The Flower Plantation (6 page)

As we waited for Fabrice, Mother ran a finger round the rim of her wineglass. It sounded like a mosquito. Father moved his eyes comically round the room looking for the imaginary insect, then swatted his neck by his ear. Pretending he'd killed the bug he brought his closed hand forward and opened it to reveal not a mosquito, but a hundred-franc coin.

I was amazed. Even Mother looked impressed.

He gave me the coin.

That hundred-franc piece was the first coin I had ever owned. It was like treasure to me. I turned it in my hand during the entire meal – tilapia fish and mashed potato, which was my favourite food, second only to chocolate cake – scrutinizing every detail and warming
the cold metal in my palm. It was almost as fascinating as my eggs.

“Drum roll please,” said Father, as Fabrice prepared for the cake to be brought through. I was so excited and twisting my wobbly tooth so much I thought it might fall out at the table.

Fabrice switched off the light and placed the cake in front of me. He had arranged seven blue candles in the shape of a seven. I liked that: it was ordered.

“Blow out the candles,” said Father.

I blew hard and got as close to the flames as I could without burning myself. After three puffs the candles went out. Crinkles of smoke curved in front of Mother's tired face, but she clapped her hands and smiled – Father and Fabrice did too.

“First cut,” said Father, handing me a sharp knife once Fabrice had put the light back on.

“Careful,” said Mother as I sunk the knife into the icing and brought the blade up covered in chocolate and crumbs. I wanted to run my finger along the blade and not waste a bit, but doing so would have upset Mother: I was only allowed to handle blunt knives.

Fabrice sliced up the cake, and Father gave him a piece. Father excused him, and he left for the night.

“Try not to gobble,” Mother said as I tucked in. “You're like a prize turkey when it comes to cakes.”

“Let him gobble if he wants to – birthdays only come once a year,” said Father. She took a mouthful and
ventured a smile of her own. Mother liked chocolate cake too.

“Once you're done, Arthur,” said Father, “I'd like you to come and take a look at the car. I heard an odd sound on my way back from the city and I want to get to the bottom of it. An extra pair of ears would come in handy. Does that sound OK?”

I looked to Mother.

“Just this once,” she said, taking some port. Father stroked her hand and tried to slide the glass away, but Mother wouldn't let him. I rubbed my coin with my sticky fingers and pressed it against a page of
African Butterflies
. A brown imprint of the coin became embossed on the page. It looked like an official stamp, like the one the postmaster used. A fine-looking stamp, I thought.

After I'd eaten two and a half slices of cake, Mother went for a lie-down, followed by Monty. Father gave me a piggyback out to the car, which was parked in front of the house.

“Other side,” he said, when I reached to open the passenger door. My face must have looked puzzled, because Father explained: “Thought you'd like to try for yourself, how does that sound?” It dawned on me what he meant – driving the car must be my birthday treat – so I ran to the driver's side and clambered onto his knee.

“Key in the ignition,” he said. I bent round the steering wheel to see where the key went in. “That's it. Now turn it
clockwise.” I turned the key and felt a great thrill as the car surged to life and the radio blared into the night air. “Now then, we'll need lights,” continued Father as he turned down the radio and pointed to the switch that controlled the headlamps. I flicked the switch, and the hydrangea bushes turned instantly from black outlines to brilliant colour. It was incredible. “I'll do the pedals if you do the steering.” Gingerly we set off down the lane that led to the gates and the orange road below. “Wonderful, Arthur,” said Father as we cruised down the lane, “wonderful.”

As we approached the gates, Sebazungu appeared in the headlights. He put out his hand like a policeman, urging us to stop. Father brought the car to a standstill and asked me to turn it off.

“I must have a word with Sebazungu,” he said. I was disappointed to have to stop: driving the car with Father was the best thing ever, even better than my birthday coin. “Out you get,” he said, and opened the driver's door. I slid off his lap onto the lane.

“
Mwiriwe
,” said Father. Sebazungu shook Father's hand but didn't place his left hand on his right arm the way he usually did to show respect. He had his hand raised to his chest.

“Good evening, Doctor.”

“Is everything OK?”

“It's my chest, Doctor,” said Sebazungu. His voice sounded different: it was clipped and wooden, like the
voices on the radio. “I can't get rid of this trouble. Can you help?”

“Well, Arthur,” said Father. “What do you think?”

