Jean-Paul does not reply to my question. Instead, looking up at me from his position on his knees, he says: ‘You know how I learnt English?’
I shake my head.
‘There was a man. He taught me for free. He had been a teacher. Before…’
Before what? But Jean-Paul does not finish his sentence. With an effort he stands up, moves with his cane to the chair and sits down with a sigh behind his sewing machine. Then, gesturing to the trousers but not looking up at me as he pushes the pedal with his good foot: ‘Leave them on the chair. You can pay me later.’
It is supposed to be the start of summer, but today there is only rain. It falls light like hospital gauze. Cape Town’s rain-darkened sky can be all the shades of grey. Sometimes like wood smoke, sometimes dark as concrete. At other times it matches the pigeons that peck at Long Street’s pavements, their feathers congealed with gurgling drain water. But now it is almost white. Our windows will not open properly, only a few centimetres. To keep the drunks and drug addicts from jumping to their deaths, Peter says. But still, I could spend hours standing here in front of it, watching the world below – especially when it rains. I find the smell of rain intoxicating. Like running my hands through a new bag of golden maize kernels. Like smelling freshly laundered clothes. Ever since I was a girl, I have felt that when it rains, some of my troubles are washed away with the dust and the dirt.
Three Congolese men are crossing Long Street. They jump the puddles as they cross in a gap between the traffic. Bright suit jackets over Dolce & Gabbana T-shirts and jeans, talking and gesticulating as they dodge the puddles that will ruin their narrow-toed, crocodile-leather shoes. David says that these smartly dressed Congolese are called ‘sapeurs’ and they will go without food before they allow themselves to look like poor immigrants.
‘Vanity is the destroyer of kings,’ Jeremiah has commented in the past. He likes to quote from the Bible. Especially the doom-and-gloom passages. Must be because of his name. People back home say the name you give your baby affects his character. Gift rhymes with shift. Sometimes I forget my name is Gift and think it is Tortoise instead.
‘Everyone must find his way to survive,’ David says in his new friend’s defence whenever George or Peter criticise him. He has been inviting Jeremiah to visit sometimes after work, and my brother and Peter do not like it.
‘But he is as dry as last week’s toast!’ protests Peter.
‘He is not dry, brother. He is intelligent. Not everyone’s world revolves around drinking and womanising, you know.’
David is that sort of man. Always willing to view others in their best light.
I turn back to the window. A woman with colourful dusters tucked under her left arm, and a plastic bag tied over her hair, is approaching from the other side of the road. She does not look Zimbabwean. From West or Central Africa, maybe? Congo or Senegal? She is coming home after trying to sell those dusters at traffic lights. Today she is also carrying a bag of shopping from Shoprite. I wonder what she has bought. Her hair is not short and tightly curled like mine, but very long and braided. She is thin and looks old enough to be the mother of many. Where does she come from? Another young woman. White. Wearing shorts and hurrying in the direction of Kloof Street. She looks wet. Her hair is tied back. If this were a warm day, perhaps she would be on her way to catch a taxi to take her to the sea on the other side of the mountain. I have heard the ocean is as cold as plunging your hands into a bucket of ice, regardless of the weather.
The woman with the colourful dusters looks tired today. Must be difficult to sell such things when it rains. I have heard some of the people in our building complaining. No one wants to stop their cars or roll down the windows even when the weather is good. Everyone in this city is very concerned with crime, says David. I watch the woman slowly turn the corner into the alleyway that leads to the main entrance of President’s Heights.
The others should be home soon. My pot of boiled sugar beans is ready on the stove. Beans and rice. One of David’s favourites. Of course, he loves meat best. I wish I could afford to buy him meat. Even chicken thighs. I would cook them with a little paprika and spice. I love the colour of paprika. It is a passionate, joyful colour.
