She tiptoed right up to their backs and peered over their shoulders. At first she couldn’t see much of anything, but then she realized that they were huddled around a thick-looking puddle. It was mostly clear but, as Jumani pointed out in a hushed whisper, there were spots of blood in it. Isa’s eyes widened. Blood in her own garden? She winced a little and looked back at the party: Emma was interrupting Stephie’s quiet read; Winnifred’s freckles were pooling into an orange stain in the middle of her forehead as she concentrated on the next croquet hoop; Ahmed, snot dripping dangerously close to his open mouth, stared back at Isa, but he seemed sunstruck rather than curious. She glared warningly at him and turned back around. The boys, oblivious to her presence, had disappeared around the corner. She followed and found them squatting at the foot of the guava tree, her guava tree, with its gently soughing leaves, its gently sloughing bark. She circled the mysterious puddle and walked toward them with purpose, abandoning all efforts at being sneaky. But the boys were too fascinated with whatever they saw to notice her. A whining and a rustling from under the tree drowned the sounds of her approach. Isa peered over their shoulders, her throat tight. Lying on its side, surrounded by the four boys, was Ba Simon’s dog. She was a ridgeback, named thus because of a tufted line down the back where the hairs that grew upward on either side of the spine confronted each other. At the bottom of this tiny mane, just above the tail, was a little cul-de-sac of a cowlick. Ba Simon had named the dog Cassava because of her color, though Isa thought Cassava’s yellowish white fur was closer to the color of the ivory horn that her father had hung on the living room wall. But today her fur was crusted over with rust. Her belly, usually a grey suedish vest buttoned with black teats, was streaked dark red.
Isa’s first thought was that these boys had poisoned Cassava and were now watching her die a slow miserable death under the guava tree. But then she saw that the side of Cassava’s head was pivoting back and forth along the ground. Isa stepped to the left and saw an oblong mass quivering under the eager strokes of Cassava’s long pink tongue. The thing was the color of the ice at the top of milk bottles from the fridge, cloudy and clear. From the way it wobbled, it seemed like it was made of jelly, maybe more like the consistency of gravy that had been in the fridge too long. It was connected by a pink cord to a slimy greenish black lump.
The boys were whispering to each other and just then Jumani made to touch the lump with a stick. Isa jumped forward and said, “No!” in a hushed shout. Cassava whined a little and licked faster, her tail sweeping weakly in the dust. The boys turned to Isa, but before she could say anything, the oblong thing jerked a little and Isa inhaled sharply with fright. She pointed at it, her eyes and mouth wide open. The boys turned back to look. Where Cassava was insistently licking, there was a patch along the oily surface through which they could just glimpse a grey triangle. It was an ear. Isa took her place beside the boys, sitting in the dust, her precious marigold dress forgotten.
Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of reverence, the boys didn’t touch Cassava until she had burst the wobbling sac and licked away all of the clear fluid inside it. Occasionally there was a tobacco-tainted breeze from around the corner. Sometimes laughter would flare up, crackling down to Sibilla’s chortle. But the grown-ups didn’t come. At first the children whispered their speculations, but soon they were all watching in silence, gasping only once when the outer skin finally burst, releasing a pool that crept slowly along the ground.
There it was, lying in a patch of damp dirt, trembling as Cassava’s tongue grazed along its sticky body. It was the size of a rat; it was hairy and pink; its face was a skull with skin. Below its half-closed pink eyelids, the eyes were blue-black and seemed almost see-through. But that was just the sunlight dappling through the guava leaves and reflecting off their shiny surface; the children looked closer and saw the eyes were opaque and dead. The boys became restless. Cassava was still licking, but nothing was happening; the mystery was revealed, the thing was dead, what else was there to see? They got up and left, already knocking about for other ways to pass the long afternoon. Awed and resolved to maintain her dignity and her difference from the boys, Isa decided to stay, silently shaking her head when Jumani offered her a hand up. She was so absorbed in watching that hypnotic tongue rocking the corpse back and forth that she didn’t notice the girl until she spoke.