I nodded. Of course we must help Sebazungu. What would Mother say if we didn't?

“Perhaps you could help?” suggested Father, which was odd – but I went along with him just the same. “Ask Sebazungu to take a seat in the front of the car so we can look him over.”

I looked up at Sebazungu, who loomed over me, waiting for me to speak. I motioned with my eyes between him and the passenger door.

“
Là?
” he asked, opening the door. I confirmed with a nod. I heard Father release a small despondent sigh.

Sebazungu sat on the passenger seat, stiff and upright, and I sat beside Father on the driver's seat.

“Undo your jacket please,” said Father. I wanted to hide, uncertain of what Sebazungu was about to reveal. For one awful moment I thought his chest might be wide open and spurting blood.

“Well, what have we here?” said Father when Sebazungu unbuttoned his jacket. I shut my eyes tight, too frightened to look.

It sounded as if Sebazungu was whimpering. I knew it must be bad. Sebazungu was the strongest man I knew, stronger even than Father.

“Take a look, Arthur,” said Father after he'd finished examining him. I tried to show Father I was brave by
opening one eye just a peep, just enough to prove I wasn't scared, but not so much that I'd see the full extent of Sebazungu's insides. But what I saw through my scrunchedup eyes wasn't blood and guts after all. To my complete surprise, it was a puppy.

“Happy birthday, Son,” said Father, ruffling my hair. I scooped up the soft, wriggling creature. Sebazungu smiled broadly. “I hope that being seven will be better than being six.”

A hundred-franc coin, driving Father's car
and
a puppy! I wanted to tell Father that this was the best birthday present ever – no doubt about it. I let the small dog lick my face and fought desperately to say that being seven was definitely better than being six. But all that came out was a grunt.

6

“And don't let him out of the front gate,” Mother called after me as I ran through the yard the next morning, scattering the chickens, with Romeo bounding at my heels. Mother had picked the name. “Romeo,” she had said, “do you like it?” I did – it sounded strong – so I had nodded my agreement.

I was meant to be having my English lesson, but Mother had paperwork to do, so English had to wait. I grabbed one of Fabrice's tea towels from the drying lines that crisscrossed the yard and scampered down the side of the house to the front garden.

I trod on the lavender that edged the path as Romeo and I ran towards the road, where Monty was curled under his favourite bush. Put out by our playfulness, he got up and limped inside. I trailed the white tea towel behind me like a snake, sliding it from side to side, in and out of Mother's flowerbeds, teasing Romeo, who tumbled after it as if it were real. From time to time he was distracted by a bee or by the sting of a thistle in his soft pads, but a snap of the cloth in the air was all it took to get his attention again. He jumped and barked at the towel, thinking it was a bird, as we skipped up the middle path, past the roses and back towards our ivy-covered house. At one point his sharp little
teeth caught in the fabric, and I carried him along in flight. Down the far path we tore, pushing past the azaleas and buddleia bushes that prickled my forearms and calves and tripped up Romeo. When he attempted to scrabble to his feet, his soft fawn body rolled like the bread dough I helped Fabrice make in the kitchen.

As we played, a cabbage butterfly flitted past my nose and landed on a blue delphinium. Stopping to examine its starchy-white wings, brown tips and spots, I took my eyes off Romeo. The butterfly looked like the tea towel now splattered with mud. I stood staring at it for a long time and wanted to touch its hairy body, but as I extended my index finger, it flew up, up, up into the rising haze, over the flower beds and away, beyond the open garden gate.

I looked around for Romeo. He wasn't there. I looked to one o'clock. No Romeo. Then two, three, four, five o'clock. No Romeo. I turned around to six, seven, eight, nine, ten. And then to eleven and back to twelve – but still no Romeo. I turned my birthday coin over and over in my pocket and wiggled my tooth, anxious to know where he'd gone. I had been staring at the butterfly for ages and knew that Romeo could be anywhere. I wanted to call “Romeo”, but my teeth felt glued together and my jaw wired shut. The desire to shout was suffocating.

Fixing my eyes on the garden gate, I knew I had to be brave – I'd have to leave the garden and the plantation on my own.

