The Boy Next Door (28 page)

Tired, I sit on the bed for a bit. I should have asked her if I could phone Harare. I’ll do it later. I’m tempted to fling
my body on the bed, but I know that if I do that, I’ll go straight to sleep.

There is Stefan and Astrid, a Swedish couple who work for the Swedish International Development Agency (SIDA—an acronym that
Herbert has told me is well deserved because the Swedes are a hard-partying lot and are well-known and appreciated regulars
at “TK,” Terreskane Hotel, in Harare, otherwise popularly known as Brothel Central), and Benjamin Murape, a lawyer who has
represented trade union officials. Marie told me, in the kitchen, that he has been detained by the CIO several times and has
spent some nights in Chikurubi. There is also a British journalist, Paul Redmond, who is making a documentary about his travels
in sub-Saharan Africa and is sporting a free(d) mandela T-shirt.

“People are tired,” says Benjamin, as I’m walking in. “This Economic Structural Adjustment Package of the World Bank is really
an unmitigated disaster.”

“Ah, ESAP,” says Herbert, “Extra Suffering for African Peoples.”

Benjamin doesn’t acknowledge the joke that’s been doing the rounds; Zimbabweans seem to have this limitless capacity to theatrically
personalize World Bank acronyms.

“The ZCTU wants to organize a mass stay away,” Benjamin marches on. “The government suspects something, that’s why the nefarious
charges.”

“Mugabe won’t let them organize,” says Herbert.

“Look, we Zimbabweans are famed for our goodwill, but I tell you, cometh the hour, cometh the man. Even Smith didn’t think
his hour was coming…”

Varsity days. Student Union meetings. Demos. Manifestos.

The same recalcitrant tone, a mix of Marxist bombastic overload, and a real passion and recklessness for justice. I’m pretty
sure Benjamin was a student leader, perhaps a couple years before I got in.

I want to ask Marie about the steel sculptures she has dotted around the garden, where she gets them from. I also like the
steel candleholders she has speared into the lawn.

It’s such a beautiful night. There is the heady scent of lilies and irises drifting in through the screened windows. I wish
I could slip away, do something silly, like walking barefoot on the lawn.

“… which reminds me of this interesting chap I met last month in Johannesburg,” Paul’s voice filters through. “… freelancer,
a photojournalist.”

I drag myself back to the conversation. I look at Benjamin, who is staring morosely at his drink. Stefan and Astrid are slouched
on the couch, a haze of smoke around them. Herbert is looking at Marie, who is looking decidedly bored. This is not the kind
of soiree she had hoped for. I should step in. Bring up a book I’ve read. This is my role here. An infusion of culture.

“… taken some amazing pictures of the troubles in the townships. But also some superb portraits of the residents there. They
were showing in a gallery in Johannesburg. He’s a white Zimbabwean, of all things. What do you call them here, Rhodies?”

Benjamin snorts.

I am very quiet, very still.

The night contracts until all I hear is this one voice.

“That’s what he calls himself. A white Zimbabwean. He took me down to Soweto to show me the sights, and on our way back he
goes into lecture mode. About the Historical Perspective.”

“From
a white Zimbabwean,
” says Benjamin, “that must be very interesting.”

“According to his take, and remember this is him, not me. According to him, the problem is that people get hung up about what’s
happening now, as though it were the first time ever in history that something like this has ever taken place.”

“Like what?” demands Benjamin.

Paul, who has had a few drinks, doesn’t seem to notice Benjamin’s tone. He should stop now.

“Sorry mate, you know, colonization. According to him the only difference now is that it was a tribe of people who happened
to be white who went and subjugated; although if I remember, he used more colorful language, a tribe of people who just happened
to be black. This thing’s been going on since time immemorial. His thesis is that if people bear that in mind they wouldn’t
get so jittery about moving on, forgiving and forgetting. You see—”

“What utter rubbish,” jumps in Benjamin, spilling part of his drink on his white shirt.

“And this so-called history is supposed to justify oppression.”

“I don’t think he meant that,” I hear myself saying.

“What?” he swivels his head in my direction, spilling more drink on the carpet.