“He et oh the bebbies? Eh-eh, he et them,” the girl asked and answered. Isa looked around and saw nothing. Laughter fell from the sky. Isa looked up into the tree and saw Ba Simon’s daughter sitting up in a wide crook, her little head hanging to one side as she smirked down upon the world. Chanda was about six or seven, close enough to Isa’s age, but they weren’t allowed to play together because of an unspoken agreement between Ba Simon and Sibilla. The two girls had been caught making mudpies together once when they were younger and had been so thoroughly scolded by their respective parents that even to look at each other felt like reaching a hand toward an open flame. Isa’s entrance into primary school had made their mutual avoidance easier, as had her innate preference for adult conversation and her recently acquired but deeply held feelings about the stained men’s T-shirt that Chanda wore every day as a dress.
Isa glared at Chanda’s laughing face.
“He ate what? Anyway, it’s a her,” she replied with hesitant indignation. She gathered some strength in her voice. “Obviously,” she said. Chanda was expertly descending from the crook of the tree, flashing a pair of baggy but clean pink panties on the way down. Isa abruptly decided that Chanda had been secretly climbing the guava tree during school hours and that she had stolen the panties off the clothesline.
As she carefully lowered herself to the ground, Chanda said: “His stomach has been very row. And then pa yesterday? He was just cryingcrying the ho day. Manje ona, jast look: he et the bebby.”
Isa was horrified, then dubious. “How do you know?”
Chanda, now standing with her feet planted a little apart, her hands resting on her haunches in imitation of Ba Gertrude, nodded knowingly.
“Oh-oh? Jast watch.” Her voice trembled nevertheless.
Cassava hadn’t stopped licking the stillborn. Her tongue maintained its rhythm and her mouth appeared to have moved closer to the dead-eyed skull. Isa shuddered and scrambled to her feet. Suddenly, mustering all her courage, she stretched her leg out and with her bare foot kicked the dead puppy as hard as she could away from Cassava. It tumbled away into the dust, a guava leaf trailing from it like an extra tail. Cassava growled ominously.
“Did she do that yesterday too?” Isa demanded, reaching behind her for Chanda’s hand. Chanda was silent. Cassava scudded her distended torso across the ground toward the puppy. Isa quickly glanced back at Chanda’s face, which, in reflecting her own fear, terrified her even more. Cassava wheezed and growled at the same time. Her legs twitched.
“Let’s go,” Isa suggested breathlessly.
Their hands still clasped, the two girls ran away, Cassava baying behind them. Isa felt buoyed by her fear, like it had released something in her, and she let her legs run as fast as they wanted, relishing the pounding of her feet on the dusty path to the servants’ quarters. It had been a long time since Isa had visited this concrete building at the back of the garden. When she had been a very little girl, like Emma, there had been an emergency when her father had drunk too much from his bleary glass. There hadn’t been anyone among the expats to take care of her when the Colonel had tumbled to the ground, football stein clutched unbroken in his hand. So that night, while her mother veiled up and drove the Colonel to the hospital, Isa had gone with Ba Simon to his home for supper. They’d eaten nshima and delele, the slimy okra dish that reminded her of the shimmery snail trails on the garden wall. Ba Simon had been as kind and as chatty as usual, but it had gotten cold and the servants’ quarters had been very dark and smelly. Isa had been grateful to hear the soft shuffle of her mother’s hair on the floor when she came to fetch her that night.
Isa stopped running abruptly. Her left foot had stepped on a small but sharp rock. Her halt jolted Chanda, who still held her hand. With the pain in her foot, Isa suddenly felt an arrow of real fear piercing her exhilaration, deflating her back into her sulky self. The vegetable patch behind the servants’ quarters was just visible beyond the avocado tree. She lifted her foot and examined the sole. It wasn’t bleeding, but there was a purple dot where the rock had dented it. As she put her foot down she remembered Cassava and turned back to look at how far they’d run. The garden was huge and encompassed a small maize field, which Isa could glimpse just beyond the mulberry trees with their slight branches and their stained roots. She really ought to go and tell mummy about the dog.