Cautiously I looked up the road, and then down towards the ladies at the shops, and on towards the school. The sound of children playing felt like pins on my skin. There was no sign of Romeo. I checked the dirt for tracks, something Father had taught me to do. The marks of one large and four small pads with tiny nails dotted the road. I followed the prints that zigzagged the dirt, dodging a motorcycle laden with potato sacks bouncing down the road. The paw prints led to the grass verge, then disappeared. A cobra, the colour of an unripe banana, slithered into the undergrowth and out of sight. I remembered Father's warning about snakes and moved away, following the verge, until I picked up Romeo's tracks again near the shops.

It was then that a yelp sounded from behind the buildings.
Yip, yip. Yip
. Romeo! I stood for a moment until I saw the lady who sold bread become distracted by a customer. I sneaked past her and down the alley. Romeo was there – in the grasp of the fuel attendant's son. I rubbed my knuckles raw.

When the boy saw me, he dropped his head to one side and let his tongue fall loose, trying to look like a dead dog. He held Romeo by the scruff. I lurched forward to grab him, but he dangled him just out of reach.

“What is it,
Mzungu
,” he said, making grunting sounds that were supposed to sound like me but didn't. “Say
please
and I'll give him back.” He laughed, knowing that I couldn't.

Romeo whimpered quietly, and so did I. The fuel attendant's son tossed Romeo from one hand to the other as if he were a ball. The more terror I showed and the more I grunted to say something, the higher he threw him and let him fall.

“Don't you want him,
Mzungu
? Don't you want to say
please
?” Rage boiled inside me and gagged the words I wanted to yell. “
Mzungu
can't talk.
Mzungu
can't talk,” he chanted and spat at the floor. A glob of spit clung to my shoe.

I stood my ground and thought of a plan. We were sandwiched between the mud shops and a rickety wooden fence. There was nothing there except a discarded metal cooking pot filled with water. Its lid lay propped against the fence.

I glanced at the pot a moment too long, causing the boy to look at it too. He picked up the lid and waved it like a shield, then tossed Romeo into the pan and closed the lid shut.

Instinctively I ran to the pot and kicked it over. Romeo came tumbling out with the water, drenched and spluttering. Both the fuel attendant's son and I lunged towards him, but he was faster than me. He picked him up by the tail and held him like a dripping rag. Romeo yelped frantically.

“What you do,
Mzungu?
” he sneered. “What you do?”

Clutching nervously at my pockets, I felt the shape of my hundred-franc coin. Suddenly I knew what to do. I pulled out the coin and held it close enough for him to see, but
far enough away so he couldn't snatch it. I allowed what sun there was to catch its shiny surface. It glinted. The fuel attendant's son eyed it eagerly and started towards me. But if he wanted my coin, he'd have to give me Romeo. He wasn't having both.

At that moment I heard a pattering. Romeo, upside down, wet and shivering, was peeing on the boy's prize jacket. Furious, he dropped him on the ground, grabbed the coin from my hand and bolted past, knocking me against the wall. My mouth took the hit. Recovering myself I bent down to scoop up Romeo and noticed small splashes of blood on the ground. There among them was my tooth. I picked it up to examine it. I was surprised at the length of the root.

Putting the tooth in my pocket I sat down in the dirt and held Romeo close. His heartbeat pounded in unison with mine. I began to tremble. Romeo did too. I rolled up my T-shirt to dry him off. We both cried. He scrabbled towards my chin, his scratchy little claws catching in my top. I pushed him back, but he tried again. His tongue was eager to lick the salty tears and blood that smeared my face.

I wanted to say his name to comfort him, but when I leant in to try and whisper it in his ear I saw in the dark pools of his eyes the reflection of a tall figure looming above us. I turned my head to see who it was.

The glare of sunlight, shining directly behind the figure, obscured the face. All I could see was round shoulders and
the outline of a loaf in a carrier bag. And shoes – shiny, red shoes that made me relax a little.

“Eh, Arthur,” said Fabrice, crouching down beside us. His dark, gentle face came close to mine, but not too close. His shoes creaked. “How are you?' I showed him Romeo. “Eh,” he laughed, “
un autre chien
,” and tickled Romeo under his chin. “
Il est gentil, n'est-ce pas
?” I nodded my agreement, then clenched my teeth together to show Fabrice my tooth had come out. I grimaced like one of the gorillas I'd seen in Father's books.

“
Eh, félicitations!
” said Fabrice, and I showed him my tooth, which he admired. “
Bien
. We go home?”

I thought about Mother. She would be angry: I was strictly forbidden to leave the plantation alone. And I'd given away my birthday coin.