“I don’t think he meant to justify anything,” I plod on, even though I should know better.

“So now you are with the oppressors.”

“Oh please. I think he meant that in the end these kinds of crimes have always been committed and that they are not the preserve
of any one particular group of people, in this case, white people; that conquest and humiliation of another group of people
is the nature of humanity; no one’s hands are clean, and if we recognize this we can, I don’t know, lower our expectations
of each other and be more realistic.”

Benjamin looks as though someone has forced him to swallow a rat. No, two. “What did you say your surname was?”

Marie steps in. “Dinner’s ready,” she says.

Benjamin puts his drink down on the table and gets up. “Excuse me,” he says, “I have to prepare the defense for our
historically oppressed
union members, good evening.” And with that, he leaves.

Over dinner we talk about small things and I laugh too hard.

It’s too late to make a phone call. I’ll do it tomorrow.

My head feels as though someone has been pounding away at it throughout the night, probably Benjamin. I look at my watch and
it’s already ten minutes to nine. Paul has offered me a lift to Harare, and I can hear his voice and Marie’s just outside
my door. I don’t have time to phone Bridgette. I’ll give David a surprise. I’ve cut my visit short; in a couple of hours,
I’ll see him, tell him how much I missed him.

As we’re passing The Crocodile, Paul says, “I hope I didn’t make a complete ass of myself last night.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I should steer clear of the hard stuff. That Benjamin chap was pretty wound up.”

“Yes, he was.”

“I’m not supposed to alienate the nativ— sorry.”

“You know that guy you were talking about yesterday, the Zimbabwean?”

“Yes, I wish I had never brought him up. He was quite a character, though.”

“I know him.”

“Really? How?”

“He’s my—” (What are you, Ian?) “—we have a son.”

The car almost lands on a tree by the roadside.

“Careful.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“I could kick myself. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I… I don’t know. A mixture of things. As he says, it’s the history of things. I guess I felt intimidated and embarrassed.”

“You mean if Benjamin wasn’t there you might have said…?”

“Maybe.”

“Tell you something, I’ve spoken to a few white Zimbabweans, and he came across as different. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“He’s not so damned sure of himself. I think that’s it. I gave that Benjamin chap the wrong idea about him. Down there in
Soweto, he has quite a following. And he’s a straight shooter, once he gets round to talking, that is.”

And that makes me smile.

“And then when he gets into that Rhodesian dialect…”

“Rhodesian dialect,” I say. “I like that. That’s good.”

*    *    *

I start pulling faces at the mirror in the sleek, futuristic-looking lift, and then I start worrying about hidden cameras
and one-way mirrors.

I should have brought him something. Damn. A ball. A proper football. We’ll go into town; have a treat. Yes. Him and me.

I press the doorbell. I hear it ringing. I wait to hear the sound of footsteps. Someone calling out, “I’m coming!” Nothing.
No one comes. I press the bell again. And again. They might be out by the pool.

I’m about to leave when the door is flung open. And Eunice, the maid, stands there, her hands dripping water on the floor.

“Oh, it is you, you are here at last. I was washing the bathroom; I did not hear the first time. The madam has been calling
and calling, asking if you have come here.”

“What’s wrong? What’s the matter? What’s happened? What… where’s David… David!”

“The child, the child is not well,” the maid says. “He is in the hospital. He was very hot. The madam says you must go to
Avenues.”

I run all the way.

I find her in the children’s ward; her head bent low, her hands clasped tight.

“Bridgette, where… what… David… where is he?”

“Oh Lindiwe, thank God, thank God. He’s in there, intensive care. The doctor says he has acute bacterial meningitis. It was
all of a sudden. He’s on a drip, antibiotics…”

I hurry past her.

I push open the door.

“I’m here. David, Mummy’s here.” I whisper the words over and over. “I’m here, David. Mummy’s here.”

The long night passes, and I stand there, watching my son breathe.

*    *    *

The doctor says that he should make a full recovery, but that there might be long-term effects. Only time will tell. There
might be hearing loss, epilepsy, or some level of brain retardation. Or he might be completely unaffected.

