friend. Trust me. I fucking don’t.’
‘All right, all right,’ he laughed. ‘Let’s not get wound up now. Wow, I touched a nerve, eh? Anyhoo. To answer your question, since we’re making conversation–’
Another Justified Sinner Page 18