Fabrice offered me his hand, but I didn't reach out.

“It's OK, Arthur,” he said, interlocking his warm fingers with mine. “I no tell.”

We walked back to the plantation hand in hand. I clasped Romeo to my chest and walked in the shadow of Fabrice's long legs, avoiding the stares of the passers-by and concentrating all my thoughts on Romeo. I tried as hard as I could not to think about the fuel attendant's son and my lost birthday coin. But then I remembered – when you try not to think about elephants, elephants are all you can think about.

* * *

Fabrice took me to the kitchen and sat me down.
African Butterflies
was on the table – a drop of blood splashed onto the first page. He gave me a cup of tea and a saucer of milk for Romeo, then put on the radio and called, “Celeste.”

I circled the hole in my gum with my tongue: the flesh was raw and loose. My mouth no longer felt like my own.

“OK, Arthur,” said Fabrice, who had begun to wash potatoes at the sink.

Celeste hobbled into the kitchen. She looked at my dirty shorts and bloodstained T-shirt and sucked her teeth.

“What happen?” she asked. Celeste had a deep, resonating voice that had a calming effect. She only ever spoke in the present tense, which I thought was funny even then.

“His tooth,” said Fabrice. I liked it when Fabrice answered for me; he did it a lot.

Celeste took a look and broke into her wide, gummy grin.

“Big boy now,” she laughed, placing her hands on her wide hips. She disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a red T-shirt and brown shorts – my Saturday clothes. I twisted my lips and rubbed my knuckles some more.

“OK, Arthur,” repeated Fabrice. “It's OK.”

Celeste took me to the bathroom and gently mopped my mouth, making me rinse and spit. That done, I undressed and put on my fresh clothes, which felt wrong on a Friday:
there was nothing brown or red about Fridays – nothing at all. I took three deep breaths to stop my chest from bursting. Celeste fished my tooth out of my pocket, handed it to me and blotted the bloodstains on my clothes with cold water.

I went to my bedroom to check on the butterfly eggs, which looked darker than they'd been that morning. Wanting to fetch my bug kit to study them more closely, I ran to the back lobby, where Celeste was already scrubbing my shorts. She laughed as I climbed eagerly onto a stool to take my kit down from the shelf.

Running straight back to my bedroom I unscrewed the lid of the jam jar, prised out the leaf with the eggs and placed it on the window sill, where I could see it perfectly in the bright light. Kneeling down on the window seat, where Romeo had fallen asleep, I held the magnifying glass to my eye. I moved it backward and forward until I found the right focus on the eggs. The caterpillars had started to hatch.

Two pairs of front legs emerged from the eggs. They hauled and stretched their long bodies like Joseph wriggling out of his sleeping bag. Their transparent, black-and-orange bodies were like sticky jelly sweets. I wondered what they would taste like.

I stared at the tiny creatures until the midday sun was long gone from my window and Romeo had woken up. Their hairy little bodies darkened as they started devouring their egg casings, just as it was described in
African Butterflies
.
That was their first meal. I drew a picture of the caterpillars in my book, next to the one I'd done of the eggs.

Slipping the leaf and its new occupants back into the jar, I thought I'd need something bigger for them to live in. Something better, I decided – something without ragged edges like the punctured holes of the jam-pot lid. As I got up to find a new container, a figure moved in front of my window.

I hunkered down. Only my forehead could have been visible at the window. I scanned the garden. My eyes roamed from the lane to the buddleia bush, from the five front steps to the orange-coloured road. Monty was with Mother, Romeo with me. What I'd seen had been too small to be one of the gardeners, too big to be the house cat. I looked harder but saw nothing. When I eventually stood up, a figure scarpered out of the hydrangea and ran straight into the buddleia.

I threw myself away from the window and up against the wall. The fuel attendant's son, I thought, terrified he'd come back for Romeo.

After a very long time, and when I was certain he must be gone, I inched towards the window again. As my body twisted into the afternoon light, I could see the figure still hiding in the bush. My eyes scanned the shoeless feet and bare legs that looked like twigs. It wasn't the fuel attendant's son – he had been wearing long trousers.

Given that they were hiding in a buddleia, I reasoned, they couldn't be all that scary. I stepped in front of the window and saw the face of a girl, peering wide-eyed from within the bush. On seeing me, she took a step back and hid among the flowers.