When she turned back to tell Chanda exactly that in her most grown-up voice, Isa found herself surrounded by three other small children. There was a little boy who looked just like Chanda, and two slightly younger girls, toddlers, who looked just like each other. Isa stared at them. She’d never seen twins before. They stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, their bellies sticking forward like they were pretending to be pregnant. Isa sometimes played this game in the bath herself, pushing her belly out as far as it could go until her breath ran out, but this did not seem to be what the little girls were doing. A picture of Cassava’s low stomach from the previous week flashed through Isa’s head. One of the girls was probing around her mouth with her tongue and the other was making stuttery noises that Chanda apparently understood because she replied, pointing at Isa and shaking her head. The little boy was staring at Isa and smiling broadly. He stepped forward and held out his hand, making the same upward-turned tray that Isa had made for Doll’s goblets. Isa shook her head and stepped back, unsure. Chanda implored, “Bwela. Come. Come.” She pointed at the servants’ quarters to show where Isa was meant to come. There was blue smoke and the sound of splashing water coming from around back. Isa relented.
They walked together toward the building, which was low to the ground and had no door, just a gap in the façade. There were also no windows, just square grids drilled into the concrete here and there for ventilation. As they approached, the little boy ran to the back shouting something. A young woman whom Isa had never seen before appeared from around the corner carrying a metal pot, her wrists and hands wet. She wore a green chitenge and an old white shirt, but Isa immediately noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra: you could see the shape of her breasts and the dark outline of her nipples. The woman smiled at Isa and waved and as she approached, said, “Muli bwanji?” Isa knew this greeting and replied in an automatic whisper, without smiling, “Bwino.” The woman shook Isa’s hand and Isa noticed that she didn’t bend at the knee or touch her right elbow with her left hand as blacks usually did with her. Halfway through the handshake, Isa suddenly realized that she herself was supposed to be deferential. She hurried to bend her knees, but they seemed to be locked and she managed only a jerky wobble.
The woman lifted her head, sniffing the air imperiously. Then she turned to Chanda and demanded something. Chanda shrugged and ran up the three stairs into the servants’ quarters, dribbling a forced giggle behind her. “Ach,” the woman said and sucked her teeth. She walked back to the rear of the house to finish her washing. Halfway there she turned and gestured to Isa that she should follow Chanda into the quarters. Isa gingerly made her way up the steps and into the velvet darkness beyond the doorway. The concrete floor wasn’t dirty—it was polished to a slippery shine—but the dust on her bare feet rasped as she stepped inside. The place had a strong coppery smell of fried kapenta mixed with a tinge of woodsmoke. As Isa moved further in, the smell took on an acrid note that she dimly recognized as pee. It was so dark that she couldn’t see anything except for the gold grid on the floor where the sunlight had squeezed through the ventilation grill. The fuzzy squares seemed more radiant for having been through that concrete sieve. Isa walked toward them. The patch of latticed light traveled up her body as she moved into it and eventually glowed on her stomach. It was like being in church or on Cairo Road. She held her hand in front of it and the light made her hand glow like the orange road lamps …
A chuckle from the corner interrupted her reverie. Isa looked around, her heart thudding, but she still couldn’t see anything. She stood still and concentrated her eyes on the darkness, willing them to adapt. She could just make out three figures sitting in the corner. There was a young woman, younger than the one outside, an old woman, and Chanda, who sat cross-legged, fiddling with an ancient cloth doll with a vaguely familiar shape. Isa worked out that it was the faceless ghost of the Doll who had preceded Doll; she felt a little shocked that it should be here and then even more shocked that she should have forgotten it to such a fate.
She walked toward the women, who were mumbling to each other. Only then did Isa notice the baby sitting on the young woman’s lap. In fact—she moved closer—the child was sucking on the woman’s breast. Isa knew about breastfeeding, but she’d never seen it before. She couldn’t tell whether the baby was a boy or a girl; it had short hair and was naked except for a cloth diaper. She wanted to turn away, but she couldn’t stop looking at the way the child’s lips moved and the way the breast hung, oblong and pleated like a rotten pawpaw. The women continued to deliberate while Chanda, who was responsible for this intrusion, for this straying, sat staring at Isa, absently twisting the doll’s dirty arm as though to detach it.