I close my eyes. The rain is coming down harder now. I imagine myself standing naked in the downpour, warm rainwater cleansing my face, my back, my arms, my legs. That early evening, as I stand alone in our room, I wonder who at that moment is listening to the rain rattling on their windows too and thinking, yes, I want to be standing in that. In Beitbridge the rain fell as rarely as an honest politician’s words. Here, they say, just by looking at Table Mountain you can tell what the day’s skies will bring. The rain means there will probably be fewer people going out to the Long Street bars tonight. I turn off the gas.
‘Just kill it! Oh, for fuck’s sake…’
A Saturday morning. Mid-November.
‘What is going on?’ I put down my bag of shopping.
‘David has lost his mind. He won’t kill a mouse that has come into the room. For God’s sake, David, they are carriers of disease.’ George can hardly contain his frustration. He hops from foot to foot.
But David shakes his head and puts his hand up for my brother to be still. He is crouching down in front of the wardrobe where he and his brother hang their clothes.
‘It is probably crawling up your trouser legs and shitting on your things right now,’ my brother mutters.
David ignores him. He is listening and making little sucking sounds as if he were calming a hen or a goat. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it, but after a few minutes the mouse comes to him. As soon as David feels the mouse, he picks it up and gently closes his two hands around it.
‘Chipo,’ he asks very calmly, ‘can you bring me a tin or a plastic bag, please?’
I hurriedly unpack the tea and mealie meal I have bought and bring him the bag. Very gently, David lowers the mouse into it. Immediately the mouse begins to panic and scramble. Then it stops and is completely still. It is playing dead.
‘I will take it down and let it go outside.’
But I tell David I will. Meanwhile my brother is indicating that I am to murder it. But I ignore him and carry the mouse carefully down to the street, releasing it at the edge of the Company’s Gardens behind President’s Heights and the derelict car park, where there is, I imagine, plenty of food and good dark holes where it might hide.
When I get home, I find George on his way out. He is furious.
‘Everyone in this fucking building is completely mad!’ he raves as he pulls on his denim jacket with its Manchester United badge. ‘Rat lovers! What next?’ He slams the door behind him.
David is sitting by himself at the table, sipping a glass of ginger beer.
‘Thank you, Chipo.’
The sunlight is streaming in from behind him. I cannot see his features clearly as I take his repaired trousers from my bag. I have been waiting for a private moment to return them. I feel myself blush. But David pretends not to notice. He examines them, clucking and shaking his head with pleasure at the excellent job Jean-Paul has done. He will hug me now, I think. I want to feel his arms around me. Desire rhymes with fire. It ignites a fire that cannot be put out.
Suddenly the door opens.
‘Hey, what’s wrong with George? He just passed me in the street. He didn’t even stop.’
Jeremiah. Immediately, David turns away from me to greet his friend. His smile is for Jeremiah now.
‘Oh, he has things on his mind. It is nothing personal. It’s good to see you, Jeremiah. Sit down.’
The hug. Our private moment. Everything evaporates.
Jeremiah sits on a plastic chair. His expression says that he most certainly does take it personally. Meanwhile, David hangs up the trousers and goes to the fridge. He doesn’t offer Jeremiah a beer because he knows Jeremiah does not drink. Instead he takes out another bottle of Stoney. He pours them each a glass. In his eagerness to
fill his friend’s glass to the brim, David over-pours and some of the white foam spills over the top.
‘Agh, I’m sorry.’ David apologises and takes Jeremiah’s glass for himself. ‘Chipo?’ I shake my head. I think that I might cry so I tell them I must get on with preparing dinner. I go to the sink and start to peel the potatoes furiously, dropping each peeled potato into the purple plastic bowl.
‘Have you heard? A public holiday for next week’s team draw.’ Greedily, Jeremiah swallows his remaining ginger beer in two mouthfuls.
‘Yes, excellent news,’ David agrees.
‘You know what that means?’ Jeremiah continues as David hurries to refill his friend’s glass. ‘Double pay at the restaurant, whether Mr Ross likes it or not.’
Seven
Jeremiah is so very boring. When he talks it starts me snoring.