I take him home. I lift him out of the taxi (how light he has become again), and I take him into the cottage. I sit with him
throughout the night, watching him drift in and out of sleep, the antibiotics leaving him washed out.

Bridgette comes the next day. She wants to talk about what happened, how he suddenly got sick, but I don’t want to hear it.

“Bridgette, it’s no one’s fault.”

The words come out forcefully, strong and bitter, full of accusation.

The doctor said he was in a very bad way when he got in, he should have been taken to the hospital much sooner.

My heart is beating so loud, but it doesn’t drown out that little voice,
you knew he didn’t look too well, you knew that, and you still left him behind.

Bridgette stays for a while looking at David, stroking his head, and then she gets up.

“I’ll call you, Lins.”

I don’t say anything back.

I sit in the lounge counting the breaths from him. Until night comes. My beautiful, beautiful baby.

Mid-1990s

“
That’s one hang
of a behind,” he says, and even though I’m cross with him, I can’t help smiling.

It
is
one hang of a behind. And boy does it belong to our new First Lady, First Shopper, the indomitable Grace Mugabe, swathed
in designer chiffons and silk, the white queen, the Air Zimbabwe fleet ever happy to whisk and carry her off for fittings
and excursions for this, the most important of all days. But why, oh why, does she appear so glum? Is it the hordes of villagers
who are kicking up dust with all their dancing, spoiling the dress, the hair, the handbag? A castle would have been a more
fitting setting surely, the one allegedly acquired in Scotland perhaps?

There it is, courtesy of ZBC (the Station of the Nation), the Wedding of the Century, the Mother of all Weddings. There it
is as foretold by the government spokesman: “it will be a quiet, classy and royal-like affair.”
Indeed!

There goes the open-top Rolls-Royce and horse-drawn carriage, too.

There go the delectable First Children. We knew you not. But now, there, there you are.

There goes Mandela looking bemused in his trademark paisley-print outfit. Twenty years of incarceration and look, look where
I find myself, his look seems to say, what I’ve been missing all those years cooped up in Robben Island.

There goes the best man, Joaquim Chissano.

There go the minions.

There go the forty thousand well-wishers.

And with them the thirty-eight slaughtered cattle, the God knows how many pigs, goats, sheep, chickens… the truckloads of
maize (oh, in this season of drought, the many who’ve come to get their one proper meal of the year, and of course, to wish
the First Couple many, many happy returns).

And there, there goes our beloved president and intrepid First Traveler (the African Vasco da Gama off to discover lost worlds,
as the Student Union secretary-general so gloriously termed him and his quest) all decked out in the finest of livery, looking
as gleeful as a schoolboy. And why not? Why not, indeed? A life of service to others must surely, surely one day be rewarded.
Justly so.

Oh, how romantic! Look, look, look at them, how they snuggle up close to cut that multitiered wedding cake. Isn’t that so
cute, so endearing? If only Grace could squeeze out a smile. But oh, how the open-mouthed drooling must annoy her so, how
hot it must be in the tent underneath all that Parisian couture, how cool Harrods is, if only, if only…

There, there it all goes. Two million pounds of his money.
No, really. His.
Okay then.

The gift of a grateful nation to him. Because he’s worth it.

“Switch it off, Ian. I can’t watch anymore.”

“You see how pissed off she looks. I reckon she had second thoughts, but ‘sorry, honey, no second thoughts with Bob.’”

Technically, I’m not speaking to him. Not since yesterday.

“But they’re, you’re, so beautiful, Lindiwe. Can’t you see it?”

“You promised, Ian. You said they were just for you.”

This last bit makes me hot.

“Lindiwe, sorry, I couldn’t resist. And you should see the reaction to them.”

“Ian, I’m naked!”

“Come on, Lindiwe, relax, there’s nothing on show. It’s not Scope. It’s your back, maybe a bit of breast in profile…”

“Ian!”

“It’s Art.”

“You broke your promise. That was the only reason I let you take them.”

“And there’s me thinking you would love them up there.”

“What! Are you crazy? You could at least have warned me, not drag me into a warehouse for me to find everyone gawking. Ian,
it’s not funny. I’m really upset.”