The child started crying: not the wailing of a newborn, but an intelligent sobbing. Isa stared at it and then realized that it was staring back. Its mother lifted it and began bouncing it up and down on her lap. After a moment, the old woman began laughing, a rattling laugh that devolved into coughing and then rose back up again to the heights of gratified amusement. She said something. Then the young woman began to laugh too and finally Chanda joined in with a somewhat forced high-pitched trill.
“What?” Isa asked. “What?” she demanded.
But they kept on laughing and then the woman stood up and held the baby in front of her. Isa stared at its sobbing face, distorted with wet concentric wrinkles like its nose was a dropped stone rippling a dark pool. The child began to scream, wriggling its little body as its legs kicked. Was she supposed to take the child in her arms? The room echoed with laughter and wailing.
Isa shouted “What? What?” again.
The laughing woman kept shoving the child at Isa’s face in jerks until their noses suddenly touched.
“Muzungu,” the woman said.
As though at the flip of a switch, Isa began to cry. Her breath hitching on every corner of her young-girl chest, she turned and ran out of the room, tripping down the steps in her haste. As she ran past the mulberry trees, the beat of her feet released a flock of birds from their boughs. They fluttered past her and flickered above her bobbing head, their wings a jumble of parentheses writing themselves across the sky.
* * *
The night brought the breeze and the mosquito candles. The guests waned in number and spirit. When she’d had enough, Sibilla planted bristling kisses upon their cheeks and sent them to navigate the intricacies of Lusaka’s geography and their drunken dramas on their own. Colonel Corsale was still in the garden, dozing on his chair, one hairy hand holding his football glass clasped to his belly, the other dangling from the armrest, swaying like a hanging man. In the early days, Sibilla used to drag her husband to bed herself. But over the years, his boozing had swollen more than just his ankles. These days, she told Ba Simon to do it.
“A-ta! I’m not carrying the cornuto to bed. The man’s earlobes are fat,” she’d grumble, leaving her husband to the night, the breeze, and the mosquitoes. Isa wandered around the yard, yawning, picking up Tropic bottles of various weight under Ba Simon’s direction. She hadn’t told anyone about the dog yet, or about all the inhabitants of the servants’ quarters—did they realize how many people lived there?—or about the laughing. She felt tired and immensely old, old in a different way from the times she played teacher to
the other children. Old like her father was old, a shaggy shambling old, an old where you’d lost the order of things and felt so sad that you simply had to embrace the loss, reassuring yourself with the lie that you hadn’t really wanted all that order to begin with.
Ba Simon was singing something spiritual, not in English, while sweeping the porch, but Isa could barely muster the energy to gainsay his song with her own. She only got halfway through “Baby you can drive my car” before she collapsed on the grass beside her father’s chair. The wicker creaked in rhythm with his snoring. She put her fingers in his dangling hand and he muttered something.
“Papa?” she asked softly. “Dormendo?”
She only spoke Italian to him when she was very very tired. The international school she attended had compressed all her thoughts into English, but some of her feelings remained in the simple Italian her parents had used on her as a toddler.
“I went to the servants’ quarters,” she said.
The Colonel’s whiffling snore continued. Isa slapped a mosquito away from her shin. She stood up and walked over to Ba Simon, who was vigorously scrubbing the grill.
“What does muzungu mean?” she asked, sitting on her stool.
He kept humming for a second.
“Where did you hear that word?” he asked.
Isa didn’t reply.
Ba Simon hesitated. Then he made a face and said, “Ghost!” He waved his hands about. “Whoooo! Like that katooni you are always watching.” He smiled and moved closer to her with his hands still waving. “Caspah Caspah the shani-shani ghost,” he sang in the wrong key.
The Uncanny Reader Page 51