That is my opinion. But I do not dare share it with David. As far as he is concerned, Jeremiah can do no wrong. When during one visit Jeremiah tells us that he has a second-hand computer that does not work properly, and he intends to take it apart to try and rectify the problem, George rolls his eyes and says he has to meet someone. When Jeremiah isn’t around, George has taken to calling him ‘Choirboy’.
Jeremiah does not seem to notice George’s dislike of him. He keeps on talking. Such practical exercises ‘keep his brain ticking over’. It is hard doing the mindless, repetitive work of the restaurant.
‘I know what you mean,’ confides David. ‘It is a challenge getting the sort of intellectual stimulation one was accustomed to at university.’
Jeremiah nods. He adjusts the jersey that he has tied over his shoulders. One thing that can be said for Jeremiah is that he takes pride in his appearance. He dresses as neatly as a head boy, and he always walks with his head held high, his back straight.
‘I love crosswords too. I have a book of crosswords from The Times newspaper in the UK. A British woman at the hotel where my mother is working back in Harare gave it to her.’
‘But I love crosswords!’ exclaims David. ‘Really I wanted to study literature rather than law at university.’
Both David and Jeremiah are silent for a moment.
‘Well, if you would like,’ suggests Jeremiah, ‘you could assist me. You know what they say: two heads are better than one.’
David smiles.
I am washing dishes while listening to this conversation. Inside a tiny thorn presses its point into my heart. I rinse a cup under the tap. Why had David never told me that he loved crosswords? Maybe I too could help solve crosswords, if given a chance.
Jeremiah begins to whistle as he pages through the newspaper.
‘Oh, look, there is a free concert on at St George’s Cathedral. Isn’t that just down the road? Let’s go. It starts in twenty minutes. We can still make it.’
‘Good idea. Chipo, tell Peter that Jeremiah and I have gone out.’
‘But dinner is almost ready. I have cooked you samp and beans.’
‘Oh, I will eat later, when I get home.’
‘But you said you would tell me about your time at university tonight. Your student days.’
‘Did I? Well, I can do it tomorrow, can’t I? We have to hurry, Chipo.’
‘Yes, we don’t want to miss the start,’ adds Jeremiah.
A half-hour later, Peter arrives home from the bead shop.
‘Where is David?’ he asks. ‘Out with Jeremiah. They have gone to a free concert. Classical music.’
Peter frowns. ‘What is he doing, going to listen to that ngochani music?’
‘Ngochani music?’ In Shona ‘ngochani’ means homosexual. I didn’t understand what Peter was talking about.
‘Never mind, Chipo.’
With a grunt, Peter sits down on his mattress and takes out the key that he keeps on a string around his neck. He pulls the metal chest closer to him. It is in this green chest that he locks away all of his private possessions.
‘David is spending too much time with that Jeremiah. I don’t like him.’
Is Peter talking to me? I gather up our tin plates and look at him. He has opened his trunk and is putting his wallet inside. I set the plates down on the table and go back for the forks. Does he expect me to answer? Peter closes the lid of his trunk and locks it again. Then he lies down on his mattress and closes his eyes. No. He doesn’t expect me to answer. I rinse a glass under the tap and take a drink of water. A fly is on the wall above the sink. Do flies ever get thirsty? They must. Everything, they say, needs water to live.
Don’t be angry with David, Chipo, I tell myself as I put the glass down and check the beans to see if they are tender. David has serious responsibilities back home. A whole family and more depend on him and his wages. Peter is always taking care of himself first. That is why David jumps at Jeremiah’s offer of a free concert or a book found lying in the street. He is hungry to continue his education, but cannot afford it. Don’t hold this against him, even though he has been promising those student-days stories for weeks. Let Choirboy have him tonight. Good to know that Peter doesn’t like him either. You’ll see. He will make it up to you tomorrow.
But it takes several days, and even then David doesn’t exactly apologise.
‘Let’s go to the science museum.’ That is what he says. But I know he is meaning to make it up to me, so I don’t pout. Who wants a woman who pouts? I go.
