the little closed-in area by the clothesline and looked at the
Southern Cross and he put his arm around her waist and drew her close. She didn’t
ask what she was doing there, or what she was doing with him. His body was sturdy, like
an answer. She looked into eyes that mirrored that wild, parched veldt and saw infinite
space stretching before them that she mistook for their life together.
Lawrence and she shared a single bed, which
encouraged feats of athleticism; they each slept half on and half off the mattress, like
cheetahs. They woke in the cool of the night and made love, sometimes three or four
times. They were young, and it cost them nothing. She remembered the dark, rushing
desire in her ears, the furious fumbling out of sheets into each other’s arms.
Some days, Alice tried to speak with
Dikeledi, but they knew only a few words of the other’s language. She felt awkward
being waited upon and found herself smiling too much, dropping things, over-thanking.
Dikeledi was short of stature and tireless; her movements were like humming—unconscious,
tuneful, at peace. Her skin was dark, coffee-colored, and her eyes forceful. Her bottom
lip was full and her mouth good-humored. She lived behind the flat, in the small
tin-roofed servants’ quarters, and on Sundays, she put on a red polka dot dress
and a white hat shaped like a pancake and walked to the Seventh-Day Adventist Church in
the old part of Gaborone.
A few times, Alice went across the road to
escape the flat, but what was out there frightened her—the blind blue sky and
unrelenting sun. Thorns, tinier than the smallest hooked claws of a cat, waited underdusty leaves. They caught in her hair and plucked at her sleeves like
beggars.
By the end of the summer, Lawrence and she
were engaged. What did she know? Nothing. Yogi Berra once said, “If you come to a
fork in the road, take it.”
13
After the water explosion, Isaac ran into
the bush, afraid that the police would find him and deport him. Toward nightfall, he
crept out and walked back to Amen’s house. He knew the gardening job was finished.
One of the first things he’d been told was, “My husband does not like water
to be wasted.” It was a misfortune that her husband should have come home and seen
the water shooting into the sky. And there she was, shouting at her husband and his
friend when the person she should have been shouting at was himself.
He did not respect people who ran away, and
now he’d done it twice—once from his country, and once from his job. Fleeing was
like lying: you do it once, and you’ll do it again. But, he told himself, I will
not do it again.
Every day now, Amen was saying, “You
must go for training in Angola. You are doing nothing now. Think of the country where
you were born. Your country is like your mother. You would not turn your back on your
mother.”
He needed to find somewhere else to live,
away from Amen’s badgering, but he had nowhere to go. He did not want to train
with the MK, of that he was sure. And he would not turn his back on his own mother
who’d given him life and breath and suckled him and taught him what was right and
wrong. He had disappointed her, he could not embrace her, maybe not for many years, but
he would keep her and his sisters and brothers in his heart. Several weeks ago
he’d bought a pencil and paper and an envelope and posted a letter to ask her
forgiveness and to tell her that he was safe in Botswana. Before he’d sent it, heasked she who must not be called madam if he could use her post
office box address. Any day now, he was expecting a return letter from Pretoria.
After he’d stayed out of sight for ten
days, he thought, I will not hide any longer. What happens will happen. On a Saturday
morning, he set out for the Old Village to inquire about the letter and to say again
that he was sorry.
All along the road, people were making their
way here and there. He thought of the divided stairways back home, the divided
Southern Cross and he put his arm around her waist and drew her close. She didn’t
ask what she was doing there, or what she was doing with him. His body was sturdy, like
an answer. She looked into eyes that mirrored that wild, parched veldt and saw infinite
space stretching before them that she mistook for their life together.
Lawrence and she shared a single bed, which
encouraged feats of athleticism; they each slept half on and half off the mattress, like
cheetahs. They woke in the cool of the night and made love, sometimes three or four
times. They were young, and it cost them nothing. She remembered the dark, rushing
desire in her ears, the furious fumbling out of sheets into each other’s arms.
Some days, Alice tried to speak with
Dikeledi, but they knew only a few words of the other’s language. She felt awkward
being waited upon and found herself smiling too much, dropping things, over-thanking.
Dikeledi was short of stature and tireless; her movements were like humming—unconscious,
tuneful, at peace. Her skin was dark, coffee-colored, and her eyes forceful. Her bottom
lip was full and her mouth good-humored. She lived behind the flat, in the small
tin-roofed servants’ quarters, and on Sundays, she put on a red polka dot dress
and a white hat shaped like a pancake and walked to the Seventh-Day Adventist Church in
the old part of Gaborone.
A few times, Alice went across the road to
escape the flat, but what was out there frightened her—the blind blue sky and
unrelenting sun. Thorns, tinier than the smallest hooked claws of a cat, waited underdusty leaves. They caught in her hair and plucked at her sleeves like
beggars.
By the end of the summer, Lawrence and she
were engaged. What did she know? Nothing. Yogi Berra once said, “If you come to a
fork in the road, take it.”
13
After the water explosion, Isaac ran into
the bush, afraid that the police would find him and deport him. Toward nightfall, he
crept out and walked back to Amen’s house. He knew the gardening job was finished.
One of the first things he’d been told was, “My husband does not like water
to be wasted.” It was a misfortune that her husband should have come home and seen
the water shooting into the sky. And there she was, shouting at her husband and his
friend when the person she should have been shouting at was himself.
He did not respect people who ran away, and
now he’d done it twice—once from his country, and once from his job. Fleeing was
like lying: you do it once, and you’ll do it again. But, he told himself, I will
not do it again.
Every day now, Amen was saying, “You
must go for training in Angola. You are doing nothing now. Think of the country where
you were born. Your country is like your mother. You would not turn your back on your
mother.”
He needed to find somewhere else to live,
away from Amen’s badgering, but he had nowhere to go. He did not want to train
with the MK, of that he was sure. And he would not turn his back on his own mother
who’d given him life and breath and suckled him and taught him what was right and
wrong. He had disappointed her, he could not embrace her, maybe not for many years, but
he would keep her and his sisters and brothers in his heart. Several weeks ago
he’d bought a pencil and paper and an envelope and posted a letter to ask her
forgiveness and to tell her that he was safe in Botswana. Before he’d sent it, heasked she who must not be called madam if he could use her post
office box address. Any day now, he was expecting a return letter from Pretoria.
After he’d stayed out of sight for ten
days, he thought, I will not hide any longer. What happens will happen. On a Saturday
morning, he set out for the Old Village to inquire about the letter and to say again
that he was sorry.
All along the road, people were making their
way here and there. He thought of the divided stairways back home, the divided
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