The museum of natural history is just around the corner in the Company’s Gardens, so George cannot complain. We walk there together. But when we see the cost of entry we change our minds.
‘We can go to the government art gallery instead. That’s for free for under-eighteens, so at least you won’t have to pay, Chipo.’
We walk through the Gardens. It is a quiet place. A place for respite in the middle of the city, with pedestrian paths, patches of green lawn and tall avenues of trees that create lovely places to sit or stroll. I have my umbrella with me but David makes sure we keep to the shady path beneath the trees. We walk past a man in a suit sitting on one of the benches. He is sharing his lunch with a squirrel. The man waits for the creature to stand on its hind legs before he tosses it a corner of his sandwich.
‘Agh,’ David says under his breath as we pass. ‘Just give it the food. Don’t make it beg.’
If the man has heard David, he doesn’t show it. His cellphone rings and he answers it with a cheery ‘Yebo?’
I have never been to an art gallery before. As we approach it, I catch my breath. It is a large, old-fashioned building painted white, with brown steps leading up to it. Back in Zim such a building would be reserved for politics. Only the wealthy would be allowed to enter it. It wouldn’t be an art gallery that just anyone could enter.
I feel a little shy as we push open the heavy glass doors. Even though David has told me that it is open to all, a part of me is scared I might be turned away.
But the woman behind the desk looks right through us as David pays. We pass her and enter the first room, with its ceiling as high as, I imagine, the president’s palace back in Harare. It is quiet, neat and bright with white light. My eyes begin to water.
There is a special exhibition on at the moment called ‘From Pierneef to Gugu what-what’, David says. But David says he hasn’t brought me here to see that exhibition. We walk straight through the first room with its paintings and photographs until we enter a second, smaller one. I prefer it. It is dark, and we are the only people apart from the guards in their black blazers.
‘Look up,’ David says. ‘Above that doorway.’
He is pointing to a carved wooden panel that shows seven baboons.
‘Look at the one on the far right,’ David tells me.
I look. I am grateful for the soft light. I do not want David to see me squinting up like some old woman. ‘I see,’ I tell him. On the shoulder of the baboon on the far right of the panel is a baby baboon.
‘Mother and child,’ David says with a smile.
For a moment he turns and looks at me. ‘I t
hought you would like it, Chipo.’
I nod. I do.
‘Now I want to show you my favourite.’
We go into the next room. It is even smaller than the one we have just been in. No larger than a very large cupboard. There are two large brown doors with brass fittings that lead, I imagine, to a room piled high with paintings. A room for storing paintings maybe, the way a library stores books. Once again David is not interested in the artwork that is on display. He wants us to look at another wooden panel which he says is forgotten because it sits above the door like a part of the building.
This panel is very different from the previous one. Now there are eleven figures, not seven, and they are not baboons but men. Some of the men are clearly slaves or servants. They are dressed in rags and are on their knees or bent over working the ground. Around them are men who are better dressed, standing tall, barking orders.
‘I know what you are wondering. What is so special about that, right? I asked Jeremiah the same question when he showed it to me.’
Choirboy again. David has changed since he and Jeremiah became friends. Not just how he dresses. He hardly drinks any more too, and he has started to use words and phrases that Jeremiah uses, like ‘in my humble opinion’. But Jeremiah is not humble. When someone else speaks, he hardly listens.
‘Look closely, Chipo.’ David says. ‘Look at the men’s faces.’
I look but I cannot see what all the fuss is about.
‘In my humble opinion, whoever made this carving, and it must be very old, has made both the servants and the masters African. You see? The man on the far left.’
David is right. The man on the far left, the one in proper clothes with a hat who is pointing his finger and ordering the slaves about. He is an African too.
We both stand in silence looking at the carving for a few more minutes.
‘Come, Chipo,’ David says finally. ‘We should go.’
Rent day. Peter is sitting at the table counting the piles of brown, pink and blue notes. I come in from washing the laundry in the bath, make myself a cup of tea, take a Tennis biscuit and sit down on my mattress.
Zebra Crossing Page 5